If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, it is even truer for sexiness.
Ever since my self-imposed ban on other lovers, I have pretty much given up on sexy.
I haven’t combed my hair since Sunday, and my “going out” clothes have been relegated to a suitcase in the bottom of my closet. My poor lingerie drawer has been sorely neglected as well. If I do not have “other” men telling me in word and deed how sexy I am, then my physical appearance ceases to matter.
Am I a non-entity who can’t take care of my appearance because I respect myself, and not just so that others can validate me? Apparently that is exactly what I am.
I am not sexy.
I’m surprised my husband will even agree to have sex with me. We have been averaging about once a week lately. I can tell when it has to happen. The constant raging fire inside me has turned into more of an orange ember, though it is still there. It doesn’t increase when I need to have sex, but what DOES increase is my bitchiness. I snap at the kids if they do not go to bed immediately after our telling them to do so, for fear that if they are up too late the husband will be too tired. I also snap more at him–I am punishing him because I anticipate that he will reject me. Why I think I will catch more flies will vinegar I’ll never know, but though I want to be sweet as honey, my subconscious is in control and it is angry at him when I want sex.
Even on these nights, I don’t do anything to up my sex appeal. I am still sporting the bedhead I woke up with that morning. I may pass a damp cloth over my body instead of taking the effort to shower, deodorant serves as a substitute for perfume, and my mascara and lipstick remain abandoned on my dusty make-up shelf. I am forcing him to love me at my worst, because it stung so badly each time he rejected me when I was at my best. And, miraculously, love me he does–even though I am not sexy.
I know, though, that sexy isn’t all about looks. It is about how you feel–who you are. When I had a variety of lovers and illicit trysts penciled into my day planner, I was sexy all the time. One morning I dragged myself into work after a night of no sleep. I didn’t bother with make-up, I was wearing my unflattering work clothes–and I was sexy as hell. I got hit on by countless male customers.
It was the naughty way I smiled to myself while reliving the previous night’s activities. It was my confidence, and the endorphins still coursing through my body. I felt sexy, and so I was. And that is the real issue here.
Why does having sex in a committed relationship, with someone who genuinely loves me, have zero effect on how I feel about myself? Why does having sex with a stream of assholes who couldn’t give a shit about me, make me feel like a goddess? Is there any logic to this at all?
Maybe knowing that I am ONLY wanted for my perceived outer sexiness boosts my confidence, while the possibility of being rejected by someone I have committed to spending my life with fills me with fear. Maybe I do not believe that I am worthy of true love, or maybe love without the rush of infatuation bores me. Maybe I have serious psychological issues and really do desperately need a therapist.
I am not sexy. But I want to be. I want to shave my legs just so I can rub the smoothness of one against the other. I want to pout my lipsticked mouth in the mirror and smile because I like the way I look, not because anyone else does. Can I convince myself to sleep in lingerie, even if chances are my husband will NOT rip it right off me? Can I walk around naked just to feel the air move across my skin?
I am not sexy. But I want to be.
Can we discuss the nuances of this question?
Sometimes men I talk to online will ask me what I plan to wear on a date. I find it slightly offensive. It puts a lot of pressure on me to wear something really slutty and sexy–and frankly, I don’t see why it matters. If we are meeting for sex, my clothes will be hitting the floor soon enough.
Not only that, but the one man I met who asked me this repeatedly (Mr. IT, if you remember that trainwreck), would show up looking less than stellar himself. I would show up in a tube top and short skirt, mostly because I felt like I had to, and he would show up in a wrinkled t-shirt and shorts–one vertically striped, one horizontally striped. I’m not one to judge based on wardrobe, but if a man is going to imply that I need to look hot, then he should make an effort to look equally presentable. Throw the clothes in the dryer for five minutes, and pick out a top that matches your bottoms. Just sayin’.
My Dom also frequently asks what I’m wearing. I feel like he has more of a right to do so because his job is to sexualize me, not to make me feel comfortable. However, I’m never quite sure what to make of the inquiry. He doesn’t ask me what I’m going to wear on a date, unless he specifically tells me what clothes he wants me in (he has promised to tell me to wear old clothes sometimes so he can rip them off me–yum), but he will randomly ask what I have on at any given time. Does he want what I’m wearing to be sexy?
I’m a stay at home mom who works with children part-time. I hate to shatter the illusion, people, but I’m usually decked out in jeans and a t-shirt. In the summer if I’m hanging out at home I can often be found in nothing but my undies, but I can guarantee you I am not dressed in slut-wear unless there’s a specific reason for me to do so.
So I wonder, does he want the real answer? Or does he want to hear what will turn him on? Should I admit I’m wearing cut-offs and a white wife-beater? Or does he want me to say I’m in stockings, a garter, a skirt and see-through blouse?
What is the correct answer to this question? Men and women both, chime in please!