Sex Sells... But my Body is Not for Sale

"Sex sells", but my body is not for sale...

One bright sunny Saturday my band performed on Connie's Ric Rac outdoor stage at the Italian Market Festival... I wore the tightest little black dress that I have ever put on.  It was surprisingly comfortable- Rather than worrying over what I was wearing, it made me forget I was wearing anything at all.  I never would have guessed that could be such a comforting sensation.

Then only minutes after I got off stage, I felt a buzz in my pocket... This email was a response to a Craig's List ad I posted in Korea, offering speech therapy and English tutoring services.  It arrived 28 days after I left Korea:

Hi, It's John here. 

I am 36 years old white Belgium male in a relation. I am IT Manger in Seoul. I am living in Gangnam. 

I am handsome, good looking and nice guy. 

I am looking for 1 regular nice educated discret girl for sex meetings to improve my sex skills. 

I can take care of you. 
 
What would you say about 300.000 won for meeting ? 

What sex do you like ? 

When you have time ? 

Can't wait. 

Regards, 
John 

The moment I read it, I remembered what I was wearing and felt a little dirty.

As I had sang on stage, I had watched a mother and baby girl dance to my music.  I saw the little red head bounce on her chubby baby leg kicked forward, as I felt my legs doing the same.  I felt her mimic me; our mirror neurons firing together.  I wondered... What am I selling?  Why do people pay more attention when I let myself be comfortable and dance without thinking?  It is so embarrassing... and liberating.

But it is what I have to do... Because I am the front woman.  I have to pull in attention for the amazing musicians who play with me.  They have studied and practiced so many years, and they are so good at what they do!  Sometimes, I have to play the clown... Even if I am in a miniskirt and high heels.

Sex.  That's what it is... It triggers something in the brain, the part of us that is still animal.

I used to really look down on Hollywood actresses who posed naked for Playboy and the like... But given my experiences thus far, I think I would love to have nude drawings of myself.  When will I ever be more ready for commemorating my body in artwork?  So, who am I to judge?

But something always elbows me in the back... Reminds me that it was not how my parents raised me.

So... Instead I use clip-art from the internet; mostly vintage drawings of pinup girls.  Just a suggestion of sex.  It is cute.  It is also the perfect expression of how I and many of my female artist friends feel about exposing our minds and hearts through music... and other mediums.  We may not know how to show perfectly what we feel, but we feel naked nonetheless.  Even in how we imagine we have been misunderstood, we mourn bearing our souls.

...It is okay.  People hear what they relate to in their own lives.  They do not know our secrets- unless we share them...

This past month has been an anniversary of the year since I checked myself into Friend's Hospital.  It was painful.  I really felt alone.  I lost almost everything... and I am still recovering.

Victor reminds me that this is a time to celebrate how much better everything is now than then...  For me, it is a reminder of how much happier I was before I knew anything was wrong... Ignorance was bliss- Before I had to start making a lot of changes.  Yes, everything was worse then, especially for my loved ones.  But it was familiar.  New has been hard.  My entire world changed.

My friend from group therapy tells me, "It doesn't bother me when I think of the time I checked myself into a hospital... I'm glad I did it.  It saved my life.  I think of it as the day I took responsibility for my happiness."

Despite my efforts to think of each day as any other day, my mind has been busy with white noise in the background... of everything that it wants to complain about; of all the different disappointments it feels, about all the accusations it wants to make... and while my hands want to start throwing dishes, I apologize for crying at the breakfast table instead.

...In Korea at night, in the brightly lit streets of Seoul lined with bars I was approached several times and asked to attend private room parties with rich businessmen.   They would not come out and say they were trying to pimp me.  They knew just enough English to tell me I would have a "choice".

I will admit... I was curious.  Not about prostituting myself- Just about what sorts of women felt this was an option worth taking.  Did they feel they had no other opportunities?  Did they feel empowered by fleecing men with their flesh?  What went through their minds when they touched...

