for his pleasure

the commodification of women.

i noticed them dressing me down when i walked past them after school. i felt ashamed when the ones in school would stare at my white shirt when i sat in sunlight. disgust filled my mind when they begged to see my naked body as if i exist for their pleasure. a commodity.

my big boobs make me a slut. when puberty struck me at a ripe age of 9 they looked at me differently. when i would try to talk to the ones that claimed to be my friends, they mistook my boobs for eyes. now if i’m around one i find myself desperately covering myself up, in hopes they’ll listen to my mind instead of lust over my body.

men.

it was a tuesday after school, and i was seven. my mum picked me up from school and we walked home. she wanted to buy ice cream. we bought two tubs of cookie dough and walked home to my room. she sat me down and warned me. warned me of which areas of my body men will act like they own. told me that bad men exist and sometimes they will try to do something they shouldn’t do. the inevitability of this happening confused me. i didn’t understand. “i’m only seven and nothing will happen to me. plus, boys have germs! i wouldn’t let them touch me.”

i was nine when it started.

i didn’t know what it meant then- why the boys in my class would stare at me during P.E, or why men would dress me down with their eyes when i was just a girl in her school uniform trying to get home. all i knew was that it made my skin prickle, made me want to become smaller, invisible. i didn’t understand why my body was stared at by the other girls when i went to swimming lessons. but maybe it was just in my head.

i was thirteen when i began to notice.

by thirteen, i learnt to wear baggy clothes to avoid anyone seeing my curves. hunched shoulders and crossed armed sitting in a classroom listening to guys pass around pictures of the girl they commodified last night. i stopped wearing shorts during summer, instead sweating in baggy jogging bottoms. i refused to wear bikinis whilst going swimming because i hated how i felt eyes burning into my skin the whole time. better to be safe than sorry.

i was fifteen when it became impossible to ignore.

at fifteen, my body wasn’t mine anymore. boys kept my phone blaring all night, pestering me for pictures as if i owe them, like i was made purely for their pleasure. teachers telling me to be “mindful” of the length of my skirt- “you’re being distracting.” i told myself it was fine. it was normal. this is just what happens when you’re a girl.

at seventeen, the world felt smaller.

by seventeen, i mastered the art of shrinking myself. smile at male friends just the right amount to be polite but not inviting. even though i love music i taught myself to only wear one earbud so i could hear the footsteps around me. keys gripped in my hands as i walk past that group of construction workers whistling and calling me “baby.” i kissed a guy for the first time because my more experienced friends deemed me ‘“dramatic” for thinking intimacy was meant to be special.

if i wear a tank top i’m “asking for it.” then when i replaced every single top i owned by long sleeves i was “frigid.” i was an object controlled by men. “show more skin, you’d look hotter,” “you look like a slut!” even at home i wasn’t safe from them. “it’s okay, go to the toilet and take a picture, for me baby please?”

at eighteen, i tried to fight back.

i was tired of hiding. i started to wear makeup because i liked the way it looked, but every compliment from a man felt like a casual reminder that my body wasn’t mine. i decided to wear the dresses i refused to wear before because i wanted to live for me, but then men would follow me, shouting their dehumanising phrases. when i would tell my friends, they would tell me to be “careful.” careful? i’ve been careful my whole life.

at nineteen, i’m done.

now at nineteen, i’m trying to reclaim my body. wearing outfits i like because i refuse to be controlled. i dance with my friends, not caring who stares. but the gaze doesn’t leave. men will press too close on the dance floor, ‘accidentally’ brushing their hands against my waist and thighs, as if my presence is permission. my own best friend, someone i see as a brother, objectified me and repeatedly sexually complimented my body. then to add a cherry on top told me i’ve been in one of his fantasies. you think you’re safe around your friends, but even then you’re just an object. they say it’s not all men, but that statement feels more blurry by the minute.

my body was never mine. from the playground to adulthood i have been a commodity, a canvas for male desires and judgements.

this isn’t just my story though.

you grow up thinking your body is your own. a vessel for running, laughing and playing. but somewhere along the way from childhood to womanhood, it becomes a currency that you never agreed to trade. you’re taught to exist in fragments. you learn to move through the world like prey, every step measured, every glance calculated and every outfit a decision of how safe men will let you be in it.

nobody warns you that one day you stop being seen as a child and start being seen as an object, and it’s not a day you remember. it’s a compilation of a thousand moments blurred together- a hand lingering for too long, a stare that makes your skin itch, a word that feels like a stab.

the world has the audacity to call it “attention,” as if it’s a gift. as if my body exists to be consumed and dissected by the men around me. as if my worth is written in the curve of my hips and the slope of my shoulders.

you learn to shrink yourself, but even when you hide, they find you. when you fight back you’re a frigid bitch. because a woman who says no is always too much or not enough.

the shame is the hardest part- not just the shame they pour onto you, but the shame you pour onto yourself. it eats at your soul. you spiral and overthink on if it’s your fault—your clothes, your smile, your existence.

but it’s not you. it’s never been you.

it’s them—the ones who stare, who grab at you, who believe your body is theirs to critique or claim. it’s the systems that silence you, the voices that dismiss you, the world that turns a blind eye.

you’re angry. at the boys who turned your body into a joke. at the men who followed you home, their footsteps echoing like a countdown. at the world that lets it happen over and over and over again because “boys will be boys.”

so you carry it. the weight of their stares, their words, their touch. you carry it because there’s no other choice. you walk faster at night, clutch your keys tighter. you adjust your clothes, your hair, your tone. deep down, you wonder if this is just life. if this is all it will ever be: being watched. being measured. being blamed. a prey to the men around you.

you tell yourself it could be worse. you tell yourself you’re lucky. but it doesn’t feel like luck when your body doesn’t feel like yours. it doesn’t feel like luck when fear is your constant companion.

it feels like survival. and survival is exhausting.