“The Vicious Cycle of Getting Used,” was the FIRST essay, I ever had published in a professional magazine. I composed it, in the midst of teenage angst, at the tender age of 17, when I thought “hooking-up” meant “making-out”, and regularly struggled with my want to be an open-minded feminist–AND my want to go on Safari in Africa and write a serious, important novel, instead of taking the traditional route of college and career–AND my want to generally fit in and go relatively unnoticed throughout the rest of my natural teenage life.
At least, until I figured out how to get my hair under control.
I wrote this piece at boarding school, a week or so before graduation. After a long year of absolutely NO romantic opportunities, suddenly, in a short two weeks, I had several interested “potential” “whatever’s”….and hardly any time for anything to develop. It was a disaster. And there we were–in the middle of nowhere–about to be shipped off all around the world to separate colleges. The timing, seriously, couldn’t have been worse.
Or better, depending on if you were obsessed with Leo DiCaprio and Clare Danes, in Romeo and Juliet.
So, I bit the bullet, threw caution to the wind, and decided to explore each option, in rapid succession….which of course, left me feeling, well, used. At the time, I was too young to realize the difference between a whore and a player, is that the “whore” lacks self-esteem. (And judging from my pictures from back then, I surely didn’t lack that!) Anyhow, I cringe every time I re-read this, but at the same time, I live for the drama that a good dose of wild hormones can supply.
So, without further ado….coming at you, LIVE, from my 17 year old, teenage, angsty, untamed-hair, self….
The Vicious Cycle of Getting Used
So I got used. Some acne faced, bony-assed boy had his fun and tossed me aside. My initial response – anger, which fades quickly to self-consciousness, doubt, depression, and soon I slip into the idea that “if I pretend nothing is wrong then he might think I’m one of those cool chicks that can handle random hook-ups and he’ll come back for more”. Then I make myself promise that when he does come back for more I’ll, of course, refuse…or maybe I’ll forgive him and have another go at it. No matter what I decide, it will never be called into action, because as soon as I gather enough composure to go to my old “regular social spots”, I see him with some other girl and I am thrown back into a grand, rapid melting pot of both my initial and secondary reactions.
This is where I make the grand declaration: “that’s it: NO MORE MEN!” Content with my new lease on life, I go to bed early muttering something to the effect of “where the hell does he get off…. who does he think he is….her ass was huge, what the hell?…he is SO unworthy…” I stand by this divine plan for a matter of days before I come up with the revised version: it’s ok to flirt, but only with boys that I know I would never be seriously interested in. Flirting is healthy – besides, at this point I’ll take anything that boosts my self-esteem and makes me feel sexy and desirable.
The flirting plan is a BIG HIT! But then I think again: why stop there? It never hurt to tease a little. A slight lick of the lips, a small grope in the hallway, just to keep them guessing. Maintain their interests. Here’s when I notice that these many weeks of flirting has introduced several new, and surprisingly interesting options. I sit tight in satisfaction with this startling new discovery, and for fun, imagine which one I would bestow my affection upon, assuming the correct circumstances arose. This is of course in total jest because boys are the devil and I swore them off WEEKS ago.
One night, a mysterious moon is out and the stars begin to twinkle in that certain sort of way, and I decide that the night is filled with magic; magic of which I must take advantage. So I put on a little make-up, pull on a pair of tight Capri pants, run a comb through my hair and make my way down to the student center for some casual flirting. One of my favorite options, which, I might add, has been paying special attention to me this week, inquires as to whether or not I’d be interested in talking an evening stroll. Of course, by this time I am so caught up in the thrill of the moment that I blindly accept, assuring myself silently that nothing will happen. “Men are the devil, men are the devil” is the battle cry of my ever quickening heartbeat. Then it stops; most likely palpitated away into oblivion.
This is the moment where the world slows a bit. Down by the river, in the moonlight. Me. Him. Together. Alone. Breathtaking view. Something out of a movie and I think to myself “this is exactly what I needed” and I let him kiss me. Even more, I kiss him back, pulling away once and again to take a quick breath and flash a sweet, seductive smile back at him. Ah yes – he is different. Aren’t they always in moments such as these? The next night I meet him again, this time outside the language lab in the stairwell of the math building. Tonight it’s not as much about the magic as it is about the sheer desire to be pressed against him.
The next day it gets weird. The day after is even worse. He isn’t returning my glances. That night he stands me up. I try to talk to him and something is different. He gets very defensive, all the while I am saying to myself “wait a minute, he wasn’t even good enough for me to start with! Why am I the one feeling unwanted?” Finally it comes out: I wasn’t the only girl he took down by the river on a starlit night that week. Just like I wasn’t the only body being pressed to his in the basement of the math building. That’s right – I was used. Again! By someone who didn’t even qualify for my attention, no less! And here it begins once more: the anger, the self-doubt, the need for re-acceptance, and the jolt back to fury.
I say, I should stick to the first plan: the original. No flirting. No evening strolls. No men. And if it ever gets to the point where my heart palpitations speed up so quickly that they drown out my righteous battle cry, I should haul ass to the infirmary and demand to see the doctor!
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