As statements go, wearing skimpy clothes is generally considered to be one of the more straightforward. A miniskirt and plunging neckline will be met with catcalls, not wardrobe deconstruction. The message, received loud and clear, is sex.
But is it that simple? I’m not convinced. Example number one: I was at a ladies’ night last Saturday, a strictly girls-only affair in a private room, and never have I seen so much cleavage on display.
If showing flesh were purely about getting a man, single-sex gatherings would see us in flannel pyjamas; on the contrary, it seems they bring out the Liz Hurley in all of us.
Example number two: on holiday, it is quite usual for women to wear only bikini bottoms around the pool or on the beach, but to insist on changing behind closed doors once inside. Revealing clothes mean different things in different contexts.
Sexual availability may not be all that skimpy clothes are about, but the threat of that interpretation hangs over every revealing outfit. ”She was asking for it” is a taunt no less chilling for being untrue.
”Showing off” your body is associated with sexual confidence, with sexual experience, and is seen by many men — however wrongly — as an invitation to pass comment on, or even touch, what they see as being ”on display”. Witness the shuttered, head-down stance and brisk walk of a woman in a short skirt or low-cut top as she walks past men drinking outside a pub: she is using her body language to try and counter any notion that she is up for grabs.
Given the associated hazards, why do we bother with skimpy clothes?
There is no practical need for them, even when the temperature rises: in many hot countries women wear long, loose clothing. Yet most of us, from time to time, like to wear a short-ish skirt, or a tight dress, or a revealing top.
First, there’s no point denying that looking sexy is a huge part of it. But for women, looking sexy doesn’t necessarily mean looking for sex. Instead, it has a lot to do with feeling good about yourself. This, however, is politically contentious.
Some would say that feeling good by looking sexy shows how women have internalised the values of a society that judges them on their sexual attractiveness. But sexual attractiveness has always influenced status in society, for both men and women: long before Vogue, it mattered how you looked in a loincloth.
But it’s not all about sex. Women tend to reveal more flesh for special occasions. A black tie or cocktail dress is very often the skimpiest item in a wardrobe. Perhaps this is because of the element of benign competition involved. (How many times have you, when getting dressed for a party, called to check what others will be wearing?)
From ceremonial robes to Jimmy Choo shoes, clothes have always reflected a sense of hierarchy — it’s not called dressing-up for nothing. Displaying flesh is an effective, if coarse, way to get a headstart.
Thus, skimpiness is often frowned upon in fashion circles: those who have scoured vintage shops and poured over obscure French magazines for an eye-catching look view revealing cleavage as a cheap trick.
Whatever it is that motivates us to wear revealing outfits, there are definite (if unspoken) rules that define the fine line between looking sexy and looking oversexed. After consultation with numerous female friends, one rule stood out: either legs or cleavage may be revealed, but never together. ”Otherwise, you get the slag look, instead of the sophisticated, sexy look,” as Florence put it. My colleague Hadley analyses it thus: ”Only one ‘tarty’ item at a time is acceptable. That way, you prove that you are aware of the sexiness of the item, but are wearing it because you enjoy it, not because you want to flaunt every inch of your body.”
Some women prefer not to reveal flesh. Skintight clothes are sexy in a slightly different way to skin itself. Tight jeans are as shape-revealing as clothes get — more so, indeed, than a miniskirt. But with the thick, workwear fabric and stiff, riveted fastenings, you feel somehow protected.
”I know men are still looking at my arse,” says my friend Ellie, ”but I don’t feel like it’s my problem that they are. Or something. I know I’m not making any sense. It’s complicated, isn’t it?” — (c) Guardian Newspapers 2002