When I was a Lolita

 

(The 1960's version. The millennium version is torn mini-skirts Hollister camisoles)

It wasn’t until I read Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita that I understood where pervert men came from. No, it wasn’t that I understood them but I saw, for the first time, how severely misunderstood and confused girls are at the turn of puberty.
Nabokov’s Lolita is about a man, Humbert Humbert, who becomes obsessed and sexually involved with the 12 year old Dolores Haze (who goes by Lolita). In the book, Lolita is the type of girl, who at an innocent age, has a sense of provocation and even flirtation. From her perspective, her skimpy clothes and playful taunts are sirens for attention, especially attention for her beauty. From Humbert’s perspective, she is a sexually-charged young girl who is interested in him.

I know this because, when I was at the precocious age of 12 or 13, I was a Lolita. I didn’t realize my misplaced signals and vain ideals were possibly alluring to a dangerous lot until I read Nabokov’s book in horror.

When I was around 9 or 10 my body started changing. I grew hair in odd places, I gained weight, and my feet looked clownish on my short frame. I wasn’t batting my eyelashes at anyone for attention. All I wanted to do was sit on a couch and find a pillow large enough to hide behind.

But, as if by magic, around the age of 12 I began to fill out, and in the right places. I could fit into a B-size bra, my gender was clear in a bathing suit, and I had a lean frame. These changes were analogous with boys giving us new attention.

At that age, all I wanted was for people to think I was pretty, so I turned to America’s conventions of beauty. The background on my myspace profile was a montage of Victoria’s Secret model pictures.
I remember my mom glancing over my shoulder, at the computer, while I was on myspace, “Why do you have Victoria’s Secret background? You’ve never even shopped there.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have it as my background!” I exclaimed, as I closed the screen.
“Hey, what kind of information do you have on that web-site thingy?”
“It’s called a myspace, mom.”
“Yeah, and I’ve heard some pretty sick things about it on Dateline.”
On my myspace, I had my middle school’s name, date of birth, full name, city, and state.  Also a picture of me in a bikini with a wad of cash in my hand.
It’s hard for me to explain why I took that picture, subliminal media influences were at work I’m certain. I was with a friend, a Lolita more advanced than I was. She talked to strangers online, and then invited them over to hang out. Well, I was sleeping over with her and we decided to get in our bikinis and pose like the girls in rap videos.

Now, whenever I watch Oprah do a show on molestation or online predators, I cringe. The “grooming process” is a term used to describe a predators manipulation to making a young girl trust him and love him.
I remember someone on the show said, “It’s surprising that girls can just fall into it.”
Actually, it’s not surprising at all. At that age, if anyone told me I was pretty and funny, I would be clueless with glee. I would online chat with the stranger for untold hours, and I would feel pride, no matter what age he turned out to be. I would be the one desired, and that is all that mattered.
Thank god I never had the chance to get groomed.
But one time I did encounter something even worse.
On a Friday night when I was 13 years old, I went mall shopping with my two best friends. I bought my first thong that night, and I felt half-embarrassed and half-sexy. After milling around for hours, it was 9pm and the mall was closing. My friend, the advanced Lolita, called her dad to pick us up. He said he was at the Burger King at the end of the parking lot and told us to just walk over.
We stepped out into the spring night. In mini-skirts, small tank-tops, and Victoria’s Secret’s bags around our wrists, we walked across the empty parking lot.
Then an old, beat up, pick up truck came crawling up to us. I immediately felt uncomfortable. The pick up truck halted in front of us and inside were two men in dirty work  clothes.
“You girls need a ride,” said the man in the driver’s seat. The other one leaned over and gave a long look at us.
I felt my skin prickle and my hands clenched my shopping bag.
My friend laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know..”
My other friend shifted so her long, thin legs were in full view.
I met eyes with the man, and something came over me.
“We don’t need a ride from you!” I screamed, with my eyes bulging.
“Hey, lady,” he said, “we’re just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah,” my friend said, “why are you freaking out?”
I didn’t leave his eyes.
“Get the fuck away from me! I don’t need a ride from you!”
“What the hell is your problem?” he said angrily.
I didn’t answer him.
“Fine,” he grunted, “we’ll just leave.”
“Good!” I yelled as he shifted the truck into drive and sped off.
I gave a long breath.
“Why did you just freak out?” said my friend.
“They were just being nice,” said the other.
And I couldn’t explain what had came over me. All I knew was that I wouldn’t have gotten in that truck over my dead body. It was a gut feeling.
After that, I wasn’t friends with them any longer. After that, I didn’t need the attention.