This week’s Dietland showed Plum Kettle on the painful, humiliating, expensive and drastic journey to becoming “bangable,” as defined by her drastic weight-loss detractors as her driving motivator for thinness.
Because isn’t it always?
In case you were unaware, it is a woman’s first priority in this culture to attract the menz, and as such, the reason we are willing to do pretty much anything. Y’know, if magazine covers are to be believed.
Our main job, our noble calling, is motherhood, and you can’t get there if nobody wants to fuck you. Hence why bangability is key.
Fortunately for us, there are countless people willing to help us achieve this notable status. The weight-loss industry, the fashion industry, the cosmetics industry, the media… you can’t sling a dead cat in any direction and not find SOME advice how you, disgusting slob and wretchedly unbangable chick, can get a man to notice you so you can get you some.
That is, after all, our truest desire.
It’s in the Bible.
If you dress up, if you take care to look nice, put on makeup, get yer hair “did” or your nails done, everyone clearly knows that you’re gunning for some peen. That surely IS the reason for grooming yourself to the point of torture, right?
Spanx, people. Fucking SPANXS.
And as we have been told repeatedly for – well, at least as long as I’ve been alive and aware of it – men will only find you bangable if you change.
It doesn’t matter how or WHAT you change… just that you do something opposite than what you’re doing now. You’ll note most of these tips aspire to change you from your natural state. Curlers, straighteners, hair removal, concealer, padded bras, slimming jeans… lift, tuck, conceal, hide – CHANGE….nothing you have naturally is at all bangable.
Even beautiful, teenage, rail-thin models get photoshopped for optimal bangability.
If you’re a woman, you HAVE to change. Gotta. You’re simply unbangable as is, darlin’. If you’re older, you need to look younger. If you’re fat, you need to be thinner. If you have curly hair, you need to straighten it. If you have straight hair, you have to curl it. If you have a wide nose, you need to contour. If you are pale, you need to be more tanned. No matter how perfect the world may find you, trust me there will be something, anything about you that needs to be changed to be bangable.
Dare you like something about yourself, the kind folks in the Peanut Gallery are quick to let you know the error of your ways.
For some of us, there are more obvious violations. For me, it’s weight. For you, it might be unruly eyebrows. Are your lashes not full enough? FALSIES, baby. There is LITERALLY a product for every sin you don’t even know you’re committing. If you don’t believe me, watch a makeup tutorial on Youtube sometime. That alone made me realize I have no idea to girl properly. Five products JUST for your face? Ten more for your eyes? Three more for your lips? Two more for your eyebrows?
Are you fucking kidding me? And we’re not even talking about clothes, accessories and layering yet. Even for those of us who love clothes and makeup, there is no way to keep up with the latest new thing that will perfect what is unbangably wrong.
The SPANX, people. My God, the fucking Spanx.
(For the record, I’ve never owned or wore a pair. When I was younger, it was due to cost. Now that I’m older, I just don’t give a shit. Ain’t nobody got the time to wiggle into sausage casing just so that complete strangers aren’t offended by my cellulite. Things are going to jiggle, folks. Get fucking used to it.)
It’s no wonder that women take two hours to get ready. You can’t rush the fine art of being bangable, y’all. You just can’t.
Granted, women tend to make things more complicated than they need to be. Do guys really care if you have 20 layers of product on your face? Are they really wondering if your lashes are real or Maybelline? Do they care if your lipstick is coordinated with your nail color, or if your underwear matches?
There was a joke meme going around years ago on the differences on what it takes to please women and what it takes to please men. For the women, guys had to buy flowers, pick her favorite restaurant, talk about her interests, basically devote his life and attention to her. For the guys, it just said, “Show up naked. Bring beer.”
I’ve seduced my share of men in my life. It wasn’t always THAT easy, but… the point has some merit.
Bangability simply isn’t that difficult, if that is what you’re aiming for. Most of the time it isn’t, which is why sexual attention is often unwelcome or bothersome. Despite what men think, just because we dress up doesn’t mean we’re advertising some cute new petting zoo.
My future daughter-in-law, Brittany, and I are tried and true partners in crime. I don’t have a lot of really close girlfriends, but she’s risen right to the top as my favored cohort. My boys generally don’t care to traipse around Los Angeles with me, doing the things that I love to do. But whenever I say, “You wanna?” to Brit, she’s down. For a borderline agoraphobe, having this kind of “safe person” is glorious. We go out to events pretty regularly, which often includes live music in famous Hollywood venues. Before each venture, we tend to do the Girl Thang and go shopping for clothes (particularly if it’s a “theme” night.) We mull long and hard over the accessories and makeup we’re going to wear. We coordinate to the point of OCD madness. On the day of, we tend to get started hours before we have to leave, and end up leaving late almost every single time.
