femininity

“Echoes of Wisdom” is a Feminist Allegory

Kate Sloan

One of the nice things about having my own blog is that I get to write about whatever the hell I want, and nobody can stop me! And today, I feel like talking to you about video games. One video game in particular, actually: Echoes of Wisdom, the latest addition to the Legend of Zelda series.

I’m no old-school Zelda nerd, having hopped onto this game franchise’s bandwagon with 2017’s Breath of the Wild, the open-world adventure often heralded as one of the best video games of all time. But I’ve become a big enough fan since BotW that I was thrilled when the team announced Echoes of Wisdom – especially since it’s the first main-line Zelda game where you actually get to play as Zelda.

Inevitably, there was Discourse about this choice. I didn’t go looking for it, because I’ve read more than enough “Women ruin everything with wOkE!!1!” tweets to last me a lifetime. Never mind that the series’s usual hero, Link, was specifically designed to be androgynous-looking so that players of all genders could relate to him better – there will always be gamer bros who think diversity and social progress are the enemy, and I’m happy to let them keep playing in their tiny little sandboxes while the rest of the world grows up and moves on.

I follow many Twitch gamer boys who are not insufferable misogynist assholes, however, and I found it delightful to watch their first playthroughs of Echoes. No one said a damn thing about it being weird to play as a girl. Instead, some of them exclaimed, with smiles gleaming and controllers clacking, “It’s so cool that you get to play as Zelda in this one!”

Having played through Echoes myself, I see it as a feminist allegory – and not just because you play as Zelda. I have no idea how intentional this was on the part of the creators, but I do know that this is the first Zelda game to have been directed by a woman, which is telling!

Let me give you a breakdown of some of the things I noticed when playing Echoes through a feminist lens. (Spoilers ahead!)

Your (evil) heroes & protectors

(Content note: brief mention of sexual assault + harassment)

In some of the first plot points of the game, Link – who has rescued Zelda from harm countless times before, and is her literal heaven-sent protector – gets stolen away by an evil entity. Left in his place is a body-snatcher-style copy of Link, who has all of Link’s raw power and battle skill, but none of his warmth and goodness. His eyes, once friendly and kind, glow red with rage now. He may have saved her life a hundred times, but now he wants to end it.

“Dark Link” is one of the first bosses you face in the game, and I found this fight genuinely chilling. It reminded me, viscerally, of all the times a seemingly-trustworthy man has shown me his true colors – whether by sending unsolicited dick pics to my friends, going on a random slut-shaming tirade, or (yup) touching me in ways I hadn’t consented to. It’s deeply unsettling when this happens, and it can and does shake the very foundations of my ability to trust anyone.

Similarly, Zelda’s own father – the king of Hyrule – is also replaced by an evil body-double, who immediately declares Zelda a criminal and has her thrown in jail. All of the men Zelda should be able to trust are working against her at every turn, with hatred in their hearts. Like, damn; what a #relatable #mood.

Resourcefulness as a virtue

The main gameplay mechanic in Echoes is the ability to create, well, echoes – illusory copies of various objects and monsters, which you can use for both combat and puzzle-solving throughout the game. This stands in stark contrast to most Zelda games, where you play as Link and can raze down enemies yourself, with your sword or bow.

Whereas Link’s god-given power is courage, Zelda’s is wisdom (hence the title of this game). I was reminded, while playing, of the Audre Lorde quote about how “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” While I agree with that brilliant sentiment in matters of real-life inclusion and activism, it’s interesting to see how Zelda literally uses the tools of her oppressors against them throughout this game. She can send a flaming bat flying at Dark Link’s head, or hide in a clay pot to sneak past prison guards, or sic a band of murderous lizards on the jacked centaur trying to unalive her – but only after she’s “learned” these echoes, often from her enemies themselves.

This very much reminds me of what some feminists might call “working within the system” or “playing the game” – like when, for instance, a female employee maintains a sweet smile and pleasant demeanor while strategically talking her male boss into giving her a raise, in such a way that he almost ends up thinking it was his idea, since that may be easier on his ego.

