Do Androids Suffer Body Dysmorphia?
By Alicia Hilton
Mom said a man who hated women must have designed Barbie—the dolls looked like perfect androids, not real women. Barbie’s boobs were too big, her waist was too small, and her legs were too long. Mom wouldn’t let me have a Barbie because she thought the doll would make me feel worse about my scrawny body. Instead, when I was ten, she gave me Barbie’s brown-haired, flat-chested little sister, Skipper. I wonder what Skipper would say about her boyish body if she could talk?
By the time I was eleven, I’d grown nearly as tall as Mom and scrawnier, like a mad scientist had popped me into a Stretchomatic Machine. I’d gotten a Dorothy Hamill haircut to try to look pretty, but the short style drew attention to the braces on my crooked teeth. My self-esteem was nonexistent. If a mad scientist had offered to change me into an android that looked like Barbie, I would’ve jumped at the chance.
I had no idea that I was about to become an object of desire for two over-sexed perverts.
Playdates were supposed to be fun, not humiliating, but Wendy Donaldson wasn’t really my friend. Our dads had met when they were students at University of Oregon.
“Hurry up, we’re going to be late!” Mom was waiting by Dad’s car. Her VW Beetle was in the shop. She’d bought it used, and the brakes were worn down.
Mom and I were dressed like extras from The Partridge Family. Mom was wearing flared jeans and a hand-knit tangerine tank top. I was wearing a hand-sewn yellow short-sleeved collarless blouse and brown, white and yellow batik Bermuda shorts. Mom had dyed the fabric herself. When Mom didn’t sew or knit our clothes, she shopped for us at discount stores. Maybe we could have afforded better, but Mom didn’t care about impressing people.
My store-bought clothes rarely fit. Kids called me Toothpick and Daddy Longlegs because I had a body like a beanpole. Most of the other girls wore training bras, but Mom hadn’t bought one for me because there would be nothing inside it except padding. Even my nipples hadn’t started to stick out.
Our avocado-green Ford Pinto station wagon pulled into the Donaldsons’ driveway, shuddering to a stop behind Mrs. Donaldson’s new BMW.
I glanced at Mom and felt my face get hot. When I was a grown up, I wasn’t going to drive a car that looked as sexy as a squashed green turd. Barbie would never drive a Pinto or dress like a dork.
As I followed Mom up the Donaldsons’ front walk, I hoped Wendy hadn’t heard about what happened in P.E. class yesterday. We went to different schools, but gossip spread faster than the chicken pox. In my school, fifth graders didn’t dress down for P.E., so the day of my great humiliation, I was wearing the same outfit I’d had on all morning, a navy blue top and pants that my grandmother had bought for me. The outfit was cute, but the pants were too big around the waist and hips. As we lined up to start wind sprints, one of the popular girls told me that I looked pretty. I was ecstatic. She’d never complimented me before.
The P.E. teacher blew his whistle.
I ran as fast as I could across the slippery wood floor. I was near the finish line when the safety pin that had been cinching in my waistband popped open. I was so intent on running that I didn’t notice until my pants were down around my ankles.
Everyone saw—all the boys, all the girls, and our P.E. teacher, an ex-Dallas Cowboys defensive tackle.
I yanked up my pants and tried not to cry. It didn’t matter that I’d won the race. I wanted to run out of the gym, but I knew I’d get in trouble.
The teacher said, “Nice panties. I like pink flowers.”
Kids laughed, even the popular girl who’d complimented my outfit.
The thought of ever wearing those white and pink flowered cotton panties again made me want to barf. When I got home from school and Mom wasn’t looking, I burned them in our kitchen incinerator.
There were three dollars and forty-two cents in my piggy bank. I vowed that I wouldn’t spend any more of my allowance on magazines or candy until I’d bought real lingerie. Black bikini panties, the silk and lace kind I’d seen in photographs in the porno magazines I’d found under my parents’ bed.
Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be a porn star. Why weren’t the models embarrassed when they posed naked? Were they drunk? Did they feel powerful because their photos got thousands of people turned on? They smiled at the camera, thrusting out their chests to display rosy nipples, spreading their legs to flaunt thin strips of pubic hair.
