I’ve been hurt all my life by the girls who were too beautiful for me, who walked around with their lean, tanned legs, and perfect hair and teeth, and clothing bought at designer shops, and looked down at me from their pedestal. I’ve felt inferior, felt criminal even to look at them with desire, felt beholden to them when they lowered themselves to speak to me. I wanted them all the same.
But how have I been different? There was K—- who lived in the poorest side of my hometown. My mother said I was too good for her. I believed her. There was T—- who was too broad shouldered, too broad hipped, too eager, and I knew I deserved better. There was J—-, one of the finest lovers I ever knew, J—- with her too big nose and her boyish hair, who I used for gratification and always knew I would toss aside. For K—- and T—- and J—- I am all shame. I missed out on three beautiful relationships, and three beautiful people. I missed out on tenderness and care and intimacy when I needed it most. I missed out because I bought into the Hollywood aesthetic, I bought into peer pressure, I bought into my mother’s classism. I bought into my personal mythology.
And I felt bad when others did the same to me. We all do it, though, and that’s not an excuse. If you do it, stop. That person you feel close to, the one that you just can’t see yourself with sexually, the one you think you’re better than, the one you just can’t find attractive, you know the one. Grab your humility by the balls, embrace it, and take a chance with them. A real chance. You’re not too good, and it might turn out that they’re what you’ve needed all along.
