I have to admit – I never know how to be raunchy. It mystifies me. I can’t fit my psyche into what it takes to be sexy. It’s over my head. I did try.
Stockings and stilettos don’t do it for me. These are my eyes, my breasts, my buttocks, in contrast and compared to the girl next door – I feel like a piece of meat.
It’s the meat, not me, you find seductively poured into the lycra stereotype of pop idolatry since the seventies. Now I’ve sucked myself in and zipped up my true self – nice ‘n’ tight.
I can’t fight my sisters for a man.
It never made sense, but they mesmerised me, those bad black clad buxom bitches who reeled in the boys on tv. At parties, movies, performances, and in the playground at high school. Emulating those damaged women was our egregoric teen dream.
Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen – no wonder we end up with blogs like Real Christian McQueen. Damaged Women. Well, who is doing the damaging?
My sexuality is wild and innocent. My fourteen year old wanted to roll in meadows in flowery dresses spouting rhymes. Let’s just get naked. Let’s just dance, all together, all genders, sky clad beneath full moons drunk on living, fire and music. Purity… lost at puberty. Regained in the fringe scene. Abhorred in the mainstream.
I tried to do the bitch scene, like a pop queen, and I failed miserably. Coz it was all artifice, to me. I was already open, ready to fall sweetly in love as easily as I opened my sex to caress. I was born to offer this body as sacred sexuality.
That’s not raunchy. That is purity.
Now I sit as pure yogini, my peers sneer. Get witchy, they cry, pouting in black and being “wild.” The wildness they be is but a creation of patriarchy.
There were no witches before the Malleus Maleficarum. All the burning herbalists wore plain cotton herbalist clothes. Walt Disney gave the witches holey stockings, Morticia skirts and sexy manicures. Add a dash of Wild West prostitute corset and voilà, we think we are emancipated women.
Surely Eurydice Dixon was wearing a sensible dress when she was (allegedly) raped and murdered? She always wore this on stage.
I dress sensibly – now – too. I’ve learnt to shroud my innocent, pure sexuality beneath layers of hemp and merino. No yoga babe, I fit loose (ha ha) harem pants and shawls, India style. I tired of the competition and the shame.
I tired of Miss Raunchiest fame – the separation of the sisters by sexual desirability. Just another (yawn) device to divide and conquer by.
Conquering femininity with lipsticks and fishnets, with lycra, lace and Victoria’s secrets; we lie bereft, sexualised, and hold nothing back. How can we, when the girl next door who’s putting out gets all the glory?
Denying purity, sanctity, the naturalness of sexuality – we all end up saying #metoo.