Good bad sexy
When I moved in with Tom I threw away most of my lingerie. I had accumulated a large collection that was entirely cheap and deeply flammable. Think Amazon Prime, think thongs that cut into flesh, instantly laddered stockings and garments with fastenings that don’t quite fit. Mostly it all looked okayyy in low lighting and on camera which was where I wore it. All for A because he liked that. It had pleased me for a while at the time, because, how easy it was to impress him, like a real life version of a basic man whose desire was in line with what I’d learnt sexy to be from the boys at school. And I learnt at the time that I liked to dress up, or did I just like to please him? Is there a difference?
I asked Tom early on if he’d like me to wear some of my matching sets and he said, nah it’s not really my thing. And so, when I moved in and was throwing away half my worldly possessions, they didn’t make the cut. Back to the landfill, I’m honestly so sorry about that. Dressing up for A was about pleasing him, but sometimes I felt it was a shame that he preferred my body contained in lycra, lace or latex, and sometimes I reflected on how few times I’d been naked with him.
I’m not someone who puts that much value on a refined presentation, or I don’t have it in me, or, something else. But I go out without makeup except for the pub in the winter months, disco parties or special occasions. I don’t have many beauty products, like any really, I have never in my life owned a makeup brush and I don’t know how to blow dry my hair. I’m not saying that to show off, it’s just not where I put my energy and like, I don’t know how. Not for me, like going to the post office and booking restaurants ahead. So, being put together for sex, doesn’t actually make that much sense for me. And the garments were all part of my long term quest to be invited me round on Saturdays nights as well as Sunday afternoons. But, alas. It didn’t work.
I’ve been thinking a lot about being a good girl. And thinking about how it’s not to opposite of being a bad girl. And, being a bad girl, I realised doesn’t actually look like smudged eyeliner and an open mouth. That’s just another kind of good girl. Sometimes the smudged eyeliner, open mouth, more flammable, more tiny skirts leave a bad taste in my mouth. Trying to free up storage in my phone has taken me deeply into my camera roll and WhatsApp A LOT recently. There’s a lot of material, and a lot of material I sent to him that looks just like that. Was I reclaiming my body and sexuality or was I just hoping for love?
The thing is my bad girl isn’t the eyeliner or the thong, it’s:
How I genuinely wish you badly sometimes
Or how I definitely don’t wish you the best often
That I didn’t really ever do a covid test (maybe three times in total)
That I don’t wash my hands that much
That I think it’s ok to never give you back your top
That I send screen grabs of your posts to other people in a mean way
That I say things behind your back that you trusted me with
That I still think it’s a her problem not a me problem
That I read your diary
That I don’t rinse things out before I put them in the recycling
That I often pick the easy way
That I used her vibrator sometimes when she was out
That I think I am prettier
You know what I mean? It doesn’t all fit neatly into a sexy alter ego, it’s far more unsightly and it’s far more the lights have come on at the end of the night and here is how I look under the strip lighting. I’ve just been thinking about how the only acceptable channel we’ve found for badness is to be sexy bitches. But what about the ways we are also nasty ugly bitches? Where can that go?
I don’t love that because Tom wasn’t into matching sets I threw them all away, but also who was I going to keep them for? Because it certainly wasn’t for me. I spent a good solid decade worrying about body hair and this year decided to just get laser after all because it’s actually the best way to find my own peace with it. SHAME THAT IT’S ALSO INLINE WITH THE PATRIARCHY, SHAME. But in a past relationship deciding to leave it au natural got me to no place good, read: man who didn’t want to have sex with me. So, when I decided my feminist duties were not entirely based on my bikini line, it felt a bit freeer. Most men of this time prefer it like that and it’s not the sword I want to die on. So.
What I’m trying to say is, the things I have measured myself by before don’t mean what I thought they did. And mostly I wanted to talk about being good.
I think for a long time I have confused being good with being ammenable. Read: helpful, read: nice, read: agreeable, read: pleasant, read: non-confrontational, read: anything you fucking want me to be. And so a life is crafted around a personality that has got further and further away from me.
Since my first long term relationship when I was 16-21 I have been driven in part by a need to get back. Every night out has an undertone of best get back Cinderella. I have not witnessed the same duty in my boyfriends. And it is a duty that no one asked me to take on. I actually think Tom would be over the moon if I stayed out all night. He likes it when I tell him what I actually want, stand up for myself, ask for more. Because the funny twist at the end of my riddle is that being amenable, it turns out, gets us nowhere.
My general ambition is not to become more of a cunt. In fact, I think I would like to gossip less and refrain from reading any more diaries. But I would like to be less amenable. Sexy boys aside, I’ve noticed something that I feel in friendship often. And it feels a lot like duty, the same whisper that tells me to get home on a night out, propels me to send texts first, reply promptly and always always offer more. I have started to notice that this part of me that operates like a tick or a gong doesn’t have to be reacted to. And I’ve started to notice that if I don’t react to it, then my phone is quieter. I am not flooded with check ins and not everyone carries the same duty that I do.
Not being good, the fact that I don’t have to be good, is across the board about taking up more space for myself. It applies to every single corner of it. Further in my claims of being such a good person that I take care of the world around me is a puppet master making sure that everyone still likes me to most. I have slowly started participating differently, dropping a few balls, genuinely giving less of a shit, seeing where it really is a you problem, not making a plan on a reflex because that’s what we do. It’s a bit uncomfortable to change these habits because there is a reaction and my impulse is always to super smooth it over, make sure I am still everyones best girl. But guess what, the otherside of being everyones best girl, is someone else. And the urge to smooth passes pretty quickly, and in its place is WIDE OPEN SPACE for me to live in.