Clueless Ink

Once upon a time…

A very “successful-on-paper” woman told her that her tattoo was provocative.

She didn’t react. Not immediately. Just filed it away as the woman went on:

“I don’t get girls who wear tight T-shirts with things written across the chest. Don’t be a hypocrite. Just admit you want guys to look. So if you’ve got a tattoo on your chest, obviously the next thing they’ll see is your chest. I saw it when I noticed your tattoo. I just have a problem with hypocrisy.”

She stayed quiet. Surrounded by the clean majority.

Once, she had been smart. And patient.

But in that moment, all she felt was pity.

Pity for a woman who had likely spent her life dressing for the male gaze.

A woman who insisted she was sexy but wore that restraint like a badge of superiority,

as if hiding cleavage somehow earned more respect.

She just wanted to say:

Not everything is a performance for a man.

And even if someone looks, we are okay with it.

What’s strange is when someone assumes they have the right to comment.

To interfere.

For example, people like you.

Because let’s be honest.

As the woman herself reiterated, if you saw the tattoo, you saw the chest.

Covered, not-so-covered, or bare, your eyes were there.

Now go ahead. Don’t interfere. Don’t stare. Don’t comment.

She silently thanked the shirt under her blazer.

Because if she hadn’t worn it, the other woman might have had a heart attack

and blamed it on someone else’s skin.

Because that opinion, about someone else’s clothes, and the need to summarize their character because of it—

sounded far too close to a catcall.

She got up.

Flashed her tattoo to a room full of women.

Provoked some hypocrisy, at best.

While patriarchy clapped from the corner.

Applauding every woman who stayed silent.

Rewarding them for not being “pseudo feminists” like the others.

“This,” they were told,

“is what true feminism looks like.”

And just like that,

someone got a raise.

For raising a man’s voice.