on woman's fear of being taken advantage of

Seduction is an art as old as hunger.
It has built empires from nothing and burned them down with a look. It has lifted peasants onto thrones and taught queens how quickly crowns turn into graves when you underestimate how fleeting seduction can be. A sister of Temptation. Her quiet conspirator.

They were born the moment the snake leaned toward Eve and didn’t command, didn’t force—only suggested.

Tasssssste it.

When Eve did, Seduction opened her eyes to what had been there all along. Adam was naked. Not just unclothed, but vulnerable. And as edible as the apple still warm in her palm.

Fast forward several centuries so we can meet Sophia, Eve’s descendant…

Sophia spent a good portion of her life practicing the art of seduction without ever signing up for it. She didn’t choose it. She arrived this way. It was perverse and she was fully aware of it, but older men noticed her body long before she understood what it even meant. Even when she was a minor, she could feel their eyes and the way they adjusted their posture when she walked in.

They moved differently around her.

More… performative.

Like they wanted something.

She wished she could fool herself into thinking it was due to her charm, but it was something else.

When you’re a teenager, you don’t yet understand the rules of the game—though you’re convinced you do—so you smile, you keep walking, you treat attention like weather. Meaning, you don’t know what to expect but somehow, you’re hooked.

There were boys everywhere who wanted the honor of being her first. First kiss. First touch. First heartbreaking story she’d later pretend didn’t matter. Some of them were devastatingly beautiful—faces like they’d stepped out of her favorite TV series. The kind of beauty that would make you think her answer would be an instant yes.

But it wasn’t.

Because she didn’t want to be taken.
She wanted to be worshiped.

She didn’t have language for it then. It wasn’t conscious. But she knew, deep in the animal, ancient part of her, that a goddess was moving through her bloodstream. She could feel her when she looked at her reflection and lingered on her curves. It felt like a privilege, inhabiting a body designed to open, to hold, to nurture—and to ruin men gently if they weren’t careful.

The goddess lived in her delicate skin they wanted to touch like it was the most expensive satin.

In the plumpness of her lips, they desired to eat from.

In the peak of her breasts, they imagined conquering.

In her wild hair, they all secretly wanted to pull and tame.

And in the cave that hid her flower that became a quest—a quest they proclaimed they would die for—just to feel immortal for a few borrowed minutes she’d give them.

But none of them were worthy of touching her.

The goddess in her felt they all wanted to come, take, and disappear. She wanted a devotee. A man on his knees. A knight with a sword who was ready protect her at any moment, knowing that access to her was not his right, it was an honor.

She put the knights to the test.
And then another.
And then another still.

A myth you’ve read a million times.

Most of them failed…

When a woman allows you to touch her, it’s not because of your beauty—she carries plenty of that herself. For a young woman, it’s not even because of your status, unless she’s playing a very different game. She lets you touch her because you look at her a particular way—

A woman KNOWS when a man looks at her and sees the GODDESS in her, not the costume.

She recognizes it instantly—the way her own spark stares back at her from his eyes.

It’s hungry as much as it’s reverent.

He sees her.

That man knows that beneath her tectonic power and the capacity to ruin lives, she—in her very core—is a scared nymph, afraid to have everything taken away from her. Just like Persephone.

Sophia was only eight years old when she learned her body could be taken as an idea. It was during a game played with a boy a year older, who decided, without asking, that a kiss was something you could steal.

She didn’t fight him, but she didn’t like it either. Matter of fact, she decided to hate him afterwards and swore to herself to never count that kiss as her first one. That your “firsts” should have a good story and you were allowed to lie about them, even to yourself.

At thirteen, her feminine body arrived early and uninvited. Her chest bloomed faster than the other girls’, and suddenly it was public property—pointed at, commented on, laughed at.

She hid it under a larger sweater and waved her hand at her friends, who rolled their eyes because “You should be glad you have all this attention. The right kind.”

Sophia just learned that girlhood comes with conflicting instructions and no manual.

At fifteen, her best friend in school, Rue, became a cautionary tale. It was only one kiss behind closed doors at a silly house party—yes, they kissed with their tongues and when Rue came back, she was as thrilled as scandalized by her sudden wildness. But the boy told a different story entirely, and the school? It listened.

Rue denied everything and cried as she walked through the corridor while her peers called her “a whistle-blower” because boys that age are not only imaginative, but also stupidly creative. Rue changed schools a month later, and on Christmas that year, it was the last time Sophia saw her best friend since first grade. Shame has that power…

At nineteen, Sophia was still untouched. Not because she didn’t want it—oh god, she dreamed of it daily, to the point her whole belly twisted into one painful knot and she wished it was not because of expectations but because of wholeness. But no one could meet the ache she carried without frightening her. She was deeply skeptical and still afraid.

Afraid to mean what she said.
Afraid to smile too long.
Afraid to speak, to overshare.
Afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Afraid of not saying enough.
Afraid of being forgotten.
Afraid of being misunderstood.

Afraid of being held but not seen.

And then, one ordinary day during summer with the cherry trees full of red fruit, she was sitting by a public pool, skin warm, book open, Milan Kundera whispering something about lightness of being even though none of the pages promised any of that, when the boy sat down beside her.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Hi, my loves. When I started writing this one, I had no idea where it was going, or why it insisted on being written at all. I was deep in other essays when this piece slipped in sideways. And knowing my subconscious, I knew that if I didn’t give it language, it would haunt me. So here we are. I don’t know yet where this story will end, or when the dark closet of my mind will decide to feed me the next chapter. But I can already see the boy. And oh—the feelings. The feelings!

Everyone tells you that you need to niche down and label yourself neatly so people know exactly why they should stay. So I’ll try (though I hate it.)

I’m Christina. I’m an author of angsty, messy romance with deeply flawed characters Where Our Stars Align. Emotions are my fuel—and yes, I fully intend to weaponize them. I love philosophy, so even when things get steamy (as they often do in my novel), there’ll be meaning underneath. I promise.

Here, I share essays about our complicated hearts—when they’re in love and when they’re healing. I also write about the life of an indie author, the things happening behind the curtain, fragments from my work, and whatever else insists on coming through next.

If this feels like a place you want to linger, I publish once or twice a week. Thank you for reading and sharing