Tiny veins running into the pupil, splintering and red. Brow furrowed, deep, sinking. The cologne wafts on the breeze, pale in comparison to the musky beer and tangy vodka that clings to the air. This one has a swagger even while he sits. That one speaks with a slur even when his mouth is closed. And the one who is sitting by the heater – he walks to the bathroom like a newborn deer.
The table to the right seats a group of six. They hang from the plastic chairs and laugh with a giddiness that sits a little too close to mania. They’re in a deep web of conversation, words almost raw as they scratch above the pumping music. But there is a flickering in the far corner, a golden earring hanging from the earlobe of a pretty blonde. She’s standing under a strobe light and sipping her drink from a straw. The tiny glimmer hooks one of them in but she does not notice, and she scrolls on her phone.
Sometimes in greying offices I sink my shoulders into the chairs that live in the boardroom: ergonomic with arm rests wide enough to fit clenched fists. In these greying offices I answer the phone calls and I direct the clients to the right department. My voice is woven from silk as I sew up all the dilemmas of their day. To counteract the day I will bring a bunch of sweet-pea flowers to sit on my desk. A block of chocolate to eat for morning tea. Cardamom tea.
When five p.m. rolls around I skirt down the stairs. I know he is waiting because he is always waiting. The grin will be toothy, the door left open. His eyes remind me of black jewels sitting on the ocean bed. Except they aren’t black, they’re piercing blue. So cutting and clean and hopeful. There will be no inappropriate remarks, just a patient lingering coated in thick, heavy, wet anticipation. I will bow my head and scurry to the car and scenes of long red robes and white bonnets will flash in my mind.
It is funny how pop culture mocks itself. On one screen we view women tied up in visible chains of misogyny, and on the other we watch, with glee and applause, the patriarchy coalescing our liberties in a sick and sexualised expression of freedom. It all comes down to our clothes: what we wear, how we wear it, who is watching us wear it, and what they think of what we are doing with it. Covered from limb to limb and we are a victim of oppression. Too much on display and we are a victim of promiscuous desperation.
For years we have listened to men mumble raps about our bodies. They take our bodies from us, eyeing and dismembering with swift audacity, and turn them into a vessel for male pleasure. Our mouths, our flesh, our hips–analysed from a place of objectification to create a slimy rap verse coloured with profanities and accusations, sour compliments and brash rhymes.
We can be sexual so long as it is under their microscope. So long as we abide by their guidelines: silence is key, kindness is complicit and vulgar prowess is only for the boys. So long as we do not put our bodies back together, taking it back from them, and redirect their gaze.
The boy watches the pretty blonde. He sips from his beer and raises his eyebrow as she kneels down to pick up the straw that has fallen from her drink.
Sometimes when I am driving along the highway I will wind the windows all the way down. In spring, the fresh air coils around my lungs and dances between my loose locks and some days I can think of nothing and I can speak of nothing, I can only listen as the music floats around the car. Outside the window, past the cars piled up, there are small houses hiding behind the tall walls. They are tucked away and quiet, filled with families or daughters or wives. This is how we construct society: we put our creations in pockets of space, and we keep it out of sight unless it needs to be seen. The highway is built of tar and the car is made of metal and our bodies are made of tissue, but they are all built from a hungry place. They all remain standing because of grit. The labourers fix the potholes and the mechanics keep the cars running and we… we listen to music, or we sip vodka sodas with our close friends in a club, or we spend a weekend by the ocean.
Small leaps of female progression come to us during our days: a song on the radio, a lady in the Whitehouse, a 50 cent pay-rise. Leopard print is what I think of while the radio plays: Cardi B in her tight fit flaunting curves to die for; her verses full of the flavour male rappers have trademarked as their own. She turns the tide and reaps the benefits of her carnal figure by monetising it. This enables her to own her anatomy. This is how she retrieves it from the clutches of her male counterparts. Next: a video of a young girl in a princess T-shirt mimicking Cardi B’s manoeuvres. Her body does not twist with the easy seduction Cardi B carries. Instead her moves are delayed and jagged. Not cautious so much as inquisitive. In the video, the girl’s father watches and asks the young girl what she is doing, then he instructs her to stop; his gaze signals shock, apprehension, recognition – it settles on his little girl, who is now blushing and unsure of what she has done wrong, as his jaw tightens. The young girl is adaptive, so she presses play on the next song.
Lately I have been considering sexuality. I watch myself as I smile at the male colleague who lingers for too long and I wonder if my outfit screams for attention – is my blouse too low cut? Skirt too short? Why do his eyes blaze like dry lightning down my body? When they come back up to meet my eyes, why are his irises glistening? I picture myself like a fish he’s just caught on a sharp hook, pulled from the simmering lake and flailing under the pressure of the atmosphere. I try to change the picture, make myself like a lioness with leopard spots. I will wrap myself under a gauze mat that glitters. He will picture me on my knees in the kitchen and I will become a weapon.
The pretty girl is smiling at her phone, and the man watching her – the one with sweat along his forehead and a beer to his lips – grimaces as jealousy shivers through his dilated pupils. He cracks his neck. Sharp as a vein pops. With the fizzling in his veins he is defended by an illusion. His eyes are glazed like butter burning on a saucepan.
The girl puts her phone down and notices his stare. She pulls her lip into a thin line, musters a polite smile, and hugs herself. It is cold and she is not sitting near a heater. The fizzling in her veins is a lowered defence, a vulnerable eclipse. It is the end of a long week. She is waiting for her friends and she hopes they arrive soon.
Lately I have been considering the truth of weapons. If they are left out on the bench, are they really weapons? Would our fingers have the chance to grip the hilt of the knife if they did not want us to have access to it? If their eyes were not able to monitor the situation? Some weapons we carve ourselves, and others they let us believe we have carved while all along they are the ones who have overseen the entire production.
couple things to say 