This isn’t a complete thought, just the beginning of a conversation I want to have.
Yesterday evening, I was finishing up my afro-brazilian dance rehearsal, running through our Frevo piece a few more times before our performance tomorrow. There were a couple of people on the side watching, mostly people hanging out after the capoeira workshops that preceded our rehearsal. Also mostly men. I was tired and sweaty from the exertion of two very high energy dances, and so I wasn’t going to pay much attention to the casual audience. It didn’t help that this practice was our dress rehearsal, and we are wearing the most ridiculous costumes ever. Picture neon clown costume stripes, Brazilian bikini wear, and lots of midriffs showing. Yeah.
So I’m running through the dance, trying to measure out the little energy I have left, when I turn around and catch a glimpse of a short-haired capoeirista watching us/me. Only a glimpse, and not even enough to distinguish all of her features clearly, but my attitude towards rehearsal shifted drastically. Now I was putting on a show. I slipped into that kind of dancing that is decidedly eye-catching, that embodies the music down to the tiniest detail and flourish. Watch me, my hips said.
As I finished a run-through and walked back towards my starting position (and the capoeirista), I told myself to make eye contact and smile. I looked at the floor instead. Another missed opportunity thanks to my bashfulness. But I did finish up rehearsal dancing my best. When I completed the final run-through, I looked back for her–but she was gone. I hoped she had been watching me.
I changed out of my yellow leggings and back into my own much-more-flattering slouchy black jazz pants. I was still sticky though, so I decided to just wear my sports bra and leave my shirt off. This is something I normally won’t do, because it tends to attract a kind of attention from men that I don’t want, but I figured that in the long trip from the parking lot to my car and my car to my apartment, I was at low risk of seeing anyone.
This proved true for the first 10 minutes of my drive home…until I had to walk the half block from my car to my house. There were a few people walking to and from parties or gatherings. I saw a couple of twenty-something guys across the way. I walked with purpose and silently prayed they wouldn’t say anything.
Jesus doesn’t always answer prayers.
“Hey mamacita! Come over here! Oww! Damn! Look at that ass!”
I ignored them and kept walking, pretending not to hear them, but already feeling the burning sensation of their words in my ears. Why am I always treated like a fucking piece of meat by straight men? I hated them for talking to me, for paying attention to me when I did not invite their stares, their cat-calls, their appraisal of, and desire for, my body.
I walked into the safety of my apartment and tried to shake off their words, their penetrating gaze. It happens, and I continue to hope that one day, it won’t bother me. But today, another thought crossed my mind:
Here I am, here is the body I have, here is the way I present myself. Me, and more specifically, my body, has long been something that men lust after, yell at, hit on. But I don’t want their attention. Right now, I want women’s attention. I want women to approach me (politely, of course) and take an interest in me.
So how can I make that happen? I there a way to attract the right kind of attention? Be sexy and appealing in a way that seems wrong to straight men, but so right to that lovely chocolate brown lady across the room? Or is there at least a way to tell when I’m getting attention from women, so that I can calmly filter out the unwanted attention from men?
Space Traveler, I may be—but seasoned flirt, I am not. All input, thoughts, and waxing philosophic on attraction and the right kind of attention grabbing are greatly welcomed and encouraged.
