I am Beket, and this is my life, not in so many words, and in so many words. Voices, mirrors, masks. That’s what I barter and traffic in, my raison d’être, as the French would say. There are also long cryptic silences. My silences, in my estimation, are morse code meant for angels. I don’t know which angels, I don’t know their names (or nameless) or faces or religious affiliations, or if they’re even real angels, but I call them angels because when I spell out the word a-n-g-e-l-s, I feel calm, serene, even a little hopeful. But I’m not here to talk about my insides and angels. I’m here to talk about the male gaze. It’s been a hot topic lately. Lately, as in several-thousand-years-lately. I’ve heard the male gaze called a bird cage for flamingos, the unicorn killer, When Harry Met Sally, the bog with a thousand obsidian eyes … I don’t need to add to that colorful list of phrases. I will keep it simple and report my observations on being observed. How I noticed men noticing me once I hit a certain age, and started filling out, as the saying goes. If I were to walk outside in a tank-top and cut-off shorts, I am guaranteed to carry the fingerprints of multiple gazes with me wherever I go. I have considered turning the male gaze back on itself by wearing a dress made of mirrors. Every look will look back on itself, every gaze will see itself gazing. A dress made of mirrors with some of the mirrors blacked out, or red X’s branding the glass. You will no longer be able to gaze without seeing yourself gazing. You can either turn away or close your eyes. Or keep looking, seeing yourself when trying to see me.