I don't want to be pretty.

"You're a beautiful woman."

No four words strung together in a sentence make me cringe inside like those four words do. They're emotionally charged and, in my head, loaded with expectations. All of which I want no part of. I don't want to be pretty. Some things are just better left ignored.

Before I had this 'coming to God' deal with asexuality, I was quite the closet whore. A really good one. I was determined to find this Holy Grail of sex that I kept hearing about. I aggressively pursued what I was looking for. Even in today's sex positive atmosphere, I don't discuss my number because it is that high. My looks and my sex are intricately tied to each other. There's a ton of fallout from that.

There's this, what I perceive, view that with beauty comes sexy, and an expectation that with sexy comes sex. I used my looks and put myself out there as some sex object, trying to find that elusive...thing. I spent far too many morning's after completely torn to shreds. Feeling disappointed, gross, used, unsatisfied and hearing "I told you so" ringing in my ears and nausea churning in my gut.

I don't want any more mornings like that. I don't want to be pretty.

There also seems to be this tone, that if a woman is beautiful and adorned, she invites attention. That if she is inviting attention, she owes it to whoever wants her attention to give it to them. Whether it's walking faster to avoid catcalls, or dodging the one skeevy fucker in every crowd who decides he wants what you have and won't give in until he gets it, or the crazy guy that follows you home, or the nice guys that hover who think today is the day that your 'no' will become a 'yes'.

I don't want any of that attention, and I don't want to have to give any of that my attention. I don't want to be pretty.

I've dealt with the dudebros that tell me they could fall in love with a girl like me, based on what I look like and not, you know, because of who I am. I admit to it pissing me off. I also admit to using my looks as a weapon to dish up a cold plate of poetic justice. I am not a t-bone fucking steak ready to be served to order. Don't treat me like one and you won't get treated.

I don't want to be that woman anymore. I don't want to be pretty.

I despise dealing with the whole "Well, you're beautiful and sexy, how dare you not desire sex!" thing. The challenge it presents to some folks, because, you know, MajikalPeen™. For some, it just doesn't compute and they're going to keep slapping the side of the TV until it works. I'm not a project, I don't need to be saved, I'm not broken.

I'm an anomaly, don't notice me. I don't want to be pretty.

I don't want to be in love. I've seen that pain in too many eyes. The intentions are always good. They seem to 'get' my lack of sexual need and attraction. I downplay anything that might spark sexual interest. It always rears its ugly head, though, because, you know, LOVE CURES ALL.

I don't want to hurt anyone else like that. I don't want to be pretty.

I'm hiding behind Ms. Frumpy. The clothes, the lack of make-up, the lack of shoes, the weight, the rarity of girly time, or girly anything. Hell, I don't even own a purse. It's all a ruse. It's my bubble wrap and my warning label.

I don't try to be pretty because pretty has too much baggage. Pretty costs too much. Pretty makes me angry. Pretty makes the world too noisy. Pretty hurts.

I don't want to be pretty.