Stop Fucking Looking at Me

Oh, Honey, That's Not How This Works

This is not a love letter. This is a war cry.

The gaze, a laser beam of male entitlement, burns a hole through the fabric of my existence. It lingers on the hem of my shirt, not with admiration, but with a predatory hunger, a silent auction where my body is the prize and my consent is irrelevant. I am done with your eyes. I am done with the male gaze, that insidious beast that has, for centuries, sought to devour women whole, to reduce us to a collection of curves and contours, a feast for the famished ego.

This is a reckoning.

A phenomenon deeply rooted in the heteronormative matrix (a term coined by philosopher Judith Butler to describe the societal expectations surrounding gender and sexuality) that has, for centuries, sought to constrict women within the narrow frame of male desire. It is a gaze steeped in a history of objectification, a legacy entrenched within the foundation of patriarchal power, a bitter inheritance passed down through generations.

Darling, this gaze, a potent brew of societal conditioning and unexamined privilege, simmers in the petri dish of the male psyche, a testament to the fascinatingly flawed experiment of masculinity. It's a potent concoction, this toxic masculinity, brewed from generations of entitlement and served with a side of misplaced confidence. It warps genuine attraction into a possessive obsession, a festering sense of entitlement to a woman's time, attention, and even her body, a concept known in feminist theory as sexual objectification. For Black Trans women, like myself, this gaze intersects with the venomous sting of racism and transphobia, amplifying the insidiousness of its intent, a phenomenon known as intersectionality.

The insidiousness lies in its subtlety, the microaggressions disguised as compliments, the backhanded praise designed to chip away at confidence, a tactic often employed in what psychologists call negging. It's the unsolicited advice, the mansplaining of topics we've mastered, the interruption of our thoughts as if our voices hold less weight, less value in the grand narrative of discourse, a phenomenon known in sociolinguistics as conversational dominance.

This burden, this constant navigation of a minefield of male entitlement, leaves a residue of exhaustion. It's the mental fatigue of perpetual vigilance, the fear of being misconstrued, the pressure to contort ourselves to appease the fragile male ego, a concept explored in feminist psychology as self-silencing.

But we are not passive recipients of this gaze. We are not obligated to entertain the advances of those who believe their desire grants them a VIP pass to our time and attention. Their entitlement is as misplaced as their confidence in their ability to decipher the complexities of the female form. We are galaxies unto ourselves, constellations of strength and resilience, our worth immeasurable by the narrow metrics of the male gaze. We hold the power to dismantle these harmful tropes and reclaim our agency, a process known in feminist activism as empowerment.

This reclamation begins with the unwavering articulation of boundaries, a fierce assertion of autonomy, a concept explored in feminist philosophy as self-determination. It's the refusal to shrink ourselves to fit the suffocating mold of male expectations. It's the celebration of our intellect, our creativity, our indomitable spirits – qualities that eclipse the superficiality of the male gaze.

And yet, beneath the armor of wit and sarcasm, a vulnerability persists, a quiet ache for genuine connection, a yearning for a gaze that sees beyond the surface, a gaze that recognizes the galaxies swirling within.

We will not be silenced, objectified, or held captive. We will rise, a chorus of defiance, rewriting the narrative surrounding female desirability. We will reclaim our bodies, our minds, and our voices, wielding our silence not as submission, but as a powerful declaration of self-possession, a concept known in some African cultures as "Sankofa" - looking back to move forward, drawing strength from our ancestors to shape our future.

The hem of my shirt? Honey, that's not an invitation, it's a goddamn perimeter. Cross it, and you'll find out just how lethal a supernova can be.

You want to keep staring? Be my guest. But don't be surprised when the force of my gaze—a galaxy of fury and centuries of repressed rage—turns you to ash. I've got a universe of fire in my eyes, and I'm not afraid to use it.

This ain't a game, boys. This is a reckoning. And the revolution? It will be televised, and you? You'll be the cautionary tale.