The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Don't Stop

"Don't Stop" 

I think even the most cynical woman out there might agree with the rest on one point: being the one in the group who gets little or no attention is really, really unpleasant.

I'm talking about the group of girls who venture out to the bar on a Friday or Saturday night because they want to ‘dance‘. The group who sit around a darkened table on 'Daiquiri Tuesday' shooting hopeful glances toward the men at the bar. The group who meet for drinks before darting off to catch the headlining band in the other bar on the corner despite no real love for music. Most of us have done this, primped and preened for strangers in the hopes that we are noticed in some way, even if we have no intention of doing much with it. We do the hair and apply the mascara and make our lips look shinier and plumper than they ever would in daylight, angling for some kind of acknowledgment, anything which might let us know that we are still worthy of a second look.

In my very short life as a bar-hopper, I was nearly always annoyed to be there. The sexual innuendo was always so artless, so rehearsed and disingenuous that I had to wonder what sort of woman might be prone to fall for it, until I realized one very important factor: alcohol. I wasn't much of a drinker, still am not in fact, because I have a very controlling nature and being soused isn't part of the protocol. I was almost always the purse-watcher, the hair-puller-backer, the back-rubbing-ohhedidn'tmeanit-er. I got to see firsthand how stupid and thoughtless people can be when fuelled by lust and Jose Cuervo and it always made me suspicious of men who handed out compliments or looked at me for longer than three seconds. I interpreted this as manipulation, which it almost always was, undoubtedly. What this also accomplished was that it made me feel like no one ever looked at me for who I was, that any validation of my physical beauty was not to be had from these inebriated slobbering erections. So, I often stood in my corner, pouty and sullen, painfully sober and full of contempt for any tight-bodied goddess who seemed to take herself seriously. They believed so fervently in their attractiveness that everyone around them bought into it, too, and even if I had wanted to be seen as something of a temptress, I lacked the confidence to inspire the proper reaction.

There were times when men would circle me, like they were checking out a car or looking for the biggest lobster in the tank, but as I have mastered the 'get the hell away from me or I'll cut you' look, I very seldom had to deal with any kind of verbal exchange. Occasionally, I was wounded that none of them were brave enough to attempt to tame the shrew, because that might have shown some depth and been a testament to unmitigated attraction, but most of the time, I counted myself lucky. Of course, I never felt beautiful at the end of any of those smoke-filled nights. Instead, I felt undesirable and redundant, a forgettable face in the strobe lights. I stopped going to bars much earlier than my peers. I didn't really understand the masochism.

Then, one night my then-boyfriend and his friends convinced me to go a bar they had been itching to experience. Alternative music, cheap beer and rumour had it there were booths where people actually had sex. I had already been there, a few times, but didn't want to disrupt their fantasies (yes, there were booths, but if people were having sex in them they had to do it standing up because there wasn't any room for much more). My best friend tagged along, and when we got there, there was a sea of tight shirts and perky breasts to our Doc Martens and leather jackets. The alternative crowd had turned into the not-so-alternative crowd, and I instantly felt ridiculous and hideous all at once. I remember sighing, looking at the men I'd come with, trying to see if I could catch any of them staring at anyone we didn't know and wondered why it mattered so much to me. Was I really that insecure that I would care about how much attention other women got when they were working so much harder at getting it than I was? Did this not make them the insecure ones?

I moved out onto the dance floor with my friend to dance, even though I was supremely self-conscious about it, but I recall that the song at the time was worth the effort. My body moved but my mind was mulling over some things. First, I hated myself for caring if men looked. Second, I hated myself for getting angry when they did. Third, I hated that was I so awkward and unconvinced of my own attractiveness. I understood that I was a hapless, gyrating contradiction in black. I didn’t want the attention but became sour when I didn’t get it. I looked around at the men, all standing in lazy groups holding plastic cups of beer, trying to appear disinterested but unable to stop their eyes from roaming, and I felt frustrated by this bizarre ritual we’d created, this show pony display of one’s worth and potential. I was frustrated by it, as much as I was desperately hoping for some kind of approval.

Suddenly, I noticed someone standing behind my friend who was dancing, oblivious, across from me. There was such intensity on his face, not dark exactly, but the look hinted at fanaticism. I wondered at first if he were angry about something, as his face was so serious, his expression so completely out of place, and as he moved closer, I became a little unnerved that he seemed to be fixating on me. I thought maybe I had done something unconsciously, like shoot him an evil look or stepped on his foot at some point, and my blood went cold as he leaned into me, gently taking touching my elbow, moving toward my ear.

‘Hello,’ he said pointedly.

‘Uh, hi,’ I responded clumsily.

‘I had to come over here to tell you something. I hope you don’t mind but I had to.’

‘Okay,’ I said slowly, waiting.

‘At the risk of embarrassing myself completely, I felt I had to push aside my fears to come and tell you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

I pulled away from him then, waiting for the punch line, for the raucous laughter that I was sure would follow, but instead I was met with an expression of complete sincerity. Instantly, he bloomed in front of me, that man with the short dark hair and red and green checked shirt. His eyes were blue, and he was wearing a pair of jeans, but my eyes never made it to his feet. He wasn’t a face in the crowd, anymore, and I was the only woman in the room for that one short moment. I was not prepared for this kind of comment, didn’t have an appropriate response, so I simply smiled.

‘I know you’re here with someone,’ he gestured toward the bar where my boyfriend was standing with his friends, ‘and he might want to take me on for saying so, but I really needed to tell you.’

I glanced toward the bar and sure enough, there were the boys I’d come with, all three glaring in my direction, readying for conflict.

It was strangely exciting.

My friend stood next to us, laughing with disbelief, her eyes wide as saucers and her face seemed to say ‘How amazing is this?’.

‘Thank you,’ I said quickly, sensing trouble was on its way, ‘but I do have a boyfriend and you’re right, he probably wouldn’t appreciate this very much.’

‘Okay,’ he said easily. ‘I didn't mean to bother you, I just wanted to talk to you. I'll be over there, if you want to talk some more.’

He gestured to a part of the room but I didn’t look. I didn’t look at him as he slowly moved away from me, either. I looked at my boyfriend and kept my eyes on him, knowing if I broke the connection he might go after the stranger.

I moved back to familiarity at the edge of the dance floor, at which time the men I knew circled me with questions, the main one being ‘what did he say to you?’.

Nothing, I’d said. I couldn’t understand him.

I think about him sometimes, how he made me feel that night so many years ago, and I sometimes wonder if he really meant what he said, though I’ve no real reason to think otherwise. I think of him mostly when I’m out , wandering through crowds, sitting in poorly lit restaurants, knowing that the rules are slightly different in these places, that people are indeed taking stock of what they find appealing because there is a sense of anonymity. It gave me a boost to know that someone would approach me just to tell I was physically attractive, that he would risk his own neck to do it, expecting nothing in return.

Sometimes, when I see a man looking at me as I walk down a busy sidewalk, or when I catch one staring from his car as it turns toward me, I push away my automatic reaction, the one which says ’go away, you’ve no right to objectify me like that!’. Instead, I let myself luxuriate in it for a moment, that unspoken , fleeting bit of longing in the eyes of strangers. It makes me feel alive and sexually desirable. It fills me with perfume and grace and lets me believe in my own mystique.

I need it more than I let on.