Strong language (for mature audiences only). Reader discretion is advised.
For my future lover:
I am an “attention whore.” Deep in the marrow of my bones, I have an insatiable craving to be the center of your universe, even if only for a few seconds! If I feel neglected, I will turn into a wild Pomeranian—riddled with panic and fears of abandonment—tearing up furniture, chewing on your shoes and eating the stuffing out of your couch. You will gaze at my mess in horror, as I stare apologetically at the ground, convinced that you don’t want me anymore. I will need to be reassured, over and over again, that I am Somebody to you—not a Nobody.
I’ve struggled with this tenacious desire for attention ever since childhood, particularly from my Korean father. He worked long hours at his dry cleaning business in Chicago every day. When he came home, he clearly wanted nothing to do with me, or my little brother. Without even glancing our way, he would silently reach for his whiskey bottle, light up a cigarette and watch TV, with droopy, stone-cold eyes. We were nothing to him.
As a budding child singer and dancer, I made small attempts to gain my father’s attention. One night, I repeatedly jumped in front of the TV, shook my hips and sang, as I smiled to get him to look at me. He kept mumbling at me to move. I kept dancing and singing and smiling—continuously ignoring his orders for me to get out of the way—when he suddenly got up from the couch, grabbed me by the arm, opened the front door of our apartment, and violently dragged me up a flight of stairs like a rag doll. His quick rage was like a furious tornado, unpredictable and unrelenting. I could feel the back of my soft head bouncing against the edge of the stairs. He abruptly stopped, let go of my arm, casually walked past me down the stairs, and went back to watching his TV. That night, I learned to never ask for his attention anymore. He had none to give.
Still, my craving to be recognized never waned, even after my parents divorced and I grew into young adulthood. At 17, I began sneaking out of my mother’s apartment late at night, to venture into the local strip club down the street. The “world-famous” Admiral Theater, on Lawrence Avenue, became an educational institution for me. There, I learned of other ways to gain the attention of men.
The Admiral Theater was an adult playground. The exterior consisted of a large, two-story building with a royal facade and elegant Greek architecture. The interior was dark and mysterious, decorated in a grandiose style, with curtains and colored spotlights. Tables and chairs surrounded a massive stage. As music blared, an emcee would announce the name of each beautiful girl making an entrance onto the stage. Scantily-clad, she would gracefully glide onto the stage in high heels, ready to woo the crowd with her mesmerizing body and sultry dance moves.
These Admiral girls were experts in seduction! If you liked what you saw, you could simply smile and a girl would walk over and ask if you wanted a lap dance. Once you paid a generous tip, she would lock her eyes with yours, smile alluringly, and crawl onto your lap like a horny cat in high summer heat. She would hover over you, so close that you could smell her perfume and feel her long hair graze against your skin. She would open her legs, gyrate her hips, arch her back. She would slowly sway her breasts into your face, then suddenly pull back, then slowly sway back in—teasing you, relishing in the fact that she was making you hard and beg for more. She was queen, and her erotic powers demanded your attention!
This is probably the subconscious, Freudian reason as to why I am learning to pole-dance: I have always wanted such erotic power—to be beautiful, to dance, to take control, to make you feel desired—and to feel desired in return. Give me your attention, over and over again, because I need it so much and can never have enough.
I am your Attention Whore.