Too Cute to Feel Sexy
BY ALEXANDRIA MOORE
I have been told that I’m cute my entire life. As a girl who is 5’2 and petite, it’s a fitting descriptor. When people say that I’m cute or adorable, for the most part I embrace it. I call myself cute. It’s supposed to be a good thing, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.
In my last serious relationship, my significant other, Seth,* told me how cute he thought I was all the time. Often we would be lying in bed together when he’d turn to face me and he would just look into my eyes without saying anything. “What?” I’d ask. “You’re cute,” he’d say with a smile and then give me three soft kisses, on my forehead, nose, and lips, respectively. Our entire relationship was built off of a foundation of these sorts of cute moments. We were the couple that went to the zoo together and snuck kisses in front of the wildcat enclosures. We even had nauseating pet names for each other—I called him “Pojke” (the Swedish word for boy) and he called me “Bean.” When we were doing long distance, not only did we spend hours on the phone together, staying on the line long after one of us had fallen asleep, we also wrote each other letters that included little drawings, despite the fact that neither of us had much artistic ability. We even had a charming meet-cute. It was the spring of our sophomore year when some mutual friends separately asked us to act in their student film. We were playing each other’s love interests. Our onscreen chemistry quickly transferred off-screen and we started dating before we even finished filming. I loved all of the cute aspects of our relationship, but there were some places where being cute didn’t quite feel appropriate. Specifically, the bedroom. When I was growing up, my sister called me a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Needless to say, I have insecurities about whether or not my body is considered sexy. Cute? Yes. Sexy? I wasn’t so sure. The first time Seth invited me back to his room, I hadn’t had sex with anyone for a long time. I was nervous and consequently, things didn’t quite go as planned. I felt embarrassed and incapable. I felt like I had lost touch of my sexuality. I apologized profusely, but he told me that I had nothing to be sorry about. I thought that this would be the end for us, but instead of kicking me out, he just gazed into my eyes. I can still picture it now—his blue eyes so intent, so clear, framed by those dark blonde lashes. Our faces were close together and our limbs tangled up. He continuously ran his thumb across my cheekbone and I lightly traced circles on his bare shoulder with my fingers. I cherished this moment. It was sweet. The experience was extremely intimate and exactly what I needed in that moment, but I wouldn’t say it was sexy. It was cute. Seth and I were together for five months, but I can count on one hand the number of times we had sex that was different from our ordinary routine. I didn’t feel confident enough during sex to ever speak up and suggest we try something new because I felt like I was being put in this restrictive “cute” box that didn’t allow me to be overtly sexual. This affected the few times we did switch things up. All of the occasions we tried something new, it was because Seth had suggested it. And if I’m being completely honest, a lot of the time it felt awkward. Maybe it was just because we needed more practice doing different things, but I couldn’t help but worry things didn’t feel right because of me. Out of bed, I felt great about myself. But as soon as things turned sexual, it was like a switch was turned. There was one time in particular when Seth and I were getting intimate and he picked me up and told me that I was “so cute and small.” I didn’t quite know how to respond to this. It was intended to be a compliment, but it wasn’t one that I wanted to hear in the middle of having sex. "Cute" and "small" are words I associate with little woodland animals. When I'm having sex, I don't want to be associated with words that you would use to describe a bunny. I’ll never understand the saying “they’re going at it like rabbits.” Out of all the animals that reproduce often, why choose bunny rabbits? There is nothing sexy about bunnies. “Cute” and “small” are words I associate with little woodland animals. When I’m having sex, I don’t want to be associated with words that you would use to describe a bunny. Seth once told me that I was “hard to read” in bed. I could’ve taken this moment as an opportunity to tell him about my insecurities, but I was too embarrassed to draw attention to the subject of me not feeling sexy. We had sex frequently and enjoyed it, but I always felt like I could be doing more. I felt like I should be sexier. Once I purposefully picked out a thin black bra with mesh and lace overlay to wear before going over to Seth’s. He didn’t notice. When he tried to take it off of me immediately after my shirt was off, I told him to stop and appreciate what I was wearing. He looked at it for a few seconds and then casually tossed it onto his bedroom floor. Towards the end of our relationship, things quickly stopped being so cute. Seth cheated on me. When I first found out, I was angry. However, that anger quickly dissolved and turned into insecurity and self-blame. Did he look for other girls because I didn’t satisfy him? Was it because I wasn’t sexy enough? Was it because he could sense my insecurity that made me so unexpectedly shy in bed with him? I was cute, but what else? It wasn’t until after I distanced myself from this relationship that I was able to shake some of these thoughts. I realized that I am a sexual being and I’m not usually shy about it. The first person I became involved with after the breakup recognized this. He didn’t call me cute or adorable or even comment on my small stature. Instead, he called me “mesmerizing” and “a special kind of beautiful.” In bed, he listed specific personality traits of mine that he found attractive. Not cute, but attractive. This gave me the confidence to initiate sex and to speak up about mixing things up. I don’t mean to say that my self-confidence solely relies on how I think a guy perceives me in bed. My new partner simply recognized the sexy part of myself that I was now able to show him. However, it’s impossible to ignore the impact of what our partners call us in bed has on our self perception. Having sex can be a vulnerable experience, but it can also be empowering. Owning my sexuality allows me to claim my body and decide that it's not just cute, it's sexy. Owning my sexuality allows me to claim my body and decide that it’s not just cute, it’s sexy. * Name Changed |