Red lipstick crime

-I’m sorry I have my panties on, but they are really nice ones.

Biker Guy just smiled when I went on all agitated telling the story of my journey to my Degree Show.

Made myself look great, dress that brings out my eye colour, red lipstick and all. I regretted this decision right after I boarded the overground. Every man was looking at me and for the first time in my life it made me that uncomfortable. I once made an argument that all men stare, but those brought up in non-Christian tradition make a worse job at hiding it. This time at least half of those hostile creatures were probably Polish low wage workers.

Gaze has a power and it can either charge you up or suck it out of you. Second option was more accurate in that situation. The gazes made me feel in danger as if I was about to be devoured by an army of hungry beasts somewhere between Wadsworth Road and Whitechapel.

The pair of lingerie gave me a faint comfort, not really an armour against sexual assault, but I could only imagine how much more exposed I’d feel if I followed the plan of additional entrainment to hour long programmes of student films.

I’m a vain female that loves the attention and more often than not dresses to highlight that. But it’s always an expression of my inner power, of me being aware of the effect it will bring. It’s me being confident and in the mood to take advantage of the gifts my sexuality lets me experience.

The truth is, there are countless intentions that humans can convey with their eyes. The silent responses I get walking down the street vary from neutral, interest and my favourite one called “I will seduce with the handshake and make you cum an hour later” (Italians are the best trained nation in this look).

Standing in a crowded carriage all my confidence was swiped away and none of the looks gave even a hint of any consensual activity. It’s been 3 days and I still can’t shake this feeling of being nothing but a piece of meat in the eyes of my fellow passengers. On the day I couldn’t wait to get it off my chest, so I did. But Biker Guy didn’t seem to understand what I just went through. I don’t think any guy would.

Locked in my head thought after thought stack pins in the fact that I blog about my sex life, that I dare to have one, that I expose my views and experiences of female pleasure and preach self-exploration in this area. What the hell was I thinking? In this society the only position for a woman who admits to have an urge for an orgasm once in a while is becoming a sex object. What the hell did I expect taking my clothes on for artist in a strictly platonic aesthetic way? There’s no other way we trained ourselves to perceive nudity than in sexual context. What the hell was I thinking making myself feel better by putting red lipstick on? I should have learned that it will invite all the males to imagine red marks on the base of their penises and to make that painfully obvious to me.

Over a double rum I slowly calmed down. Presence of a man, who happens to slap me only when I feel like it helped a lot.

I realized I was anonymous during my ride and essentially my only crime was the colour of my lips. I came to terms with the fact that nothing really happened. I wasn’t physically hurt, no one touched me or said anything. Still when I think about all the women all over London looking too good for their own comfort it makes me sick. Because regardless if they are quantum physicists or escorts they are bound to go through what I’ve experienced.

 I can’t quite figure out a solution to the problem and I wonder if every relatively attractive person started to cover their face with a paper bag, the paper bags would become fetishizes over time. Quite possibly.