Hey, it’s me, Sarah. And this is Note to Self, a newsletter where I unpack whatever’s been in my notes app, tweet drafts, or group chat lately. Today, a memory.
The first time anyone ever called me sexy was at my sixth-grade dance. I was as gangly and poorly postured as a lamppost, hanging awkwardly near the exit with my best friend. Even though I was too shy to get any closer to the cafeteria dance floor, I felt cute. I was wearing a red Armani Exchange miniskirt, a Christmas gift from my great aunt and uncle, along with a white t-shirt that had a little tiny rhinestone dotting the “i” in Armani. My friend and I hovered, watching the popular girls do a coordinated routine to “1, 2 Step.” One of the cool girls breezed off the dance floor, turning to me as she passed: “That guy over there thinks you’re sexy.” I looked to see where she was pointing but there was a group of boys. None of them were looking at me, they were just talking and laughing, but the damage was done. I turned back to my friend, mortified. “Are you okay?” she asked. I felt like throwing up. I took out the Nokia brick my parents had given me for emergencies, called my mom, and used the family code: “My stomach hurts.” She was there in ten minutes and I cried in the car when I told her what happened.
I was scandalized! The word felt frighteningly adult and while I remember striving toward adulthood in superficial ways, like being allowed to watch PG-13 movies or get my eyebrows waxed, this incident was an unwelcome escalation from a stranger. It was also a cursed rite of passage; an early lesson in how male attention can be presented as a gift given but feel like a gift taken.
Now I’m an adult woman with a slightly more nuanced understanding of male attention — something I generally enjoy. But I’ve never warmed to the simple, banal “you’re sexy” as a compliment. It feels like stale beer and ill-fitting shirts, or when someone suggests the dive bar three blocks from their apartment for a first date. While as a child it seemed like such an adult word, as an adult, it reads immature in its effort to conceal absolutely nothing. “You’re sexy,” tells you exactly what someone wants, right there before the “y.” It grifts as a compliment, but it’s actually an agenda, or perhaps a receipt that says, “I’ve already helped myself, in my mind.”
It’s self-indulgent. It’s obvious. It’s like this: Let’s say I’m in a cab on my way home after a date. Imagine I get a text that says, “come back.” Okay, imagine I think that’s kind of cute but I would also like more affection so I say, “Tell me something nice.” And then imagine that after watching those three little text composition dots pop on and off my screen, I get a text that says, “you’re sexy.” Do you see what I mean? Maybe I toss my phone into the empty seat beside me but then decide this should be a “Teachable Moment,” so I pick my phone up and I say, “No, that’s something nice for you. Tell me something nice about me.” And maybe I get back some shit like “beautiful,” which I am obligated to be smiley-face-emoji about. But I’m dismayed, because … Because the moment’s gone, and it turns out there never was one! Because, I thought we were playing a board game where we take turns making incremental steps toward the end, but he just picked up his little plastic piece and put it at the end on his first turn. Was that supposed to be fun for me? Alas, subtly is a slow art and patience is not a virtue of the dating app generation.
I think now is a good time to reveal that I am not as prudish and joyless as I sound. (Dear diary, am I a Charlotte?) Actually, “sexy” is my favorite adjective in basically any context except when it follows “you’re” and immediately precedes a period. Free from those confines, “sexy” is expansive, imaginative, and fun. It’s a delicious little word for everything in the periphery of sex itself; the earthly, sensuous, material delights that give life texture and even meaning. I have been known to call a long lunch, a soft turtleneck, or an expensive bottle opener “sexy.” And why not?
I just don’t think “sexy” is at its best when it’s being sniped at you raw from some random Hinge match — or dweeb in a middle school cafeteria, for that matter. Aggressively to the point? Grow up! There’s nothing sexy about that. I want the creative and observant “sexy.” I want “sexy” as an invitation to slow down, notice something, and appreciate it fully. I want “sexy” as a way of life.
Consider a wine glass, cooling your hand on a summer evening. Perfume, as a concept. A perfectly pressed cotton shirt. Sharing a single cigarette. The dip between collarbones. What about when it’s pouring down rain and you can’t help but arrive at the restaurant a little breathless, flushed, eager to strip your layers and warm up? Isn’t there something so sexy about all of that?
Happy sexy Friday, friends.
Sarah
Yessss! So much truth.
Truth speaker she is!
Also can I just say as a middle schooler who was only allowed to wear Ann Taylor LOFT and Talbots petites (thx mom 🙄) I find it aggressively cool that you were wearing Armani Exchange.