The Art of Bad Bitchery
The Red Renaissance
Admittedly so, this post stands in strong juxtaposition to my expressions in the Hiatus series finale, but this is the duality of woman. We all play this game. The rebrand will be televised.
“Can I be brutally honest with you? I feel I’ve been really honest with you lately, and I don’t want to overdo it.”
I had an enlightening conversation with my friend, Future*. Future is your classic bad boy persona, the mini-devil on my shoulder at times. Showing me patterns in the world I don’t wish to see. I have had many spirited discussions with “The International Bad Man Killa” ⸺as he calls himself⸺ about the male psyche, the nuanced science behind bad bitching, and my feelings on the pursuit of sex appeal.
“You’re already here⸺you might as well say it.”, I told him, resigned and dry.
“You need more ashewo clothes.”
Ashewo. Olosho. Akwuna-akwuna. Different words in different Nigerian tongues that all mean the same thing: “prostitute”. I am not one to judge those who make their living in alternative ways, but it’s not my style in the literal sense. I didn’t have sexy clothing, and I wasn’t sure if that’s how I wanted to be perceived. To be or not to be an object? That is the question. I suppose I will always be objectified in some way as a woman⸺so I might as well play the game, even if acting as the “meat” for the male gaze doesn’t ensure my happy ending. So yes, I want to be sexy. Yes, I want to be lusted after. But only to a certain point. I think that’s normal as a woman desiring partnership.
Leading up to this recent talk, Future drilled me on my fashion faux pas over the previous weeks. He didn’t like the outfit I wore to the Kendrick concert. “Oh my God, my baby went and wore this to ‘they not like us’!” in his dramatic, disappointed African father accent. We heartily laughed about his reaction, but to an extent, it cut a bit although I understood what he meant.
“You make these stylistic choices, but they don’t translate. They don’t give what you think they give. You dress how my mother or elder sister would dress.”
(Sidenote: Mind you, this is a 36 year old man we’re talking about. Him saying this horrified me.) While I always had an idea of how I envisioned my looks, the final execution of said looks rarely matched the images I created in my head. It was a stark “expectation” versus “reality” scenario most times. I had to admit it to myself. I don’t have sex appeal in the traditional sense. I am the quintessential awkward, quirky black girl. (Obnoxiously long sidenote: My thoughts on sexiness and sex appeal in general are complex. I can’t cover them all here. Ultimately, attractiveness and sex appeal are independent of each other. One can be attractive, and you can want to sleep with them, but through and through are not sexy. Then, there are those that don’t fit the mold of societal standards of beauty, that have sex appeal. It’s in the “how” not the “what”. I will probably make a different post about this eventually.)
Despite the fact that my style had improved over the years when comparing to high school and college me, there was still much work to do. Do I lean into what I already am or overhaul on my rebrand? How do I try something new without looking too forced and rehearsed? That would ultimately defeat the purpose of naturalness and flow, the essence of bad bitching, would it not? Not caring too much or trying too hard. That is the point.
I decided to try something new for a girls night out with Barbie* on a recent Saturday. To stick my toe in the bad bitch kiddie pool as a social experiment, so to speak. I wore something out of my comfort zone. A tight red crop top and some coochie cutter denim shorts. White heels. I did my hair big. Makeup with cat eyes. Not inherently brazen, but more fun, daring, and showy for me. I liked how I looked and felt more alive. We went out a couple towns over.
First location isn’t worth discussing. It was dull. The second location is where this sociology lesson takes shape. OG Wizkid and Burna, among various other African musicians I grew up on, blared in the background. The energy was sky high already. We entered and got to the bar. A man spoke to me. He ogled me intently, looking stressed for some reason. He asked where I’m from. Why I am so beautiful. His words not mine. Where Barbie and I came from that evening. Where I live. That’s where I let that conversation die. I became short with him. I already gave him my fake name and backstory. A city of residence was unnecessary at this point. He left shortly after.
