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This Halloween I’m going as a sad zombie clown, a decidedly unsexy costume. I’m sick of the tyranny of sexy. ‘But, but, but you must! You can’t be serious. Sexy is sex and sex is back in style. The dark days of disease are fading into memories of bad dreams, evaporating like night sweats in the morning light. Repression lost its last stand, the long march of freedom is at back again. Hallelujah the leather-lace BDSM promise land!’

But tell me, look around and what do you see? What is sexy? Going by what’s been drilled into my head through decades of countless repetition, sexy is...Sexy is shirtless twenty-something men with washboard stomachs and rock hard pecs, guys blessed with smooth skin and lightning fast metabolisms, men who spend half their lives in the gym. Sexy is just barely of age skinny little women bearing curves, women who look nothing like me. Sexy is an exclusive club and chances are you’re not a member, and if you are you won’t be for long.

Sexy has stolen the joy of going out on the town and turned it into a battle of my body and mind and society, a struggle to overcome what I see and feel, to tell myself stories, sing little sub-cultural songs of inner-beauty and bodies being like flavors, ‘there’s something there for everyone,’ to counter the collective story of never good enough spoken over the endless pulsing beat of inequality, of winners and losers. Which side are you on? I can’t be the only one for whom sexy makes looking in the mirror like staring down the barrel of a gun.

Sexy almost ruined Halloween; turned the one day of freedom to break out of our cells, to escape the residue of consequence we call ourselves, into its own silk sheeted cage of aping cliché masquerading as sex-positive liminal infinity.

This Halloween I’m going as a sad zombie clown, a decidedly unsexy costume. Sexy can go fuck itself.

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