On my soapbox
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Well, I’ve had my Saturday lie in, so second on the list is to clamber onto a soapbox. I don’t often get cross or political, but I’ve been slowly getting more and more frustrated at the scores of famous women habitually taking their kit off and passing it off as empowerment.
I think I’d be a good contender for being the least prudish person in Britain, and Lord knows I’ve spent more years in hot pants and fluffy bras and flirting with inappropriate men than I care to remember, but one thing I’ve learnt as I’ve got older is that usually an excess exhibitionism comes hand in hand with a personal justification of one way or another. Personal issues: am I too old? don’t you find me sexy? why am I overlooked? why aren’t I important to you?
Much has been made of Madonna’s latest photo shoot. I have to hold my hands up and say that for the first few seconds on seeing the pics I found myself in awe of her knockers – they’re phenomenal, aren’t they? Like those plastic breasts you buy from fancy dress shops. But very quickly my mind turned to why the hell she felt the need to show the world her body in that way, inviting us to objectify her all over again when she’s already made the point, and a lot better in the Eighties, when there really was something to prove and a sexual cause to fight. If it was to show that women in their fifties can be incredibly sexy, she should knock off the fillers and industry strength botox and embrace her age properly, without a sexuality that’s soft focus and filtered.
Anyway, I was no sooner getting over the Madonna with the boobies, when Rihanna’s photoshoot for Esquire popped up. My 5 and 7 year olds love Rihanna, and no surprises in the circumstances that my 12 year old son is *cough* showing quite the interest too. Rihanna is beautiful and sexy. She’s filthy rich and respected in the music industry. She’s also forgotten to put her knickers on and is very very damp and sweaty. Again. I get it, she wants to look hot, she has records to sell, but bloody Nora, isn’t there a middle ground?
No, apparently not, because here is Kourtney Kardashian, 9 months preggers. But no elegant Demi Moore shot here. Oh no my friends, we have moved on! Kourtney likes to cop a sneaky feel of her nethers – because she’s still sexy and up for it at all times, even when she’s about to go into labour!!! – while her orbing knockers threaten to escape the skimpy silk nightgown and start their own discussion group about the cult of Z-list celebrity.
I should hold my hands up at this point. Once upon a time I was delighted to be objectified in my itty bitty bikini on a Sydney beach by a photographer who put me in the local paper. I felt proud at the time. But I was 21, and vain and stupid. Now I’m in my forties and a lot more wobbly but I’m smart and a lot happier. I don’t care whether the world finds me attractive or repulsive because I like myself the way I am, and respect is more important than desire.
So for all those many many A-list celebrities who are avid daily readers of Muddy Stilettos – *sigh* yes you Madge, Miley, Riri – I am imploring you, grab the sheet and cover up a bit. As women we’re already the superior species. We hold all the cards. We have the babies. We rule the house. We make the financial decisions. Don’t hand the media men your sexuality on a plate. They won’t respect you in the morning.
Do you agree or think I’m talking a load of rubbish? Either way, I love to hear what you think. Go on, vent some spleen.