There are major limits to this type of strategy, as the Lorde quote makes clear, albeit in a different context (she was talking about race and intersectionality in feminism). But it makes sense to me that someone like Princess Zelda would be shrewd and crafty in fighting her enemies, especially since she doesn’t wield traditional weapons like Link does, and doesn’t have control over the royal military like her father does.

Power is all but inaccessible

Despite being the widely-renowned princess of the realm, Zelda doesn’t have much power, neither physically nor politically. As I’ve described, throughout the game she mainly fights by summoning echoes of objects and monsters that can do direct damage, since she herself cannot.

Well, actually, there is one way that Zelda can do direct damage without summoning an echo… but it involves transforming into Link. (You know that thing about how disguising yourself as a man can help you get ahead as a woman, because the patriarchy is stupid? Yeah, that’s a thing in video games too.)

There’s a mechanic called “Swordfighter Form” in which Zelda becomes a spectral copy of Link, capable of hurting enemies with his sword, bow, and bombs. But crucially, you can only stay in this mode for maybe 10-20 seconds at a time before your “energy” runs out, and you morph back into Zelda. These short bursts of Link-time are especially helpful in boss battles, but Swordfighter “energy” is rare enough that many players (myself included) don’t end up using this mode in normal gameplay very often.

Some of the Twitch boys I follow were very complimentary of the game overall, but noted that it would’ve been more fun if you could take more direct control over combat, like in a traditional Zelda game. They said it sometimes felt tedious to wait around, dodging enemies and watching your echoes beat them up for you, instead of jumping in and joining the fight.

Me, though? I didn’t find those parts of the game tedious at all – maybe because combat is rarely my favorite part of any game, or maybe because watching echoes kill monsters was fun for me in the same way that watching robots fight goblins was fun in Tears of the Kingdom. But even setting aside the gameplay aspect, I think it makes sense thematically for Zelda to only have limited access to power – because she does. We see at the beginning of the game that even being the fucking Princess of Hyrule can’t protect her from anything – her own father throws her in the clink, making up elaborate lies about crimes she’s committed, and everyone just… believes him. Zelda is forced to become a fugitive in her own kingdom, because her father has real power, while she herself – as a princess and a young woman – does not.

So, while those Twitch fellas’ hearts are in the right place, I couldn’t help but chuckle when they said it was frustrating to be stripped of their power and agency. It’s been frustrating for a hell of a lot of women, too – for centuries, or millennia, before the Zelda series was even a twinkle in Aonuma‘s eye.

“She rescues him right back”

The game begins with Link saving Zelda, and ends with Zelda saving Link. I love this; it’s kind of perfect, and reminded me of the end of Pretty Woman, where Richard Gere climbs Julia Roberts’ fire escape like a gallant prince seeking his princess:

Edward: So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?
Vivian: She rescues him right back.

In Echoes‘ case, some might call it a predictable ending for this Zelda-centric story, and yet it also feels like the only way it could’ve/should’ve ended. And it gestures at one of the biggest lessons I’ve taken away from the feminist movement as a whole: that true progress, safety, and joy are found only through collaboration and interdependence – and that people of all genders need help sometimes, and people of all genders can provide that help. We’re more similar than we are different, and we’re stronger when we acknowledge that.

This isn’t a review of the game, but if it were, I would tell you that it’s fun, engrossing, has cool mechanics and a kickass soundtrack, and encourages creative problem-solving – so, basically, it’s a banger.

But with all of that being said, I think one of the coolest things about Echoes of Wisdom is that it’s a story about womanhood, directed by a woman, in a series where a woman has long been the figurehead and MacGuffin but never the hero. Players have been rescuing poor helpless Zelda for decades; this latest version of her can save her fucking self, something I always wish more women felt empowered to do. But that is why we fight, and that is why we will continue to fight.

Sweat Worship, Armpit Love, & Fart Porn: How Kink Taught Me to Embrace Being Gross

Kate Sloan
Armpits ahoy! Photo by Cadence Lee back in 2017

Here’s un petit peek behind the Girly Juice curtain: when I’m asked to write a sponsored post for a client, usually there’s a particular “anchor phrase” I’m supposed to incorporate as a link. I use these client-provided phrases as my jumping-off point for brainstorming topics that could include them.

