It is well-known women are pests with other women
Perfidious, manipulative, ruthless, we don’t lack imagination when rotting another. Women don’t like women.
In a society where we all risk, as an escort girl, at one time or another, being called a “bitch” or a “slut”, we necessarily prefer to get ahead of insults and insult others so that lightning, at least this time, falls by, and not on me. So we criticize them. We condemn their outfit when the too short miniskirt one of us wears us all look like sluts.
So miniskirt or pyjamas, we criticize other women’s dress style. Too vulgar, not well cut, too flashy, not feminine enough, too much makeup or not dressed sufficient, it’s always too much or not enough. We have learned that our bodies are naturally ugly, that we have to improve them: V-cut when they are H-cut, X-cut when they are A-cut, my darling, look at you. Never be satisfied with what you have. Your body can constantly be improved, and it will never be perfect, so get to work.
How can you be satisfied with your own body?
There is bound to be something you need to perfect. It would help if you were on a diet. Or it would help if you muscled up. Or you should have longer legs, smaller arms should wax your lower back. The advertising brainwashing worked well, and we ended up believing that our hair, odors, fat, wrinkles, and cellulite are defects to be removed, smoothed, flattened, and we must cut everything that exceeds.
Anything that is too conspicuous, anything that is too noticeable, anything that takes up too much space.
So we criticize other people’s bodies, comparing their thighs and breasts, competing with men in evaluating our sisters on the goodness scale. We constantly comment on other escort girls, from this popular Escort Agency, bodies, whether to break them or compliment them. We treat some of them as tunas and others as bombs, forcing the same dictatorship of beauty from which we suffer.
Without being pretentious, oh no!
We would never tell another escort girl that we find ourselves pretty – what kind of woman would one have to be to have the arrogance to find oneself beautiful? What type of woman full of herself would start from the principle that her body is OK, that she can be proud of it, that she has nothing to change about it?
So we criticize the “attention whores”, those who “fart higher than their ass,” those who “don’t take themselves for shit” because it is all the same abused to think that one is worth more than shit when you’re a woman. We criticize all those that attract too much attention in our eyes. We bring our sisters back to the ranks of silent and listen, women who suffer in silence, women who dare not. We become the brake on our emancipation.
We criticize their humor or intelligence because, it is well known, women are not funny
Women are made to laugh at the right time at men’s jokes… Ah, these men, so funny, so witty, hihi how cute they are, these men around whom we crowd, in search of attention. Because in college, we all knew who was the most admired and jealous girl: she was the girlfriend of the most popular guy.
We are so brought up to think that we can only live through the eyes of the man we love; we are so used to defining ourselves as “the girlfriend of” that the man of our life becomes our life – and losing it becomes the end of the world. So we often criticize and belittle other women because they can only be our rivals in the Manhunt. So beware of those who get a little too close to the appointed male that we have managed to harpoon: fuck off bitch, it’s MY self-esteem enhancer, MY popularity enhancer. Thanks to whom I shine in society, this man, whom I feel worth something, is MINE. Hands off.
Rot their reputation
So when the others are rivals, by their beauty, seduction, and effect on the guys, we have only one solution left: to rot their reputation. So we imply to men that they would be “uptight,” or “sluts”, or that they are vulgar, dressed like whores, or too ugly, or that they stink of pussy, or that ‘they have cellulite, or they have weird fantasies, or they suck at the bed. We dissect their anatomy and sexuality, giving private details that we deem shameful. Because often, to attack a woman, we shoot her body, style, or sexuality, pressing where we would have pain.
So to get a top spot among the males, to show how much of an extraordinary escort girl we are that the guys love too much, we put the other females down, explaining to the men that they’re nothing but jerks, assholes, tuna, bitches, whores, sluts – and that we are better than them. What sucks, women – we don’t have slurs powerful enough to qualify our fellow human beings. We are so used to seeing ourselves portrayed pitifully in films, series, books, comics that we have come to believe it:
“I don’t like girls. They suck, girls. »
I’m a better woman than others; hey men, look at me, look how cool I am. We have learned well that obtaining the esteem of men is essential. Whereas being hated by other women is almost a compliment.
The suffering we reject
However, my sister, you are wrong to rot me and hate me. Because, you know, I know your pain.
When your reflection disgusts you, when your image pursues you into fitting rooms, rear-view mirrors, shop windows, car windows, toilet mirrors. When you can’t help monitoring yourself, constantly looking at yourself, scrutinizing this combination of “too much” and “not enough” that is your body, when you can’t help analyze your reflection, you are addicted like a destructive drug.
