The Male Gaze by Ella Bachrach (18)

a man stands in the corner of my room. he’s been there for as long as i can remember, although i know he had to have arrived at some point. when i was younger, i would hide from him. i changed clothes under the covers, hiding my small body from his unblinking eyes. instead of speaking, i whispered, so as not to disturb him. at the age of seven, my mother found an old cd player at the dump, complete with a one direction cd that jolted through stand up and skipped over one thing. i plugged in that cd player and i danced. i faced the man. i sang “everyone else in the room can see it” and i moved my hips like the girls on tv and i bit my lip and i danced.

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i brought a girl to my room in the tenth grade. she joined me on the bed and as our lips met, i closed my eyes. i couldn’t decide if, when i opened them, i wanted the man to be watching or not. i kept my eyes closed so i couldn’t tell. i adjusted the angle of my face so that if he was watching, he at least had a good view.

alone in my room, just the man and i, i suck in when i change for school. i arch my back as i curl up in bed. i get comfortable and then i see him in the corner, watching, and i change positions so that my jawline looks sharp, my waist small.
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i get sad sometimes. i know that it’s normal, it’s hormonal, it’s a period in my life in which i’m going through many changes and may feel a bit moody, but fuck, it feels like the end of the world when it hits. that grey fog blankets my brain and i feel like i’m dying. when i get sad, i go and i throw myself to the floor in front of the man. i wail, but i make sure that it’s a beautifully tragic wail, not an ugly one. i conjure tears to make it more realistic. (why does it need to be realistic? i’m not faking it. really, i’m not.) i touch my fingers to my damp lashes and trail them down my face, ensuring that the mascara runs just so. my chest heaves and my lips turn down and i look up at the man, will him to see me, see my pain, understand me, tell me my hurt is acceptable, tell me my sadness makes me look delicate, tell me you want me so i know that i’m worth something.