In this case, the client’s requested anchor phrase was “fart porn” (more on that later), and I knew immediately that I wanted to write about being “gross” and how that idea fits in with the cultural conditioning I’ve received as a woman – plus the ways that kink has helped me work through some of these anxieties. Come with me on a smelly journey into the realm of fetishes often viewed with disgust by those who don’t have them, and even sometimes by those who do…

 

“Women are supposed to be clean”

It’s funny/horrible how often women are held to standards that are literally inhuman (especially the more heterosexist swathes of society). We’re not supposed to have opinions or speak our minds. We’re not supposed to have our own goals in life, unless they can be neatly tacked onto the goals of whatever man we end up married to. We’re not supposed to wear comfortable clothes, lest we look frumpy; to skip makeup, lest we look ugly; or to let our body hair grow out, lest we look… I dunno… like mammals? And we’re certainly not supposed to sweat, excrete, or smell less-than-fresh – ever. We’re basically supposed to be beautiful robots who never complain, never age, and always handle our own maintenance in private.

For reasons that should be self-evident, this infuriates me. While I personally don’t feel any particular pull toward, say, growing out my armpit hair, spouting a constant stream of toilet-humor jokes, or pumping iron at the gym til rivulets of sweat roll down my back, I nonetheless think it’s fucked up that men can do all of these things without anyone blinking an eye, but if a woman does them, she’ll be judged as a failure of femininity by many segments of society. Fuck off with that shit! Let women be people! Let women be gross!

 

Fetishism as a portal to empowerment

In 2017-2018, I briefly dated a lovely person who had many fetishes I’d never encountered in partners before, from knives to robots to mortal peril. (Shout-out to those of you who read that sentence and immediately knew exactly who I’m talking about, lol.) They were also into armpits, especially sweaty armpits, and specifically requested that I skip deodorant when we’d be hanging out, because they wanted to experience the natural smell of my sweat, and even wanted to lick the sweat from my armpits.

We discussed all of this and I was open to it – there was no coercion here whatsoever, just so we’re clear! But I’d be lying if I said I felt 100% fine about it. It’s always scary at first to rebel against the rules you’ve been taught your whole life, especially if you’ve been told over and over again that your desirability, loveability, and value as a person are contingent on following those rules to the letter.

I had barely even experienced my own natural sweat smell in many years, having started wearing antiperspirant religiously when puberty popped off in middle school. I was so terrified of being mocked by the other kids back then, the way I’d seen other kids get mocked (which sucks too – we have no idea what circumstances were going on in their life that led to them showing up to school unshowered!). I remember taking the train out to visit this new beau, and surreptitiously wiping the antiperspirant off my underarms with a wet napkin en route – and even just doing that made me feel gross, in a way, like I was wiping off my good-girl femininity.

But through subsequent sessions of decadent armpit worship (which feels better/is hotter than I had anticipated!), sexting about “gross” fetishes with that partner and some others that followed, and (yes!) occasionally checking out stuff like fart porn and dirty foot worship porn just to see what’s out there, I’ve learned that the very things we’re taught to find disgusting are things that some people love more than life itself.

Hell, just yesterday I saw a post on the /r/RandomActsOfMuffDive subreddit that said, “I’m looking for someone who has a strong-smelling pussy. If you are worried you stink, that’s what I’m looking for… Just want to smell you and share in your body. If you are nervous about the way you smell, I will like it.” I’ve heard from so many people that they worry their genitals smell bad/weird, and I imagine it could be affirming and even healing to hook up with someone who actually prefers whatever you’ve got going on. What a revelation!

 

Being gross now

I’ve been interviewed a lot about my sex life and relationships (among other things), and I’m often asked about the logistics of long-distance relationships, since I’ve been in one for over six years at this point. One thing I’ll often say in these interviews, in a jokey tone that belies how absolutely true it is, is that I really value how LDRs don’t require me to shower. If I’m having a tough time with depression and/or chronic pain, I’ll sometimes skip showers for 2-3 days, leaving me grimy and unshaved – and I love that being long-distance means I can do that without needing to worry about how it’ll affect my partner. After all, they can’t smell me during phone sex!

