The Harlot's Hot Girl Litmus Test

Navigating Desire and Autonomy After Deconstruction

"And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell."
Matthew 18:9 NIV

Church, LDS and then Evangelical, raised Me up another way. Beauty should appear effortless and close to accidental. Church moms illuminated that Godly women were attractive, but not in any overt fashion. Carve scripts carefully to ensure your future husband wants you, but do not acknowledge your sexuality. Ever. Even to oneself, for:

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
1 Peter 5:8 NIV 

May other men be envious of him without coveting; may your bond lead Godly men to possess a wife and create a family of Godly men. Do this without tempting him into sexual sin. May your husband feel proud of keeping you by not bringing him the shame of a harlot as a wife. Lust, desire, the unconscious twitching of the body is sin. 

As an autistic and practically parentless “girl”, awareness of My body was instantly enmeshed with politics of desirability. Measures taken and body hidden to avoid triggering a man’s primal, uncontrollable lust. Once a man passed a certain immeasurable point of impulse all control was lost. Paradise, lost! Responsibility fell on the shoulders of the desired: the snake.

As an autistic and practically parentless adult, I posted a photo of Self on Close Friends. A black mesh miniskirt and gold velour triangle bikini graced My tattooed body. My date arrived on My steps 10 minutes early but waited 5 before texting Me. Funny how it’s rude now to knock on someone’s door. I expected the text.

Temptress in action.

We hadn’t spent more than a moment in each other’s company. I messaged her on Lex last week and she delivered what I desired (something is illegal in Pennsylvania). I paid her. The initial impression felt congruent so I asked her over again. She said yes. I expected her to say yes. 

She didn’t object or spam Me when I took hours or even a day to text back— a sign she respected My time and agenda. Queer relationships, all relationships, can be demanding from the get. I’ve learned to avoid it. No love-bombing, no attaching without trust, time, communication, and cause: a lesson earned and treasured.

I vehemently despise when people I’ve sucked or f*cked turn out to be terrible. I imagine most people do... but to a wh*re, it's a different degree of distaste. Giving time, attention, and pleasure free of cost to then discover reasons they were undeserving? I avoid it at all costs. Noncommittal entanglements are a delight but My partners are people with whom I’m familiar: vetted over time by My watchful eye. 

I don’t have sex as often as I'd like. This doesn’t make Me better than anyone.

She mentioned over text that she wasn’t eager to pursue anything sexual or romantic with new people. She indicated a desire to explore relationships without intending a specific outcome. Her disposition mirrored My developing preference to let connections unfold. 

I let her inside, a second top covering my chest and stomach. She knew from the app what I was wearing. I had plans for My first rave after our time together, after all. 

Generally I don’t prefer strangers touching My body; I’ll accept a handshake or maybe a hug but that’s typically the line for first encounters. It only took 20 minutes for her to ask to kiss Me. Red flag number one: inconsistency. I told her no. She dropped it for the time being. 

I sliced a fresh watermelon, heels lifted so I could apply proper leverage to the knife. I cut the shell. When the blade impacted My cutting board, My feet hit the ground. My skirt shifted, t*ts bounced. She could look. I don’t mind being admired. But I made it clear she wasn’t allowed to touch.

Praying for the best.

She picked it up again an hour later, questioning Me. Letting Me know she’d changed her mind, that she wanted My body. I knew she would. I fund My living by being likable and desirable. I’ve trained My entire life to be f*ckable, coy, and unattainable. The difference now? I don't atone for My body. 

Other people’s desire is not (and was never) My responsibility nor My obligation. If your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out.

When she finally did touch Me, she asked a third time. She wanted to cuddle, she said, to hold My hand. To touch My back and pet Me like a dog. I tolerated some of it despite the echo of alarm bells in My head. I wasn’t totally sure at the time what I wanted or that I didn’t want her. She was funny, cute, clever… I thought. Part of Me fled the room and other parts stayed absolutely still.

Am I here to covet? Can you wait and see? Can you see Me? 

I didn’t listen to her voice memo after she left My rowhouse and I won't invite her over again. She knows. She failed the Harlot’s Hot Girl Litmus Test.

Can you look at Me in all My glory and fuckability, through a lens of desire and still see Me? My body, hesitant. Eyes darting around My living room as I lean away from you. Can you understand My career as a performer and sexual deviant while providing abundant space for My desire? Can you respect My lack thereof?

Do you hear Me disclose My recovery from cPTSD? Comprehend the significance of My tendency to dissociate? Consider My ability to consent? Am I here to covet?

As a businesswoman, I don’t mind the coveting. It’s a sufficient cause of My profession. But in disregarding My spirit you agree to match a hefty fee. If My desire is irrelevant between us then this is a job. You are a John; Gender and sexuality are rendered insignificant to the outcome.

I'll take your money. You can have your desire. 

You will never know what it means to have Me.