Inamorata bralette; Chanel pants; Chanel Fine Jewelry earrings. Michael Avedon

Freshman year of college at UCLA, I took a gender studies class that I became obsessed with. This class was my first introduction to a bunch of ideas I had never been exposed to: queer theory, the concept of sexuality as being on a sliding scale, and the important distinction between gender and sexuality. At the time I considered myself a staunch feminist and had signed up for the class assuming that I’d learn a lot about women’s lib, feminist rhetoric, and so on. I was shocked by how little I understood about gender, and it made me start to examine my own identity as a woman.

Before I go any further, let’s state the obvious: I’m a cis white woman. I’m well aware of the privilege I receive as someone who is heteronormative, and I don’t pretend to act like my identity hasn’t made some things easier for me. That being said, I want to take this opportunity to speak up about what my experience as a woman has been. Two summers ago, while vacationing with my friend and her girlfriend, my friend made an offhand remark about me being “hyper femme.” It kind of threw me because in many ways, probably like anyone would, I felt that her comment was an oversimplification of my identity. In my day-to-day life, I was not aware of being femme or masc or anything but just me. Her observation surprised me and made me feel suddenly self-conscious.

“Sometimes I’m not at all feminine. Come on,” I said.

I tend to like to shave, but sometimes letting my body hair grow out is what makes me feel sexy.

She rolled her eyes.

Later that night I thought about what it means to be “femme” and why I felt sort of offended by my friend’s remark. The truth is, I thought, I love being feminine.

It started young—I remember being 13, maybe even 12, and having a distinct desire to try on lacy bras and thick gooey lip gloss. It felt fun and exciting. Sure, I’m positive that most of my early adventures investigating what it meant to be a girl were heavily influenced by misogynistic culture. Hell, I’m also positive that many of the ways I continue to be “sexy” are heavily influenced by misogyny. But it feels good to me, and it’s my damn choice, right? Isn’t that what feminism is about—choice?

Despite the countless experiences I’ve had in which I was made to feel extremely ashamed and, at times, even gross for playing with sexiness, it felt good to play with my feminine side then, and it still does now. I like feeling sexy in the way that makes me, personally, feel sexy. Period.

So why did I take offense at my friend’s remark? What was negative about being called “femme”? I realized then that my feeling was in part because of those countless experiences—experiences in which men and women had told me that if I dressed a certain way I wouldn’t be taken seriously and could even be put in danger. A middle school teacher’s comment, “You can’t expect anyone to respect you,” echoed through my head.

Still, despite all the uncomfortable remarks and warnings, being “sexy” and occasionally hyper feminine grew into something that felt like strength to me. And also, it just felt like me, which was ultimately the most satisfying feeling.

As a fully grown woman, I continue to be shocked by how, in 2019, we look down so much on women who like to play with what it means to be sexy.

Ratajkowski at the Brett Kavanaugh Supreme Court confirmation protest in Washington, D.C. Paul Morigi Getty Images

When I was arrested in D.C. protesting the nomination of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, a man who has shown a gross amount of disrespect toward women in his life, the headlines were not about what I was protesting but instead about what kind of shirt I was wearing. Even women from the left, who fully supported the purpose of my protest, made comments about my missing bra underneath my white tank and jeans. In their minds, the fact that my body was at all visible had somehow discredited me and my political action. But why?

I often think about this. Why, as a culture, do we insist on separating smart and serious from sexy?

Women historically and mythologically have always been considered untrustworthy, threatening, even dangerous. Eve was full of temptation, Medusa could turn men to stone. Camille Paglia writes in her , Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence From Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson: “The female body’s unbearable hiddenness applies to all aspects of men’s dealings with women. What does it look like in there? Did she have an orgasm? Is it really my child? Who was my real father? Mystery shrouds women’s sexuality. This mystery is the main reason for the imprisonment man has imposed on women. Only by confining his wife in a locked harem guarded by eunuchs could he be certain that her son was also his.”

As a culture we are scared of women generally, but also, more specifically, of the innate power that female sexuality possesses. A woman becomes too powerful and thus threatening when she takes strength from embracing her sex. Therefore we insist on shaming; we insist that a woman loses something when she flaunts or embraces her sexuality.

Personally, I have found the opposite to be true. I feel powerful when I’m feeling myself, and sometimes feeling myself means wearing a miniskirt. Sometimes it means wearing a giant hoodie and sweats. Sometimes I feel particularly strong and free when I don’t wear a bra under a tank top. That’s just me, in that moment.

Give women the opportunity to be whatever they want and as multifaceted as they can be.

If I had chosen not to wear that tank without a bra, that would have been okay too. If I decide to shave my armpits or grow them out, that’s up to me. For me, body hair is another opportunity for women to exercise their ability to choose—a choice based on how they want to feel and their associations with having or not having body hair. On any given day, I tend to like to shave, but sometimes letting my body hair grow out is what makes me feel sexy. And there is no right answer, no choice that makes me more or less of a feminist, or even a “bad feminist,” to borrow from . As long as the decision is my choice, then it’s the right choice. Ultimately, the identity and sexuality of an individual is up to them and no one else.



I’m definitely not saying that every woman needs to connect with their inner Thotiana; I’m just making the point that women can and should be able to wear or represent themselves however they want, whether it’s in a burka or a string bikini.



Young women are ripped apart from every angle as they grow up. In the era of selfies and social media, they are prone to immediate feedback and criticism. More than ever, they are doubting and questioning everything about their identities. The one thing they can have is their own choice. Ultimately, however one decides to represent themselves, whether it be heteronormative or completely unidentifiable, is that person’s personal choice. Give women the opportunity to be whatever they want and as multifaceted as they can be. Preconceptions be damned.

This article originally appears in the September 2019 print issue of Harper's Bazaar, available on newsstands August 20.

Hair: Peter Gray for Kérastase; Makeup: Hung Vanngo; Manicure: Jini Lim for Dior.