But it’s also affirming that sometimes they’ll ask me to send them a pair of my used panties in the mail, sealed up in a Ziploc to preserve the scent – or, when we’re physically together, they’ll sometimes huff my sweaty shirt or socks when undressing me before sex. There are definitely still times when this horrifies me on a visceral level – like, “No, don’t do that, you’re gonna find out I’m human!!” – but there are also times when it feels like unconditional love, because it kind of is. My partner adores me no matter how gross or clean I happen to be at any given moment, because they see me as a full person, not just a robot who’s failing to perform femininity the way she was programmed to.

Kinks are fun and hot, yeah – but they can also be healing. They can help you unlearn the old bullshit calcifying in the back of your brain, and replace it with stuff you actually believe – including, if you like, the belief that human bodies may be gross, but they’re also glorious, strange, and miraculous. I think that’s fucking beautiful.

 

This post contains a sponsored link. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

A Femme Lady in a Bulldog Chest Harness

Kate Sloan

It’s funny how your fashion choices can sometimes reflect an identity you haven’t even realized is yours yet. Take, for example, the pal of mine who delighted in dressing “like a lesbian” before she even knew she was queer, or my genderfluid beau who rocked Oxfords and bowties while still squarely identifying as a girl, or even my rock-star little brother who picked up a punk flair before ever picking up a drumstick. I feel this way about kinky aesthetics: they bounced around my brain long before I realized I was kinky, and maybe that means those kinks were there all along.

See, when it comes to kink, I was a relatively late bloomer. I believed I was vanilla many years into my sexual career – perhaps due to inexperience and a lack of self-knowledge, or perhaps because I was dating people who just didn’t bring my power-exchange proclivities to the surface. I was 23 by the time I seriously tried on the “submissive” label – and even then, it was tentative, theoretical. Black leather crept into my aesthetic before it progressed into my fantasies. I wore a collar and harness boots for how they looked and not how they could be used to fuck or submit. I blended leather-scented cologne with my femmier perfumes to add a kinky kick to my sillage.

I hadn’t given much thought to this history until last summer, when a vanilla-leaning femme friend asked me, in hushed tones, whether I thought it was “appropriative of kink culture” for her to wear a collar purely decoratively. I think in her case, borrowing from BDSM fashion was a subtle nod to that subculture – while when I did it, it was a cry to be noticed and welcomed by a community to which I somehow already knew I belonged. (A dominant boyfriend of mine once bemoaned this mismatch: “Now that places like Forever 21 are selling collars, I never know who to flirt with anymore!”)

Once I’d thoroughly explored my interests in collars and cuffs, I started to feel that familiar femme longing toward leather chest harnesses. These are traditionally associated with gay male culture and specifically with puppy play: a handler can attach a leash to his pup’s harness and tug him around. Do some Googling on bulldog-style harnesses and you’ll see plenty of references to how “masculine” they are, because of how they highlight a broad, brawny chest. I own a feminine-as-hell chest harness, too, but somehow I kept returning with aching curiosity to the classic look of a black leather bulldog harness. So I asked Spectrum Boutique to send me the one they carry, and tried it on with timid titillation.

It’s clear that this type of harness is not designed for people with boobs. It presses down on the tops of mine in a vaguely restrictive manner, and doesn’t even push them together for bonus cleavage. It yearns to stretch across flat expanses, but instead, I make it traverse my cushy curves. The effect is distinctly gender-weird when I clasp it over my girly dresses or thin crop tops.

But much of kink is about tiptoeing (or leaping, or pirouetting) into territory you daren’t explore in your everyday life. Within the confines of kink, I can be a little girl, a kitten, a Victorian housewife seeking treatment for her hysteria. Gender lines can be blurred and pushed; see, for example, the QueerPorn scene where cis women Tina Horn and Dylan Ryan call each other “Sir” and “boy” and flagrantly exercise their “vibrant gender imaginations.” See, too, the scene I did with my Sir last month where I painted his mouth with orange lipstick, called him my good pretty boy, and slid my pink glittery cock into his ass. Messing with gender through kink isn’t always imbued with humiliation, in the manner of the businessman forced to wear silk panties that belie his brash confidence; sometimes that gender-defiance is just exploration, experimentation, play. It can be another tool in your toolbox, like a paddle or a butt plug or – yes – a chest harness.

