Darling, being wanted is easy.
That’s the first lie beauty tells you.
I learned that sometime after midnight, wearing a black satin glove stained faintly with cigarette ash and someone else’s cologne. The club was still breathing then — low amber lights, melting ice cubes, queens laughing too loudly at men they already knew wouldn’t call tomorrow. You know the kind of night. Everyone glowing just hard enough to hide the panic.
And there I was.
Desired.
God, I was desired.
Men bought me drinks with trembling hands. They touched my waist like they were reaching for religion. One banker from Brickell told me I smelled “expensive and dangerous,” which, frankly, is the closest most men ever come to poetry.
But not one of them looked at me like they planned to stay.
There’s a difference, sweetheart. A brutal one.
Desire is theater. Choosing is aftermath.
One leaves lipstick on the glass. The other remembers how you take your coffee three Wednesdays later.
I didn’t understand that then. Back then, I confused attention for intimacy. Many of us did. Especially the beautiful ones. Especially the girls who survive on applause and dim lighting.
Because applause can sound so much like love when you’re lonely enough.
The man who finally taught me the difference barely noticed me at first. Isn’t that always the way? The dangerous ones never arrive starving. They arrive observant.
He sat quietly at the end of the bar while younger men performed attraction around me like circus animals in fitted shirts. One kissed my hand. Another offered me a weekend in Tulum before even learning my last name.
But the quiet man?
He asked if I was tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired.
Darling, I nearly fell apart right there beside the vodka tonic.
You see; lust looks at your mouth… Choice notices your exhaustion.
That frightened me more than all the desire in the room combined.
Because once someone truly sees you, the performance becomes impossible to maintain.
And I had built an entire life from performance.
I remember walking home just before dawn, heels in one hand, dignity in the other, realizing something devastating: some people will spend years wanting you while never once intending to love you out loud.
That’s the cruelty of nightlife. It teaches you how to be unforgettable for an evening and invisible by morning.
Still… I can’t pretend I regret those years completely.
Being desired taught me glamour.
But being chosen?
That taught me how terrifying tenderness can be.
And trust me, darling — the older I get, the less I fear being alone… and the more suspicious I become of anyone who says they’ll stay.
Dangerously yours,
Grand Dame
By: E. Jovet
