“Do you not think Dolly Parton is a feminist?”
Damn it all to hell.
Keegan piles on. “And Ms. Piggy.” He presses his knee against mine again. “You said it yourself. She’s a feminist icon, and she can wear the shit out of a low cut dress.”
Reb raises her glass in a toast. “To Dolly Parton and Ms. Piggy! I bet no one would dare suggest either of them wear boob armor.”
Keegan looks like he can barely contain his laughter.
Since the idea of Keegan appreciating me in a low cut dress is still a little too fresh in my mind, I steer the conversation back. “I feel like using my body to manipulate men at work is a morally gray area.”
“Morally gray, hmm?” Thea arches an eyebrow. “Is that the shade of all the clothes in your wardrobe?”
“What? No! I have clothes that aren't gray!”
Thea makes a humming noise that implies she doesn't believe me.
“I have a pair of purple Haunted Mansion themed pjs and a pink hoodie with the words ‘I aim to misbehave,’ scrawled on it,” I argue. I also own a lovely taupe sweater my mom bought me for Christmas. It's too tight, and I never wear it, but it's definitely not gray. It's more beige. Though I'm not sure that detail would work in my favor in present company. “W-whatever,” I say, smoothing a hand down my dress, which, for the record, is closer to black than gray.
“You have a gorgeous figure, my dear,” Thea coos at me. “With the right push-up bra, you will be unforgettable.”
“Push-up bras are uncomfortable.”
“Not if they fit you properly,” she countered. “Push-up bras are the greatest human engineering accomplishment outside of NASA. Frankly, I'm appalled you haven't been using your body to a better advantage before now.”
“Back me up here, Reb. I need to look professional.”
“I have the build of a pre-teen Tinker Bell. If I had your curves, I'd show them off.”
I frown. Funny, I've always felt as if the type of figure Thea is so impressed with doesn't really fit my personality. I have generous curves—the kind that makes it hard to dress without looking like Jessica Rabbit.
I’ve never really been comfortable with my curves.
My body has always felt like it’s too much.
Too curvy. Too lush. The few times in my life I've dressed to show off my curves, they've garnered me more male attention than I'm comfortable with.
I grew up thinking that beautiful meant lean and petite. So while I intellectually understand plenty of men find my curves appealing, I don’t feel it—if anything, showing my curves has always made me feel like a piece of meat.
It's not that male attention is bad, it's just that I'm never sure how to handle it. Men have certain expectations when they see a woman with outrageous curves. They expect me to be flirty and charming. They expect sex-kitten personalities in sex-goddess bodies.
I'm just not ... that.
Men are inevitably disappointed.
In my experience, guys either want Daphne or Velma. They don't want Velma in Daphne's body.
And that was back in college, when I was still trying to dress to attract guys, before I adopted my current “potato sack” wardrobe and put on the extra pounds that inevitably come with working long hours at a desk.
It's not that I'm ashamed of my body. It serves me just fine. And, I know lots of men like curves on a woman. It's not my curves that men don't like. It's just ... me they don’t like. The brain inside the body.
Encouraged by my silence, Thea blithely continues, “Of course, you still need to pick your persona. If you could be anyone in the world, who would it be?”
In that instant, Sasha leaps off Thea's lap, swishing her tail dramatically.
Sasha meets my gaze, practically hypnotizing me with her elegant blue eyes, before giving an indignant sounding huff and looking away as if she's dismissed me completely.
“I'll think about it,” I hedge, still not sure this is the right path for me.
