Sexuality Is Not What I Was Told

I can’t remember ever thinking of myself as sexual. I grew up in the time of glossy fashion magazines, and sexuality, to me, was Cindy Crawford and Claudia Schiffer: a sultry gaze, lips slightly parted, long thick hair. Later — dark lipstick and expressive eyes.

I learned how to do makeup early — my friends even asked me to do theirs. Manicures too — I could do them perfectly. A “full battle look” (tasteful, refined) was my calling card. Now I’ve lost most of those skills: my eyes no longer see my toes so clearly, and I doubt I could draw perfectly even eyeliner wings anymore.

But that sultry, “sexual” look? I never had it. I was the “sweet one” — the younger sister who helped older people and got candies in return. Not that sexy beauties didn’t get candies, but the “cute little girl” — that was me. A potato nose, shy shoulders, modesty — also me.

I know, I know — for men (and for people in general, as I’ll get to later), sexuality is something else entirely. But the attributes of sexuality that existed in my head never felt like they belonged to me. My chest is small, and the thought of wearing something with a deep neckline… no. As if someone might see something they shouldn’t — or see the absence of a “real woman.”

Once, in school, a boy I was in love with said it was time for me to wear a bra. The other kids laughed awkwardly. For some reason I took it as an insult, something bad, and felt terribly embarrassed. Maybe that’s when my chest “froze”? Ha-ha. After all, breasts are “the” main attribute of a woman, right? No breasts — no woman, no sexuality.

For years I carefully “painted” my face so no one would ever doubt that I was a sexual woman. I still remember a painful moment: my father once saw me in front of the mirror, wearing my mother’s makeup, and said I looked “like a monkey” and that I couldn’t compare to my mom. Maybe that’s why I perfected makeup in my youth.

Not long before the war, I began working with a psychologist. We were talking about other things, but the topic of “masks” — clothes, makeup, perfume — came up. The image I put on that didn’t feel comfortable to me. We talked about women I find attractive. There was nothing there about makeup or showy sexuality. What was there? Liveliness. Openness. The freedom to be yourself without trying to seem like someone else. Self-acceptance. Enjoying the moment, life, and your own world.

And it’s true — every woman I find beautiful is attractive to me in the moment when she is simply herself. Even if in public she plays some carefully crafted role to match society’s expectations or her own ideas, she is beautiful when she drops it. Refined and restrained in public, she might, in a private conversation, swear in frustration about a man who didn’t return her feelings, and then, ignoring everyone around, pick up a kettle and drink water straight from the spout. And that’s beautiful. In that moment — she is her.

Loud girls have always triggered me. Not their appearance, but their boldness, their audacity, their right to be loud and noticeable. Let’s be honest — we all want to be seen, to be noticed. But not all of us allow ourselves that. Sometimes it’s cultural restrictions, sometimes family history, sometimes a self-imposed ban or fear. And yet, there they are — noticeable, loud… and sexual. Even if they don’t fit my own “standards” of sexuality.

Freedom… the freedom to be.

At some point, my psychologist and I reached my “image of a woman.” It turned out to look a lot like a woman from my childhood hometown, though I don’t know her personally. She’s an herbalist, a beautiful writer. She moved to a small house in the steppe, collects and sells herbs, and writes about her love for this place and her values. She doesn’t wear makeup, walks barefoot on the Don land, her nails in the earth, wearing a simple robe like many in southern Russia. I described her so vividly that my usually restrained psychologist actually smiled, while I, almost in a trance, painted this portrait.

In real life, this was the image of a woman I always tried to suppress or reject. Cooking, cleaning… No! I wanted to prove to my father that I could work in some “important” field — because women are not stupid. How this connects, I don’t really know — it’s just a deeply ingrained model: “a woman’s place is in the kitchen.”

But deep inside, in the last years before the war, this was my only safe place: the earth, my own home, a bright lawn for children, me in an apron greeting guests. A picture from my childhood, of summer, warmth, and memories that now bring tears. My grandmother, the house where the whole family gathered. My women — warm, hospitable, open. Laughter, all together.

For some reason, my aunt has a special place in this memory. I wanted to be like her — when everyone feels good and light around you. Always. These women are always with me — my sisters, my childhood friends from the yard. Many women, all different, but all opening up with you because they don’t have to be anyone else. They can just be themselves.

You — alive, real. Crying together, laughing together. I remember now how I could hurt these wonderful women. It hurts me. And I want to shout to you: you are the most beautiful, the most amazing — in your joy, in your grief, in your loneliness. I see you. I understand you. And you don’t need to be someone else. And neither do I.

Freedom… the best thing we deserve — to be free and live the way our soul asks. To be angry, to cry, to envy, to sit in the bathroom in tears after failure. Or to be generous, warm, telling someone: “It’s okay, don’t worry.” To walk barefoot on the grass while the wind plays with your hair, breathe in the scent of thyme, look at your beloved city at sunset, and recognize every little piece of yourself — in your own experience and in the women beside you.

Freedom… to let yourself go, to stop fighting so hard. To be yourself — with all your experience, with tears still waiting to be cried, forgotten dreams, moments when you betrayed yourself for someone or something. With lost time and youth that’s gone forever. Years of joy, hope… and this very moment, where you are now. And you are still you.