The truly ironic part is that only one of us has to work that hard to be “bangable” as the previously referenced culture norms demand. We look different, we’re treated different, even though our goals/motives are completely the same.
Brit is not heavy like me. In fact, she’s the polar opposite of me. She’s underweight, and has the same difficulty reaching her goals as I do mine. Though this chick can eat (and trust me, anyone who has ever seen her do it can attest,) her metabolism burns so high that she has stayed between 90-95 pounds in the four years she’s lived with us. Given she’s the same height as me, the differences between us are drastic. I have even been asked (by a stranger in passing, and a man,) if I am the reason she doesn’t eat.
Nobody asks her, when she’s knuckle-deep in pizza, fried foods, southern comfort staples, booze and the endless sweets she indulges (because she can, because there’s no limit on what SHE eats,) if SHE’S the reason *I* indulge, which would be a whole lot closer to the truth.
But hey, whatevs. SHE is the one who is “bangable”, so clearly she’s the one who is doing it right, and men reward her (and punish me) accordingly. Even though we do almost the same things basically, except we kinda don’t – not when it comes to health. She’s in her 20s. She’s invincible. Her diet came with all the stuff I had cut out for years, and trained my family accordingly. There were no fried foods, no cream sauces. Oreos. MY GOD, the Oreos
Those are Brit additions, because I’m not going to afflict her with my diet, when she actually needs to put on weight. She loves whole milk, I always bought skim. She drinks full-sugar soda daily, I drink a diet soda maybe 1-2 days a week. I love salads of all kinds, she needs her salads compatible to ranch dressing, as, like many Texans, vegetables are her Ranch dressing delivery system. I also eat far less snack food, junk food, fast food, and I don’t vape like a dragon.
When we go to Sizzler, I get the salad bar. She gets the steak dinner WITH a loaded baked potato, WITH a salad (loaded with ranch,) WITH all the extras, with the biggest bottle of beer they have AND a soda.
Yet who’s the one who gets the dirty looks when I get a bowl of banana pudding, or drink a diet soda?
I should be eating lettuce and drinking water and LIKING it, goddammit. Don’t I WANT to be bangable, FFS?
Since you were so kind to ask… NO. I sure damn don’t.
This is what those concern-trolling shamers, who feel like it’s THEIR job to make me feel bad, to punish me for my weight – as if the weight isn’t punishment enough – don’t seem to understand. They think their stamp of approval, signing off on my bangability, will “inspire” me to go the other direction. They actually think I want to earn their favor, when all I really want to do is punch them right in their hateful faces.
I’m not necessarily a violent person, and I hate the color orange, so I have a long history of eating pretty much out of spite, flaunting my fatness to keep them far, far away, since it seems to work oh, so well.
(It’s been a coping mechanism for as long as I can remember. Since I’ve wanted to avoid sexual attention since the age of, oh, four.)
I did this to myself. Knowingly. Purposefully. I WANTED to be unbangable, because dudes viewing me sexually has always, always, always been The Danger Zone. If I looked like Brit, I wouldn’t leave the house. It gives ME anxiety whenever SHE wears a bikini, because I just can’t imagine lighting that kind of welcome torch. I personally feel the need to drape myself around her like a force field as is, just so some horny dude doesn’t put her in his pocket and run away.
Seriously, when she goes outside to vape, onto the Sunset Strip of all places, I worry if she doesn’t come back right away. These fuckers are relentless, y’all.
And as Jen Kober says, being skinny makes it so much easier to be kidnapped.
Truth is, Brit’s very cute. She’s a pretty girl and she knows it. If she didn’t, there would be nightclubs full of old rocker pervs to reassure her. They will do anything to get close to her. I’ve watched it happen almost every single time we go out. They will find any reason at all to get close enough to paw at her like a horny Schnauzer. “Ooo, your jacket. Is that leather? I love it.”
Though she wears an engagement ring on her finger, and will always answer every, “Who are you here with?” with a pointed, “My mother-in-law,” these guys are rarely deterred. She’s thin, blond and cute. Her bangability is without question, but has little to do with how she styles her hair or how much time she spends on her makeup. I tell her all the time that she could show up in a burlap sack with bedhead and it wouldn’t turn off these guys. “Burlap? Wow, I’ve always loved that texture. Such a novel choice! You must be very smart and creative.”
