But He Said I Was Beautiful

But he said I was beautiful.

I was standing unaware in my polka dot dress, dancing in the shadows of my gorgeous friends. You thought I was dressed to impress.

You picked me out like a daisy in a summer field, you singled me out like the book of secrets. Next thing I know you were grazing my hips, «you are beautiful» you whispered, and I couldn’t believe my ears.

My first reflex was to turn around and see if my friends had all come up with some sort of rash, of swelling allergic reaction or better, sudden death. No, they were right there besides me, their striking golden beauty aura blinding every man in the place but you. You. You were looking at me, you were horny for me, you wanted only me.

I felt so special.

All night we engaged in a playful tango of seduction where you would come on to me and I would gently push you away. I felt like I had to make you work for it. I was a woman of word, of brain, I was not easy. Or so I thought. In reality I couldn’t believe for a a second you thought I was beautiful, that you would pick me out like the hard-to-get orchid I was pretending to be. I had to get proof. I had to test you. To see if it was for real. To see how much you wanted me. To quantify, to testify, to calculate, to estimate, to grasp, taste, feel how beautiful you thought I was. How worthy I could be of that sacred label. 

On the dance floor, you tried yourself on me. Holding me tight to supposedly help me get rid of drunk losers. Intertwining my fingers in yours to bring my body closer. Grabbing my ass fully, publicly, unashamedly before you even kissed me on the lips.
I left you hungry that night and you made sure to complain like a bratty boy greedy for chocolate. For once it was a man who was starving.

I immediately felt guilty guilty guilty oh so guilty as soon as I walked away from your hungry body.

He thought I was beautiful. This never happens to me. I should have given in. I should have given it. I should have given it all.

Shit. I hope he calls.

You never called.

I had to go all the way and pick you out myself like a fuckin’ daisy in the facebook field. I had to screen every single flower in the mix and find your smiley face in the midst of that wild jungle. I added you, I added your friends, I wrote to you, I wrote to your friends, I went out, out of my way, into your way, to run into you, to see you, to be seen by you.

You were still that spoiled greedy boy. Starvation had scarred you. I now had to work for it. You made me pay. I knew I had to pay. For not kissing you back after 20-minutes of small talk, for not getting head-over-heels drunk so you could dispose of me, for not letting your forceful hands inside my underwear. I had to work for it hard. But hey I thought. He thinks I’m beautiful. So I said to myself ‘hold on girl, that’s rare and precious’.

I went to far-away parties right after you’d left, I hung out with people I thought you knew, I alphabetized myself with every single piece of information I could dig out on you. I mimicked your daily life praying desperately to run into you. It was my turn. I was starving. I was punished.

I exercized compulsively, bought overpriced products to exterminate potential strechmarks, exfoliated my reason with 100%-organic body scrubs, waxed away my purpose at the Salon and spent rent money on lingerie. I would not disappoint you. You said I was beautiful and I was now doomed, shackled, obligated. Beautiful you said I was, beautiful I had to remain.
Finally one night, I hijacked you in a bar after some major stalking. You turned your back at me all night while I pretended to be passionate about marketing and entertain your lame friend with a tatoo and a golden chain. If he thought  I was beautiful, than maybe you would remember me, remember you had found me beautiful too. I was hopeful that if I made every man in the place want me, then you would come back. You would turn your head over, look at what was looked at by all and want it for yourself, forced to recognize my agreed-upon market value. After I’d seen so much of your back I could have drawn its creases with my eyes closed, you finally looked at me. I smiled hiding my overeagerness and self-satisfaction as you walked over confidently and said: you’re the most beautiful girl in the room tonight.

And right then and there, you possessed me again. And this time, having worked so hard to get there, I would not let you starve. I would not push you away, ever ever ever again. You thought I was beautiful. You thought I was the most beautiful. That was priceless. That was everything.

I decided to give myself fully to you that night. You deserved it. You’d said I was beautiful. I wanted to offer my body as a reward for the compliment marathon you’d just won.

In the dark of your room, you first noticed my flat stomach. You touched my feminine hips, my pelvic bones sticking out in lost control before settling on my ass. ‘What a hot body’, you’d said. I pratically came right away. A hot body. Me, a woman of word, of brain, I finally had what I deeply wanted, craved for, needed. It’s like you had uncovered my hiddent truth, like my true essence was finally unraveled. I was finally seen for what I was supposed to be all my life.

You didn’t make me come that night, you didn’t even try. But you said I was beautiful repeatedly. You drowned me in a sea of verbal appreciation, you suffocated me with vanity, I was breathless of your pretty words. I didn’t need physical proof, I didn’t need physical sensations. I had your benediction.

When you asked to take a picture of my naked body for your iphone, I laughed shyly, proudly. When you put my hand down on your penis, hungry again for pleasure, I frowned only half-heartedly. When you put your big arms around my fragile waist that night, and held me so tight I couldn’t move, I smiled sheepishly.

