how a 2005 Playboy Magazine dramatically impacted my life
reflecting on childhood memories + your weekly song rec
The unforgiving, unrelenting Texas sun cradled my childhood. D + J, the boys my age in my neighborhood, served as the bookends to my girlhood—J taught me to always be aware of my body, and D taught me what it meant to have one.
In many ways, our upbringing was picturesque. We biked through our neighborhood with full backpacks and no cellphones. Our sidewalk chalk-stained fingertips left fingerprints on every curb. We argued over GameCube games and fought thumb wars under sprinkler showers. We were normal, curious, untamable, excitable kids.
This, of course, also meant that we were still growing. We swelled like sponges with each new morsel of information, good or bad, and tested our knowledge—and our limits—amongst each other.
Because childhood is defined by our curiosities and our propensity to explore them, I don’t blame D + J for how they harmed me in the six years they were my neighbors. I blame their parents for giving them the how-to manual on becoming dangerous men. I, unfortunately, blame myself for believing that in order to be liked by the people I liked the most, I had to endure the worst parts of them.
I could tell you about the day J punched me in the stomach to test if I would “act like a girl and cry” (I didn’t), or the day D’s friend, R, grabbed my eleven-year-old chest, asking where my breasts were. But instead, I find myself wanting to write about a day that has already appeared in my poems, in my therapy sessions, and in my journals. One that continues to stay with me, no matter how old I get or how far from Texas I try to be.
Reader, I must remind you—not everything was bad. I considered these boys my best friends, because they were. Many parts of who I became are because of who they were.
There was, however, one summer afternoon, when D + J + I rode our bikes to the outskirts of the neighborhood. Our city, aptly named The Woodlands, had thick concentrations of trees throughout the town, which to my child self, felt like forests. So, I will be calling them forests.
Once out of our neighborhood, we ventured into a forest that bordered the main road. Deep into the woods, we went to what we’d deemed to be “the treehouse,” which was a collection of wooden planks placed haphazardly at the base of a large pine tree. After we settled into the comfort of the treehouse, the world silenced by the forest around us, D opened his backpack and pulled out a Playboy magazine. J quickly zipped to D’s side to take a look. I followed.
I was no stranger to sexual material, even at that age. Though my parents had done their best to shield me from it, most of my friends at that age were boys, and, well, boys will be boys. But I was myself, too, and I was enamored by anything sexual. I was already familiar with the mechanics of my body’s pleasure in a way that most elementary schoolers aren’t. I was not shocked by the Playboy or the beautiful women who posed on its pages, and D + J knew this to be true. That is why they felt comfortable enough to flip through it in my presence.
That was, until the conversation shifted from the Bunnies to me.
“Are your boobs gonna look like that?” D asked me, pointing to a particularly busty Bunny featured on the center fold.
And then, their eyes. D + J took turns looking me up and down, noting my lack of curves, the braless state of my chest, hungering over the curiosity of what could be.
Reader, I unfortunately don’t remember how I responded to D, or his eyes, or J’s eyes, but I do remember how their hands traced the nipples of the Bunny, the words they used to describe her spread-eagle body, and how it was the first time in my life I felt like an almost-ripe stone fruit, being carefully watched, thumbs pressed gently against my skin, knowing I would one day be wanted as badly as they believed they wanted the paper girls in their hands.
I am often asked why I titled my first collection paper girl and the knives that made her, and it is typically too complicated to explain that I wanted to be the paper girl before I became her. I wanted to be held, admired, desired. I didn’t know that it also meant that it would make me so easy to crumple, tear, discard, and burn.
The poem below was in paper girl. I give names to D + J in this poem, but know these are not their real names. But it is our story. Our childhood. My girlhood.
song of the week:
Friend Like You by Katelyn Tarver
all the love, all the warmth, all the light,
housekeeping:
caitlin and i still have a few spots left for the interrogation retreat! apply with a friend! see you this august!
icymi: i made a doc full of book recommendations for people who want to read more poetry but don’t know where to start!
don’t forget to complete your one click today to support aid efforts in Palestine
unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3
you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.
i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.
free and paid subscribers get the archive of essay reflections, poetry + music recommendations, and more — thank you for supporting the tender poets club <3
who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.
who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.
if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741
S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673
The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
My body-awareness peaked at 11 too, in an eerily similar way — Florida, instead of Texas. Thank you for sharing this 🫶🏻