These days eligible men are scarce and the fight to land and lock down a good man has some women going to extremes. In their pursuit of Mr. Marry Me some ladies pull out the big guns and use their booty as bait. I’m not knocking the next girl’s tactics but there is a right way to do things and then there’s just plain wrong. If you’re built like a thoroughbred with a body banging enough to inspire instant lust, I’m not saying you have to keep your best assets under wraps. Get your Serena on if you must but remember the best part of the gift is the unwrapping. If you expose all your wonders to the world what is there left to see? My young female readers are rolling their eyes as I speak. They’re envisioning me at my computer writing with a half-grown-in mustache, chin hair and a long-sleeved sweater despite the balmy seventy degrees.  No, not me. The Super is all for the sexy. If our exteriors are the canvas then we should paint ourselves with beautiful strokes. That said, men are visual and upon meeting us they conduct mental mathematics about our availability based on what they see.

“Pants tight enough to restrict breathing – one date, maybe two.”

“Dress short enough to see my future – dinner consisting of some hot water and then back to my place.”

These impromptu assessments about women are usually wrong but men could care less.  The judgment has already been made and they will treat us accordingly. In my teens I once wore a hip-high semi-see through shorts set. I paired my attire with knee-high boots and a black bra and panties that showed more than a few hints of skin. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: straight Ho bag who needs a citation from the fashion police. I beg your forgiveness for my fashion faux pas, but hell, it was the nineties and I was a teen. I got the attention I was seeking but it wasn’t the good kind. Instead of attracting the interest of the honest, humble and educated men I was seeking, instead every freak, sneak and player set his x-ray vision on me. Back then I thought the body was made for revealing but the attention I got was the type I didn’t need.  As I walked the streets that day strange men attempted to pinch and prod me making me wonder what made them think that they had the right. Just because I was dressed like a stripper didn’t mean I was one. Hell, I had the grades to go to University. I was smart!  That didn’t stop me from also being stupid beyond imagining. Wearing the shorts which the Jamaicans call Batty Riders, the Americans call Daisy Dukes or Pussy Printers for those that live anywhere past Jersey, didn’t guarantee me the man of my dreams. Instead, it attracted the dudes that were only interested in the place in my shorts that formed a V.  These men admired the shape of my ass instead of the shape of my smile. They were attracted to the exterior with little to no interest in the real me. No one wants to be loved for their body parts and no one should be.  I’m not opposed to the split in the dress, a low neckline or the dress that hugs the figure just right. Accentuate the positives but allow men to see beyond the V.

Finding a good man is hard. Is it now necessary to use our bodies as bait?