An older gentleman, Big Poppa*, also approached me. I helped him order his drink as the bar was quite busy. He got one for my friend and I and flirted, asking me about myself. I gave him my standard ditsy “I’m just a girl” response to shake his advance. “Girls drink whiskey?” was his witty comeback. He went away to the other side of the room soon after. While I relished in the attention, I admitted to Barb that I felt out of place. This wasn’t something I was used to.
“This shouldn’t be a surprise. All this means is that you should go out more.” is what she said. And I’m inclined to believe her. Who wouldn’t believe a Barbie?
I genuinely enjoyed myself that night. Every song was “my song” as I knew the lyrics to most. Even had a bar for bar rap battle with two men across the room, who sent drinks over. (Sidenote: I wasn’t planning on another drink this evening, but I went ahead anyway. I shouldn’t have. This is important to the story.) They were good vibes and never came over to make things awkward. Love that.
Towards the end of the night is when things started to get “sticky” for lack of better words. Big Poppa circled back asking for my number, saying we could do dinner. I tried the “you can have my Instagram” runaround but this was a 50-something year old man. He wasn't going for it. I wasn’t expecting this, so I had to set some boundaries in a respectful yet fun way, if at all possible.
“I’m turning 27 soon, and I need to make good decisions.”
“Are you saying I’d be a bad one?”
“No. You seem to be a nice man, but I just can’t.” He nodded at my response and left quietly. I felt like I was mean to him, but I was only being truthful. What would that man want from me, if not sex? This was the first time I encountered one of those obscure sugar baby situations you only ever hear about on Tiktok or quietly judge (and potentially envy) when seen in public.
Then, the lights came on. I stood up to head to the exit, and I recognized I didn’t feel as steady as I thought I was. I went to the restroom. I hated the way the men gawked at me. When I came out, I hated their sly smiles and how they tried to pull me towards them. How comfortable they were invading my space. How they ignored boundaries and decency. They didn’t care because they just saw my body. They were vultures, and I was the feeble animal they were patiently waiting on to die. They were like wolves that linger on the edge of the treeline, waiting for the weakest of the sheep to fuck up. Although nothing happened that night, and my friend ensured I got home safe and sound, I still feel gross thinking about them.
Essentially, my mini science experiment proved what I already knew (minus the pushy, touchy, assaulty-vibes, of course): bad bitching would require a complete overhaul. Like Future said. And Barbie. A rebrand would be necessary. Not for the enjoyment of others, but to help me fall in love with myself. (Sidenote: I see self-love like trickle-down economics now. The more self-love one has repels misaligned people and ultimately benefits attracts those that share that love as well.) I am making it a small skirt, short shorts, cropped blouse, and tasteful cleavage type of summer. Oh, and RED all over. Which is unheard of for me. “Good” girls weren’t supposed to show off like that. Weren’t supposed to purposefully soak up attention. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from shrinking myself and trying to be the “good” girl it’s this: it has not paid. Not in the way I want it to. At least not yet. So let’s do something different and see how it plays out.
While I am excited to discover new parts of myself and finally feel “hot” and not just “cute”, I want to maintain a balanced head. Bad bitching is both a physical and mental game. It is a state of mind. If you “feel” yourself regardless of being perfectly done-up at all times, and you unapologetically present yourself on the world stage, the right people will “feel” you, too. And that’s what truly matters. Not that all people feel you, but that the right one(s) do.
How do I feel towards myself? It is nice to get validation from external sources, yes. In fact, it is necessary for proper human development to a degree. However, what takes precedence is how and why I am doing all this. I want to look good so that I can feel good. How we feel is reflected, at least in part, in how we decorate ourselves. There isn’t a clear distinction between them as they’re each connected. I just don’t want to slip into a life of constant performance or expectations that I can’t always meet. Perhaps there’s something like a part-time hottie option out there. I know there’s a middle ground somewhere in the mix. It’s just up to me to find it.