My first boyfriend, the asshole boyfriend from high school, was very controlling. He actually told me what to wear. And–sigh, I’m so embarassed to admit this–I actually listened.
Asshole Boyfriend saw that at the age of fifteen, beginning to blossom, I had a few male admirers. Nevermind they were all of the uber-nerdy variety who tried to woo me with lines straight out of Hamlet, he was still worried. Not so much that he would lose me to one of my three unmentionable admirers, but that I would be skanky enough to run off and leave him devastated. I kid you not.
Asshole Boyfriend decided that he could curtail my sluttiness (please note: my sluttiness did not actually come out until the late age of twenty-one, so he was entirely pre-mature in his worries) by mandating the length of shorts and dresses that I wore. Essentially, if I did not look remotely attractive in it, I could wear it. Thus I began wearing knee-length shorts with pleats (–shuddering– I can’t believe I’m even admitting this… I only feel safe doing so because of the redeeming final paragraphs in which my fashion sense returns in full DIVA attire), long flowy bohemian dresses (ie not remotely form-fitting… I could have hidden a fucking watermelon under there), tops that were not too low-cut (although at the time, who’d really want to look at my sad little A cups?), skin-revealing, or tight. Yeah, in essence, if I looked absolutely unfuckable, then it was acceptable to wear.
What the fuck was I thinking?
If I knew I wouldn’t be seeing Asshole Boyfriend that day, I’d be all “rebellious” and wear my normal clothes (which were only as slutty as your average mid-nineties adolescent attire was at the time). Occasionally he caught me, if he happened to be near the house and decided to stop by (a-hem, he lived on the other fucking side of town), in which case I’d get a thorough talking-to about how only skanks wore shorts as short as the ones I was wearing. Which would make my mother laugh, because hers were often no longer than mine.
Then there’s BF. He says all the things a nympho girl could ever want to hear. I’ll be trying on different outfits before we go out, and I’ll come out wearing one to ask him, “Is this shirt too tight? Are my nipples too visible?” and he’ll feign shock and say, “What, there’s no such thing! WEAR IT.”
My dream man.
I think I can best summarize BF’s attitude about my dress in a dream I had a couple months ago. I dreamed that we were out at a bar and this super hot black chick (I loooove black chicks… they’re so fucking badass, I totally wish I were one) walked by in a really tight short skirt, and I caught BF’s eyes following the skirt across the room. Then he turned to me and said “why don’t you wear more slutty things like that?” and I smacked him, insulted, and said “I wear PLENTY of slutty things all the time!”
Again: my dream man. Bringing out my not-so-hidden nympho in all her titty-shirt glory.
Although to this day hearing the word “skank” still sends daggers up my sphincter, because it reminds me of how spineless I was while dating Asshole Boyfriend. But I use him as a reminder of where I’ve come from on my journey to being the badass YOU WANNA FUCK WITH ME chick I am now. Is it really any wonder I feel such joy every time I pull on a short skirt, remembering the freedom I once relented to a stupid boy? This all in addition to the fact that I’m very proud of my Texan via German heritage that bestowed upon me legs built like fucking tanks that can drop-kick an asshole into Oklahoma and still sprint 100 yards in stilettos.
