Being a voracious reader and a glutton for self-punishment, I’ve forced myself to get through a few articles and blog posts about modesty in my day. It’s like the circus sideshow, you know? They’re just freaks I just can’t seem to look away from. I get to shaking my head so much, that by the end of each damned post, I have fucking whip lash. Then I just go and do it again like I’m the submissive and the dom in some twisted relationship with myself. I force myself to gulp down these bits of writing defending modesty because I just can’t seem to grasp how grown-ups cannot see the absurdity in what they say. Like, if I keep reading them, maybe one day I will understand. But alas, there are only four things to be learned from people who write such posts. Four things, total:
1. It says that you think you’re irresistible.
You’re convinced that if you show a hint of the Bobbsey twins, it’ll send the men in close proximity to you into a sweaty, all-consuming whirlpool of desire that will end in blistered palms, divorce papers and a spike in Kleenex stock. Your daisy dukes will cause a lotion shortage for a 100-mile radius and your thigh-highs are gonna triple the number of road accidents every single time you’re out in public. You think you’re so fucking hot that men will be aborting their baby batter for hundreds of years over the mere mention of your name. According to Single Young Christian Mom, it’s not just men, either:
I feel the desire to wear the sexiest outfit in the room so that I know beyond a doubt that Ethan’s eyes will only be on me and he won’t have to make the conscious effort to turn away. But this is a selfish desire of mine. This is a desire I have to keep fighting, because while, yes, Ethan’s eyes will be locked on me, so will the eyes of others. Men, women, boys, girls, young women, young men…
Literally everyone will be falling over themselves for a look at your real estate, is that right? Move over Jennifer Lawrence, because they’ll be calling it "The Fappening II: The Second Coming." Data caps will be met and destroyed as everyone near you scrambles to upload photos of this Jeeby-lovin’ mama in “the sexiest outfit in the room.”
Right, sugar. Sure thing.
2. It says that you have absolutely no respect for or faith in the men in your life.
You think these men are so useless and unrestrained that just a flash of knee will turn them into criminally deviant sex offenders. You’re sure they lack self-control so severely, that it is fully up to you to make sure they behave. You’re positive if they didn’t have you to take care of them, they’d behave like a feral chihuahua at a pork rind convention… just ravenously consuming everything in view.
Boy, oh, boy, are these men lucky to have someone who thinks so highly of them in their lives.
Despite what you think of them, men can and do control themselves. Whether or not they react outwardly to a glimpse of boob canyon is entirely up to them. Trust them to be respectful. Most of them are, and if you get the odd compliment on the attractiveness of your tits, hun, take it. One day, they’re going to be hanging down around your knees and you’re going to miss the old days when your perky pillows made any man’s Chairman Mao stand at attention.
3. It says that you are uncomfortable with human sexuality.
You’re terrified of being turned on by a man’s magic wand and bag of tricks. You’ve been told over and over that sex is dirty, lust is sin, and the Jeeboner, blessed be his horny soul, is always watching. You’re afraid to paddle your pink canoe, lest God sees your eyes roll into the back of your head in pure ecstasy. One glimpse of a bean flick, and the big guy might send you to the lake of fire with all the other skittle diddlers, amirite? Boobs and vaginas and penises, oh, my!
4. You’re a liar.
When you write your righteous blog posts about the devil-borne evils of bikinis and why you won’t wear leggings anymore, we see right the fuck through it. Do you know how we see through it, Lil Miss Perky Tits? Because if you were serious about not wanting to be attractive or cause lustful feelings in men, you’d wear potato sacks and not apply make-up, ever. You’d stop washing and put on oodles of weight. Maybe you’d fart and burp in front of every man you meet, or eat like a slob with a trail of food down the front of your shirt every day. Lustful thoughts aren’t going to disappear because you stopped wearing low-cut tops. Men can still see your frame; they can make out that you probably have something they might like to see under there. It really doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I’ve been hit on while wearing a clown costume for a job; a greasy, polyester McDonald’s employee uniform and while cleaning baby vomit off my shirt with one hand and cradling my newborn with the other. If men are attracted to you already, changing your wardrobe ain’t gonna do shit.
If there was a god who gave us these bodies and then commanded us to ignore all possible uses and pleasures with the sole exception of one, blindingly dull scenario, well, I’d tell that god he can eat me. That is not a god I would worship. He’s like a parent who buys his 5-year-old son new action figures but won’t let him take them out of the packaging because they might be collector's items one day. It’s abusive, torturous and sadistic. What sort of person worships a god like that?
My advice is to wear what you want. Explore your sexuality and be happy with your body. Feel fine about knowing that other people see you as beautiful.
Women are beautiful. Celebrate that. Enjoy it. Take pride in the fact that you are, in no uncertain terms, a work of evolutionary art that beat incredible odds into existence and will go back to stardust before you know it. Seize the fucking day, carpe the fucking diem and just be happy in your own skin before you run out of time to do so.