out of the ash i rise with my red hair and eat men like air

Because my soul is bent on world domination, my feet are strapped into stilettos, my stems are swathed in stockings, and my hem will never (ever.) pass the middle-school finger tip test.

And while I may be taking liberties with my Austen, it’s no fallacy to say that it is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a pair of fishnets must be in want of… well,  everything.

Also a truth of the absolute variety? No one takes you seriously in your fucking Juicy sweat suit.

Though my penchant for borderline inappropriate office attire should afford me a stamp of (dis)approval labeled ‘anti-feminist’ (if not tramp), the power bestowed by a swatch of (tiny) fabric is too intoxicating to ignore.

My wholly unscientific but nevertheless exemplary study of gender interactions tempered by physicality definitively demonstrated the publics’ varied reactions to one and the same girl, presented two very different ways.

Wait. What?

Defancified version follows: scrubbing about in Uggs and sweat suit, people can barely be bothered to utter a greeting. Same bat time, same bat channel, different bat suit: it’s not only men that stop and stare in your wake.

So, for your perusal, I propose a perhaps not so new kind of feminism- a movement of the sort that doesn’t understand the word ‘equal’ to mean ‘same,’ but rather embraces the authoritative advantages possessed by each sex.

Rather than spew disdain over the reality of woman’s perceived sex-symbol-status, embrace the power such veneration affords.

Disclaimer: Make sure your stilettos are tight-rope ready as the only difference between becoming an objectified example of society’s gender roles as opposed to a Rihanna-esque warrior screaming “I’m so hard,” while donning garter belts and pasties?


I choose to be a caricature of bygone-eras femininity because A) there is nothing more dangerous than a woman in fishnets and B) I am silently amused by men’s inability to ignore such physical cues. I embrace my sexuality, my advantages that are nothing more than an accident of genetics, and my femininity in an ironic ode to the politics of power play.

Because the self-same attributes supposedly contributing to my second class status as compared to the XY beside me?


They bestow an authority of which men can  nary dream, let alone possess.

But shhhhh.

Don’t tell them.

They think they’re the ones benefiting from the fishnets.

Job of the day: Burlesque performer a’la the divine Ms. Von Teese


~ by rubylocks on January 26, 2010.

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