"I have been sexy since I was 15 years old."
When I said the words to a homegirl and later to my therapist, it felt like an exhausted and pitiful epiphany.
"I was sexy, but not pretty," I explained, remembering how the curves that suddenly appeared above and beneath my back had attracted the attention of men and women alike-- but not the attention I craved or wanted. I was constantly watched by men and surveilled by women. But I never felt seen, accepted, or like I belonged. The resentments went both ways.
Men would watch from a distance, but their snickers, whistles, whispers and disrespect would loom in the air anytime I was around. I was what was called a “paper bag” girl, someone with a body you wanted to fuck, but a face you wanted to hide.
Women watched me up close, inspecting my body and the way clothes were hitched up in the back, showed too much cleavage in the front, and almost always made me look more grown than I was allowed to be. Women watched me as if my body was wasted on someone with so little rhythm (I couldn't do “the butterfly” to save my life) and so much attitude. My cousin Sharon gave up on trying to teach me how to dance, but was determined I would learn how to be pretty.
"You look like your mama," she promised, camouflaging my face with Fashion Fair foundation. That resemblance was buried beneath the scars of preteen acne and low self-esteem. The prophesy that my mother's face would somehow emerge from mine offered little comfort. My mother was beautiful, not sexy, which in retrospect was likely more a response to religiosity than reality.
Still, I longed for the beauty often associated with chasity. Bodies that were muted-- it seemed-- allowed girls and women to be beautiful/lovable, not just sexy/fuckable. Their quiet bodies required you to appreciate their face and protected onlookers from the distraction of a waist to hip ratio that had become the fodder of hip hop lyrics. "Never trust a big butt and a smile," right?
My body was loud, speaking before I spoke, it predicted that some day I would grow into my forehead and nose, my too-big teeth would settle into my too-small mouth and I would learn how to live in my skin and own my sexuality. By the mid-2000s, the "paper bag" premonition was lifted and I was the bad bitch of my teenaged dreams.
But in the 1990s, I was too clumsy and unaware of my newfound sexiness to feel empowered by it. What I mostly felt was shame and hyper-(in)visibility. I often hid my body beneath baggy clothes that swallowed my figure, and church dresses that were intentionally ill-fitting with bulky undergarments underneath--a loose bra, granny panties, silk slip and coffee colored stockings with flat shoes. If there should be a paper bag over my head, it seemed, so too my body.
I was warned about my body-- told that I needed to be careful and to keep myself covered. The body shaming I endured was not about how big my body was, but about my ass being too big for my too skinny legs. I was the anamoly of my maternal family-- everyone assumed the women on my father's side must have been voluptuous.
It was probably a combination of rebellion, insecurity and feminism that led me to finally embrace my sexuality. It happened in my latter twenties. In the midst of situational celibacy and later under the supervision and encouragement of new, older black woman friends in Florida (shout out to Sheri and Keysha), I decided to embrace sexiness, not as a curse or consolation, but as a fundamental part of my emergent identity as a grown-ass woman. It was not so much the clothes I wore as it was how I wore my clothes. My sudden confidence and self-assurance was gifted to me from women who told me I was pretty and sexy and not the other way around. I became less concerned about my desirability or likeability, and more concerned with what made me feel good, empowered, and fully in my skin. I rejected the scorn of elder black women who insisted I had to dress conservatively to be taken seriously, and followed the lead of my sassy friends and started showing up as my full sexy self, no matter how many rolled eyes my fitted jeans and low cut tops inspired. By the time I turned 30, I had a stiletto and lingerie collection, and hadn’t worn pantyhose in years.
Being reduced to a body is dehumanizing and disconcerting, and recent issues with unwelcome and unwanted attention from men who think I am more sexy than pretty has made me feel self- conscious. This threat to my confidence feels like it did when I was a teenager. The vulnerability of my sexiness sometimes feels like a weakness of strong black womanhood.
I am clear that someone's attraction to me should not be weaponized against me. I embrace and embody being sexy, but that doesn't mean I enjoy or desire being hypersexualized. The opposite, in fact, is true. When my friends call me a baddie it is affirming because I know they are referencing the full spectrum of who I am as a person, not reducing me to a silhouette. When a stranger observes and says I am sexy it feels/falls flat—because I am so much more than just that.
Some people might respond to my frustration saying, "well, if you show off your body, what do you expect?" I expect to be respected and left alone. Me minding my black (sexy) ass business is not an invitation for anybody’s observation or approval.
Me showing off my body rarely means skin, but unlike when I was a teenager, I am proud of my bottle shaped figure, and while I (sometimes) enjoy being femme and performing femininity that doesn't mean I deserve objectification. My sexy is an add-on to the dozens of other things that make me dope. And I don't need anyone to tell me I am sexy, my sexy announced itself decades ago.
It would be easy to blame the lingering and uncomfortable stares of strangers to the thirst traps of Instagram influencers or the emergence of BBL bodies, but I was being over sexualized long before the existence of a like button on a social media feed. And it doesn’t feel old school to not want my (in person) body consumed like a color-filtered selfie in a IG story that will disappear in a day.
These days I am more at home in my body and skin than I have ever been, but I still walked back into my house to layer my tank top and grab a sweater to wrap around my waist, to cover my ass, before going to the grocery store the other day, afraid of being looked at too close or for too long.
I (sometimes) resent the self-consciousness of sexiness. Sometimes it makes me feel unsafe and uncomfortable. Sometimes it makes me feel powerful. Sometimes it makes me feel ashamed. Sometimes it makes me feel beautiful. Sometimes it makes me feel targeted.
I have been sexy since I was 15 years old.
I have been 43 since September.
Note: This IG thread by @LyvonneBriggs inspired this essay and reminded me this experience is not unique.
“When my friends call me a baddie it is affirming because I know they are referencing the full spectrum of who I am as a person, not reducing me to a silhouette. When a stranger observes and says I am sexy it feels/falls flat—because I am so much more than just that.” Yes, sis! Thank you for sharing ✨