Hanging Out at the Intersection of Poetry and Sensuality

I’m a member of this group called the Poetry Brothel. They have groups and events in dozens of cities and countries, and I have to tell you, if you ever get a chance to go to one, do it—it will blow your mind.

At the poetry brothel, patrons get the chance to buy poker chips which they can give to the “whores”—all really amazing and talented poets, both men and women—for a private poetry reading. There are public readings throughout the night as well, burlesque performances, a musical act, tarot, and other fun stuff—but the real attraction is this intimate and interactive new way to experience poetry.

It’s all quite innocent—there is, obviously, no sex. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t profoundly sensual. Having someone read you their own poetry privately—if it’s really good poetry—can be an extremely stimulating experience. But some of us are also quite scantily clad. My outfit of choice involves a corset, underwear, garters and stockings, and not much else.

I remember having a conversation with a guy at the end of a poetry brothel night. He was a visitor to New York, and his frame of reference was much more conservative—in his culture, women covered up. He asked me why the need for the scanty outfits—mine, or anyone else’s. Was it exhibitionism? Did I get a kick out of the power I had over men?

That question got me thinking—about women’s bodies, the directive to “cover up,” the supposed power we have, and my feelings about it. Some cultures and religions put the blame squarely on women for inspiring men’s “impure thoughts”—and put the burden on women to prevent that by dressing modestly. This could be as seemlingly benign as the Mormon directive to avoid tank tops and midriff-bearing shirts, or as oppressive (at least to me) as a full-length black burqa.

But the thing is, I didn’t dress the way I did for the poetry brothel to get any particular reaction from men. It wasn’t about power or exhibitionism. It was for myself. It was because that sensual, fun, intimate environment inspired that type of clothing, and I felt beautiful dressing that way. I did it for me, not them.

And I think that’s what cultures that dictate a certain way of dressing for women don’t understand. Women should be free to wear what they want—and it should be about how it makes them feel; they shouldn’t have to take responsibility for how they’re making other people feel. I think this applies to a more Western extreme as well—the pressure for women to be and dress as sexy as possible.

My more conservative-minded friend pointed out that while it might be a great ideal for women to wear whatever they wanted, they shouldn’t “tempt the tiger in the jungle”—by wearing things that provoked certain reactions, such as inappropriate remarks. My response was that a human male is not a tiger—men have the ability to control their own behavior. I said no matter what a woman is wearing, a man’s reaction is his own—and it’s up to him to control it.

In my opinion, I’m pretty sure telling a woman how to dress is a form of oppression—whether the directive is “cover up” or “take it off.”

Much later on, in another bar, I was hanging out with a male friend who had had a few too many to drink. I was wearing a jacket over a shirt that wasn’t hugely low-cut, but wasn’t exactly modest, either. In the middle of some flirtatious banter, this guy told me to “close my jacket” because I was distracting him.

Instead I looked him dead in the eye, took my jacket off, and told him to control himself. I don’t think he was expecting that—but I think all women should have the freedom to say it.