I next saw her at a fancy Hollywood party. We sat together for a moment at the edge of the dance floor, as she talked about her burgeoning acting career. “I mean, it sucks, anyone who googles me, the first thing they see are my tits in a bikini photoshoot from, like, four years ago.” Rachel seemed shockingly childlike at times, prone to spurts of animated excitement—the way she bounced around the party asking anyone and everyone how her hair looked. At other moments, she seemed older and more composed, never missing a beat with social cues, her smile and cadence perfectly timed and delivered.
Her eyes scanned the party as she continued, “I mean you’re lucky, with your whole political thing, being outspoken and supporting Bernie, all that stuff, I think people take you more seriously,” she went on, generously.
No one takes me seriously, I wanted to whisper, but she was up and off again, screaming and sprinting toward an arriving guest.
I watched Rachel’s transformation over the years via Instagram. The turtleneck dress seemed like a culmination: no more sexy stuff for her. Is that the way to be taken seriously? I wondered. Covering up your body and dressing like you’re going to see the Queen of England? Would this ensure a career with longevity? Maybe, but it didn’t seem fair that she should have to start wearing sweaters and dyeing her hair brown to be considered serious.
A large group approached from the left side of the long white beach. Four women, all dressed in long-sleeved black tops and pants and skirts and headscarves, talked among themselves, gazing down at their feet in the sand. They walked behind a group of men who were smoking and drinking out of big glasses like mine; they were shirtless and in short swimming trunks. The women stopped at the water’s edge and sat in a row in the surf, their clothing instantly heavy with the weight of the water. The black fabric pooled around them. I watched their silhouettes against the bright sand and the big blue sky. They had their backs to me, gesturing to one another and only occasionally glancing toward the men, who were now at the bar. I wondered what they were talking about, there at the place where the land meets the sea.
I refreshed my post. “One million likes and counting.” I turned to S, smiling a goofy grin.
He laughed and shook his head, then returned to his science fiction book.
Back on my phone, I focused on the image of my body, the four women blurry in my peripheral vision. I scrolled down to read the most recent comment: “Men like mystery, stop showing your body and maybe someone will start listening to you.”
I quickly swiped out of Instagram and thought about reading the book I’d brought with me, but opened the news app instead. A headline about Kim Kardashian caught my attention: “Why Kim Is Dressing Less Sexy.” I peered over the edge of my iPhone to check on the four Muslim ladies. Still there, I thought. I took another sip of pi?a colada and sprayed a splotch of sunscreen onto my legs, feeling my pulse in my temples. That damn headache wouldn’t go away.
On my screen, Kim was saying, “I also did think, like, okay, I’m here in the White House and then the next day I was posting, like, a crazy bikini selfie. And I was thinking, I hope they don’t see this, I have to go back there next week.” Kim talked about her work on justice reform, how she’d realized that being sexualized wasn’t helping her cause. “My husband has voiced that sometimes too sexy is just overkill.” Now my sinuses were starting to ache. I once heard that headaches come from the brain swelling and pressing against your skull. This one felt exactly like that.
I spread my arms and legs out wide and closed my eyes and told myself to relax. Money means power, I thought. And by capitalizing on my sexuality I have money. The whole damn system is corrupt and anyone who participates is just as guilty as I am. What am I going to do? Go live off the grid? I have to make a living somehow. Besides, I have this damn vacation that most people couldn’t afford even if they saved for years. It’s ridiculously expensive and I’m not even paying for it. So be grateful.
But did I have power? Did the women on the beach in their headscarves? Did Halle Berry have more power coming out of the water as the James Bond girl or when she took off her makeup and got ugly in the film that earned her an Oscar? And did my young actor friend have more power now that she was wearing turtlenecks and tasteful diamond studs? Did Kim have more power going to the White House in her suit or when she capitalized on the release of her infamous sex tape, the one that made her the most googled woman on earth? Would anyone have cared about Kim’s fight for justice reform if she hadn’t had a sex tape? And why did everything these women did, what they wore and what they posted, all seem so reactive? As if they were adapting to and playing in someone else’s game, with someone else’s rules?