Most of the porn stars probably had fake boobs, but they looked confident. I wanted to be confident. I wanted breasts. Not mounds on my chest the size of casaba melons or perfectly perky tits, but at least an A-cup. And I wanted hips. If I looked “normal,” maybe kids would stop bullying me. What would my life be like if I inhabited a body that didn’t make me feel insecure?
Mom pressed the Donaldsons’ doorbell. It made a chime that sounded like church bells. Their house was newer than ours. Freshly painted, with abstract patterned orange and gold stained glass panels on either side of the front door.
Mrs. Donaldson greeted us with a big smile. She looked like she should be shilling laundry detergent or sanitary napkins on TV: wavy blond hair styled in a fashionable bob, blue eyes, and a gleaming smile that was the same shade of white as her tennis outfit. Her figure wasn’t as sexy as Barbie’s, but she had gorgeous legs.
Her short skirt swished back and forth above tan thighs that weren’t marred by a speck of cellulite. I’d have bet her butt was perfectly toned, too. I hoped I’d grow up to have legs like Debbie Donaldson. When I tried to get bronzed by the sun, I burned. If I was lucky, the red faded to something that could pass for a tan and didn’t peel.
Because we hadn’t just come from Hawaii like the Donaldsons, and because it had rained every day for the past two weeks in Oregon, my legs were a sickly shade of white except for seven angry red, pus-filled mosquito bites.
As we followed Mrs. Donaldson, I heard Wendy and her little sister Kristie giggling, and then a crash. From the sound of Kristie’s squeal and the cartoon music in the background, I could tell Sylvester had just gotten his butt kicked by Tweety. I hoped I’d get to watch TV with Wendy. Mom and Dad only allowed me an hour a day. They never made an exception, even when the holiday specials were on.
A commercial was playing when we got to the family room. Mrs. Donaldson turned off the TV. “Why don’t you girls play a game? We’ve got Chutes and Ladders and Operation.”
I sat on the tan shag carpet next to Wendy and stared at the screen, willing it to turn on again.
Mrs. Donaldson said, “Would you like some Kool-Aid?”
I glanced at the clear plastic pitcher sitting on the coffee table. Lemon-lime. The color reminded me of antifreeze. “No thank you, Mrs. Donaldson.”
“If you change your mind, help yourself.” Mrs. Donaldson led my mom into the kitchen. Mom was going to give Mrs. Donaldson gardening advice.
I was wondering whether they would hear the TV if I turned it on when Wendy said, “I got the new Ballerina Barbie. Her outfit is real cute! Wanna see?”
“Yes!” I jumped up and followed Wendy.
A door slammed. Nails scampered against the oak floor.
“Uh oh, Ralph,” Wendy said. She grabbed my hand and walked faster.
The scritch-scratch of nails scraping against the floor got louder. I looked over my shoulder. The biggest German Shepherd that I’d ever seen woofed and started chasing me. I let go of Wendy’s hand and ran for the front door.
“No, Ralph. No!” Wendy shouted.
I sprinted faster, afraid that the dog would bite off a chunk of my ass.
Paws slammed into my back.
“Ralph, down. Bad dog!” Wendy screamed.
“Mom!” My shrieks melded with Wendy’s as I fell. I was so scared, that I hardly noticed the pain when my bare knees and elbows hit the wood floor.
The beast pressed his snout against my crotch and made snorting noises.
I flailed my legs and rolled onto my back, struggling to get away. My head banged against the wall.
The dog growled and shoved his snout harder against me.
I felt drool and hot breath on my left thigh. The creature was trying to get his long nose up my shorts.
I raised my fists and pounded on his head, but he only flinched and kept burrowing his snout.
Just as Mom and Mrs. Donaldson appeared in the hallway, my foot slammed into the dog’s belly with a satisfying thud.
“Naughty Ralph,” Mrs. Donaldson said. She dragged the whining beast away by his collar.
I stood up, trembling.
“Are you okay?” Mom patted my shoulder.
I didn’t know whether to cry or scream. I couldn’t believe my first sexual experience was with a dog.
At the end of the summer, my parents invited the Donaldsons to stay with us at our family’s beach house in Ocean Park, Washington. My grandfather bought the beach property during World War II when land at the shore was cheap. When Dad was a kid and his little sister got polio and rheumatic fever, he and the rest of the family moved to Palm Springs, California. My grandparents kept the beach property as a vacation home. Grandpa built the two-bedroom cottage next to the main house so there would be enough room to invite guests. Mom and Dad didn’t tell the Donaldsons it was okay for them to bring their horny dog.
