Two things before I start this post.
1) Though it is Thanksgiving and I have so much to be thankful for, this post is not about that.
2) This post is yet another in my apparently recurring theme of sexuality. If you do not wish to know that much about me, I advise you to read no further.
You know what I hate?
When people (and of course by people I mean boys) look at me all disappointed the moment I start being myself and go “Oh…I thought you were different.”
I have been turning this over in my mind ever since I tried to push up on my friend at that party (see previous post). As he was politely turning down my advances, I seem to remember him saying something along the lines of “Do you know how many girls try to sex me?” (and in this instance, I am only using the quotes to separate that text from the rest of the text–that is not a direct quote).
And though I don’t remember him saying it, I felt like behind those words he was implying how he thought I was different than those other girls, but I had just sadly, sadly disappointed him with my commonness.
This is something I think about a lot in general because I encounter it a lot.
“Oh. I thought you were different.”
The thing about it is I am different, but not in a way that people (and of course by people I mean the only people in the world who truly count: boys) find appealing.
In the two areas that count, sex and emotions, I am exactly like every other damn woman.
So take that!
The thing about it is that I do understand how it would be possible to misread me, unless you’re just very adept at reading what I have been told are subtle signs (even though if you have been following this blog you probably know by now that I am also very capable of being very, very obvious).
This is something I have been struggling with my whole life: to show on the outside who I am on the inside. I have tried all manner of body piercings and wild haircuts and costume jewelry to try to create an image on the outside that communicates who I really am inside: a five-star chick.
No, but seriously.
For some reason it is very frustratingly natural for me to give most people I meet the impression that I am innocent and reserved–you know, a “good girl.”
And I’m not saying I’m not a “good girl,” but I am definitely not the passive, submissive, lacking any sexual desire outside of pleasing my husband (or maybe a boyfriend, but we have to be seriously in love) girl who being a “good girl” connotes.
I am not her.
I am a young woman who was raised by a single mother, so I am all types of conflicted between my natural womanly inclination to care for you and my upbringing to never, never take care of no DAMN MAN.
…but that was a sort of a tangent.
The thing about it is I’m not even sure what that means, to be different. I’m not sure anyone really is. I mean, of course you have all types of people, but within those types, is anyone really different? We live in a society that actively works to teach us conformity. I am a young, self-actualized, educated woman. Like every other woman I went to school with. How much different from them could I possibly be?
The other night, I was talking to my girl K about this. And this is (one of the many reasons) why I love this chick. She goes, without hesitation, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–I’m special.”
I, on the other hand, am not so sure. I mean sure, I’m unique. I was especially created and designed at the hand of God for a distinct and special purpose in life–just like everybody else.
So when I meet a guy and he loads me with all these expectations of how I’m supposed to be somehow different, I really don’t know how to process that. I doubt I’m whatever difference you’re looking for, and I really can’t take all that pressure anyway. I’m just me. Like every other woman. And if you’re someone who digs that, and can understand that I can’t/won’t play “the game” and am probably waiting just as eagerly (if not more) for “the right time” to get down, then maybe we can kick it.
I guess that’s one way I’m different: I see you as just as much of a sex object as you see me (if not more), and I’m not able to hide it.
But then again, once the deed is done, I’m writing out our childrens’ names and practicing my married signature with your last name. So, again, pretty much just like every other woman.
- The Problem With Being “Sexy But Not Sexual” [Sex Ed] (jezebel.com)
- The Problem with the Ride or Die Chick (urbanbellemag.com)
- The 35 Year Old Booty Call…Could This End Up Being You? (urbanbellemag.com)