Whether I’m wearing this harness in or out of the bedroom, I feel like I’m flagging as the sex-weirdo I am – someone willing to try edgy acts, subvert norms, fight for the freedom to fuck howsoever I please. Visible markers of sexual identity, like this chest harness or the bi pride sticker on my notebook or the collar around my neck, help me stick out in a world that wants me silent and submissive (in the not-so-fun way). These sartorial signals are often extra important to people whose sexualities are systemically erased: queer femmes, for example, or bisexual folks, or disabled folks, among many other groups. Older queers sometimes mock younger ones for plastering themselves in rainbow flags, just as some seasoned kinksters scoff at “dilettantes” who load up on leather after watching their first Fifty Shades flick – but we shouldn’t tamp out these tentative explorations just because they seem surface-level. Sometimes these loud costumes are the lost shouts of a hidden identity, blooming into view.

 

Thanks to Spectrum Boutique for sending me the lovely Bruiser bulldog harness to try out! It’s available in three different sizes, to fit chests ranging from 36″ to 48″. Check out Spectrum’s wide selection of BDSM wearables if you’re craving more of the “kinky aesthetic” in your life!

3 Versions of Myself I Access Through Fragrances

Kate Sloan

“John Varvatos” by John Varvatos

I am a cisgender woman, but it is just not that simple. Gender never is.

In high school, I used to describe my eclectic personal style as a mix between a 1950s pinup girl, a 1980s teen queen, and a British schoolboy. Elements of the latter only snuck into my outfits occasionally – a collared shirt here, a silk striped necktie there – but I always felt that schoolboy somewhere below the surface, particularly as I came into my queer identity. Pursuing girls, giggling and blushing at girls in the school cafeteria, training my gaze on girls in an unabashedly desirous manner – these all brought out a butchness in me, for lack of a better term; a hard sharpness on the edges of my otherwise plush femininity.

I wondered – and still sometimes wonder – whether my once-in-a-blue-moon dalliances with dapperness are more an homage to a person I want to be, or a person I want to fuck. But then, maybe those two categories are always a Venn diagram, and it’s just a question of how much overlap exists in your personal version.

When I peruse fragrances online, I’m most drawn to notes I associate with masculinity: leather, oak, tobacco, sandalwood. It all sounds terribly sexy, for much the same reason I sigh and swoon when I encounter phrases like “blue striped button-down with the sleeves rolled up” or “freshly shined leather wingtips.” These aesthetic elements sit right in the centre of my Venn diagram of attraction and aspiration: a sweet spot where I can equally imagine myself pinned against a wall by a ravishing man who is kissing me, or being that man.

I ordered a sample of John Varvatos’ self-titled fragrance because a male xoJane writer described it as smelling “[like] you spilled a chai latte into an old leather jacket.” I could see it so clearly. Flirting with a leather-clad heartthrob in a bustling café, all waxy hair pomade and smug bravado – or being that heartthrob, and not needing to ponder petty concerns like gender, because chai and leather and flirty nerve are genderless and always have been.

There are some “men’s” fragrances that feel like drag when I wear them, coming off incongruously boyish on little ol’ femmey me. But John Varvatos melts into my skin and my gender with an uncomplicated ease. It’s masculine and powerful and sexy and bold, but coexists peacefully with my femininity and softness and docility. It’s like a men’s leather jacket I might steal from a boyfriend, that looks beefcake-handsome on him, but adorably spunky on me. It’s masc but it’s not a mask. It’s the brashest kind of boy this cis femme lady can ever be.

I love it. I want to wear it every day. I want to feel this attuned to all my gender-peculiar facets at every moment. I don’t ever want to lose that.