As time, days, nights went by, I started breathing less and less. You called me less and less beautiful, more and more hot and sexy. You ignored my eyes, my smile, focusing solely on my ass. What a hot piece of ass, you would say. But the memory of ‘beautiful’ was still fresh on my mind, resonating like echo, spinning in my ears.

You wanted to shut it out of my system. You slowly left behind your ‘I like you flat tummy’, ‘I like your dark curly hair’, ‘I like your cute butt’. Instead, I started getting ‘I like my girls skinny’. ‘I like my girls in lingerie’ you repeated. ‘I like red-haired girls’, ‘I like north african girls’ ‘I like girls in tight jeans’. ‘I like girls with no fat’. ‘I like girls who cook.’

I started hating them. Girls. All those other girls. Girls we saw on the streets, waitresses in bars, actresses, images, mirrors, magazines, postcards, my friends you hadn’t met. All the girls you could see. And those you could imagine. More beautiful than me.

Beautiful became a distant memory, a forgotten past. I couldn’t let go of those first nights, when you had said it in such a deep voice. I was holding on to it, holding on so hard. But he said I was beautiful, I would dictate myself. I must forgive and forget.

«He said I was beautiful» as I swallowed away your unsatiable appetite for blowjobs.
«He said I was beautiful». as I walked away quietly before 9 am on a Sunday so you could work out.
«He said I was beautiful» when I could feel how disembodied you were about my sexual pleasure.
«He said I was beautiful» as I said you were right when you said I was wrong.
«He said I was beautiful» as you jerked yourself off with your life narrative over dinner.
«He said I was beautiful». No questions about myself, my childhood, my freakin’ hopes and dreams.
«He said I was beautiful» when you spanked me hard while I was washing dishes.
«He said I was beautiful»…

My opinions were the first ones to fade away and gradually they all left me. My friends, my goals, my time, my loneliness, my self-esteem, my innerlife, even my secret garden. I was numb and beautiful, dumb and beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. My only thought, a hamster-wheel of flowing thoughts, the bars of a beauty cage. Who was I? He said I was beautiful.

And then you mentioned her. Them. The others, the ones before, the ones after, the ones that had been there first, that had already been colonized and sold off. Not just any girls. The previous girls.

The exes.

One was so good at giving head that you would come hard and loud, so much that you’d received noise complaints from neighbors. You then proceeded on asking me to kneel down in the midst of the cold hallway, right next to the door.

One was so kinky she couldn’t hold herself back from blowing you everywhere, anywhere, anytime. You then proceeded on telling me I should feel comfortable to blow you everywhere, anywhere, anytime.

One was still there on your mind and you would still think of her, have flashes of her, as you fucked me. ‘It’s not my fault’, you’d said, ‘but when we have sex, I’m not 100% here, I think of her and how good her body felt’. You then proceeded on pushing my head down so I could help you forget about her.

Once your started going down that road, you became unstoppable.

«Put a finger in my ass»

«I want to come on your face»

«I really want to fuck your ass»

«Lie down. I want to tie your hands and put my hard cock in your mouth. I want to fuck your mouth hard»

Come on your face. Fuck your face. Kneel down. Come face come face come face come face come face.


That was it.

I cracked, I exploded. Beautiful was not enough for me. Beautiful was bullshit to me. Beautiful was destroying me.

‘Fuck you’. I wanted to scream out loud.

But you were too quick. You felt the thunder coming and you had to be the first one to pull out the umbrella.

You told me I had a problem. I was the problem.

Too defensive, too vocal, too wet, too loud, too hairy, too radical. Not sexual enough, not good enough, not pretty enough, not silent enough.

I didn’t laugh at your jokes, I was jealous of your past, unable to be part of your future. Not enough sexual initiative, too much political initative.

I was shit. I had no worth. Nor physical, nor spiritual. I was garbage polluding your bed, your time, your life. You had to throw me away and it was a shame I wasn’t biodegradable.

I lost it. I lost you. The ice had all melted. Even my so-called hot ass would not do it. You saw me through broken glasses.

How could your eyes have changed so quickly? Beautiful I was not. Beautiful was over.

My body economy had collapsed. I couldn’t make you come, you couldn’t make me come. No trade agreement was possible. Rational, you wanted a war of words. Emotional, I just wanted to be held and loved. We sat in a maze of awkward silence as you tried to shut me up further with your cold eyes. I dared looking up and I saw my monster in your mirror. I had lost beauty and thus value. I was nothing.

You made me breakfast to seal the deal. I was being dropped, the profits were too low.

I left your house that morning, swollen like a broken disease, infected in the pus of my tears.

I still feel ill today. When does it stop?

‘Never’ say all the thirsty eyes in bars.

Disclaimer: This post was written by a Feministing Community user and does not necessarily reflect the views of any Feministing columnist, editor, or executive director.

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