If she showed up naked with beer, a line would gather.
Guys who are with other chicks will still peacock around her, just to get her attention. Whenever I point them out to her, she always says, so sweetly, “But he’s with a date!” As if that ever stopped a dude anywhere from sucking in his gut near a pretty girl.
It’s kind of funny how predictable it all gets.
It’s so pervasive that, when we went to see a comedy show, she commented how the guy she was seated next to was such a nice, refreshing change from all the guys who come onto her at the bars. She noted it was probably because the comedy crowd was different.
What she didn’t notice, and what I never miss, was how he kept looking her up and down every time he got the chance, all the way through the show. He was already old news to her by then. Guys who find her attractive are a dime a dozen, and she’s already won the lottery landing my son. (Totally unbiased opinion.)
But I always have my Predator Radar on, particularly in “Mom Mode,” and so I pick up on cues others miss… like the chick sitting next to him with that big rock on her left hand. She didn’t seem to notice how he kept checking Brit out, either. Yet he couldn’t help himself from studying the bangable chick at his side, more than likely storing every detail for his spank bank.
Honestly, Brit is so cute I often wonder why I even bother sometimes to dress up. Despite being more than twice her size, I disappear beside her easily. If bangability was my objective, I’d be sadly barking up the wrong tree.
But – again – bangability is NOT the objective. All the events we go to are centered around people we consider friends, who, even though they’re men, the business of bangability isn’t even on the table. We’re just out to have a unbangable good time.
Such things ARE possible, you know.
I dress up because I like it. Crazy, right? I like to feel pretty. And both of those things are possible, too. I like to wear makeup. I’m a girl, FFS. I like pretty makeup and nice clothes, feeling beautiful and adorned, and will do so even if the masses think I’m completely unfuckable. Such things are by design and I’m used to it, so it has nothing to do with that.
I mean, no offense, but… it’s not about you. I’d bang me. And do, on a regular basis. You’re really kind of unnecessary in the whole deal, except for all the sexy details I store in MY bank. And if you think I’m not bangable because I’m fat, odds are you don’t make that list no matter how you dress or how hot you look.
They’re called standards and, believe it or not, I have them.
If I don’t turn your head, it’s perfectly okay with me. My dressing up and looking pretty was never about you in the first place. I’ve loved makeup way back when I was thirteen years old. I was still a virgin (by my standard, I didn’t “lose” my virginity until I gave it away willingly) with no plans on fucking anyone until I was married. (Ah, youth.) Still, I wanted to have makeup in the WORST way. One of my most beloved toys was my Barbie styling head, which I would style and primp for hours on end.
Needless to say, I couldn’t WAIT to be like all the other teenagers and do my own hair and makeup instead of playing with a plastic doll head. When we used to live with another single mom and her kids, I’d watch 16-year-old Beth sit for hours at her makeup table, perfecting her 80s flip, getting her makeup *just right*. It was my introduction to girling. My efforts were never so perfect.
And it didn’t help ANYTHING that puberty hit me like a fucking freight train. I wanted makeup simply to detract away from hellish acne. Look at anything but my pimples. PLEASE.
But my mother insisted I was much too young for makeup. I come from a very conventional household where my late dad called the rouge, lipstick and nail polish my mother wore, her only makeup staples, her “war paint.”
These were, in fact, the only makeup items I was allowed to wear as a thirteen-year-old.
But I so desperately wanted all of it, particularly eye shadow. I’m a creative person who has always loved to decorate things. Why not myself? Given my eyes have always been my best physical feature, it was torture not to experiment with makeup that could light them up like a Christmas tree. (They are green, after all.)
Had they had as many glittery choices then as they do now, I might have considered shoplifting. I probably would have never done it, but I would have considered it nonetheless.
I have a theory that I must have been a drag queen in another life. If my passion for makeup isn’t enough to convince you, my healthy love of disco should seal the deal.
To tell you how creative I was, for a short time in 1983 I was mixing food color and baby powder, just to see if I could make my own. That never worked out either. Ultimately I had to wait for several more years before I got the real thing.
You know, AFTER my first kiss and AFTER I gave up on the whole virginity thing. As it turned out, the makeup I had always wanted had precious little to do with my bangability.
Do you see the emerging theme here?