“Carnal Flower” by Frederic Malle

Like anyone who’s lived in a particular city for a long time, I have personal rituals tied to certain places and activities in my city. Like any introvert, many of my personal rituals involve being alone.

There are some activities I will not do alone. Though I love attending improv shows at places like Comedy Bar and the Bad Dog Theatre, I cannot go to a show solo; sipping a beer in a claustrophobic bar before the show cranks my social anxiety up to eleven, as my bad brain hallucinates judgmental eyes lingering on me from across the crowd. Likewise, I will not go to local sex club Oasis Aqualounge unless I am meeting at least one person there; the libidinous glances and bold advances of disingenuous lotharios aren’t worth enduring, even to languish in Oasis’ beauteous heated pool under the stars.

One thing I do love to do alone, however, is go to the theatre. In particular: Soulpepper, in the Distillery District.

There is something classy, mysterious, and refined about attending the theatre alone, at least in my imagination. I select shows carefully every year, spacing out my tickets so I never have to go longer than a couple months without one of these pilgrimages. It’s a special, pre-planned night out, like taking myself on a date. I get dressed up, do my makeup, spritz on some scent. When I used to live in the east end, I would get on the King streetcar, clutching a little leather purse and walking with purpose, and ride it down to the Distillery. Once there, I walk along the dimly-lit cobblestone streets, sometimes wobbling in heels (the theatre is one of the only occasions I deem worthy of heels), until I reach the warm, bright, elegant lobby of the Soulpepper theatre.

The crowd is different there from my usual haunts; it’s a lot of older people, married couples, mature professionals. Whereas swilling beer alone in the crowded Comedy Bar makes me feel like people are staring at me and think I’m weird, sipping a pint of Tankhouse in Soulpepper’s lobby gets me almost no attention at all. Everyone bustles softly around the space, waiting for the house to open, cooing gently at the posters of coming attractions, greeting each other with warm enthusiasm. There is no culture of cruising, scoping, judging or partying. I am almost always the youngest person in the room, but am otherwise invisible.

Stripped of other people’s projections, then, I am free to be whomsoever I please, and to be that woman in peace. And at Soulpepper – a brick and wood haven full of quiet theatre devotees – I am a mature, sophisticated young woman, elegant in my little dress and little shoes. I am precious and put-together, confident and collected. I am a nonexistent but aspirational vision of myself.

Frederic Malle’s Carnal Flower is often described as a “dangerous” or “sexy” scent, but I don’t get that from it at all. On me, it’s floral, summery, and feminine in a way I have never quite been. Helena Fitzgerald describes the woman evoked by this perfume as “the kind of woman I had once thought could wear perfume while I couldn’t… I am not her; through perfume I could try on her life as a costume.” I feel this too: when I wear Carnal Flower, I can gather up my guts, my smudged eyeliner and scuffed boots and crooked teeth, and compress myself into a lither, lovelier little lady. A lady who might – for example – waltz up to the bar in the Soulpepper lobby, order a glass of white wine, and sit sipping it on a leather chaise without once worrying what anyone thinks of her.

“Acqua di Gio” by Giorgio Armani

I’ve told you before about my conflicted love affair with Acqua di Gio. It’s the signature scent of someone I used to love, who never loved me in the same way. My heart’s year-long tussle with this man was all wild hope tempered with crushing disappointment. One followed the other, like a dance. We’d have a good night out, laughing over beers and sandwiches – and then I wouldn’t hear from him for days. We’d share sex so intimate, it made me believe those who use “intimacy” as a euphemism for sex – and then he’d declare how much he valued my friendship. He’d tell me that we were on the same wavelength, that we were meant to stick around in each other’s lives, that our connection was special and deep – and then he’d go off grinning goofily on dates with random women from OkCupid, looking for “the one.” I remained the one he left behind.

If I’d never been in love with someone who wore Acqua di Gio, probably its inhalation would strike me only as mildly pleasant. It might remind me of oceans, cucumbers, or musky muscled strangers fresh out of the shower. But I have been in love with someone who wore it, so when Acqua di Gio crosses my nostrils, it’s a guilty hit of glee. An endorphin rush I quickly work to suppress. Wild hope, as I’ve said, tempered with crushing disappointment.

