You are seductive, and you are bad.
The white-haired man across the room in Nashville continued down the list of what voices say. "An immature boy in a locker room may feel shame, and hear from that - even years later - "You are small. They are large." A girl, molested, learns from that experience shame, and hears, "You are seductive. And. you. are. bad."
Something resonated, deep, shattering in that moment. And my soul was free.
I don't know why I thought I didn't need to hear it. My inner cynic argued my abuser was forgiven. I'd processed, he died; I'd evolved beyond this. Logically, I am 35 years old, and it's been decades. I am free, can defend myself. My job helps many, is unsexy-boring and requires responsibility. It's a grown-up job. I am a grown-up, a functioning, contributing member of society. I'm a lady, dammit.
You are seductive, and you are bad.
In that space, though, filled with hipsters, artists, grandmothers, I sat alone, bared, scared, held.
Men had always watched me - when I ate, while I walked, even sitting and reading. I felt their eyes roam, cling like weights with knife-sharp edges.
Meeting those eyes meant staring them down. Showing every man he couldn't hurt me. Angry, wounded hazel eyes dared them to make a move. Do something so I can use this new-found power to call others to my aid. Do it. Do it so you can be punished for wanting me.
Or... my eyes lowered from theirs.
A quick smile meant I was friendly, harmless, something soft. Lowered eyes, folded-in shoulders conveyed I am small, won't fight. The quick, nervous movements translated soul messages: Please, please hurt me. I'm not your wife, your girlfriend. Bring on the leather, the anger. Lose those things which restrain you, like responsibility or ethics. Ignore what you've been told an enlightened, acceptable male does.
Be dirty with me. And angry. And hard. I won't tell. I want you to.
I am seductive. And I am a very, very bad girl.
Staring at my Crocs-covered, navy-nailed feet, the man, Al,'s voice echoed like the leftovers of a gong; quieting, exotic-but-familiar. And answering back was someone else in my voice.
You are beautiful. You. are. not. seductive.
You. are. not. bad.
Not a breathless, desperate prayer from a locked closet. Not the angry, empowered shell-person I'd worn since college.
Someone new. More vulnerable and more strong. Less protected and less unfinished. It was a quiet birth, unseen and unrecorded.
The next day, I boarded a plane for my homestate. Job, bills, family waited on the other side. Flight delayed, I ate BBQ and watched people roam halls. Artists, soldiers, fathers strolled into tubes leading to sleek, flying beast airplanes. Professionals Blackberried. Gazes caught, I smiled.
And didn't flick my gaze away.
When he blankly smiled, returning to something more attention-demanding on his screen, I blinked, stunned by the moment.
No anger, no burn, no anything; but a hazel-eyed, brown-haired chick in an airport.
Not striking, not seducing, but not bad.
Differently beautiful. New.
The white-haired man across the room in Nashville continued down the list of what voices say. "An immature boy in a locker room may feel shame, and hear from that - even years later - "You are small. They are large." A girl, molested, learns from that experience shame, and hears, "You are seductive. And. you. are. bad."
Something resonated, deep, shattering in that moment. And my soul was free.
I don't know why I thought I didn't need to hear it. My inner cynic argued my abuser was forgiven. I'd processed, he died; I'd evolved beyond this. Logically, I am 35 years old, and it's been decades. I am free, can defend myself. My job helps many, is unsexy-boring and requires responsibility. It's a grown-up job. I am a grown-up, a functioning, contributing member of society. I'm a lady, dammit.
You are seductive, and you are bad.
In that space, though, filled with hipsters, artists, grandmothers, I sat alone, bared, scared, held.
Men had always watched me - when I ate, while I walked, even sitting and reading. I felt their eyes roam, cling like weights with knife-sharp edges.
Meeting those eyes meant staring them down. Showing every man he couldn't hurt me. Angry, wounded hazel eyes dared them to make a move. Do something so I can use this new-found power to call others to my aid. Do it. Do it so you can be punished for wanting me.
Or... my eyes lowered from theirs.
A quick smile meant I was friendly, harmless, something soft. Lowered eyes, folded-in shoulders conveyed I am small, won't fight. The quick, nervous movements translated soul messages: Please, please hurt me. I'm not your wife, your girlfriend. Bring on the leather, the anger. Lose those things which restrain you, like responsibility or ethics. Ignore what you've been told an enlightened, acceptable male does.
Be dirty with me. And angry. And hard. I won't tell. I want you to.
I am seductive. And I am a very, very bad girl.
Staring at my Crocs-covered, navy-nailed feet, the man, Al,'s voice echoed like the leftovers of a gong; quieting, exotic-but-familiar. And answering back was someone else in my voice.
You are beautiful. You. are. not. seductive.
You. are. not. bad.
Not a breathless, desperate prayer from a locked closet. Not the angry, empowered shell-person I'd worn since college.
Someone new. More vulnerable and more strong. Less protected and less unfinished. It was a quiet birth, unseen and unrecorded.
The next day, I boarded a plane for my homestate. Job, bills, family waited on the other side. Flight delayed, I ate BBQ and watched people roam halls. Artists, soldiers, fathers strolled into tubes leading to sleek, flying beast airplanes. Professionals Blackberried. Gazes caught, I smiled.
And didn't flick my gaze away.
When he blankly smiled, returning to something more attention-demanding on his screen, I blinked, stunned by the moment.
No anger, no burn, no anything; but a hazel-eyed, brown-haired chick in an airport.
Not striking, not seducing, but not bad.
Differently beautiful. New.
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