STAINED
When I was younger, I used to despise red lipstick.
Stained cigarette butts.
I didn’t fully understand why.
Having stained my fair share of cigarettes, now I can say it felt vulgar. Obscene.
Doing too much. Asking for it.
Now I know the problem wasn’t me.
I’ve always had big, full, juicy lips.
As a kid, I had to paint them red every Sunday for competitions. It was part of the aesthetic: a mini sheer dress fitted to the body, a tight chignon, and a cat-eye look.
It was sexy, provocative even, but it was fun—like playing dress-up.
The male gaze hadn’t reached us yet.
Rhythmic gymnastics was a female-dominated sport, and the few dads at competitions had their eyes glued to their phones. Nobody was looking at our bodies with the lust that would come just a few years later. Yet patriarchy was already there—in our books, movies, and minds—reminding us that “red lipstick is for whores.”
An idea even perpetrated by women themselves, pulling each other down to the same level as the men who could sexualize an eleven-year-old.
As I grew up, I started wearing lipstick again, but never red.
Having big lips was already a capital sin, so highlighting them wasn’t on my to-do list. Every time I tried to wear red lipstick, I felt dirty—like I was asking for that sticky attention; an underage prostitute, bracing for those nasty looks coming her way.
When I started smoking, I did it just for fun—away from the grown-ups’ eyes, trying to feel more grown-up myself.
We used to chain-smoke a pack of cigarettes after school, too scared even to try to hide it from our parents. Then other adults started scaring me more. So I kept smoking so I wouldn’t be alone with those men and their thoughts. So I wouldn’t have to wait for the bus by myself. So I could stain those cigarette butts and see that I wasn’t vulgar. I wasn’t obscene.
I wasn’t doing too much.
But most of all, I wasn’t asking for it.
creative direction:
@_notyourbb_
photography:
@saffi_px14
edit:
@_notyourbb_
producer/gaffer/best man:
@afaranna
stylist:
@hannaoelh 
