"Fuckable" Is Overfuckingrated

Enough Paulina …

Young. Lovely. Clueless.

I just found these photos. I utterly forgot that we ever made them. “We” was me and a photographer who I guess back then I called a “friend.”

I am so coy here. And very, very young. You know the drill — it was the '70s, I was new in New York, met him at a Soho party. He was dressed in a disco white flaired suit. The suit I remember. The face? Naaa. He did me lots of “favors.” Shooting pics of me, pals, family. The favor I paid back was — no — I didn’t f*** him — but when I see the look on my face here — faking the you are AMAZING with a side of completely unfaked PLEASE don’t touch me — deeply uncomfortable then and now. In fact, that mutherfucker was a pig throughout the shoot. And every shoot. The price I paid for mediocre pictures.

You just put up with it. THEN. It was invisible, something we didn't even realize we could speak up about. Good riddance to that bullshit.

And speaking of invisible, Paulina Porizkova is talking a lot about this on Insta these days — no expiration on sexy and the whatnots. I LIKE a lot of what she does, what she says. But — I mean — you win — you're a bloody model. You're posting jaw-dropping gorge photos TOTALLY looking for “am I f***able” outside validation at 50. Don’t put that shit on us. Fitness, sure, but fuckable is overfuckingrated.

“You just put up with it. Then. It was invisible, something we didn’t even realize we could speak up about.
Good riddance to that bullshit.”

In my family of 5 sisters, the eldest one was, without a doubt, the GODDESS. THE sex bomb. Too much emphasis on this in our clan, but she was worshiped — the Liz Taylor type. She came up in the '50s. Mad Men territory. And that was the business she was in. She WAS Joan.

I remember fishing with her, decades later, solidly in her 60s, a bad-ass broad, with her body — well — she looked like a bumblebee and she loved it. I asked her if she missed being the babe — the sexy young thang — her response: "Hell no. I was absolutely tortured for it …."

I'm NOT saying here accept being “invisible.” HELL NO. But being young and being attacked on the streets or creeped on at photoshoots makes who you are invisible. In her bumblebee stage, my sister was more visible than ever. We all get to be visible for who we absolutely are. If we own it. And today? I would have clocked that asshole right in the crotch for messin' with me.

So let's do it — be VISIBLE as the older, powerful Glorious Broads that we are. Nobody else’s idea of “f***able” — OUR OWN idea. Get botox if you want to. Do whatever the hell you want. But recognize. Decades change you. And that's OK. In fact, it's better.

#MeToo Musings: Holidays, Sisters — and Harvey

Big sis Dee. Lil’ sis me. We didn’t have a clue.

The newly svelte (facing a lifetime in jail — an excellent diet) Harvey Weinstein and his army of lawyers released a 25 million-dollar settlement. The beast remains free on bail, once judges doubled his bond after he (allegedly) dicked around with his ankle monitor like he (allegedly) dicked around with (at last count) 87 women. What does $25 mil getcha? He's “not required to admit to wrongdoing” — pleading not guilty to raping any of the women who came forward. He gets to say the rapes were all acts of consensual sex. Nice.
What’s particularly interesting to me about the Harvey case is the different generations of women involved. Weinstein’s accusers range from late boomers to millennials. Like Cosby, Harvey’s been at it for a long time — with charges that go back decades. If this settlement goes through, it signals to (rich) shithead abusers that they can get away with — whatever.

And this got me thinking of the current stories — and solidarity — of the #MeToo movement — when the younger generation said: We’re not standing for this.

Alas, 'twas not always so. I saw E. Jean Carroll, author of “What Do We Need Men For,” famous for getting grabbed (and ‘allegedly’ raped) by our fine President, give a talk recently — I RELATED. In my day, growing up in the 50s, on the work force in the 70s, we didn’t want to be seen as victims. We didn’t want to whine. We laughed off the everyday harassment, buried the humiliation. We wanted to work. So we ate it.
I remember day-dreaming as a kid, my top talent at the time, sprawled out on my sisters' bed (always two to a bed) while they were out on one of their “dates” (they were very popular.) I’d roll around in one of their sexy kitten tight sweaters and hoop skirts, filling myself up with wistful songs, flirtatious tunes, 45s spinning away on their “record player.” One of my favorites was Patti Page, and the refrain of the tune I loved was “Don’t you know a girl means yes when she says no.” I can still hear the melody, though I can’t find a trace of the song anywhere today. Maybe they scorched it.

Wise.

Almost as bad is the holiday standard “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”— jaw dropping conversation between a hunter and his soon to be lip smackin’ meal ... a trapped girl.

So many messages received with the same theme: This is the way of the world, girls. Carry on.
And we did. We put up with it. We thought we had to shut up, move on and not talk. Well, we gabbed plenty to each other — about one “horn toad” or another “perv” to look out for. That was our code. Don’t get caught alone with that bugger. But we didn’t know. We didn’t know the value of our voices outside our own circles — then.

But 20-somethings? They aren’t taking it. It's the difference between thriving on “Broad City” vs. “Sex & the City.” It's Emma Watson offering free legal advice on sexual harassment. It's Miley Cyrus reworking the sexist B.S. lyrics of ‘Santa Baby.’ These young Glorious Broads are saying NO. And they are being heard.
So for me — no more "Baby It's Cold Outside." My holiday wish is a world where women — all generations — support and protect each other. And, oh, that the (alleged) rapist motherfucker gets to rot in jail ... like a certain other celebrity.

Happy Holidays!