On the same evening that this happened, I walked down the same street and bought a sweet bun from a woman pushing a cart.  One dollar per sweet bun, and that is the only thing she sells.  I thought about how long her days must be... How many sweet buns she must have to sell to take care of her family.  If she was my age, with my body; would she be selling something other than sweet buns?

When I talked to a local friend, he explained, "It is a fantasy.  They call it riding a white horse."

White horse... Hardly seems a flattering depiction.  All I could do was laugh and say, "Funny, many American men have a similar fantasy for Asian women.  I guess I get to fulfill both."

It is interesting to finally consider myself anyone's fantasy.  In the past, I never thought of myself as being particularly attractive.  The last few years of putting myself at the center of attention changed all that...

I watched myself bloom... Rather than losing myself in fear, I found myself in victory.  I shed my insecurities and admitted that it was work to be healthy and learn new skills.  I set my mind to doing a little practice each day, letting the process happen in its own time.

I am excited to be a musician!  I am grateful the muse sings to me, despite it driving me mad some times.  It is a gift that gives me the incredible privilege to invite talented musicians- who have trained long hard years for opportunities -to perform.  I am not selling my body, but I will use sex to solicit those visceral sensations that attract attention.

Music is more than entertainment.  It is healing and soothing.  It is a willful brainwashing of the heart and soul... To help us remember that we all feel, no matter what is happening in our lives.  We all have the potential for pain and progress... for happiness and deliverance.  It is all relative.  If I can help others forget themselves for a moment and love... just love- Then I will deserve the following I seek.

Messy

Messy

               Miranda felt the warmth of the sun kissing the crown of her head.  As light poured in through a crack in her curtains, slowly creeping down to her eyes, she began to stir.  She felt her dreamy calm melt away into an anxious rush of to-dos; the pile of laundry, the dishes in the sink, the kids…  Miranda’s eyes shot wide open.  She leaped out of bed to peer into the nursery.  Empty.  She ran down the stairs, stumbling into the kitchen to find Victor at the table with her-

                “Charlotte,” Miranda released a heavy sigh of relief.

                Victor turned and smiled, “Good morning, Mommy,” he spoke in a baby voice for Charlotte, then returned to his own, “Coffee’s in the pot.”

                Miranda rested her hands on her husband’s shoulders and gently kissed his forehead, “Thank you.  You’re my hero.”

                “I know.”

                The warm coffee burned her mouth and scalded her stomach as she guzzled it quickly.  She stood in the far corner of the kitchen, watching Victor spoon mush into their daughter’s little lips.  Charlotte wiggled and laughed, the food dribbling from the corners of her mouth.  Her eyes were attentively fixed on him.  She reached her stubby little fingers out to his face.  As he leaned in and allowed her to anoint his cheeks with her mush covered hands, Miranda felt a familiar tinge of discomfort.  Her heart ached.  The hunger in her stomach turned to dull indifference.  She felt the urge to go sit on Victor’s lap and seduce him.  Memories of many mornings spent making love at this very table washed over her.

                She drowned the sudden injection of hormones with another generous sip of coffee.  It burned her throat, like a shot of whiskey.  She choked and coughed.

                “Oh, baby,” she heard Victor say.

                “I’m okay,” she managed to croak.

                “What a good baby…” 

                Miranda realized that he had not noticed.  He was talking to Charlotte. 

                The caffeine raced through her veins.  She stomped out the backdoor and smashed her coffee cup down against the concrete step.  Watching it explode into a puddle of brown water and broken ceramic, she felt the bubble building inside her burst.  “Ah… damnit,” she heard herself shout.

                “Babe?  You okay?” Victor’s voice came calmly from the table.

                She starred down at her mess, “Uh… Uh-huh.  Yup,” Miranda took the broom from its new home beside the door and swept the pieces of mug into a dustpan.  “Don’t let the kids walk barefoot back here.”

