The Hot Girl to Agoraphobia Pipeline
I don't like shit, I don't go outside
The issue of attractive women is that they need to be seen to be deemed attractive. Do hot girls exist if no one lays bare to witness? Obviously not.
Yet, the hottest women I know are all chronically inside their homes, not to be disturbed. They live the life of the hermit, wisened by years of being “mature for their age,” with an oracle like sense for when the party will be a hit or not. At the same time, these women are the life of the party, and have even made careers out of partying. They become paradoxically known for a life they largely remove themselves from.
To be outside is to be available, accessible. For public consumption. This is antithetical to how I exist. To be a woman is to have everyone grabbing at you for free, but to be a hot girl— an undefined position adjacent or immersed in whoredom—is to alter your contract with womanhood. The other may only interact with the self, the inner, the hole, behind a paywall.
What Marx failed to consider was that everyone is a prostitute in a gig economy.
Shortly after I got married, I thought I hacked the system. Naively, I believed that because I was flagging as seriously taken, men out in the wild would not be interested in me. I believed that this would set me up to have more enriched interactions with straight men, who would be intrigued more by my thoughts or experience, rather than sex. I thought that the theoretical existence of a husband would deter even the most brash, but they only seemed to be encouraged by this, raging their biological desire to make an unknown man a cuckhold, as heterosexual sex is rarely about women.
I found myself sprinting though soho, desperately trying to hail a taxi after a man attempted to lock me in his bar. He had a certain type of proclivity I’ve encountered especially in my early twenties of men who mistake date rape for the passionate throws of romance. Mindless, I’m sure he thought the whole thing was, steeped in the unpredictability of drunk girls. I ran all the way up to Houston to a friends place where I blacked out, broke my toe, and rendered myself confined to bed for at least two whole weeks. This was my penance for drinking half a bottle of Billecart and entertaining a conversation with a stranger.
Alcohol consumption largely plays into the danger brought upon myself. It is not the main factor in gender based violence experienced but it is the only factor I can control. Having to add restraint to a party environment sucks. I’m not really allowed to go ape shit under these circumstances, which I really want to do since realizing I will be continually subjected to random misogyny when I thought the stakes had changed. At dinner, a friend who doesn’t drink mentions that abstaining from alcohol is a gift in a way, since your time is spent in more thoughtfully. I.e., you stop ending up at parties you don’t care for just because of alcohol. You are never taking unwanted shots, entertaining unwanted strangers, or unwanted conversation. You no longer overstay a stale vibe because there’s nine heads on a light gram of bad blow. This is a gift you give to yourself.
Hot girls aren’t really allowed to tie one off without great potential risk. You can’t really lose control out in public, but then again neither can anyone in a self imposed surveillance state. How many times do you need to be told not to bring your phone to a protest. The worldstarification of viewing, the pivot to video metropole, turns a comrade into a snitch. On twitter, a user posts a screenshot of Nelly’s Hot in Herre, saying they were under the impression clubs were going to be like this— wet, hot, wildly carefree—and they are met with the response that it was before an era of videophones. People really did get that crazy before subjection to a digital panopticon1. Before the risk of going viral appeared, everyone really was taking off their clothes, as the song states.
It’s easy to desire a party era I never knew, a yearning to be chest deep in pre-2008 foam, not an iPhone in sight.
My official occupation on my visa declares “housewife.” A different version of myself would have a crisis about this, but currently I think it’s cool. I do a little side-quest every day, write, work out, try new recipes. I have zero responsibility, yet I am burdened with an abundance of time. I think about working my old job again, reviving the branded hot girl, but I’m also in the middle of Debord’s Society of the Spectacle which is encouraging of the opposite.
“The satisfaction that no longer comes from using the commodities produced in abundance is now sought through the recognition of their value as commodities” (bottle service, hot girls)… “Like the old religious fetishism, with it’s convulsionary raptures and miraculous cures, the fetishism of commodities generates its own moments of fervent arousal.” (flexing for social media, bottle service again).
The consumption of hot girls is at an all time high. This is partially due to the self imposed panopticon, but outside of this phenomena, demand always spikes during a recession. Hot girls are the only asset many can afford! The consumption of the hot girl signifies wealth, talent, charm, big-dick-ness. You must have one to consume the hot girl, this is the entire basis of the economy. Her value to the other is her commodification, seemingly inseparable from the self. This is why clients pay for the hot girl, to be seen as the hot girl is seen. This is also why the hot girl is resented, for possessing traits like beauty and sexuality so openly and free, those who can only posses this through her are jealous. The hot girl knows the value of her commodity and that it is a simulacrum2 of capital. Perhaps the hot girl yearns to break from this simulacrum, from the larger system entirely, but her desire to do so is bartered by these systems. There is no getting outside of them. If the function of hotness, of desirability is just a reification3 of capitalism and patriarchy, then what happens to the hot girl once she finally lives outside of these systems? If the hot girl ceases to be seen, then she must cease to exist?
The hot girl retreats into hermitage, refusing to be seen, refusing to exist. No longer for public consumption, the hot girl is free. Unvexed in privacy to be crazy, genuine, wet and wild as depicted in the utopian example of Hot in Herre4.
thank you for this incredible read 🙏🏽