It's only a matter of time before I start walking the streets topless. I'm just working my way up to it.
Those of you basking in more temperate parts of the country, or in more temperate countries, may be unaware that Toronto is in the middle of what, in parts of the world that are not covered entirely with concrete, is known as a "drought." Apparently we've had less than a quarter of the summer rain we're supposed to have had by now, and the mercury has been securely stapled at 40 degrees plus for weeks with no end in sight.
What this means of course, is that the hundred or so kilometre swath of man-made rock on the northern shores of Lake Ontario is heating up to temperatures usually only seen on the inside of those stone ovens that fill us urban types happily with organic spelt flour crust pizza. Walking the concrete jungle of my hometown at the moment is sheer agony - the 40 degree weather is refracted and amplified back upon itself ad infinitem through layers of asphalt, limestone, brick and steel to create the closest thing modern folk can come to the business end of a dragon. You literally can fry an egg on the sidewalk, if you were willing to stand around outside long enough to do it.
And at the moment, we're house-sitting in a glorious old Victorian with exposed brick, hardwood floors, two bathrooms - and no air conditioning. It goes without saying that I've been immediately dropping trou the second I get into the apartment, kicking off all signs of civilization as if I was just conjured up by a certain blind author of "tis better to rule in hell" fame. Who can feel shame when walking up the stairs to the third floor revisits Orpheus' decent to the underworld?
Donne said, "Full nakedness, all joies are due to thee," and I've certainly been performing no penance due to innocence these days, wearing much less covering than a man in a way that would doubtless please that old, complicated curate.
It's not that I'm being exhibitionistic or perverse - notwithstanding the church next door - it's just that it's forty degrees outside, making hell an everywhere, and access to the angelic whirring of an a/c unit is limited to those beings further up the celestial divide. I drink apple juice, for goodness' sake - relief from this sort of climatic torment is not coming my way any time soon.
So much for that. But outdoors is another matter entirely. While nude typeing, nude cooking and nude not-reading-for-my-comps activities are harmless enough inside, it takes an entirely different mode of nonchalant self-confidence to get nekkid outdoors.
We have a nude beach here, but that's not exactly what I'm talking about. Besides, even if I could muster up the sprezzatura to fling my fabulous self into the sands of Hanlan's Point, I don't really have the equipment necessary to talk the language of the locals, if you get my drift.
No, I'm not talking of the European mode of nakedness at all. I'm talking about working up the courage to go topless, because it seems like such a shame for it to be legal and everything and to have no-one take advantage of it.
For those of you who didn't already know, in 1996 the Ontario Court of Appeal overturned a ruling against Gwen Jacobs, who was charged with public indecency after walking the streets of Guelph topless in 1991. While it was only a $75 fine, Jacobs was incensed by the judges' claim that a women's breast is "a part of the female body that is sexually stimulating to men both by sight and touch" and should therefore remain covered for the public good. Such blatant heterosexism and upholding of male privilege aside, the fact that men's chests were not considered equally "a part of the male body that is sexually stimulating to women both by sight and touch" was ultimately the law's downfall. If men are permitted to be nonsexual beings when the occasion warrants, because their right to determine how best to use their bodies for their own comfort is paramount, denying women the same right is unconstitutional.
So it is a great thing that the law was struck down, despite the strange clause that nudity (for both men and women) is only acceptable when it is nonsexual in nature. On a day like today, however, I can't imagine doing anything remotely sexual - the thought of sharing body heat with another person is irredeemably vile in weather that has me wishing I could divest myself of myself and store the extra bits in the crisper.
The question for me then becomes - do I have the ovaries to take advantage of the fact that, like a man, I can't get arrested if I peel off in a public park?
And it's a good question, but the answer is far more complicated than the simple yes that I'm inclined to respond. As much as I want to be able to enjoy the same freedoms held by my penis-swinging comrades, I can't assume that my nonsexual act will be met with a nonsexual response in the same way that theirs will. In fact, I can almost guarantee that it won't.
In something like the Dyke March or Pride Parade, where women are topless en masse, I'm less of a target for the domineering male gaze that almost universally claims my body as an object for male consumption and comment.
As it is, it's nearly impossible for me to walk down the street on any given day in any state of dress and grooming without being leered or shouted at or followed by men who are convinced that I'm soliciting their attention. For these men, my status as a woman renders me a subject of scrutiny or an object of potential acquisition. I am a conquest, a walking pair of breasts and ass, a subhuman being interesting only for what I can cook, display or suck. If I look good, I'm asking for it. If I look bad, I'm still asking for it. All is subject to the ever-present commentary of men feeling that they're entitled to let me know what they think, regardless of the fact that I haven't asked.
Often men downplay how frequently women experience such things. "Well, I've never witnessed it - therefore this must be an exaggeration. Besides,I don't know what they're complaining about. I'd like to be an object of the female gaze. That sounds sexy."
But first of all, men don't see street harrassment because women aren't accosted by men when they're walking about with other men. One of the reasons women so frequently clamour their male friends and colleagues (and even, in a pinch, a friendly-looking stranger) to walk them home or sit with them in a public place, is that we know about that strange, post-chivalric echo that says a man must respect another man's conquest. If a woman is traveling with a man, she is his property, and she is not to be approached in his presence, lest he lose face. We're back in Archie comic land: "What? You lookin' at my gurl?"
The operative word here is "my". There's gurls over there for you to look at. Leave my gurl alone. She's mine. Or else, a knuckle sandwich for you buddy, the same type you'd get if you dinged my car or threw eggs at my house. Stay away from my stuff.
Secondly, evidence has demonstrated that men do not like being the object of female sexual gaze, not one bit. Because, you see, when you're systemically reduced from being a human being to a desired object, you do not get to chose who looks at you. It might be sexy for your girlfriend, or the hot chick at the copy place to stare at you and evaluate your constituent parts with the detached, fragmenting consumption of an artist or doctor - a neat game to play in bedroom, perhaps.
But enduring such a gaze from almost every woman you meet on the street, in traffic, at work, at school, in the grocery store, at the dry cleaners or the dog run, or anywhere else you find yourself at any given time, is a different matter. Especially when you don't get to choose what kind of woman is doing the looking. It doesn't feel so sexy when someone who you find utterly undesirable is clearly imagining what you'd look like naked, or telling you that they think your ass would look lovely perched at the end of their bed. Not fun.
So as much as I'd like to (and in this heat, am entitled to) loose the twins to the summer sun, I can't. Even though it's legal, even though it's bloody hot, even though I have more than enough sunscreen and little enough inhibition - I don't think I could endure the added unwanted attention it would unwittingly invite.
Even though Castor and Pollux are now legally permitted to run free, the male privilege that flexes itself all over my daily activities will keep them firmly in their lifted and separated chains, regardless of what Dr. Donne and Milton say.
I'm just counting the days until (the) Fall.
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