looking like you like being looked at
There is a tricky dichotomy between the people I'd never want to become and the people I would love to become. I wonder sometimes if this secretly exists in everyone. Last Friday, I went to Boulevard 3, a club in Hollywood that opens its iron gates to the powdered, elevated girls of Los Angeles and their fedora-wearing suitors. I joined the fray with three friends, all good people; all people I'd love to become in some small way.
As we navigated the outdoor patio with its cabanas and reflecting pool, I was mesmerized by the beautiful, thin, stylish girls who stood idly about. Sure, I'd secretly love to be beautiful, thin and stylish but, these girls had an air of empty conversation around them, a vapid scent mingling with their Armani Code perfume. They looked like they liked being looked at. The slight scowl, the disinterest in their eyes, they were like models who had wandered off the catwalk. Most fascinating though was that from my vantage point, the fedora boys seemed to like this. The fedora boys rested their eyes on hemlines, clevage and painted eyelids. All were on the prowl.
I once asked a boyfriend what motivates boys to speak to strange girls in bars, clubs, grocery stores and the like. His reply was the potential for sex. Sex soon. While I understand this intellectually, as I stood amongst them these target tarts, I secretly wished that maybe I emanated this 'sex soon' idea. Maybe just for a day, I'd like to be one of the girls whom boys sidle up to, Heineken in hand, eye on the prize. But again, intellectually, I understand that the prize is not my funny jokes or my effervescent personality. The prize is my vagina. I'm actually talking about my vagina in the public forum. My mother would be mortified.
There is the allure of physical superiority, of being VIP, of being desired. For once in my life, I know what it feels like to not want what I don't have. I would never want to be one of those girls because I COULDN'T. Stop thinking? Just stand around? Wear entire outfits from bebe? I couldn't. I like to think. I like to observe and analyze. Only in Hollywood would I feel the oppression of my preferences. My head enjoys the achievement of an understanding, no matter how erroneous it may be at the time. Using my noggin gives me a satisfying tingle. It's a feeling more valuable than ephemeral inebriation. Perhaps I should wear a fedora to keep my brain warm because I'm the type of girl who needs to think. I can make an entrance. I can make conversation. I can make a splash. Especially when I accidentally drop my phone into the reflecting pool. The good people I was with helped me fish it out and dry it off. The look-like-they-like-being-looked-at's couldn't have looked less interested. But, that's ok. I've got their number.
As we navigated the outdoor patio with its cabanas and reflecting pool, I was mesmerized by the beautiful, thin, stylish girls who stood idly about. Sure, I'd secretly love to be beautiful, thin and stylish but, these girls had an air of empty conversation around them, a vapid scent mingling with their Armani Code perfume. They looked like they liked being looked at. The slight scowl, the disinterest in their eyes, they were like models who had wandered off the catwalk. Most fascinating though was that from my vantage point, the fedora boys seemed to like this. The fedora boys rested their eyes on hemlines, clevage and painted eyelids. All were on the prowl.
I once asked a boyfriend what motivates boys to speak to strange girls in bars, clubs, grocery stores and the like. His reply was the potential for sex. Sex soon. While I understand this intellectually, as I stood amongst them these target tarts, I secretly wished that maybe I emanated this 'sex soon' idea. Maybe just for a day, I'd like to be one of the girls whom boys sidle up to, Heineken in hand, eye on the prize. But again, intellectually, I understand that the prize is not my funny jokes or my effervescent personality. The prize is my vagina. I'm actually talking about my vagina in the public forum. My mother would be mortified.
There is the allure of physical superiority, of being VIP, of being desired. For once in my life, I know what it feels like to not want what I don't have. I would never want to be one of those girls because I COULDN'T. Stop thinking? Just stand around? Wear entire outfits from bebe? I couldn't. I like to think. I like to observe and analyze. Only in Hollywood would I feel the oppression of my preferences. My head enjoys the achievement of an understanding, no matter how erroneous it may be at the time. Using my noggin gives me a satisfying tingle. It's a feeling more valuable than ephemeral inebriation. Perhaps I should wear a fedora to keep my brain warm because I'm the type of girl who needs to think. I can make an entrance. I can make conversation. I can make a splash. Especially when I accidentally drop my phone into the reflecting pool. The good people I was with helped me fish it out and dry it off. The look-like-they-like-being-looked-at's couldn't have looked less interested. But, that's ok. I've got their number.
posted by Katie at 11:41 PM
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