Her agency is not synonymous with moral condemnation.

Following Creepshots and/or watching objectifying pornography are quintessential to-be-expected aspects of the male coming-of-age experience. However, when a female celebrity's nudes are leaked and revealed to the public, she is viewed as a victim to the claws of Hollywood and stamped with an unerasable "slut" label. A woman who decides to film herself having sex? Fucking freak. Countless numbers of men perpetuate street harassment, catcall women on the daily, yet when a woman approaches him, she's audacious and arrogant. Hoards of men collectively drool over women out of their league, yet become disgusted when women they deem unattractive voice interest in them.

Why is a woman demonstrating agency over her own body worthy of moral condemnation? Female bodies are treated like public property, thus men feel the right to grow offended when women take ownership of what it rightfully theirs, using their bodies in ways they themselves find pleasurable. This is precisely why a painting depicting an image of a naked woman is beautiful, but when a mirror is placed within the figure's grasp, such beauty becomes understood as vanity.

The female body does not exist for the satisfaction of the male gaze, yet as a physical embodiment of the mind that resides within.

Somewhere between Codie Young and Robyn Lawley.

Sans platforms, I stand a slight sliver over 5'7.

I have never been called "overweight," "heavy" or "fat." However, with the exception of women who identify as plus-size and mistake women as belonging to one of two ideals, the last time anyone referred to me as "thin," "slim," or "skinny" I was prepubescent.

I am a medium-sized woman.

Unless I sit in the slumped pore posture that so rightfully characterizes my generation, my pudge remains largely unnoticeable. The way opaque tights showcase their strength and muscularity, the height they bring to my frame, even the simple mobility they allow me, my legs remain my favorite part of my body. My hips are more than suitable for childbearing and my ass is thick. Numerous lingerie store clerks claim I ought to be wearing a 32DD, which makes me feel slightly sexy, slightly cartoonish, slightly fearful of what I'm going to look like while nursing.

My closet is home to small, medium, and large size tags. Every couple weeks, I consort my body into a size 2 hand-me-down skirt because it is grunge gold, but even knowing these facts about my wardrobe, if a perfect dress presented itself to me that was either smaller or larger than my normal size 6, having convinced myself that I'd either suffocate or drown in it, I would hesitate to even try it on. I find skinny jeans unflattering and unappealing in all their stretchiness.

There are pockets of my body that move and sway during sex, and sometimes, my ass makes a clapping noise against my lover's thighs. If I put my legs straight into the air, my stomach pudge becomes slightly more noticeable. Although I doubt they knew it at the time, I am fairly certain I've slept with a man that weighs less than I.

Curvy used to mean well endowed, a full bottom, a narrow waistline (think Marilyn Monroe), but recently, fat activists have claimed the word as their own. This is problematic, because a woman may have a curvaceous body type, but not be a plus-sized woman. A woman may be a plus-sized woman, but still comfortably wear training bras and have a straight up and down silhouette. See, this redefinition of "curvy" has left many women marginalized and ignored, as this new meaning simply does not accurately fit many of the women's bodies it has grown to supposedly describe.

I am Kat Dennings before Hollywood ate a good twenty pounds of her.

I am a medium-sized woman. A sexy, medium-sized woman. I have not experienced the discrimination and hate that overweight women in my society often experience on the daily, but I do feel the repercussions of not being a size 2, or looking like the women in (most) advertisements.

So, fellow medium-sized women, you all are hot as hell, but we need to unite and start an acceptance movement for women of our type. We need a category, a label if you will, that accurately describes both how we look and how we feel about our bodies. We deserve to be marketed to, thus our faces and our bodies need to be represented in the media and models between size 2 (runway) and size 12 (plus-size) must exist.

Please and thank you,

Sarah

To be woman.

To be woman is to exist within the grasp of a culture in which from birth your body is so intimately tied to your value as an individual that regardless of the encouragement Mama and Papa bestowed on you, or the immeasurable positivity and support your role model kick-ass feminist teacher poured atop your developing mind, or the overwhelming self-confidence blossoming within your soul, you are perpetually bombarded, from all angles, with the devilish reminder that your body defines your entire existence.  A reminder that as a female, you are burdened with the tangible weight of the male gaze. Not only from your male peers, but from the people you are told to trust and respect, rather the father of your best friend, your history teacher, or your soccer coach. From childhood on you are forced to swallow a pill, the pill of inescapable self-consciousness that your body contains the potential for both danger and shame, and that it is your responsibility to disguise it, hide it, in a way unoffensive, unenticing to the outside world. 

So tangible are the female bodily conduct rules they need not be verbalized. The walk to the principal's office for the sliver of belly that reveals itself when you raise your hand in Spanish class, or the youth group leader's declaration that the unintentional sight of a blossoming woman's cleavage is to blame for men's fall from grace. You learn that your body stands as a center of public debate, open for everyone's opinions, from your male lab partner declaring your jeans make your ass look fine, to the male-dominated congress dictating the parameters of "legitimate" rape.

To be woman is to live within a woman's body, held to a set of paradoxical standards that leave you to consistently doubt your instincts, and hurdle over dozens of truths in pursuit of a unattainable perfection.

To be man, true, honest man, is to admit you can not comprehend what is it to be woman.