He’s staring at me and trying his best not to be so obvious about it. He doesn’t seem like a jerk, but you can’t always tell with a visual inspection. Sometimes they can be sneaky about it. It seems many men have perfected the prim and proper, nice-guy façade; smartly dressed in nicely polished black dress shoes, grey turtleneck and leather jacket.

We’re both reading the same alternative newspaper, NOW! And I imagine he must have noticed this too, by now. A part of me is curious whether or not he’ll use that coincidence as an icebreaker, but another part of me hopes he doesn’t say a word at all. If I were any other girl, I’d probably be flattered or maybe annoyed by this unwanted lust and attention. But that’s my very problem. When guys look at me, their eyes are not filled with lust or desire; instead they regard me with a strange curiosity. I’m an oddity to them.

I can still remember the day I found out I’m not ‘normal’. It was Tuesday, September 8th, 1987. It was my first day of school. My nanny had taken care of me for most of my childhood and continued to care for me well into adolescence. This day was my first prolonged contact with other children. I remember being curious about all the different kinds of people that populated the classroom. There were boys and girls of different shapes, sizes and ethnicities; some of them spoke languages that were foreign to me, while others hardly spoke at all.

I spent most of that morning playing with the other children and got along with them just as well as can be expected for someone my age at the time. Then it happened. Out of nowhere some boy started laughing at my freckles. He compared it to a rash and started slapping his buttocks. “You have a bum rash on your face!” he squealed.

He wouldn’t shut up. At first he was ignored, but the children started to take notice of him and they laughed; they couldn’t help themselves, he was so animated. Meanwhile, I was livid. I hadn’t learned to feel insecure about myself, yet, so I started yelling at him in return, trying, in vain, to make him shut up! He then went on to ridicule my hair.

There was another girl in the class, who would later become my friend, she had red hair too, but not like mine, it was pale compared to the blinding bush burning atop my head.

In retrospect, I wonder why the teacher didn’t put an end to this. Maybe she was laughing too. Even though I would later grow up to be a bookworm, at the time, I did not have a store of words to draw from, so I was ill equipped to defend myself verbally. What happened next, I’ll never know for sure. I’ve been told, he cried he like a girl after I have him a bloody nose. It has been said that I “lunged” at him like a wild animal. While others, mostly friends of this boy, have downplayed this story, explaining away his bloody nose, by saying: “It was an cold day. It’s easy to get a bloody nose when you’re kid.”

When I arrived home after school, I took a long look at myself in the mirror and for the first time I didn’t like what I saw. I hated my chubby cheeks covered in freckles and I didn’t want to be a red head anymore. Before that day, I had always thought of myself as beautiful (I wasn’t a narcissist, I just had no reason to believe otherwise.)

Now when I look at myself at a mirror, I try to remind myself there was once a time when I thought of myself as beautiful. But this ritual has become nothing more than an exercise prescribed by my childhood therapist; who has, admittedly, provided me some comfort with his words, but he hasn’t fixed me. I supposed that’s something only I can accomplish. But such an accomplishment would mean that I would have to delude myself into ignoring the reality of my appearance and the reality of the real world, in favor of something much more comfortable. How strange, having a psychologist prescribe a fantasy in favor of low self-esteem.

But really, what choice do I have? How can I come to terms with being me? Unless I take more drastic measures, I’ll never be “normal”.

“What does that mean?” my nanny once asked, after hearing my confession.

I didn’t know how to answer that question, which left me feeling even more pitiful.

I briefly had a fascination with Barbie dolls and had somehow convinced myself it were possible to transform myself into this ideal woman, but with the use of magic, not realizing such a thing really could be possible for me someday.

I first learned about plastic surgery while watching some news program talking about a big-time celebrity back in the day. The next day, I spent the whole evening at the library researching cosmetic surgery. I didn’t really pay much attention to the medical jargon; I was more interested in the pictures. Almost as if the books were catalogues of faces I might purchase someday.

Some of the photos were pretty graphic, but I was a tough girl so I pressed on. Then I got to some photos of “plastic surgery gone bad”, but I wasn’t discouraged. Around the age of twelve, I purchased my first Seventeen magazine. Most girls my age acquired such materials from their older sister, but being an only child forced me to save my allowance for three weeks before I had enough to purchase my first magazine. The cashier looked at me with a strange expression, I later determined to be moderate disapproval.

I spent the rest of that night locked away in my bedroom, reading the articles and looking at the pictures. All of the women depicted, were fashionably dressed, with their hair blowing in the wind, while blond props, often named Zack, stood nearby by, for no reason in particular, like wallpaper or ornaments on a Christmas tree.

It was creepy how they all looked the same or rather, they all had the same look. And then I read something that was forever etched in my mind. It was in regards to some celebrity and how youthful she looked. The reader inquired about the age of this aforementioned woman, which prompted the response: “Who cares how old she is, it’s what she looks like that matters.”

That statement left me feeling unsettled. I was still too young to truly analyse those words, but I knew something was wrong. After that day, I never purchased a teen magazine again.

I started to become more critical of the messages I received. But I didn’t really feel any better about myself. Then one morning I awoke, bracing myself for another day of high school angst. But something was different.