When you’re a single gal, fat or thin, you really don’t have to work that hard to get laid, if getting laid is your objective. (Epiphany hammer coming down in five… four… three… two…)
YOU CAN’T FIGHT THE BANGABILITY, Y’ALL. You don’t have to pass Go, you don’t have to collect $200. You start the game bangable. Think of it like a passport that you’re born with. Pretty folks, yeah. They may have checks from a lot more people, filling their pages with validation after validation, where you can be like Brit, say you’re pretty and BELIEVE it.
But guess what? Fat, thin, young, old, geek, chic – there’s ALWAYS going to be someone in this world willing to stamp your Bangability Book. Getting laid is about the EASIEST thing you can do. Many times, all you have to be is available.
Guys have tried to pick me up while I was on a pay phone (ask your grandparents,) doing my laundry, sitting on a grassy knoll, reading a book, even walking down the street. No bars. No makeup. No ritual or ceremony. No sexy clothes.
Just existing with a vagina.
Your ONLY question is what kind of guy do you want to bang? Are you looking for love? Are you looking for security? Because that’s where it gets a little trickier, particularly if you have high standards.
Not all peen is created equal, folks. Therefore bangability, or the art of attracting all peen, is NOT optimal. For some of us, who have fought our inherent bangabilty off with every ugly stick we could find, it truly IS the Danger Zone.
Believe me when I say that when Brit and I gussy up, it’s not ABOUT men or sex. We’re in committed relationships with no intention of picking anyone up. In fact, Brit and I do this even when we’re going to hang out with other women. None of what we do has dick to do with… well, dick. If you get turned on, that’s kinda your problem.
Not to say that it’s all bad. I’ve had my share of attention, and I’ve enjoyed the hell out of it when I got it. Still do. I’m only human, y’all. I’ve used my cleavage more than once to get my way, which is always an ego boost. (It also saves money at the bar. Even at the Whiskey, we’ve had our drinks paid for.)
When you lock eyes with someone who finds you attractive, there’s a charge of electricity that’s pretty hard to beat, even if you have no plans whatsoever fucking them. It makes you feel good. Powerful. Alive.
Like anyone else, I like that. I’m a Scorpio. The flirt is built in.
What I like better is knowing that the guys who find someone like me bangable are way more choice. A lot of guys look through me or past me or around me because of my weight, it’s true. I prefer that I’m not the easy option or the first choice. I’m not the lowest hanging fruit on the tree. You have to climb through all the thorny foliage I’ve grown to keep you out. You have to forgive the bruises on the outside to get to the sweet fruit underneath, and honestly… most guys are too lazy to keep going past the first barrier. I’m a human obstacle course and very few ninjas make it to the other side.
That has ALWAYS been by design. Call it… Asshole Repellent.
Assholes are the ones who will punish me for my brazen unbangability, withholding their attention and even their kindnesses, because God forbid I think that banging is even remotely on the table, even if I’m not asking for it. They’d rather look through me than make eye contact. Because that’s what I clearly deserve. They will pile other people in between us, a human shield, just so I am reminded – AGAIN – of my blatant unbangabilty, as if I had to be reminded, as if that was my objective in the first place.
If women are out for peen, surely fat women are out for peen DOUBLE.
We lust by the pound, doncha know.
All things considered, a man who finds me sexy demonstrates very attractive qualities, like depth, tenacity and, you know, decency. He tends to appreciate the whole package, including my mind, my wit and my strength. He’d never be satisfied with some blow-up doll of the feminine ideal. He needs more.
I’m the Queen of More. Only a true king can recognize it.
Self-esteem boost x2, plus you get to separate the wheat from the chaff? Win/win. My lack of “bangability” is a fucking PLUS, not a minus. Always has been.
Older women get this. The older you get, the more that kind of attention wanes from weaker men, who need you to be hot to make them feel better about themselves.
Eventually all of us women reach and pass our Last Fuckable Day with these losers which, despite the parody in this clip, IS a reason to celebrate.
It’s kind of liberating, honestly. You get to the point when you’re not doing it for *them,* you’re doing it for you. Whether you drop hundreds of dollars to let some sadist rip your pubes out by the root, that then becomes your choice. Whether you’re dropping thousands of dollars on hundreds of product to keep you makeup-ready, buying sexy underwear or – gasp – losing weight, becomes a lot more loving the less you care about random, superficial dudes wanting to fuck you. You get to do what you want to do, what makes you happy.
If it’s anybody else’s choice, then it falls dangerously close to abuse. Why would we ever open our hearts or our legs to someone who thinks we’re not good enough? How much do we have to hate ourselves to buy and accept this message?
