Why do I still want to be hit on, even though I’m in a relationship?

“I don’t crave the head-turns in the same way. But I can’t say I don’t miss them.”

Laura Roscioli is a sex writer based in Melbourne. Her fortnightly column on Fashion Journal is here to make sex (and the conversations around it) more accessible and open-minded. She believes that the best learnings come from lived experience, and she’s here to share hers — and other people’s — with you. You can follow Laura on Instagram at @lauraroscioli.

Being hit on was a big part of my late teens and early twenties. Once it became a consistent part of my week, I began to crave it.

If I woke up in a bad mood (the person I liked wasn’t texting me back or I was hungover, probably) I’d put in my headphones, play a podcast, and take myself to an op shop. I’d dress myself for desire. I’d imagine how good I’d feel walking down the street and turning heads. Even just the thought of it gave me a high. It made me feel powerful.

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I got good at it. I met my first Melbourne situationship by walking into a restaurant in a Monica Bellucci-inspired outfit and asking for directions. He chased me down the street hours later, breathless, and asked me out. We dated for almost a year.

Even on the more fleeting occasions, I basked in a compliment from a stranger, a number scrawled on my coffee cup, the slow-burn flirtation with my boss at the cocktail bar I worked at.

“People always look at you, everywhere we go!” my friends would say over mid-afternoon drinks. There’d inevitably be a man offering to buy us rounds, or a staff member slipping us extra desserts on the house. Sometimes, we wouldn’t even see the bill.

Now, I’m not saying this to be arrogant. It wasn’t just the outfits. There’s something about being a young woman who is open to being looked at. Men can smell it. My friends and I knew how to curate ourselves for the male gaze, and we leaned into it.

There’s a system at play when we’re raised with the belief that a woman’s highest currency is desirability. That to be wanted is to be winning. So when men desired us, we felt like we’d made it. We were the kind of girls society approved of, ones invited to VIP rooms and lock-ins and exclusive parties. Being seen made us feel valuable. It was satisfying. Addictive, even.

But my life’s different now. I’m 29, I’ve survived a breakup that hollowed me out. And I’m in love again – really in love. The kind that feels easy, grounding and whole. And still, the other day, I found myself wondering: why doesn’t anyone hit on me anymore?

At first, it seemed strange. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and isn’t happiness supposed to be the most attractive trait? ‘You glow different when you’re happy’, or whatever the Pinterest boards say. But apparently not in a way that garners sexual attention from strangers.

I was most desired when I was insecure, lonely, cracked wide open. My early twenties were defined by a hunger for external validation, and maybe that’s why I drew so much in. That version of me accepted the bare minimum. I let men – fuckboys, softbois, tortured poets – breadcrumb the romance out of me. I confused desire with connection. I didn’t notice how often I was shrinking myself to feel chosen.

Now, I walk through the world with the confidence of someone loved unconditionally. I don’t fear love leaving if I say the wrong thing. I don’t edit myself to feel worthy of someone’s gaze. I don’t crave the head-turns in the same way. But I can’t say I don’t miss them.

The other night, at a fancy media event, I caught someone’s eye. He gave me that look – that electric, questioning look that says: ‘Who are you? Should we kiss?’

“Hi!” I said, as we stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar. “I’m Laura.”

We had a brief, awkward chat about how we were liking the event, and that was that. But I felt it. The flutter. That rush of recognition. It was subtle, but potent. And it reminded me: I’m not over being desired. Not completely. I wish I was, I don’t want to be tethered to a system that says a woman’s value peaks when she’s beautiful and being watched.

I don’t think about it every day but I can’t deny its power. Being desired still feels good. Useful, even. That tiny, throwaway interaction made my night. And that alone made me realise two things. One: it hadn’t happened in a long time, and two: it still has an effect on me. And that feels a little dangerous.

Ever since my breakup, I’ve felt more empowered than ever. I chose myself when I could have chosen comfort, and that choice reminded me that I’m still the most important person in my life. Falling in love again has felt different. I didn’t question my worth every five minutes. I wasn’t auditioning for love, or contorting myself into someone else’s fantasy. I just chose it, slowly and intentionally.

So I guess I assumed I’d graduated from needing external validation altogether. But I haven’t, not completely. And maybe… that’s okay.

Because letting go of something so deeply ingrained – this patriarchal idea that our worth lies in how beautiful we look and how much men want us, is hard. It’s not just cultural, it’s chemical. We’ve been conditioned to believe that our power begins and ends with being desired. That our reputations, our femininity, our success even, are all tied to how pretty we are and how many people want to fuck us.

So yes, I want to be over it. But I also want to be honest about how deep the programming runs and how long it might take to undo. Because in a world where a women’s worth is tied to being wanted, desire sometimes feels like the closest thing to protection.

Keep up with Laura here.