I walked down the hallway and everyone was gawking at me as if it were the first day of school, smiling broadly, while I stared at the floor, barely able to navigate the hallways without bumping into something or someone. And most of the guys didn’t seem to mind when I did. While taking out my books from my locker, one my more outgoing schoolmates decided to ask what every was thinking,

“Aimee where did those boobs come from!”

I didn’t have an answer for him. For a brief moment, just after I woke up, I felt giddy. I was old enough to know that with boobs came power. But I didn’t feel powerful. I still felt awkward. And I knew enough to know that boobies wouldn’t compensate for my chipmunk cheeks and pipe cleaner hair. The hair was easy enough to fix, but I didn’t really care anymore. People were going to make fun of me whether my hair was stylized or not, so I opted to be lazy.

Outgoing-Guy started moving uncomfortably close to me and I feared he was going to try and touch my chest. He was known for doing things like that and just laughing it off as if it were not big deal. But it was a big deal to me; I didn’t want to be like those other girls in our school who would let any guy touch them while laughing away. I didn’t want the first guy to touch me “there” to be him. (If there ever would be a first.) I had always wondered what it would be like to be wanted and desired, but not like this.

“What, you stuffed tissue paper down there or something?” he laughed.

Everyone in the hallway was looking at us, eagerly waiting to see what would happen next, but I didn’t want to know. I just wanted it all to end; I wanted him to leave me alone.

I started to feel like it was my fault. Maybe I should have worn something thicker and less likely to reveal the curves that were very visible with my T-shirt. Maybe a part of me was curious as to what kind of attention I could attract. But it was a hot day, so what else could I have worn? A turtleneck?

I suddenly felt a surge of warmth and coldness. I heard myself gasp, but I didn’t immediately push him away. I was curious and yet at the same time I felt ashamed, as if I was giving him permission me to use me as he wanted. Because isn’t that what all girls want?

Eventually, I was released from the trance and slapped him hard against his face, which in turn released his touch from my bosom.

“Oh my god, they’re real!” he squealed, while idly rubbing his sore cheek.

He later became my first secret boyfriend. Meanwhile, my bra size changed three times before the school year ended. By the time I reached my senior year, I was a hot property and every guy in school wanted a timeshare. I couldn’t even count how many guys I had fucked, but not once had I been asked out on a date. It’s like I was a cheap house in that bad neighbourhood nobody wanted to admit they lived in.

I had given up on finding love. And I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. I just wanted to feel wanted even if it was for all the wrong reasons. And I was. I was surprised by how many boob-guys there are in a ten-block radius. But I had never once been told I was beautiful. I never received any love letters or emails or phone calls. The whole arrangement was very direct and efficient. There was no getting-to-know-you stage; I don’t know any of them. I was nothing more than a fuck buddy and a plaything that could easily be acquired and later discarded when convenient.

There was one boy at school, who might have been genuinely fond of me, but he was even more of an outcast than I.

It always puzzled me how sincerely he spoke such kind words about me. I often wonder what became of him. And I would sometimes imagine what things would have been like if I had spent my time with him instead of the school basketball team. I think I would have learned what it’s like to be loved by someone. But instead, I foolishly deprived myself of something I needed to desperately, in favor of a drug that left me delusional.

After fucking some anonymous student, I was ushered out of his house when he heard his friends announce their entrance with their boisterous laughter and generally rowdy behaviour. He didn’t want them to know he had just fucked me, he was ashamed of me and I was ashamed of me too. I had achieved some measure of quiet popularity, but I was still introverted. I didn’t feel confident in myself or powerful.

He’s still looking at me and I’m trying my best not to look up from my paper that’s only a blur without my glasses. But, despite my best efforts, I sneak a glance at his face, hoping our eyes wont meet. When he’s not looking at me, he feigns interest in the buildings and landscape passing us by through the window. He doesn’t seem like a jerk. Maybe the façade he has perfected is that of a well-adjusted twenty-something. I imagine him sitting in coffee shops with friends just as phoney as my own. I can hear him prattling on about some book that just came out or some exhibit at the museum he cares nothing about, hoping his acquaintances wont realize this, because with them, it’s the only place he belongs.

I get off the bus while finding my way about the busy terminal. Just as the bus departs, he looks at me from the window with disappointment in his eyes. He was analysing me just as I was analysing him; afraid to speak knowing what my life has been like, but drawn to me just as I was drawn to him.

I wish just one of us had a bit more courage a few moments ago. It could have made all the difference in the world.

I spend a few minutes, buying candy and looking for something to do, some reason to stay a bit longer, hoping he would appear before me at the bus terminal to profess his undying love for me. And he’ll say, “you’re beautiful”, just as that other boy once said to me. Did I let happiness slip away once again?

An older gentleman snaps me out of my reverie. Unlike the boy from the bus, this man is very confident in himself. I’m already familiar with his kind. I had managed to avoid their advances throughout high school, but not anymore.

He smiles at me and begins to make his approach. I’m sure he’ll take me out to dinner and buy me nice things. But that’s all our relationship will ever be: a financial transaction. And I’ll make it so easy for him. I’m hardly intimidating or unapproachable, quite the opposite actually. I’m kind, thoughtful and compassionate. I’m just a geeky looking girl with big boobs, desperate to be loved by someone. But all men see is desperation, a chance to capitalize on it and all the other attributes needed for a disposal fuck buddy.