I miss the days when a punk bitch could reject the constructed ideal of pink, giggly, yuppie femininity. Much in the same way she would reject the constructed ideal of the bland, clean cut yet still all-boy yuppie football hunk she was told she was supposed to fawn over. And these things whether they were agreed with or not, were simply understood as culture war (and not the Bill O’Reilly kind either.)
Culture war, not mistaken for some kind of “internalized misogyny.” Of late there have been some keyboard warrior feminists who have begun pointing fingers at their strange sisters, J’ACCUSE! Saying that to reject the pink, prissy archetype is somehow a denigration of femininity and very the essence of femaleness itself. And to a point I can understand, that some people actually like the frou-frou thing and that should be their perogative.
But I also ask; when did the all-American sweet and passive girl next door become the only way of embracing and expressing femininity? When I want to express femininely it manifests as lush scarlet velvet, black fishnets and lace, musky scented oils and tropical night-blooming flowerbeds under the glistening stars that make up the body of Mother Universe Nu. It’s the serpentine fire of my sex scent and desire rising from my clit and petal-folds and coiling itself throughout my veins. My femaleness is seeped in the blood of the womb and the blood of the heart splashes of red red lips and nips and a glint of glowing embers under heavy lashed kohl lined eyes.
And none of this amounts to a hatred of the feminine, on the contrary if I hated women I’d demand they profess love and adherence to aesthetics and lifestyles that aren’t of their own choosing.