At some point I decided to stop even pretending to give a shit about the guys buying me drinks. I didn’t crack a half smile anymore for top shelf liquor. If I showed up and danced on the bar in dirty underwear, it didn’t matter. I’d still be Grey Goose drunk with a jockstrap full of smashed twenties by midnight.
There’s some strange fucked up notion that pretty people are supposed to apologize for being pretty. That by having good genes and a workout routine I should enter every social situation with some sort of assumed humbleness. Without directly saying it, society tells me I have to slow ride the invisible curve created by all the fatties with frown lines. To be bashful and pretend I don’t know how perfect I look compared to everyone else.
That masquerade is a sandbag around my neck, my ongoing disclaimer for my own face. It took too long for me to accept, if I am the standard of beauty, then so be it. I refuse to deny constant cash flow and free drinks for the sake of your comfort level.
Now, some nights I stand like a statue on the black go-go block. I don’t dance. Whether I’m half-cocked or stuffed with a smelly sock in my front pouch, they’ll never know. The entire zoo of bears, jocks, otters, wolves, and lions want to run their fingertips down my abs, feel the dips and ridges of my biceps. I am chiseled from rare stone and my eyes say, stay behind the velvet ropes, you don’t touch works of art. The money comes whether I move or not. Living wage for my appearance, always paper, never taxed.
You should know, regardless how many vodka cranberries or hundreds a daddy throws at me, I never go home with them. I don’t go home with anyone. I’m on display, but never for sale. Sex is sticky fingerprints on polished gold. The misconception humans have, that everything we do is a plot device to get laid, is entirely misguided. I am beauty for the sake of beauty. The perfect vessel. Another body interacting with mine would be outright deconstruction, rain forest demolition, the Louvre on fire.
I’m the snow peaked mountain you’ll never climb, the protected rose garden that’s always in bloom. I am not your sweaty memory. I am textured paint on priceless canvas. I am perfection under layered glass. So put away your cameras and step back behind the viewing line. Not even the Mona Lisa gets photographed, and that girl doesn’t even draw on her eyebrows.