I am not flawless. You will not ogle me as you scroll down Instagram while laying on the couch with your hands in your pants. I will not wear spandex shorts and capture the roundness of my behind for you to see. There shall be no topless photos. My chest is a piece of art to be displayed. I will not color my lips with overpriced lipsticks and blow kisses into my smart phone camera. You will not pretend that those kisses are meant for you.

I will not post pictures in a bikini. There shall be no camel toe in too small sweat pants or cheap black leggings. I will not load my face with tons of make up to look like her. Or her. Or her. Straight weaves and long tresses are just not my thing. I’m a tapered afro kind of girl.

I do not have a flat stomach. I will no longer kill myself trying to get one. I do not have a tiny waist. Instead I have a roll and stretch marks where my slim figure used to reside. My breasts do not look perfect all the time. I have bad hair days. I do not shave sometimes. My nails go unpolished and unmanicured a very large majority of my life. My teeth are uneven. I simply do not care. Perfection is not my goal.

But here is that I am. I am fucking sexy. I am soft as you run your hands over bare my skin in bed. I am a wonderful cook. Making you breakfast after a night of putting in that work. I am regal. Above the pettiness of comparisons and put downs. I’m into compliments and self esteem. Believe that. I am modest. Although I know how to be a dirty girl when warranted, my goods are not for all to see. I’ll leave that to your imagination. I am mysterious. Under each layer after silky sweet layer you’ll find a new part of me. A new depth. A new person to get to know. You will never entertain boredom. I am me. What you see is what you get. Thick eyebrows. No relaxer. Little make up, if any. Jeans and a t-shirt. Chucks. Heels on special occasions. Like when you come home from a late night at work and looking for a little you and me time. I like those nights.

I am not perfect. I am transparent. What you see is that you get. I am not the finest wine. I am the sweetest on the tongue. I am not immaculate. But I am elegant. Graceful. Timeless. I am not flawless. I’m better. I’m simple. I’m real. I’m me.

We, as females, constantly ridicule the loose woman. We judge the street walker. We look down on the exotic dancers and escorts. The shameless women of the night. But we are the foolish ones. Doing for free what they get paid for. We take pride in our expensive vehicles and flashy diamond rings on fingers that continue to plump with age. She enjoys freedom, liberty, and the high of life flowing through her veins. The addiction to fast money, fast cars, handsome men, and jealous stares.

We hate her for sleeping with our men. But yet it is her that we emulate when we want to bring our man’s attention back home. It is her we think about when we envision our partner’s escape from us. We fault her for wearing heels that are too high and tops that are too low. But we seek to be like her when we want to be sexy. We wear her uniform of stilettos, tight dresses, and teased hair. We look for her independence. We look for her carelessness. We envy her candor.

We whisper to our friends that she squanders her money while we work hard every day for our 401K. We mumble that she’s had too many pleasures with too many men. So many ships have sailed through her wetness. Her ocean must surely be polluted. But we want to be like her. We dance naked in front of the mirror, sucking in our stomachs to be perfect. Just like her. All the time.

But the truth is, we are her. The woman who wears the heels and disappears with strange men into the darkness of the night. Why are we so different from her? Because our privates are not public fodder? Because less hands have rubbed against our bare skin? No. You hold the same power as her. It is infinite. You burn with the same fury. You feel the same passions. Do not fault her for doing what you are simply too conservative, too ashamed, or too afraid to do. How we use the roar within us is what eventually separates the lioness from the house cat. Which one are you?