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In 2009, I was in a production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I played Magenta.  For those who know the show, it should come as no surprise that the theatre capitalized on the interactive nature of the piece and sold bags of props (water guns, toast, cards, etc…)  They lovingly called these “goodie bags.”

The above picture was a publicity still taken to promote the show.  The director asked my permission if it could be reprinted with the text “goodie bags, $5” underneath, well, the girls (I call them Mary Kate and Ashley).  I thought this was hilarious and immediately approved the request.

An audience member found this picture offensive.  MY CLEAVAGE offensive.  A “modesty patch” was placed over my cleavage in hopes that others wouldn’t be offended.

Which leads me to ask: What’s the big deal about cleavage?!?!

I love cleavage.  I think it is one of the most awesome things EVER.  And look at that picture–there’s not even that much of it.  I can put together an outfit that has WAY better cleavage.

I have been told a handful of times in my life by employers “Next time you come into work, you might want to wear something more appropriate.”  Who gets to decide when cleavage is and is not appropriate?  Shouldn’t that be the decision of the person to whom the cleavage belongs?

I am reminded of Eve Ensler’s piece in The Vagina Monologues, My Short Skirt, and would like to compose my own short homage:

My curvaceous cleavage

is not an offense to the senses,

an indication of loose morals

or an invitation to motorboat.

My curvaceous cleavage

is not a reason

to estimate my IQ,

although it has been in the past

that logic has been

found to be extremely flawed.

My curvaceous cleavage,

you can take it or leave it,

it does not desire your opinion.

My curvaceous cleavage

is a celebration of 38C,

(an apartment of breasts

where everyday is a birthday party).

My curvaceous cleavage

defies bra-burning (respectfully)

defies gravity

defies all preconceptions.

My curvaceous cleavage

is empowerment

a shelf within which

my Amazon heart beats.

But mostly,

my curvaceous cleavage,

and everything underneath it,

is Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

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