Tag: feminist

I’ve always had a problem with being sexy. I remember learning the word as a young girl, and, understanding the notion as generally as “ladies who stick their boobs out, wear heels and tight dresses and boys like them”, I was eager to jump into my mother’s stilettos and try on her bra, stuffing it with mandarins to give it some purpose.
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As far as I could recall, “sexy” was something embodied by many public representations of women – on magazines, in music videos, on tv and in movies. It seemed to me as if it were something natural for a woman to be. Something desirable, essential and expected. But once I was old enough to truly understand the definition of the word (and consequentially old enough to possibly be defined by it) I was disturbed at how disconnected I felt from it. Like many teens and young adults, my attempts to embody what I assumed to be an intrinsic feminine trait, felt clumsy, awkward and inauthentic.
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This bothered me, as I thought it meant I was flawed in some way. That I was less than what a real woman was supposed to be. If sexy was about the tight skirts, push up bras and black stillelos – well, I had those! And if it was supposed to be about body confidence and being comfortable in your own skin, then you’re asking a helluva lot from those of us whose feelings of personal, feminine inadequacy are constantly reinforced with each glimpse of unattainable, manipulated, and unrealistic beauty standards.
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As much as I wanted to shun this need to be sexy, and rebel against the stifling and self-serving expectations of the male gaze, I instead made a decision that would make Germaine Greer’s self-respecting, feminist stomach violently turn. I started pole dancing.
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Under the guise of “getting fit and having fun” I was desperately hoping to unlock the secret to my apparent lack of sexiness. But in between every awkward body roll, clumsy hip thrust and ugly stiletto stumble, I slowly began to understand that when it came to being sexy, none of us there had a fucking clue. We’d shake our hips and flick our hair and burst out laughing because “being sexy” was about as natural to us as it would be for a Labrador to be a concert cellist. Only, Labradors aren’t constantly stifled by society’s pressure to be concert cellists. And they don’t feel inadequate and less dog-ish because they’re actually pretty shit at cello.
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Sexy is tough, and no one likes to admit that. Because admitting that is not sexy. Sexy should be “natural” and “visceral” and “effortless”. Only, for most of us, it’s not. And why should it be? It’s not like breathing. We won’t die from not “being sexy” (except Kate Upton. She’d probably die.) People will want to have sex with each other regardless of whether “sexy” is even a thing, and that’s the exact reason WHY it’s even a thing so sexy pretty much exists in spite of our ability to be it or not!
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So you’re not bringing sexy back – so what? You aren’t any less because of it. We should separate ourselves from the assumption that it’s an intrinsic and essential element of femininity, and we shouldn’t allow ourselves to be defined by it. You are who you are, sexy or not, and if you’re not and you wanna be, go learn. If it makes you feel good, then great. But, butts aside, know that in spite of all the traditional notions of candlelit bedrooms and black lace lingerie, sexy can be whatever you want it to be. And to be totally honest, a packet of Burger Rings and the third series of Blackadder is looking pretty sexy right about now…