My favourite pair of jeans is a Moto pair from two years back; they’re a 26″ waist, hemmed, low rise dark denim with faded fronts, red stitching, slight flare, and angled side loops. (I’m too lazy to take a photo.) A nice thick denim, they feel amazing and fit like a glove, no matter if I’m five pounds heavier than normal, or five pounds lighter.
Nothing exciting has happened because of these jeans.
Another pair is an old Dynamite pair; they feel too loose all around, and have to be belted. Mom pulled them off a sales rack ($15!!!), and I loved the stretchy, cross hatched jean (can’t find a photo, but it’s one of my favourite types of denim. V. slimming, and wears great), so I bought them. Now, those jeans, though they’re not my favourite by any means, have a story.
I was wearing them the first time I got checked out. That was creepy – I was thirteen, he was like, forty. In a truck. Honks appreciatively, and cowers a little bit when mom and I turn to give him the dirty eye simultaneously. I don’t blame him entirely though; it’s easy to think someone is older from behind. He was a creepy looking perv, though.
But I got a rush. Something following the logic of: “I could use this. I could get used to this.” Um, you read the IB post on Sunday. You get it: raised to be a bitch among bitches, I will use anything that I can to get where I want to be.
But, nothing loud happened for a while. Then, one of my male friends told one of our mutual friends that I, *ahem*, have a nice rack. (34A, most of the time. Nothing special.) Headrush.
A random guy drives by me while I’m walking home (in my Dynamite jeans), in the same direction (ie, he comes up from behind.) He leans out of his window, in his mid twenties, not a looker but nothing too painful to look at either, and loudly yells “nice ass” across the street. Satisfaction.
I get it I’m one of those selfish whores working against the feminist movement. But honey, I’m not. It’s just that I’ve figured out what can and can’t get me ahead, and a little extra oomph in my step is something that I’ve used to my advantage. I mean, we all do it. You make yourself look pretty every morning; I brush against someone a little too closely while staring right at them. I can make anyone do anything, essentially. There are days when, in true typical teenage fashion, I feel like god.
Does that make me a slut? I don’t think so. I don’t walk provocatively or do anything flirtatious if it’s dark and there’s a touch of fear in the air. I don’t generally hit on older men, I don’t sleep around, I don’t “sell myself”. If your cleavage can get you in your boss’ good graces, why can’t my ass get me a 90% on my essay? Why can’t it get me men to do my bidding, and why can’t suggestive comments and hand slips get me what I want, when I want it?
It’s not like I’m sleeping around, as mentioned. I don’t randomly make out with them, either. All it is is a lifted eyebrow, a quirky comment, at most. I’m just being more efficient; making sure that someone will explain circle geometry to me when my teacher sucks, or stand up for me in a fight (yes, this has been necessary before.) I ask you again: does this make me a slut?
Discuss.
