Being called a ‘temptress’ ain’t new. That lascivious cloud has been covering me since I curved out and my breasts peaked at ultimate ripeness. 11, 18, 24, 30, 31. Every age when I learned that my body didn’t belong to me. I worked hard to unlearn the lessons those moments of violence taught me. The days of thinking about myself as damaged goods are few and far between. The lingerie sets strewn across my bedroom floor of all colors: black lace, red lace, peach, flowers, hearts, cut outs, ribbons and ties. Those curves and peaks perfectly adorned in every body suit, two-piece, short set and slip.
Worth the journey. Worth every smut chapter written. Worth of the Google Drive folder full of photographs that, one day, a man will feel so blessed and highly-favored to own. God ain’t burn me to the ground yet for defining sensuality and sexuality on my own terms.
“You’re advertising yourself.” “People get messed up wearing what you’re got on.”
Said to me by my family after wearing a sports top. Outside. DC Weather, humidity on ten. Someone I love spoke violence over me. I rebuke that. Still do.
There’s only so much a girl can take.
My entry into my 38th rotation around the sun was a painful one; reminded by every moment that went wrong, every conversation that went left, every decision that didn’t pan out, every meet-up that fell through, every quiet moment and minute lacking of energy that the happiness I so desperately want can only be achieved if I walk through what has me stuck: believing in myself. To know self and be one with self means to advocate for one’s self. That my joy doesn’t come through the hands of anyone else but myself. Life’s punches don’t hurt as much if I mend to the wounds already covering my body.
I took from that moment and from moments after that I’m worth all the things. Worth the happiness, worth the joy. Worth the wait. Worth being treated with soft hands and even softer lips. Worth that “you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.” Worth the help, worth the concern. Worth some bending. That worth comes from being alive and here on Earth. That’s enough.
I’m not scared of my ‘enough’ anymore. My 37th year around the sun made me, at times, feel worthless. Lost a job, lost my Mom. Couldn’t bear to ask for help before and after both moments because I was afraid of someone telling me that I wasn’t worth it.
You hear all the time, see all of the content, read all about this movement around telling people “no” with zero explanation. Maintaining your boundaries, protecting your space. “‘No.’ is a full sentence.” All of it makes sense: maybe that ‘no’ – maybe that boundary – would’ve kept me from four sexual assaults and one rape by the age of 31.
(oh, the irony.) (not like the ‘no’ stopped them.)
But yet you don’t want to be on the other side of a righteous ask being turned down with no explanation. Because you ain’t worth the brief moment of discomfort.
I’ve lived a life where my ‘no’ has been rebuffed and the ‘yes’ came when I couldn’t say a word yet God spoke on my behalf. I’m clearly in a season where God wants me to learn the muscle of speaking up for myself. Where either a “yes” or “no” from others doesn’t burn me and my own answers to the questions asked and the moments set to commence can be honored in the same way.
I will be a temptress for all the good things that come into my life. Because the good things wouldn’t dare stay away from me. They can’t fight it. I’m too good. Too worth it. Worth the initial feeling of “maybe this is wrong but yet it feels so right.” Worth seeing me naked and unashamed. The call, the desire, the lust coursing through my dreams’ veins because they want to touch and feel on the real. That soft, gooey realness you can’t keep your hands off. That sweet, that nasty, that gushy stuff.
Bring that attention my way.
ciara roslyn-james 