My slutty dress

I recently purchased a dress from ASOS. I was hesitant to buy it because it’s a style I don’t normally wear. It’s very body con and form-fitting and my style tends to be either 50’s style full skirts and dresses or floaty maxi dresses. But it was on drastic sale and I’m a sucker for a bargain. It arrived and I tried it on. Yep, very body con. It’s almost like very floral lingerie.

Surprisingly, it’s pretty comfortable for how form-fitting it is. However, the way the back of the dress dips incredibly low so I can’t wear a bra, it leans towards cleavage-y slut bomb. (Buffy reference. I am the biggest Buffy nerd there is). When I tried it on, I said out loud, ‘I don’t think I feel comfortable getting on public transport in this.’ I felt like there was too much body on display.

I was immediately angry. A little at myself for buying into it, and a lot at the mindset that is considered the norm when a woman wears anything form-fitting and has her body on display. After all, what is the usual first question people still ask whenever they hear about a woman who was raped? ‘What was she wearing? What was she doing?’ Like that has any bearing whatsoever.

So, am I completely supposed to cover up my body? Head to toe? Am I ‘not allowed’ to wear tighter clothing because of my weight? Why can’t I wear something just because I enjoy it? Why do I have to worry about what people will say? Why do I have to fear what might happen if I do? It’s a body, not a bomb.

In my younger days, I used to wear whatever the hell I wanted to wear. I did the ball gown skirts, the rainbow chokers, the tie-dyed slip skirts and docs. I wore cleavage-y slut bomb outfits with abandon, never caring what people thought or said. I don’t know if I was unaware or just didn’t care.

If I just didn’t care, I think I want that back. I hate fear. I don’t want to be ruled by it. My worries reminded of this poem I found. I want this attitude:

What Do Women Want?
by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

(Image Credit)