                She dumped the evidence into the garbage can, starring at the wet spot on the step.  She fought the tears from coming.  The sun was out.  In less than an hour, it too would be gone.

                Don’t linger.  Don’t let this ruin your day.  Forget.  Start over.

                Inside, Victor was wiping the mush from all of Charlotte’s little joints and crevasses with a wet cloth.  “What a messy little girl.  Messy… lucky you’re cute!” he smiled.

                “I’m calling your mom to take the kids,” Miranda announced.  “I have to go see the doctor.”

                Now she had Victor’s full attention.  He swung Charlotte up into one arm, “Yeah?”

                “Yes,” Miranda confirmed.  She watched Charlotte’s face, attentively fixated on Victor. 

                “Can I do anything for you?”

                “You are already doing it all…”

~*~*~~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

                “You say you felt jealous,” paused Dr. Camile, “Of your daughter.”

                Miranda waited for her to say something more, but that was the complete statement.  “Yes.  She doesn’t even look at me.  Victor is on auto-pilot.  It’s like they moved on without me completely, and now I just feel like a burden… How can I ask him to take his attention away from her to notice me?”

                “You say you feel like a burden.  Can you describe why you chose that word?”

                Her eyes darted around the room, “I’m here, aren’t I?  When I have three loads of laundry piled up… Victor did the dishes, but it was my turn.  His mom is with the kids instead of me- Because I had to go and break a fucking coffee cup first thing this morning!” 

                Now Dr. Camile was passing her a box of tissues.  Miranda wept into three squares before finding the words to continue again.  “…I just wanted him to put his arms around me.”

                “Did you tell him?”

                “Of course not!  He’ll tell me nothing has changed.  He can’t be there to constantly hold me, like a baby,” Miranda fell over, laying on her side against the couch.  “She doesn’t even look at me.  She doesn’t know I’m her mom.”

                “Charlotte?”

                “Yes,  Charlotte… Damnit.  We never agreed to call her Charlotte.  That was his mother’s idea!  You know what he said?  He said he wasn’t sure that I was going to live when he chose the name Charlotte!”  Miranda let out a long high pitched moan.  “He thought I was as good as dead!  Maybe they’d be happier if I had…  ”

                Dr. Camile patiently waited several minutes as she sobbed into a mountain of tissues that she let fall to the floor.  All the while, Miranda never stopped watching.  Watching and waiting to catch the therapist tactfully sneak a check at the time.  She did not.  This was a small comfort. 

When it felt as though she was completely depleted of hydration to produce more tears, Miranda pulled herself up to lean against the arm of the couch for support.  “I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize.  You recognized that you needed help, and you acted responsibly.  You entrusted your children with their grandmother, who you know is a safe caregiver, and you came to therapy.  This is the plan that we discussed, and you followed it appropriately,” Dr. Camile turned the corners of her lips slightly upward.  “You were in a coma for the first eight months of Charlotte’s life.  Naturally, she became quite close to her father and grandmother during that time.  However, as you spend time with her, she will transition.  The two of you will build a rapport.”

“I didn’t have to build a rapport with Jeffery.  He knew from the moment he was born who his mommy is!”  Miranda caught herself becoming excited again.  She breathed deeply, slowed her speech.  “He still knows me, my little man.  He never forgot me.”

“Children are different.  Even if you had been there, Charlotte may not behave the same as Jeffery.”

Tears began to flow down her cheeks, “Maybe he’d be talking by now… Maybe I screwed him up!”  A well of tears was wringing every last drop of water out of her body.  “I didn’t know how to be a mother!  How could I…  I’m just as fucked up as mine!”

Dr. Camile waited, but Miranda was finished speaking.  “There are several different topics here to discuss.  We have talked about your childhood in the past.  You have not mentioned that Jeffery is not talking.”

