Give
The problem with Justin is that even
though he looks hard, buzz-cut and muscled abs, that baby pout of potential
harm, he is still soft. Because he wants to be.
Britney doesn't want to
be.
Because Justin can do as many sit-ups as he wants to, as many
push-ups as he has to. He can watch Fight Club and ride his fuckin'
motorcycle and wear his leather, and look hard. Act hard. Pose for magazines
like there is nothing inside of him but muscle and blood, but there is. There
is. Justin will always be the soft one, the little boy who cried in his mother's
arms and the one who pours his soul into his music, his art, his fans. Gives
everything to everyone and never runs dry.
And this is how Britney is
different. Britney does crunches, hundreds and hundreds of crunches until she
can feel the nerve endings burned out of her like calories. Britney puts on
pretty skirts with soft folds, all soft pinks and muted whites, virgin's colors,
but beneath her legs are rock-hard, hard enough to kick holes in walls, to cause
damage to anyone who fucks with her.
She bares her hard stomach to show
them, to flaunt her lack of feminine softness in their faces, even if they see
it as sex and modern beauty. Even if they take it wrong. Even if they try to
take, even when she isn't giving.
Muscle is in, now, instead of curves. A
woman isn't supposed to look like a woman anymore, she is supposed to look like
iron, shaped into girl-flesh. Long and slim, muscles firm beneath soft skin,
soft and hard all at once--just hard enough to be firm, tight enough for men to
wrap their hands around, too soft to really hurt anyone.
Britney used to
have a tiny soft indent for a stomach, breasts that were more than muscle pushed
into a wonderbra. She looks back at those pictures now and strokes the soft
curves of her thighs, remembering when people used to hug her and smile. Now
they hug her and pull back, pretending to smile. Trying not to grimace at the
hardness, the lack of give, because Britney's body always looks more welcoming
than she truly is.
Britney looks soft, but she is hard, hard like muscle
and scar tissue. Justin is the opposite: he looks like he is carved from marble,
but when she touches him, all she feels is exposed nerves, the soft flesh inside
his elbows, his uncalloused fingers. Justin has muscle but no scars on that
perfect body. His hardness can be penetrated, hurt, made to give. And someday,
somebody will make him give.
Britney thinks that she has given so much
already, there is nothing left to take.