Direct your attention to a singular aspect of the environment, disregarding all else, and allow the boundary between public and private spaces to dissolve. Contemplate the privatization of places once deemed public: my legs, my buttocks, my breasts—territories now claimed.

Create within me the sensation of constant surveillance, a duality of self-policing and striving for perfection, even when the watcher remains unseen. This potential gaze—real or imagined—is a cliché rendered convincing by its very convention, making it both criminal and commonplace.

How would you like to look? At me.
How would I like to look at myself? Through you?

No, I gaze at myself through the eyes of objects—the eyes of my thighs, my marrow, my breath. They are indistinguishable from my mind. My body is my mind, their separation a mere formal construct, an inherited fiction. Yet, I cannot help myself: to resist objectification is to resist sexuality itself. Desire demands an object—
something to

touch  

    and notice.  

At times, I am a woman who embraces objectification in silence. I ascend to the status of object, believing in the profound power objects hold.

I welcome the gaze.  

I do so both as a cunning exhibitionist and as a bearer of the human condition—a taboo, cruel but ripe with the potential for pleasure, for either the subject or the object.

How fortunate, how shrewd, you must be.  

Still, I cannot reduce myself to just one role. I am neither only subject nor object. Occasionally, I am a man, but most often, I am neither. To be neither feels like another word for surrender.

Remember: my legs are classic,  

an artifact of enduring worth. A garment of simple, regrettably timeless design: olive, long, slender, youthful. My legs are a betrayal, a repetitive performance.

Over-surveilled. Sexual.

They may not even belong to me. Perhaps they exist only in your gaze.