I heard Ralph before I saw him on the porch, scratching at the screen door. The main beach house had only one door, one way to get in or out, unless you were brave enough to go through the cellar. The cellar light didn’t work, and the last time Mom went down the cellar stairs she found a black widow spider guarding an egg sac. When she showed me the shiny red hourglass on the creature’s butt, I thought it looked like a beacon, signaling that any human it bit would have only minutes to live. Mom joked that the black widow might be a descendant of some crafty spider that had hitched a ride from Palm Springs in my grandparents’ luggage. Mom sprayed the mother spider and the egg sac with pesticide, but what if some of the baby spiders had survived? And what about the father spider? There might be a dozen black widows, a hundred black widows, lurking in the cellar, waiting to feast on me.
Ralph lay down on the porch, put his head on his paws, and whined. His eyes looked weepy.
Mom shoved the screen door open.
Ralph didn’t follow her when she walked towards Mr. Donaldson’s BMW; he kept staring at me. I wasn’t about to fall for his I’m a good dog ploy. I knew he wanted to get his snout up my shorts.
After the Donaldsons unloaded their stuff, Mom returned. “Don’t worry, Ralph will stay outside. All their damn dogs are crotch sniffers.”
Dogs? I glanced at the fireplace poker. It was the only weapon in the house other than kitchen knives. “They brought another dog besides Ralph?”
“No, Higgins died. He was even more obnoxious than Ralph.”
Ralph must’ve been listening to us. He raised his head and whined.
“Hit him on the nose if he gets too close,” Mom said.
Though I wanted to believe that Ralph wouldn’t get inside the house, as a precaution, I changed out of my shorts into jeans.
All day long, Ralph lurked on our porch. When Wendy and Kristie went outside to make a sandcastle, he didn’t follow them. It got dark, and Ralph ate a bowl of kibble and slurped up some water, but he didn’t leave his post by the screen door. He must have had a huge bladder.
The Donaldsons joined us for dinner.
I helped Mom to set the tables. The adults sat at the dining table, and the kids sat on a sofa and loveseat set up around a coffee table.
Ralph licked his chops when I walked past the screen door, carrying the garlic bread. When we sat down to eat, I couldn’t see Ralph, but I heard his tail thumping against the porch.
I’d just finished my butter clams when Mr. Donaldson sat next to me at the kids’ table. I thought he was going to apologize for bringing Ralph, but instead he looked at his youngest daughter and said, “Did you like the clams?”
“They were yummy,” Kristie said.
Something rubbed against my leg. I looked down. It was Mr. Donaldson’s thigh. His legs were a lot furrier than my dad’s.
I tried to scoot over, but my little sister wouldn’t budge. The brat smirked at me.
Why hadn’t Mr. Donaldson sat on the big sofa with his daughters? He probably didn’t realize he was bothering me.
Wendy grabbed the last slice of garlic bread. I fidgeted as she chomped on the crust. Mom had taught me that it’s rude to get up from the table when someone is eating. I was about to offer to go to the kitchen and make more garlic bread, when I felt a big hand on my knee.
“Gotcha!” Mr. Donaldson’s fingers moved like spiders, racing up and down my thigh.
The last time someone tickled me, I almost peed my pants.
I wished that I could beam myself away from the creep, but teleportation devices only existed in science fiction. I tried to squirm away, but Mr. Donaldson kept groping me. “Stop it!” I said.
My sister giggled, enjoying my plight, as I begged Mr. Donaldson to stop in an increasingly urgent voice.
He laughed, and his hands pressed harder against me. When he got to my crotch, I grabbed my fork and stabbed Mr. Donaldson’s thigh.
He bellowed and jumped away from me.
“Apologize,” my father shouted. There was a vein throbbing in Dad’s forehead, a sure sign that I was in real trouble.
Mr. Donaldson rubbed his leg. There was a row of red spots amongst the curly blonde hair, right below the hem of his white tennis shorts, but not much blood.
My fist tightened around the fork. I didn’t want to apologize. I wanted to jab that thigh again and again, until it looked like meat tenderized by a steak mallet.
