Last night before bed, I came across this blog post (excerpted below, bolding the statements that spoke directly to me), and I was brought to tears. The number of times I have tried to figure out what was wrong with me… how men can be moved by my energy, insight, companionship, and intelligence, but will never see me as someone to show off to their friends or parents. My sexuality used to be a source of empowerment, and now is my greatest vice.

The spirit of the strong, fearless, independent woman in me tends to overpower most of my thoughts, convincing me that I am allowed to be as sexual as I please and that anyone who has a problem with it does not need to stick around.

But sometimes that spirit gets tired of holding me up, and the voice of the romantic in me comes out.

The one reminding me that
I wish a guy would ask me on a date at 7 pm
…..instead of to “hang after bar close?”
I wish a guy would talk to his friends about me like I’m the most incredible woman he has ever met
…..instead of being his dirty little secret
I wish a guy would want to just hold me
…..instead of wanting to fuck me
I wish a guy would look at me and think to himself how breathtakingly beautiful I am
…..instead of how great my body looks in this dress
I wish a guy would consider my sexuality as an asset
…..instead of a deal breaker
I wish a guy would see that I am worth a lifetime
…..instead of “just tonight”

And that same voice tells me I only have myself to blame, that I sexualized myself too much to be seen as someone worth showing off, someone worth dating, someone worth marrying. Although I know I am all these things, lately I have been finding myself trying to “tone it down” because, as much as I hate to admit it, I cannot help but fear that no one will ever see that value in me as a life partner, that I’ll always be the girl you mess around with until you have your shit together, that I’ll always be good enough to fuck, not to date.

I’m still trying to decide which voice is worth listening to.

Women are often categorized in one of two ways when it comes to aesthetics: we’re either sexy or cute. We usually know which one we are, and oftentimes strive to be the opposite, i.e. sexy women want to be cute and cute women want to be sexy. This categorization might seem harmless compared to everything else women are called. However, these labels have roots in a much deeper issue regarding the sexualization of women.

I have never been the cute type. I’ve always been the sexy woman who wanted to be cute. At the fresh age of 10, I was blessed with puberty and cursed with the curves of a woman. Actually, I enjoyed them at first, but it took me no longer then a few months to wants them gone. That is when I realized that looking like a woman meant people assumed I was one. When I realized that, wearing my first bra – even a pink one with cat prints on it – meant I was ready to be a sexual being. It meant I was ready for objectifying looks, unwanted grabs, de-humanizing cat-calling, stolen kisses, slut-shaming, and scary walks to the back parking lot because “he just wants to talk.”

And so, with all the pressure and expectations for me to be a sexy woman, I kind of became one. At the age of 10, knowing nothing else, I tried to grow into what I thought I should be. I tried to stretch into a mold I couldn’t possibly fit in. I’d kiss boys and try not to flinch when they touched me. I’d tell my girlfriends about my sexual explorations as if I had an amazing time when, in reality, I thought it was kind of gross. I’d talk to 32-year-old men about sex and masturbation as if it was the latest on Teen World. I’d hold it together when older dudes would hold my hand against their crotch when we were kissing, only to spend the rest of the week cringing at the thought of it.

In reality, I didn’t want to kiss anyone, didn’t want to feel any boners, didn’t want any grabs, didn’t want any “compliments.” I just wanted to be a cute girl, a respected girl, a fun girl, a loving girl. But I couldn’t, because, no matter how hard I tried, I still looked like a sexy woman.

And I did try hard. Growing up, I would change schools often. And every one or two years, when that would happen, I’d try to be the new, cute girl. I’d push my breasts down with sports bras, speak softly, and stay away from boy trouble. I’d think to myself, “maybe if I’m really clear that I just want to be friends, they’ll leave me alone.” And for a few weeks, it would work. I would start believing that, maybe this time, I’d be the cute girl.

And then, a boy would happen. All it would take is one boy, wanting to validate his masculinity badly enough to do something disrespectful and uncalled for.

Back then, disrespect looked like butt grabs, name calling, boob jokes, and just-get-in-the-fucking-car trips. And after the first display of disaffection, the reputation I was trying so hard to build would go down the drain. From cute girl to sexy woman in one painful second.

Suddenly, all boys thought it was okay to treat sexy women that way. Hello to more butt grabs, more name-calling, more boob-jokes. Goodbye to seeing me as a potential friend (or even girlfriend), hello to seeing me as a potential to get them off.

Yes, I was no longer girlfriend material. 

Because sexy, sensual, slutty women don’t make good girlfriends–cute girls do.

Eventually, I would get tired of fighting and accept my reoccurring fate as a sexy woman. From age 10 to, well, now. At 21, I’m still a sexy woman, and even though displays of disaffection might look different nowadays, the disrespect remains. I am still dehumanized by words and actions that try to control my sexual expression. I am still objectified by the male gaze. Misogynistic societal structures still don’t recognize the fact that I have sovereignty over my own body.

The only thing that has changed is my reaction to the labels placed upon me and all women alike. I have grown to not let them affect me as much. Mostly because, I am no longer a girl pretending to be a woman.

I no longer let my sexual expression be defined by someone else’s idea of what is appropriate, or what is exciting. I no longer believe I have to tame my sensuality in order to be respected. I no longer see my curves as a cruel temptation to a male’s uncontrollable sexual appetite.

I no longer think that, just because I don’t get labeled as cute, I can’t call myself cute. I am cute as fuck. I am also sexy as fuck. I am all the things I want to be and some I’m still learning to accept.

I can only speak for my now experience as a sexy woman. And though I have romanticized the life of a cute girl in the past, I know it comes with its own challenges and tribulations. I’ve heard you had issues coming into your sensuality. I’ve heard you had a hard time realizing your womanhood. I’ve heard you felt awkward dancing, or flirting, or exploring intimacy because you were once told you were not sexy. I’ve heard you had trouble being outspoken, or decisive, or building boundaries, because you were expected to be a sweet, soft-spoken, cute girl.

And may I leave you with this: you are cute as fuck; but you are also sexy as fuck.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s