And guess what? It’s never your “last fuckable day.” Guys of worth will still find you sexy. Hell, guys of little worth will find you sexy, they just won’t admit it. If you show up and bring beer, odds are you will still get them to fuck you. They might not be the 50-year-old rocker dudes clinging to their own youth by chasing 20-year-old groupies, but honestly… what’s the loss?
I’ve been overweight my whole adult life. The last time I broke 200 pounds, I was 19 years old. For much of the time since, my focus has been antibangability. Not that uncommon for women who have survived abuse. I don’t want strangers finding an excuse to touch me. Whether you find me fuckable or not is none of my concern, because odds are GREAT I don’t want to fuck you.
I need to trust you to fuck you, and have a reasonable expectation that you won’t, you know, destroy me when it’s all said and done. As a result, I wear my “Fuck Off” sign like a goddamn tiara. I scare off a lot of men.
I’m okay with this.
It could be a perfect plan except for one problem: despite all I’ve done to keep them at arm’s length, there are guys who will still want to fuck me, because there’s more to bangability than some number on a scale. I see it in their eyes if they dare hold my gaze. I’ve actually seen it rattle some guys. Makes me wonder who the revelation scares more… me or them. Probably the person who looks away first, which is usually me.
As a married lady, I don’t need those kinds of complications that come with looking twice, so I rarely do it. But the truth of the matter is that, married or not, if I wanted to fuck, I could find someone to do it. I was about ninety pounds heavier last time I tried to “show up and bring beer,” and a line still gathered. Handsome guys. Younger guys. This idea that Fat = Unfuckable is a tired myth, and nobody knows that better than I do, because I’ve spent a good thirty years trying to do everything I could to turn men off and they just won’t go away.
Which, mind you, isn’t always a bad thing. I like men. I like being wanted and loved by men. I just don’t want to be used and hurt by men, so I have had to be very selective. In truth, my antibangability has proven the ultimate test of a GUY’S bangability. If you can see through all the bullshit, look past the scars and the pain and still see a woman of worth… you’re a fucking prince in my book. Sure, they’re fewer in number, but quality over quantity, ladies.
If you’ve ever been with someone who wants to “reward” you versus someone who wants to treasure you, even worship you, you’d know exactly what I mean.
Hence why I wanted to throttle Plum when she asserted that she couldn’t be pretty simply because she was fat. She said it with a straight face, as if her best friend’s employee (a hot, young guy) didn’t moon over her constantly, or the sexy cop wasn’t all about her chocolate cake (not a euphemism.) She’s even got a lesbian hot and bothered. All of this attention is just as legitimate as Brit’s Whiskey fan club.
Yet… Plum thinks she still needs to staple her stomach to become bangable?
YOU’RE ALREADY BANGABLE, GIRL. The only question now is whether you’re bangable to the masses, because as we ALL know, we’re just not worth a damn until a world of faceless dudes decide they want to fuck us.
Despite OVERWHELMING evidence to the contrary, it’s easy lie to believe because goddammit if it doesn’t try to rear its ugly head every time we turn around, whether it’s in Plum’s fictional existence or our own. Just yesterday, author and feminist Roxanne Gay tweeted a personal letter she got from some stranger who felt it appropriate to ask her how her husband makes love to her. “How does he find your vagina?” this stranger (I’d bet dollars to donuts was a dude) wanted to know.
Really? Fucking REALLY?
I hate that fucking stereotype every bit as much as I hate the loose vagina one for women who have dared to have sex, or, y’know, a baby. Where DO you fuckers get the information you have about our bodies? And why are you so worried about a fat chick’s vagina anyway, if fat is what makes her so unbangable?
I still haven’t forgiven David Copperfield for his “flour” joke re: Jabba the Hut in one of the I Love the 80s episodes. Seriously, if you’re a dude who thinks you have to “roll me up in flour to find the wet spot” just to find my vagina, not only do I have SERIOUS doubts you could find the clit on a skinny chick, if you’re this intimidated by size I’m going to assume you must have a wee willy winky, too.
Is that rude to say? I mean, we can talk frankly about this, right? Since you can bring up your concerns with my husband finding my vagina, since I’m so fat. We’re close, right?
There are countless people out there ready to let us fat folk know that Fat = Unfuckable, particularly when we’re at ALL in the public eye. God help you if you mutter an unpopular opinion. The worst insult I ever got about my weight, which was aggressively sexual, was on a political forum. Fat feminists are particularly targeted, and, for some strange reason, these pissed off bigots will go right to the rape threats just to prove how unfuckable they find us.
