Really? Are you fukking serious? Okay then.
You're tall, hot, blonde, great figure. Nice rack, too, since this is imaginary. You're a just-graduated university student, starting out at some firm so you can build your way to the top. You've been in this job a couple of weeks.
You like coffee. Trim flat white with one sugar please, as always, the same every day. You go to a new cafe this morning, because you parked on a different street. Guy behind the counter is at least twenty years older than you, he gives you a smile, he waves your fee.
It's awkward. You're making your own money now, you don't need shyt bought for you. You know it's cause of your legs, your long hair. But how can you refuse? It's rude, is it not, to say no? So you smile politely and go to sit down, picking up the paper on the way.
The coffee is brought over, and he gives you another grin. It's creepy, and you're uncomfortable from the way he stares. His eyes look you up and down, all around, and there's a little chuckle. But you don't say anything - he gave you a free coffee, didn't you? It's a favour, isn't it?
You leave earlier than usual, too bothered by the way he looks at you. You go to work, settle in at your desk, and get out the proposal you've been working on for weeks. It's good. You know it's good. It's solid and well thought out and perfectly exhibits that you've paid attention throughout your degree and throughout your countless internships.
Once the senior partner meeting is over, you take a deep breath. You're ready to approach a man you haven't spoken to before, someone who's not involved in staff management at all.
You stride over and say hi. He looks you up and down, smiles kindly, and asks what you want. Asks if you're looking for Rita, the secretary. You frown, and realise he thinks you're an office junior and not aiming for his job. You say that you've got a proposal for him, and he peers at you carefully. He takes you into his office, and you know it's because of the way your hips move. But that's okay, a leg up now and then is good, right?
You demonstrate your proposal, aware that his eyes follow your waist and not your pages; aware that he's only half listening and altogether too focused on your lips. You finish, take a deep breath. He thinks for a bit.
'Nice work, sweetie,' he says. You freeze up. 'You can go now.' Like you're nothing more than a child. He's not talking to you at his level, he's talking down - the worst thing in the world to you.
You're so embarrassed. So embarrassed that you tried and you proved yourself and it's still not enough because no one can get past the healthy flush on your cheeks and the way your eyelashes meet them in a sweeping motion every time you blink. You fume all day, and cringe when watch him shake hands with another employee at the same level as you. Equals. From the moment you met him, you've been a girl - not a woman, you're too pretty for that - but a girl.
You leave at the end of the day feeling dejected, and go to the bar to meet a couple of male friends.
A glass of wine later and you feel a little better. Your friends are on form, making you laugh as usual. A few minutes later, you get a drink brought over, paid for by the man-sitting-at-the-end-of-the-bar. You sigh. It's kind of him, and it would be rude to reject, but you don't want to give the wrong idea. You shrug and drink it, smiling nicely but slightly awkwardly, hoping he doesn't think you're keen.
You start to leave around ten o'clock. You've got work tomorrow, after all. As you gather your things and head to the door the man who gave you a drink comes over. He's frowning slightly, and quite drunk. He asks if you enjoyed your drink, and you affirm. You start to leave, he's standing uncomfortably close.
He doesn't let you. He asks you where you're going. You explain that you want to go home. He growls. 'But the drink. I gave you a drink.' It dawns on you. He doesn't care that you're tired, all he cares about is that he gave you a drink. You're obliged, now, to be thankful. To give him what he wants. Because he gave you a drink. Like the coffee, it's entitlement.
It's the assumption that just because you're gorgeous you're available. As though your beauty makes you an object. As though, like the 'asking for it' rape rhetoric, your genetic makeup means you're allowed to be stared at. Drooled after. Used. Who cares that you have a brain under there? That you've worked hard? That you've written a novel, that you're a talented musician, that you're exceptional at netball, that you're a multidimensional creature with hopes and dreams that don't stop at the color of your hair and the light in your eyes?
You have to work twice as hard. You have to be twice as cold. You have to be ruthless and standoffish because the slightest nicety means you'll never be more than sweet little girl. You don't get to be kind to people, even though you're genuine at heart; because that's not seen as ambitious. Your personality isn't allowed to enhance your appearance, like normal people, because then you appearance is all that matters. All that anyone sees.
You walk home in silence, arms folded across your chest to keep away the cold. A truck drives past, some kind of construction, and a horn sounds. A man sticks his head out the window, makes a wanking symbol. You blush. You're not a whore. You keep walking, faster, until you get to your flat and collapse on the sofa.
'You're pretty,' they say. 'You must get everything. You never have to pay. Just bat your eyelashes and you get given all you want.' But that's not how you want to be seen. You want to be an equal, not someone so incapable that they can't purchase their own vodka. You want to be valued for your brain and not your figure; you want to be paid for your work and not your uterus. You don't want to be that pretty girl at the office, you want to be the most valued intellect at the company.
You're a pretty girl. But you're not public fukking property, and you're not worth less than men simply because they can't see past your fukking face.
You have no idea. No idea.
