THE TRAGIC END OF A ONCE F*CKABLE WOMAN

A character exercise. Please hold your offenses (or applause) til the end.

There are two types of relevant women in our modern world: those who choose to be beautiful and those who are forced to be by the magnitude of what God has given them naturally. Of course, the either contentedly plain-faced or downright dog-like rest of the lot fall into neither category and are therefore unimportant and may fall by the wayside where they belong.

Women who choose to be beautiful surely enjoy the feeling of long stares—of measuring and quantifying. After all, they had a hand in the creation of what they now place on full display—tended with appointments and alterations, with stolen hair, and painted faces, enhancements from stem to stern in pursuit of the perfection now deemed achievable within our modern society. A little is expected, but some go too far, of course. They overfill, over-fluff, and over-line until you can see the seams holding the entire operation together—the strings behind the magic trick. The only thing worse than imperfection is giving the appearance of a try-hard who spent more than five minutes putting herself together and uses anything beyond a little Aquaphor on the lips and a pair of knuckles to bring color to her cheeks (however, it’s important to note that vanity is a venial sin while ugliness is a mortal one, so choose wisely). It’s a fine line between a quivering, virginal pout and whore’s hungry mouth—but of course, it’s absolutely paramount that this perineum of saintly seduction is found if one of these such women ever hopes to be considered seriously, especially by a man.

As for those who are beautiful against their will—the ones born into voluptuousness and symmetry, all legs and all-consuming, there is a knowingness that comes with the first pair of lingering eyes on their freshly ripened bodies. An awareness that no matter how long they may live, their corporeal form will always be a timeshare. In short, a property that requires maintenance and upkeep lest it falls into disarray or disrepair—after all, it is owned by and owed to the collective.

Consider a famous blonde bombshell—any one of them will do (substance and intellect are of no matter). Imagine her flawless face—tanned skin, full lips, and come-hither eyes. See her body—hard and snakelike, rounded and sharpened, plump and rawboned in all the right places. Watch her in the prime of her life—taking pleasure in the spotlight, her hands accepting velveted boxes of jewels and tissue-wrapped finery. Her entire form commands these things—the materials that build the shadowbox in which she lives, but they come at a simple price: she must remain taut and beautiful for all of eternity. This may be achieved through tireless upkeep, needles and lasers, nips and tucks—but not so much that she becomes a laughable scarecrow, a parody of youth, or a cautionary tale to the unmarked twenty-somethings who don’t understand why she wouldn’t simply let it all happen “naturally.” The easier option is immortality—dying before the gray age of forty and leaving only headshots and pinup posters in her wake.

Once in a blue moon, a sexpot such as this one will choose an unspoken third option, turning away from the lust and want that powered the engine of her entire existence. She may deny the cameras and seek her solitude. She may begin to eat enough to fill her ribcage and the gap between her thighs. She may allow time to etch lines into her forehead, glyphs depicting decades of emotion and thought. Crow’s feet may perch beside her eyes where the parentheses around her mouth pushed upward with every laugh and flashing smile. Of course, lesser females will applaud this tragedy. “Yes, free yourself—remove the shackles of exploitation,” they’ll say in a cacophony of squeals and barks. “You do not exist for the male gaze!” They will champion her decay, encouraging her to break the plastic mold from whence she came and live entirely for herself. They will ruin her, and in turn, she will ruin them, becoming an example that urges all beautiful women to abandon the task of preservation when it comes at the cost of their immortal souls.

This violation of her contract will not be without consequence. She will warp the image that every eager young boy turned angry grown man once tore from a magazine and shoved beneath his mattress. She will forfeit the title of a once fuckable automation to become a carbon-based life form, revealing hopes and dreams, friends and children, and forcing all those who once lusted over her to feel the tickle of their conscience when they see her now as a sentient being and remember just how many times they succumbed to their yearning. As she dares to defy perfection, she will break their hearts, and they will rightly hate her for it. They will claw and tear and stone her to death if they get the chance because if they can’t have her, no one can.

Pamela Anderson for Proenza Schouler - (2024)