This is a piece I wrote for my column Mirror Mirror on The Frisky, but I wanted to share some of it here:
I am always checking out other women. I can’t help it. They look good. It’s not a secret. They look better than men.
Women wear bright, interesting colors in creative combinations. They wear catchy jewelry and have fantastic, innovative hair. They do bold, playful things with makeup. They have cool shoes. They stand out. So I want to look at them. And then I feel awkward, because maybe I’m being weird. Maybe I’m just as bad as the annoying guys who are always staring hungrily at young women on the F train, when those women are just trying to read their damn book, thank you very much.
I feel just like a gross guy, because it seems like one gaze isn’t that much different than the other. And I don’t know what the rules really are. Or what they should be, for straight women checking out other women.
“Checking out” is the right phrase, I think, because I don’t want to just glance casually. I want to see the whole outfit, from the slightly scuffed heels to the ironic bow on the headband. More of a confession: I am curious about the body in between. I notice when a woman has amazing boobs. I’m half jealous, half awed. I automatically compare myself to her, in a nanosecond flash, and want to know what it’s like to be her and not me. Not in a “I want to cut off your skin and wear it” kind of way. Just in … a way.
(um, wow. source)
I want to admire her. I notice everything. The way her jeans fit, the line of her shoulders, her jaw, her ears. I am into her beauty. That’s probably the best way to put it.
I think checking out is generally associated with sex in some way. There’s the friendly glance, which is like, “Hey! What’s up?” and there’s the quick smile which is like, “You look cool!” and there’s the measuring look leveled at the hot pink tutu skirt she’s managing to rock that says, “I’m interested in how you’re pulling this off. Very clever of you.” And then there’s the long, lingering stare that says, “I want to lick your delicious face, you thrilling creature … the lines of your body are like the interwoven melodies of an exquisite symphony. And also I’m really horny.”
I mean, I feel like my look says that sometimes. And I really don’t want to give the impression that I am thinking that. It’s really not like that.
When I was 15 a gorgeous girl somehow liked me and I was incredibly flattered and I turned her down for this twitchy boy who carried a mechanical pencil around at all times in case he needed to do some quick calculations on a napkin or something. So yeah.
Read the rest here
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Unroast: Today I love the way there are parts of my body that I don’t even notice, let alone have time to judge. Like my ears, and my toes, and my wrists, and my eyebrows.
P.S. I’m moving tomorrow! Yay! Ack! Eek! Gulp! Hooray! See you on the other side, where the walls are pinker!