“He isn’t.  The pediatrician said he should have 50-100 words by now.  He has five!  Momma, Da, Guh, ball, and go.” For the first time, Miranda could not bring herself to look the therapist in the eye.  She hung her head in shame.  “I wasn’t there for him.”

“Well, it is not my field of expertise, but he is… how old now?”

“Thirty-two months.”

“So the pediatrician is telling you averages, statistics; but not all children develop at the same rate.  Einstein did not speak until he was four,” Dr. Camile leaned closer, “His mother and father are both intelligent people who went to college.”

At this, Miranda hissed a puff of white noise through her lips, “I didn’t graduate.”

“You were accepted to a good university.  You earned credits.  You have the option to return in the future.  Not everyone can make that claim.” 

The patient kept her eyes to the floor. 

“Rather than judging yourself based upon the goals you are still working towards, let’s discuss the progress you’ve made.  What are some things that make you proud?”

Miranda said the first thing that came into her mind, “I love my husband.  He’s a good husband.”

“Victor is a good man.  Before your coma, you came to this practice saying you were not confident in your marriage.”

“I thought he married me because he knocked me up.”

“And now?”

“Now… Since he’s been taking care of the kids without me… He’s changed.  He grew up.  He even looks older.”  Miranda glanced down at her phone, admiring the old photograph of them on one of their first dates that she kept as her background.  “Only three years ago…”

“A lot changes in three years.  Imagine how much your children will grow in three more years.  By then, Charlotte will not even remember a time when you were not around.”

                Miranda let out a heavy determined sigh, “I wanna go get my kids.”

                Finally, Dr. Camile consulted her watch, “Our hour is nearly finished.”

                “Thank you.  I need to go now,” She did not wait for formalities.  Miranda grabbed her things and swiftly sped out the door, waving, “I’ll call you.  Bye.”

~*~*~*~**~*~*~**~~

                Victor arrived home that evening with a large cardboard box.  In the back yard he found Miranda laying on a blanket on the ground, little Charlotte cradled in her arms, sleeping.  Jeffery sat nearby lining up train cars in the grass.

                He felt something unfamiliar, something he had not felt in many months; a grin curling up his mouth, crows’ feet plunging in the corners of his eyes.  Relief.  He put the box down on the cement and spooned himself around Miranda, “Hello family.  Anybody miss me?”

                Miranda cooed, taking his hand in hers and placing it against her cheek.  Jeffery tumbled over to the people pile and hugged his parents.

                “Careful,” Miranda sheltered her baby from being squeezed too tight as Jeffery put his arms around the group.  “What a good big brother, Jeffery.”

                Victor kissed Miranda’s forehead. 

                “Are you hungry?  I already fed the kids,” she stated. 

                He was surprised.  This was a first.  “Oh, no, I’m good.  I grabbed something on the way,” he nearly apologized, anticipating Miranda’s disappointment.

                “Okay,” she smiled, “I’m going to put this little sleeping beauty in her crib and get little man into a bath.” 

                He felt her leave his arms.  “You need a hand?”

                “Nah, I can manage,” she delicately scooped Charlotte into her arms, cocooning the child tightly against her chest.  “Come on, Jeffery.  We can play boats in the bath tub.”

                As she passed the cardboard box, she caught a glimpse of its contents; a dozen old coffee mugs.  “What’s this?”

                Victor stood and gathered the blanket.  “Mom had them, from when she was teaching.”

                As she looked them over, Miranda saw they each had a picture of pencils or apples or chalkboards.  Each marked “World’s Best Teacher” or “#1 Teacher”.  “I guess a lot of students liked her.”

                Victor touched the small of Miranda’s back.  She felt her body tingle and relax all at the same time.  “I stopped to talk to her.  She was worried; the way you asked her to suddenly take the kids, then went and got them back so quickly… We talked and figured, if you need something to break once in a while…”

                He saw tears stream down her cheeks but a smile on her face, “Thank you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.”