the male gaze

I flail my arms and breathe loudly using my hands when I speak as I continue to plunder over my words, embarrassment always seeping into the depths of my stomach and my mind, they’re telling me about how revolting I may look; not attractive at all in the male gaze. when a man flails his arms they say he seems to be elegant doing so, no, manly, powerful, all the things we can never be. and when I wave my hands capturing their attentions finally, they seem bored at my words but interested in my skirt. discerning looks casted my way but smiles directed towards my waist. like does this body seem to have nothing else to offer in the male gaze? did i just cast myself as an intellect worthy of male attention or an available woman hoping to satisfy their desires. we might never know.