This is a problematic reaction to have to a fragrance as ubiquitous as Acqua di Gio. I rarely go a week without passing someone on the street who’s wearing it. Every time, every damn time, I’m struck with the pins-and-needles feeling that haunted me throughout that ordeal: Will he ever love me? Why doesn’t he love me? How do I make him love me? Why doesn’t he love me? That love has since faded, but the scent is a time trigger, dragging me back into that pit I spent so long clawing my way out of. It’s a lot to grapple with, on a street corner, surrounded by strangers.

So I became interested in reclaiming the scent, reworking its fraught associations, like exposure therapy. I read an xoJane article about this a while back, and the idea resonated hard. When friends go through breakups, I tell them to make new memories in the locations that remind them of their ex – why not do the same with a scent?

There are times, while I’m wearing Acqua di Gio, when I catch a primal whiff and sink back into nostalgic sadness, wanting that Prince Charming and the promise of happiness he dangled just out of my reach. But then there are other times when I breathe deep and realize I am that Prince Charming, I can be happy, and I can and will save myself. There is hope. There is always hope.

No-Shave November Made Me Think About Femininity

Kate Sloan

I did No-Shave November this year. Not to raise money for anything (although I did contribute some dough to a family member’s Movember collection, in awe of his new beard). I just wanted to give it a shot.

I’ve been a pretty consistently clean-shaven lass ever since puberty. Ever the precocious child (and an early bloomer, hormones-wise), I wanted to know what shaving was like, so I started shaving the hair on my legs and pelvic mound almost immediately after it first came in. I have a vivid memory of my mom spotting my shaved mons in the bath (so I must’ve still been young enough that my mom was bathing me?!) and her saying disapprovingly, “That’s something adult ladies do.” But still, I continued to shave.

Like every girl, I was ushered into a world of brainwashed, media-hyped, sweet-and-sanitized femininity. There were no hairy-lady role models in my life, sexy or otherwise. As I grew into adolescence, the girls at my school became increasingly mean and judgmental, as middle-school girls are wont to do, and I never dared deviate from any norm for fear of social ostracization (which, sadly, happened anyway).

Throughout my first sexual relationship, I kept my pubes and pits shaved. My partner went through a phase where she was desperately curious to know what it would be like to go down on a bushy twat, but I would not grant her that favor. I found pubes insufferably itchy and they also noticeably cut down on my sexual sensitivity.

My second (and current) partner was surprised the first time he put his hand in my panties, having never encountered a hairless lady-garden before. This, in turn, surprised me when he told me later. I had thought of shaved pussies as the norm until then, perhaps due to the porn I sometimes watched.

These days, I’m hanging out in a lot of queer and feminist spaces, as usual, and these are the sort of environments where body hair is accepted and sometimes even encouraged. But even still, I tuck my legs under me to hide their stubble; I keep my cardigan buttoned so no one will see my fuzzy pits. Though I purposely fill my head with hairy-lady inspiration (Amanda Palmer and Sadie Lune, for example), I still feel… well, dysphoria isn’t quite the right word, but perhaps what I feel is a very mild form of it.

And the trouble is, I don’t know whether my feelings are media-influenced or whether my particular brand of girly/femme-y gender identity just doesn’t mesh with body hair. How can anyone ever know whether their feelings are culturally induced or personally valid or both?

During No-Shave November, I also grew out my bush, though I kept my labia shaved because they really do itch horribly when I let ‘em run wild. My partner has no qualms about any body hair configuration I choose – he always finds nice things to say about my body, no matter how much fur it has amassed or is missing – so that didn’t influence my decision. I grew out the longest bush I’ve ever had and spent a lot of time combing it with my fingers, marveling at how weird and unusual it felt in the context of my own body.

Ultimately, on December 2nd, after snapping the photos used in this post in my bathroom mirror, I shaved my pits. And then, earlier this week, I attacked my bush with scissors and then a razor. The smoothness feels odd after all this hairiness but it’s also reassuring; I feel more like me again. I don’t feel more attractive; I just feel less weird.

What’s your relationship to body hair?