We’re supposed to believe all this, to want it, to crave men who love our minds more than our flesh, men who are blind to our outer beauty and see only our inner, cerebral gorgeousness. All the women we’ve ever trusted tell us this is what’s good and right, and I suppose if I had to pick, I’d rather have a lover with eyes that saw deep inside me, past the laugh lines or the sagging bum or the matching set of stretch marks. The thing of it is, why should I have to choose? What’s so fucking wrong about wanting to be wanted? In all the ways.
