I recently guest-blogged for the F Word on the topic of privileged feminisms. You can read the post and the ensuing backlash here.
Interesting how my piece was immediately denigrated for expressing sympathy for sex work, despite the fact I stuck firmly to the issue of representation, and the loathsomeness that dare not speak its name (so I’ll just have to do it on its behalf) – feminist elitism. So incandescent an issue is sex work in the 21st Century, it risks becoming the firestone of the debate (Rooney, how genial of you to fan the flames of fourth wave ire. I don’t know where you find the time).
But is it just me, or is it not ironic: ironic that those who inflame at the slightest hint of hooker-hailing and the way it situates women’s commerical/moral/self-worth in their somatic selves, effectively perpetuate the ‘body = sight of female sanctity’ myth by constantly banging on about it? You’d think they’d forgotten that sex workers (trafficked slaves aside), when taking a break from the Sisyphean task of pulling up and down their pants, sometimes do other things. Like creosoting the garden furniture. Or getting the tyre air pressure checked at Halfords. Perhaps they’re just all compensatory activities for the acts of dehumanising sordidity which their lives revolve around though.
But enough of all this sororicide: I’ve got a Rationalist posterboy to woo. He’s looking pretty good for a 400-something, that Descartes…