I blew him. Gave him the sloppy-toppy. He got neck from me. Whatever you want to call it—I sucked his dick. Twice, actually. The first time he was perched up top a washing machine, I was drunk off Malibu and social acceptance. The second time it was outside against the red-bricked wall of one of his friend’s house.
He did not care about me, contrary to what my friends told me, what I convinced myself, and what he said, as he pressed his hand on my leg, moments before we hooked up in his shiny black car.
It’s funny because we never talked. I mean we had an occasional conversation every now and then, he was in my Ceramics and Latin class, but we weren’t friends to any degree. He came into our school late, but was in with the “established” group of boys, commonly known as the “fuckboys” or entitled, white, conservatives boys who found gay slurs amusing and diversity annoying. Initially I thought he was attractive and sweet but as he became more instated and defined by the fuckboys my embarrassing, superficial crush developed into distaste.
And then he invited me to a party, through one of my friends, I got blazing drunk off sweet rum, and the rest was history.
Our association depicted inconsistency and imbalance, my feelings didn’t. And in the end I was humiliated, hurt, and hateful. I found myself comparing my worth to other girls he “liked.” And through this phantomizing experience I discovered what I based my worth, my “desirability”, and my happiness off of:
- Eyebrows. Stupid, right? But mine were a scraggly mess and hers were perfect. Her arches were high and hairs trimmed neatly. My eyebrow hairs were unfortunately long and untamable.
- Parties. I never felt “good enough” for a boy who thought verbalizing the word “fag,” both with the intent to hurt and as casually as the average teen uses to words “like” and so,” was acceptable because I wasn’t attending the parties that were pictured on Facebook. I wasn’t showing off half my stomach and shiny leggings in someone’s basement; drinking beer with people I didn’t even like.
- Likes. She was in the hundreds—I prayed to get to eleven. She could post a picture of her room—her face wasn’t even in it—and get more validation than I received for winning States.
My culture conditioned me to believe my appearance, attendance at parties, and validation on social media displayed my value in society. I felt unworthy of him not because my personality, grades, or accomplishments exhibited inferiority to his, it was actually the opposite. I genuinely believed my self worth was lower than his because I wasn’t drinking beer in someone’s basement and then taking a semi-average picture and getting validation from strangers who meant nothing. Maybe our end hurt so bad not because I truly cared about him but because I forfeited my traits of true substance in order to get a boy to like me, who I really didn’t even like. Because in this day and age our values have been warped into something that doesn’t even make sense. The entire concept of me liking him was hilarious. He said shit that made my skin crawl and blood boil and I didn’t feel good enough for him. I altered my personality, went to parties I didn’t want to go to hoping that they would make him like me, make him drop to my “sad” level of Saturday nights in.
But there’s nothing sad about Saturday nights in. Happy isn’t this singular definition achieved only by popular, “beautiful” people. There is nothing wrong with staying in or eating alone. Western culture has demonized the idea of being alone—because no one wants to be alone but maybe we should. Maybe we should be able to eat a sandwich at a restaurant without avoiding the pitying looks of people sitting at tables in groups of two and three. Maybe we should be able to watch Netflix on a Friday night and not feel bad about ourselves for not getting the elusive invite to a party that was a dull time at best. Self-worth is confidence in one’s own worth or abilities; having self-respect; not how often you get drunk or how many followers you have on Instagram.