Did you know in New York you can bare your nipples?
In public? Even if you have a vagina?
Well, I mean, you can’t show the vagina part – only the nipples. Still, it’s kinda cool. So a performance artist is taking advantage of exactly that by going all out with her girls out. Dubbed the “topless superhero”, she’s been appearing in random photos in The Big Apple with her chest apples on display – all while rocking a Barbie mask that looks like a hybrid of Bjork and Michael Jackson, the later years.
This story was one I had to stop and think about for a second.
Part of that’s because I’ve only had one cup of coffee, but the other part of it’s because of her cause: feminism. Generally when I think of “feminism”, I still have that reinforced misconception that comes to mind first – hairy arm pitted chicks taking over the globe with all the grace of the red queen and all the warmth of the ice queen. I forget the aim is meant to be “equal rights”. There’s this bit Louis C.K. does about how women used to run the world and ridicule men and go around and flick their penises for funsies. I’m not sure what the punchline to the joke was – but I think it had something to do with “and then we learned we can just hit them!” It’s hilarious, and I laugh every time, even though I suck at remembering how it goes.
And since the fact that it’s really not okay to be clonking eachother – on the head or genitals alike is so “duh” – I often wonder, what’s this “equal rights” thing all about? We vote and drive, if we get beaten we call dudes on their shit and they get punished, and Hillary might be president soon.
They even gave us this thing to hold with our hand when phallic envy gets outta hand:
But none of that is the point homegirl is trying to make (I think?). What she counters is how women are sexualized to the point where they have to cover it up like gift wrap or something, while dudes can pec flex everywhere they go. I feel you girl, but if we’re gonna do this, can we like make it a rule to keep the nekkedness above the waist? My whole deal is that when toplessness goes ubiquitous, some other performance artist’s gonna go around town in a sweatshirt and no pants or panties with a panda mask on. Then everyone’s gonna cry about the world being racist against each gender’s nether flesh. Then suddenly it’ll be okay to be totes naked. And then I’ll have to smell sweaty axe wounds and dangly bits that aren’t covered in anything by smegma drippings during hot yoga. And technically that’s nasal discrimination. Against me.
Also, I can never hold onto the safety pole of the subway, ’cause I’ll be wondering if this bad-enough-with-stretch-pants thing has happened sans at least fabric barrier:
(This photo will never get old… until someone fatter does it and a better background expresh going on than the gold glasses girl’s giving me…)
In all for-seriousness, I honestly can’t think of too many dudes who’d be offended by this particular feminist display. I think that’s why I was confused at first. And who knows. Maybe if we can evolve past the Victorian “I peeked at her bare ankle – the devil, take my eyes!” there won’t even be a need to put baby in the corner or coroner (after beating her subservient ass to death for insubordination).
And mayhaps we’ll all become desensitized enough that boobs aren’t such a BFD – whether they’re size B, F, or D.