Who Gave Men Eyes? Return to Sender

You know what’s weird? Every time I walk past a reflective surface, I brace myself like it’s an unsolicited performance review. I didn’t apply for this job. I didn’t ask to be perceived like a malfunctioning Sims character mid-wardrobe change. But apparently, I’m the unpaid worker bee of a 24/7 theatre called “How Fuckable Do I Look Right Now?” directed by men who call their exes “crazy” and have opinions about women’s eyebrows.

The male gaze is less of a glance and more of a centuries-long surveillance campaign. But try unsubscribing and you’ll find there’s no Settings tab. No email preferences. Just a pop-up ad every time you wear a crop top. The male gaze isn’t just some poetic theory from your gender studies elective. It’s surveillance capitalism for your tits. Laura Mulvey coined the term in 1975, and men haven’t shut up since.

We’re talking films, ads, art, history (everything from Renaissance nudes to Love Island contestants) all engineered to make women stare at themselves from the outside. Internalised surveillance disguised as self-expression. You’re not applying lip gloss; you’re producing content for an imaginary man who critiques contour like it’s architecture. And the worst part of it all? Half of us didn’t even know we’d signed up. One day you’re in PE class, adjusting your skort, and the next, you’re cross-referencing your own thighs against a Victoria’s Secret catalogue like it’s gospel.

Fun fact: body dysmorphia didn’t just appear. It was perfectly handcrafted. Polished. Commercialised. We’ve gone from Venus figurines with round bellies and soft tits to Instagram girls built like they’ve been carved by Tesla engineers. But it didn’t start with Photoshop. It started when women were told they were the problem and men were told they were the solution. The ancient Greeks literally sculpted ideal bodies and punished real ones. In the Victorian era, corsets existed to make your waist the size of a toddler’s neck. Now we’ve just digitised the process. Same control, sleeker font.

You ever look in a mirror and feel like a crime scene? Like you’re trying to solve the mystery of where your hotness went and why your left eyebrow is actively betraying you? That’s not biology; that’s centuries of visual oppression, honey. The male gaze isn’t just about being watched—it’s about learning to watch yourself from their angle. And then rating, adjusting, and apologising in advance. “Sorry I have pores.” “Sorry I’m not symmetrical.” “Sorry I exist in 3D.” Meanwhile, men get to look like thumbprints in baseball caps and still feel sexy.

You: Hi, yes, I’d like to cancel my subscription to the male gaze.

Rep: I’m sorry, that’s not possible.

You: Is there a reason?

Rep: You were born with a body. You’ve opted into surveillance by default.

You: Can I speak to a manager?

Rep: The manager is God. And He’s also a man.

You: Oh.

Rep: Thank you for calling the Perception Hotline. Your dissatisfaction has been noted and will be monetised.

It’s not just about being looked at. It’s about being looked for. Like your whole body is a problem-solving exercise for men who think “I prefer natural girls” while following five lip filler influencers named Chloe. It’s why female characters in films get full-body pans while the male lead gets to look like a Croc in a trench coat. It’s why you angle your face in a selfie like you’re performing CPR on your own jawline. The male gaze isn’t about attraction. It’s about control. It’s about making sure you know your worth is visual, conditional, and always under review.

Here’s a helpful breakdown of the common side effects of the male gaze:

• Checking reflections like you’re under FBI watch

• Feeling guilty for existing without mascara

• Treating cellulite like a moral failing

• Spending £50 on “clean girl” makeup to look like you don’t wear makeup

• Strategically placing houseplants in Zoom calls to distract from your face

• Googling “what do men actually find attractive” then immediately regretting it

• Blaming your personality on your hip dips

• Saying “I don’t usually look like this” as a disclaimer before sex

• Resisting joy because it doesn’t look flattering from the side

• Wanting to be loved but only from your good angles

At some point, you stop needing men to sexualise you because you’ve learned to do it yourself. That’s the horror of it. You become your own prison warden. You judge your own stomach when you sit down. You curate your outfits for mythical male approval even if you haven’t spoken to one in weeks. The male gaze trains women to become brand managers of their own bodies. We walk around like we’re in a live audition. But for what? A mediocre man with a superiority complex?

I don’t know how to fully unsubscribe yet. But I do know this: I’m no longer updating the software. I’m no longer shrinking for a viewership that doesn’t pay me. I’m not retaking the photo to appease an algorithm that would delete me anyway. My body is not a pitch deck. And if the male gaze wants a review, I’ll give it one star and report it for harassment. Because here’s the truth: the male gaze is not your fault. But once you see it, you get to refuse it. You get to become less polite, more delusional, and so confident it borders on threatening.

“I am not a mirror. I am the fucking view.”

Let them adjust their lens.