I see your pain when you explain to me that your ass is too big, your legs are too small, your skin is not smooth enough, that your thighs are too broad. When you explain to me that you KNOW that your body is not in conformity, as if you wanted to apologize in advance to me for having this filthy body envelope… as if you tried to anticipate the criticisms that I could make you.
I see your disappointment every time you are fascinated by a woman you consider beautiful
I see your frustration, your desire to admire her and destroy her simultaneously. I see your ride, my sister, when you compare yourself to the women you consider prettier than you, whose skinny physique constantly reminds you that your body takes up too much space. When I hear you say, “this girl is so beautiful,” I know that her perfection burns you inside and that you boil with the shame of not being like her. I know that noticing a woman’s beauty often brings you back to the spectacle you think you have, to the place you think you occupy on the scale of goodness.
I see your suffering when you say to the women you find beautiful: “You’re downright prettier than Michelle!”. ” You don’t know how to compliment one woman without putting another down at the same time.
You tell your friends, moreover, often, oh darling, how pretty you are. You bring them back to their body; again, you remind them that they will constantly be scrutinized and observed, even by you (especially by you), even when it’s to pay a compliment. How could you compliment a woman on anything other than her body or her style, for that matter? You do not know.
So I see when you suffer, sister, in toxic friendships. When even your friends are your rivals when you tell yourself that women, after all, cannot be trusted. When your companies infected with jealousy end in drama, in betrayal, in tearing each time, I see your suffering. And yet, my sister, do you notice how you talk about your friends? Do you see the words you use to talk about them when they’re not there? Do you notice that you don’t hesitate to betray them yourself at the first opportunity?
I also see, my sister, when you compare yourself to it-girls, to fashion bloggers, and I see your anxiety about not being stylish enough, not dressed up enough. I see you when fear and shame force you to look at yourself even more often in the mirror, to monitor yourself even more, because of the potential lipstick on your teeth, the ass crack sticking out, the dress that lifts, the bustier that goes down, the mascara that runs, the smell of your sweat, the hair on your legs, or that sticks out of the bikini, your periods that could leak, pimples on your face.
I see you when you’re trying to be cold
I see you, my sister, when you stop yourself from sitting down so as not to wrinkle your skirt when you prevent yourself from running so as not to stumble in your heels when you stop yourself from putting your bag down because ‘you shouldn’t get it dirty when you prevent yourself from dancing for fear of halos under your arms. I see you when you force yourself to be cold, bare legs in the middle of winter, with a jacket that is too light (but which has the advantage of making your body in H a body in X).
I see you when you wear all those uncomfortable clothes, often designed by men who didn’t give a damn about your comfort – who mostly wanted to show off your curves. When you stop yourself from eating because your high-waisted jeans press on your stomach, I see you when you force yourself to be a plastic mannequin wearing stylish clothes – but plastic figures, you know, don’t budge.
So I see you, my sister when you don’t dare to move when you don’t dare to speak when the only thing you allow yourself to do is to be beautiful and not move.
And I see you when you go on a diet when you starve yourself when you stop yourself from eating when you stop yourself from feeding that hated body so that it doesn’t take up more space. When you inflict on yourself the suffering of deprivation, when anguished by your filthy bodily envelope, you do not allow yourself to enjoy the pleasures of life.
When you are suffering, I see you surrounded by all these women whom you consider much more beautiful or sexier than you. I see you when, in the morning, you put on make-up, not to look prettier, but above all to be less ugly.
I see your pain when your man leaves you or cheats on you for someone else. I know you can’t stop thinking about what people are going to say about you, wondering if the others (your friends, why not) will say behind your back that you can’t hold your boyfriend, that it must be because you’re too ugly, too dull, or you don’t manage in bed. It’s probably your fault he’s gone. You must have zapped your role as a whore, or your role as a plastic model.
So you say it’s the other bitch, the whore, the bitch who stole your boyfriend. Because if your man cheated on you or left you, you tell yourself that it must be another woman’s fault.
So, my sister, you compare yourself to porn actresses. And I know you suffer from the pressure they put on you by glorifying sexual practices that you don’t want. You compare yourself to them, you wonder. Am I good enough? Am I hot enough? Am I slutty enough? Can I satisfy a man in bed?…
Because, my sister, I feel your pain when any Biba or Marie-Claire teaches you how to do your job. When the magazines that we sell to women explain to you that to keep your “darling,” you will have to manage sex, you end up telling yourself that there will always be more hotties than you to succeed in stealing your boyfriend.
