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I know why some girls dress like sl**s. I am one of those girls myself. I love short skirts and low-cut tops that draw attention to my cleavage that cannot be ignored. I couldn’t tell you what my actual face looks like…it’s been covered in make-up for so long. My hair used to be a curly mess, but with a flat iron and an hour’s worth of my time, I turned my hair into something that you would find in a magazine. Pin-straight and voluminous.
There are only two understandable reasons I would act like this. One: I wanted to impress someone. I knew I was doing that too, but that wasn’t my true motive. That wasn’t the result I was after. Two: I wanted to rebel. This was my motive; the reason I painstakingly held my mascara brush to my eyes every morning, poking myself every so often. It was more than worth it.
I’m an Italian girl. This is good, as I’m almost guaranteed gorgeous brown hair and dark eyes that could melt their way onto anyone’s heart. I got those things. And I used them well. My skin, also obviously Italian, had its way of tanning very easily, and was almost never plagued with any ugly scars or red spots.
Being Italian myself, it can only mean one thing. I have Italian parents. My father, a pure Italian, through and through, fit every stereotype in the book. He loved pasta, was louder than everyone around him, and had an obnoxious quality that no one could stand for very long. But this would not be his downfall. No, his downfall would be the fact that no one, under no circumstances, did he want to touch his daughter, especially if they were a member of the opposite sex.
I knew my clothes would gather what most would call unwanted attention, but I wanted it more than anything. He could see how they looked at me, how they wanted me. He hated it. He couldn’t stand it. But he didn’t know how to stop it. He tried to make me less attractive, but I just made up for it by giving looks that showed I was more than interested. Somehow, without any real experience, I knew exactly what I was doing.
He let his arm brush against mine, something that I had wanted him to do. He stepped back, embarrassed. I gave him a reassuring smile, my way of telling him it was alright, he could touch me if he liked. And I knew he liked.
“How did you know,” he asked me, “that I liked you?”
“I’m a girl,” I said simply. “These things come naturally. And since I know what you’re going to ask next, let me just say that I like you too.”
He smiled, and I put my head in his shoulder. This was yet another perk of the way I looked and acted. I could have the one I wanted attracted to me as I was to him. He would be mine, and he could help me with my awful and devious plan.
I knew my father stalked me. It annoyed me. That’s why I came up with my master plan. He wanted me to be conservative in my clothes. So step one was be as revealing as possible. He wanted me to look like a little girl. So step two was doing my make-up to give me at least three years. He wanted me to act like a little girl, who hated boys and everything about them. So step three was to make everyone of the male gender at least slightly attracted to me. So far, all of my plans were going quite nicely. My plan was falling into place.
I knew where my father would be after school. He would be at his crossing guard station, coincidently right where my last class was located just inside the building. I walked out, my hand in my lover’s. I knew right where to stand, so that he could see us, but too far away that he couldn’t come near us. I turned, so my side profile was to the man I hated, and my face toward the man I loved. Two opposites, people that hated each other, but both were after the same prize. Me.
I let him kiss me, something that came easily to the both of us, even with my knowing of the pair of eyes that were sure to be watching. Before my plan, I would have cringed and run away. But now, I fed off of his eyes, the fact that he was helpless, the fact that he knew he was helpless, and the fact that I was going to prolong this for as long as I could.
I could feel his hand on my waist, the side that could be seen by my father. Oh, he would just love this. It was too short when my lover pulled away, saying he didn’t want to but had to leave. I walked with him, now letting my father get a full view of my back, my skirt shifting back and forth with the dramatic movement of my hips, curvier than ever.
As soon as I was sure he couldn’t see me anymore, and my lover was out of sight, I let out a laugh. For so long I hated seeing my father, but now he was going to hate to see me. Oh, how the tables have turned! He would be afraid now. And I would be the one laughing it up, knowing I had everything going my way. For once, and for the rest of my life, I was going to be winning.