If there’s one thing our culture simply won’t tolerate, it’s all those women who DARE to exist unbangably. And all those multi-million dollar industries I mentioned above make sure that every single woman knows it, every minute of every day of her unbangable life.
It’s so misogynistic, I rage to the point I can’t even see straight. That women perpetuate this myth, at all, makes me even more stabbity.
Despite their billion-dollar efforts, some of us have opted to go the other way. For some of us, this has been a pretty effective shield for a long, long time. None of the guys who come up and paw at Brit are guys whose attention I want, so I’m not particularly sold on doing anything that lures them. I have had decades of self-abuse literally under my belt to ensure that nobody like that touches me, or gets close to me, or eyes me like some predator on the Serengeti. I am a fucking lioness, not some defenseless, little gazelle.
If my choices are “Scare you” or “Be scared of you,” guess which one I’m going to choose?
Some of us aren’t trying to lose weight just to be more bangable, even though we know that will ultimately be the result because of this superficial, misogynist culture. Some of us are pushing through DESPITE that unfortunate byproduct, and the difference needs to be acknowledged.
Because it’s anti-feminist as fuck to paint me with a brush that diminishes me, that’s why.
I get to exist, and make my choices, and do what I want to do, without having those motives questioned in regards to how it relates to a man. I’m not some halfling who needs their blue Verified check to show the world I’m acceptable. I’m not putting myself through this for anyone but me – not my husband, not my kids, not Rando Joe on the street. It’s all about me, baby, to have a healthier, more active body as I enter the second part of my life. Whether that’s 150 pounds, 200 pounds or even 2-fucking-60, my goal is to treat myself with a lot more kindness and respect.
That starts by rejecting counterproductive social constructs that have done a helluva lot of damage to me in my life as a woman. My worth as a human has dick to do with… well, dick.
Recognize, or STFU.
Like the goddess Pink so aptly sang, “I’m not here for your entertainment.” My existence doesn’t need to be justified by how many guys want to fuck me. Pretty is not the rent I pay to live in your world.
The way I see it, if I’m not here for you to “bang,” your opinion of my “bangability” is moot. The only outside person whose opinion matters is the hubby, who signed on for a lifetime commitment to banging only me, so… yeah. There’s nobody to impress after that. Except me, and I still count.
I get to dress up, wear makeup, look pretty, FEEL pretty, all without your approval or agreement, just because it pleases me. Because I feel lovely, and goddammit… that’s allowed.
Women are much too complex and diverse to abide by such limited rules. We’re going to be fat, thin, pretty, ugly, wear makeup, cut our hair short, wear casual clothes or the latest fashion, buy a thousand beauty products or none at all. Most of us will do this without worrying about how it attracts peen. Regardless of that, I guarantee you that at least ONE guy will find you fuckable despite the rules you adhere to or the rules you break.
See, that’s the secret no one in the fashion industry, the cosmetic industry, the weight loss industry or the media wants you to know. They DEPEND on torpedoing your self-esteem to protect their bottom line. Their job isn’t done until you feel lesser than and ready to open your wallet to “fix” what’s wrong, just like poor Plum.
They get you to question your inherent bangability and then put it on a stick way out in front of you, where you’ll never catch it. (Proven by the fact that they showed Plum what her new, thinner body would look like, complete with all the scars from taking off all the excess skin.)
There’s NO finish line. There’s no way you can win if you play the game by their rules. The only way to win is to STOP PLAYING.
Are we still bangable if we break their rules? Fuck yes, we are. As is, guaranteed. No waxing, no injection or surgery required. Anyone who is telling you differently is selling something, sweetheart. And it’s your self-esteem, battered to shit.
I’ve had a long, complicated relationship with my bangability, and if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that it is a measuring stick you alone hold. Giving it away won’t get you laid. It’ll get you leveled. Trust NO stranger with it, because odds are great they’ll use it against you. There are no good intentions behind someone taking possession of something that was already yours in the first place.
Good, worthwhile, bangable people will help uncover your bangability. Bad, shitty, unbangable people will steal it away and try to lease it back to you, and tell you it’s your fault.
Learn who to reward, and who to ignore, accordingly.
Grasp that shit in a steel grip and hold your lovely head up high. Feel pretty, Plum and Plumettes. And go hook up with that young hottie and finally get you some, FFS. Ot the cop. Or the lesbian. Whomever you want, basically.
BECAUSE YOU CAN.
Just the way you are.