My 20-Year Sexy Clothes Era

For decades, I showed as much skin possible, even in inappropriate settings.

Welcome to the second installment of Fashion Fridays! Last Friday, I wrote about all the reasons why sexy clothes seem to be antithetical to “high fashion.” Today, I wrote about my own (long) history with sexy clothes, my motivations and strategies behind dressing this way, and the drawbacks and benefits. If it feels repetitive, just see it as a two-part series. Enjoy!

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I remember the first time I wore clothes that prompted a reaction from men (or, well, in this case, boys.) I was eleven, and did not think of myself as terribly attractive, due to my resemblance to a scrawny Albanian man. I was wearing a co-ord set from Limited Too—a ribbed long-sleeve striped golden yellow and navy top, with a matching vest layered over, and a pleated navy skirt with golden yellow trim. Given that my parents purchased this outfit for me at a store meant for kids, I don’t think it was designed to be sexy. But I was tall for my age (although not curvy) and it’s possible the skirt was shorter on me than it was intended.

While I was on my way to class, a boy in my class in an oversize 7-Up Yours T shirt and cargo shorts, who was best known for ordering fifty boxes of pizza to the main office and threatening another student with a plastic cafeteria knife, shouted “skank” at me, while his friends cheered him on. I had never heard this term, so at first I thought it was some inside joke unrelated to me (for the entirety of third grade, the boys in my class had shouted “sloosh” at each other until a teacher banned it.) But with no phone or Internet access, I was forced to ask a girl in my class what it meant. She told me it basically meant “slut,” a word with which I was more familiar.

Strangely, I wasn’t insulted. Although I had no desire to be a slut, being seen as a slut didn’t seem so bad. Up until that point, I was seen as a socially inept weirdo who tricked her third grade class into thinking she was an alien (joke was really on them, to be honest—I mean, they fell for that at nine?) and the only remarks I received about my appearance were negative. A girl in fourth grade told me there was a one in a million chance I’d ever get a boyfriend. To be seen as a slut was to be seen as, at the very least, somewhat pretty. Surely, you couldn’t be a slut if you were repulsive and universally unwanted.

I found myself deliberately provoking this group of boys into shouting things at me. I never interacted with them, but every morning I would look around my closet for something that might get a reaction, wear it, and then waited to see what they would say. Sometimes the remarks even became flirtatious, which was paradoxically a taboo at this age because liking girls was a little “gay.” At one point, they shouted, “hubba hubba” at me, which was oddly retro and tame, like they were getting their cues not from Tucker Max but from 1940s newspaper comics. It’s worth mentioning that none of these boys ever had a conversation with me. This song and dance continued for about six full months.

I realized wearing sexually provocative clothes enabled me to try on a new identity, which was far preferable to my previous identity as “the girl who told everyone she was an alien in a skin suit for the entirety of third grade.” I had no desire to do anything physical with boys. Even the idea of kissing a boy grossed me out. But I wanted them to see me as an object of desire, not a freaky weirdo to ignore. And so my sexy clothes era began, and continued for more than twenty years. I’m finally hanging up my hat (or more realistically, my booty shorts.) So I figured I’d write a retrospective on this era of my life—why I did it, what I learned, and whether I have any regrets.