Deep down, there's a bimbo in all of us...
I got into hyperpop and reconnected with my teenage self.
I’m reading this book right now with a dowdy mom character.1 You know the type. She used to be a slutty throat goat and then she got married and created some spawn. Now she’s got that little mom ponch and some stretch marks. She knows that her body performed a miracle in that ponch, but now that she’s at this wedding full of sexy people, she puts on a dress that she used to wear to such occasions and feels a bit like her former self. The ponch no longer matters. It’s just the black dress and how she feels in it, now that she’s downed a couple of drinks.
She slinks around the party, not quite the same as she was. Maybe she’s still a bit insecure, but the dress forces her to reconnect. Her husband appreciates it, even though he’s destined to cheat on her with his old girlfriend (the bride at the wedding), which will likely send her into an emotional tailspin over how she’s not sexy and worthy of being loved anymore. I’m spoiling myself, probably, but we all know how domestic thriller tropes go.
The mom in the book I’m reading isn’t written well. She’s a cliche, full of internal monologues about what she used to be and how insecure she is now. She’s perpetually invalidating herself while getting back on her soapbox, telling herself she’s worth more because she ruined her body to have kids.
I always wanna yell at characters like this, despite being one myself.
Not that I ever had my share of slutty days. I was always awkward at parties, and my Christian upbringing prevented me from ever being upfront about my horniness. I was always kinda overweight and never comfortable in my body, the kind of girl who was always more “cute” than “sexy”, so my slut years were spent writing dirty stories in my living room and fingering through books in the public library, looking for sex scenes.2
It’s all the same thing, really.
I’m a Bimbo
At my former job, plenty of my college-aged coworkers told me, “You don’t look like a mom.” I always took it as a compliment, because honestly, the only reason why I started wearing skirts back in 2010 was that I hated the way my body looked in leggings and skinny jeans.
I’ve always had body issues, but my hate for those specific articles of clothing has really been a saving grace for my self-esteem. After I had my daughter, it took a few years before I felt comfortable dressing my reshaped body. Things got better after I went back to work full-time. I took more pride in my outfits and started taking pictures for Instagram.
I don’t feel comfortable taking pictures of myself wearing outfits in public. (It’s, like, super vain, okay?) My bookshelf is my introverted backdrop. I get dressed. I go to work. I come home. I take a few selfies and a 30-second video for TikTok. Fashion is simply another creative outlet for me, and one that is a bit more extroverted than writing.
The two outlets go hand in hand as well. I explore aesthetics and sometimes let my characters inspire my outfits. But once the outfits are captured, then I strip all the vanity away. I change into my Champion sweatpants and my SPAM t-shirt. I tie my hair back and wash my makeup off.
I’m a Mom
I don’t know when I started associating my bare-faced self with my “mom mode”. The other day, though, I took some pictures before washing my makeup off. My eyeshadow looked good and I didn’t want to waste it. I used to take sexy selfies for me all the time, but [insert complaining about mom life and how it makes me not a cool person anymore].
Anyway, I took a bunch of fucking selfies while listening to my cool new bimbo music playlist. My kids were arguing downstairs but it didn’t matter. The music made me feel like my horny high school self again, just with a lack of insecurity.
I took pictures, let loose, and felt like the caricature mom in the book I’m reading. The music helped.
I enjoyed it. It was a simple act. A simple process. A reconnection with my old self. Then I edited it in Lightroom. Put on a filter. Got rid some acne. Posted it. Shared it.
Got some likes.
It felt good.
I’m a Milf, Probably?
Over the years, I’ve both loved and hated bimbo culture. In my teens, I secretly listened to Britney Spears’ “Slave 4 U”3 when everyone was criticising how much of a slut she was becoming. In my 20’s, I was absolutely OBSESSED with season 2 of Bad Girls Club, and one night I got so absolutely drunk and forced all my friends to watch it with me.
I’ve always kind of loved bad girls. Vapid. Consumerist. Hyper-sexual. I’ve been all those things, and being a mom (and a “wholesome” and insanely hypocritical Christian teen) doesn’t erase those things. I’ve put more raunch and sexualization to both my fashion and my writing in recent years than ever before4 and it’s been freeing af.
I’ve enjoyed taking myself less seriously. Having fun. Just being.
Anyway, I posted the sexy bimbo selfie. Then I took off my makeup and put on my comfortable clothes. Not mom clothes. Just a comfy shirt. A pair of sweatpants. A robe.
I kept listening to my pop music and dance while I made dinner, never more comfortable in my own skin.
Footnotes
It’s The Guest List by Lucy Foley. I’ve been in quite the reading slump as of late and often read domestic thrillers just because they’re quick and easy reads. Despite my criticism, I actually am enjoying it quite a bit.
I found Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty series this way. I was 15 and definitely too young for it, but I probably wouldn’t be the me I am now if I didn’t, haha.
I share a bit more of my love of hyperpop lyrics in this Instagram post.
Pre-order ENDING IN ASHES to read the smuttiest story I’ve ever written.