“Alicia,” Mom said.
I set the fork on the table. “I’m sorry.”
If I had to look at Mr. Donaldson for one more second, I might grab the fork and finish the job. I took my plate and water glass and headed for the kitchen.
Instead of doing the dishes like a good girl, I grabbed a spoon and opened the refrigerator. Blueberry cobbler. There was enough left in the casserole dish for three people, but I was too angry to share. I pulled off the plastic wrap and stuffed a spoonful of the sweet blueberry filling in my mouth, then another spoonful, and another. It was almost gone when I heard sneakers squeaking across the linoleum. I stood up so fast, that I bumped my elbow against the refrigerator and dropped the casserole dish on the floor.
“Some of your father’s lawyer friends are pigs,” Mom said. She picked up the casserole dish, checked to see that it wasn’t broken, and set it on the counter next to the sink. “I had a little talk with the bastard. He won’t bother you again. He deserved to get stuck.”
The next day, it wasn’t sunny or hot enough to wade in the ocean. The Donaldsons had planned to stay at the beach for three more days, but I hadn’t seen Mr. Donaldson since I’d stuck him, and Ralph had slunk away in the night.
Wendy and Kristie wanted to go to the library and read Nancy Drew mysteries. My sister wanted to read comic books and insisted on tagging along. We met Wendy and Kristie by the beaver pond.
As we walked down the path that led to the main road, I heard footsteps crunching on the oyster-shell gravel behind us. When I saw that it was Mr. Donaldson, I wished that I hadn’t eaten such a big breakfast. My stomach churned like I was going to puke. I took a big breath to calm myself.
Mrs. Donaldson must have known that her husband was a pervert. I wondered if he cheated on her with women, or if he only went after girls. Why didn’t Mrs. Donaldson get a divorce? She seemed so normal, and she was better looking than him. I figured he was the one who taught their dogs to be crotch sniffers. It probably turned him on.
Kristie giggled when her dad picked her up and put her on his shoulders for a piggyback ride. He started making horse noises, snorting and scuffing his tennis shoes against the ground as he trotted in a circle.
I stared at the jerk; was he trying to impress me?
I figured that Mr. Donaldson would put Kristie down soon, but after trotting in another circle, he headed towards the gate. I let them pass me. I didn’t want to worry about whether the “stallion” would grab me or ogle my butt.
He slowed to a walk when he reached the main road, but still was doing his horse act.
Wendy and my sister skipped along beside the creep, laughing. If I weren’t worried that the perv might touch my sister, I would’ve turned back.
We’d almost made it to the library when Kristie’s laughter turned into a frantic cry, and she tumbled off her dad’s back. Thump. Her head hit the asphalt.
I was too terrified to scream.
Mr. Donaldson picked up Kristie. Her eyes were closed and there was a smear of blood across her face. At first, I thought she was dead, but then she shrieked.
Mr. Donaldson sprinted towards the house, holding Kristie in his arms like a baby. Wendy ran after her dad, and I followed.
My sister wailed for me to come back. She stood in the middle of the road, sobbing. I made her walk to the shoulder and hugged her. By the time she quit crying, the front of my t-shirt was soaked with her tears.
Kristie had a mild concussion and needed stitches. The Donaldsons didn’t return to the beach house after they left the hospital. I never saw Mr. Donaldson or Ralph again.
When I turned twelve, my nipples started sticking out. Mom bought me a training bra. The padding made me feel more self-conscious. Boys ogled my chest like they were imagining what I looked like naked.
Why did boobs matter so much? Sometimes I wished I could turn off my feelings and become a robot who didn’t care about what her body looked like. But maybe synthetic women got body dysmorphia, too?
I asked Mom, “What would Barbie do if she caught pervs staring at her boobs?”
“Ken’s too polite to stare.”
“C’mon Mom.” I sighed in exasperation.
“Men are like dogs,” Mom said. “Hit them on the nose if they get too close.”
Alicia Hilton is an author, editor, arbitrator, law professor, and former FBI Special Agent. Her work has appeared in Akashic Books, Breakwater Review, Litro, Mslexia, Neon, Vastarien, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. Her website is https://aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01 and Bluesky aliciahilton.bsky.social.