As I waited outside a movie theatre the other night, there was a hot girl standing near me, waiting too. You know what I mean, a Hot Girl: pretty young face, long hair, great legs, a bikini body untouched by years or childbirth, all wrapped up in a short, tight dress. But what struck me about her, and why I continued to stare, was that she looked so painfully uncomfortable in her skin; her painted toes squeezed tight, her long tanned legs teetering on 6 inch heels, her arms self-consciously glued to her sides, trying to hide the visible sweat marks on a 90 degree night. She was the kind of girl women would pay to be and men would simply pay, and through her made-up face, I could see she wasn't so pretty, but she was pretty enough. She had that look in her eyes that so many young women have when they're laying out their sex, making it as available as a hot pretzel on a street corner stand. The look of a girl growing up too fast, a disconnection from herself and from her body, from her true femininity and the power of her womanhood.
As I watched her I wondered if maybe she made a mistake by accepting an invitation to a movie in midtown. Maybe where such a hot girl would rather be on a such a hot night, is in a pair of loose fitting shorts, dangling her bare feet in a cool lake somewhere far, far, far away.