A guy I dated during my freshman year of college once told me I could “never” be sexy. I wish I could remember the context, but I only remember the comment. “You’re too silly to be sexy,” he said. “You can look sexy, but you’ll never be sexy.” Perhaps he was right. If he thought “sexy” meant feigning nymphomania and talking dirty in a baby voice, then no, I would never be that. I wish I had kicked him in the nuts. I wish I had punched him in the mouth. I wish I had marched out of his dorm room and called that other guy who’d been hitting me up. Instead I just stood there and thought about what he’d said: I could never be sexy.
What is “sexy” anyway? Is it a way of looking or a way of being? If you ask my college ex, “sexy” is something women perform for their unimaginative and entitled boyfriends, and “silly” women will never get it right. This can’t be the truth. Sexy is a state of mind. Sexy is a vibe that’s put out and picked up. Satin is sexy. Hotel rooms are sexy. Jack Black and Don Draper and Zoe Kravitz are sexy. Dancing is sexy. Dressing up is sexy. Jumping in the shower after a workout is sexy. You? Goddamn, you are so, so sexy, and ya know what, babe? So am I.
I spend all day working from home in my apartment wearing enormous panties. My sink is always full of dishes and the white fitted sheet on my bed is stained with sweat. Every few weeks I’ll get a little stoned and eat a Chipotle burrito bowl in my bed using tortilla chips as utensils. Still, I feel kinda sexy.
I have one dating app on my phone that I rarely look at. I’ll forget about it for months at a time, and then on a whim I’ll open it up and look to see who “likes” me. One guy sent me a message the other day that said, “Excuse me miss, are you looking for anything physical? You enchant my soul.” I didn’t respond. Poor guy. He can tell that I’m sexy.
I’m not sure how this current fit of sexiness started. I know when it started, but I’ll get to that later. I also know I became dangerously okay with myself at the beginning of 2020, and that feeling persisted throughout the first few months of lockdown. I worked out five times a week, spent leisurely afternoons putting on makeup, and snapped daily thirst traps for no one but myself. When I did post the occasional selfie (or goofy-ass video), I’d sit back and let the fire emojis pour in. Ah, those poor dudes. What else were they supposed to do? I was an enchantress. I was James Bond. I was really rather sexy.
My confidence took a hit last fall when the despair finally set in. The country was exhausted and uncooperative and everywhere I turned I saw death. COVID numbers were climbing. The election was nearing. Everyday felt like a bad re-imagining of Withnail and I with no red wine and no Withnail. I stopped working out. I stopped putting on makeup. I looked at my cute selfies and hardly recognized myself. “What the fuck was the point of all that?” I wondered. “You’re just gonna go insane in this apartment.”
A sigh of relief arrived in the spring when I became “fully vaccinated.” Finally, I could go to a grocery store or a doctor’s office without having to disclose to friends and family that I went to a grocery store or a doctor’s office. I met people for drinks and got to see my therapist in person for the first time in over a year. I went inside a thrift store. I went inside a furniture store. I went inside an ice cream shop and got a double scoop the size of my head. Life didn’t feel normal, but it did feel slightly easier.
It was around this time that gals started posting “Hot Girl Summer” memes all over their Insta stories. It made me roll my eyes. “Hot Girl Summer,” eh? Where? How? For whom? Have you read the news? Have you been vaxxed? Have you actually heard that song? Aren’t you exhausted? Aren’t you depressed? Aren’t you sleeping off everything that happened last year so you can wake up and face what’s still happening this year? Aren’t you anxious? Aren’t you furious? Aren’t you ready quit your job and teach finger-painting? And how in the Hell are any of you feeling sexy?
One night in June, I got slightly gussied up to meet a friend for dinner. It was uncomfortably hot and humid, and my usual uniform of jeans and boots was simply not an option. Out of pure necessity, I put on a sleeveless black dress, peep toe wedges, and spent more than a few seconds doing my makeup. When I came home a few hours later and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I felt a unique combination of euphoria and dismay. “Goddamn,” I thought, admiring my perfectly applied lipstick, “the night is over and I feel sexy.”
I wish I could tell you I’ve been on a man-eating rampage ever since that night, but that ain’t the truth. No matter how I feel on the inside, I’m still a little cautious about venturing outside. I’m afraid of the unmasked. I’m afraid of the un-vaxxed. I’m afraid of crowds of traumatized people who have been cooped up for too long. When I do go out for food or drinks I find a table outside where I can comfortably sit without thinking of extinction. Mostly, I’m still spending my days wearing big panties, washing dishes, and occasionally ordering Chipotle. I’m exercising again, which is good. I journal. I dance. I light incense. I see friends and family. I stock up on sunglasses and beeswax candles and lots and lots of red clothing. I drink tons of water. I look at the moon. I sleep with amethyst under my pillow (which I know has brought me at least one exciting dream) and I’ve ditched body lotion for body oil. Dang. I’m just too sexy.
I think I am having a Hot Girl Summer — it just isn’t involving many boys. Maybe, with a little luck and a lot of hard work and a healthy dollop of patience, next year will bring me my Hot Girl Summer. My Grown Woman Summer. My Solo Woman Summer. My You Can’t Handle These Big Panties Summer. My Silly Girl Summer. My Don’t Waste Any More Of My Time Summer.
You're the sexiest woman of all time.