I’d Quit My Fashion Job But I Love Dressing Rich People As Literal Dicks
There’s a lot of problems in the fashion industry to complain about. Like the unrealistic standards of beauty that it continues to foist on everyday women. Or the audacity of selling scarves, just scraps of fabric, for the price of a decent new car while paying the people who make them mere pennies. Kate Moss. Just, like, everything about her. This might sound surprising coming from me, a designer at a top fashion house that shall go unnamed, but I’m not blind to the toxic environment that surrounds me. In fact, I’ve been struggling lately with my career path for exactly these reasons. I’m torn, though. I just love dressing rich people as literal dicks.
You’ve no doubt seen that Fendi scarf that happens to look just like a vagina. You probably had a good laugh at this seemingly unintentional faux pas committed by out-of-touch designers, but I’d like to assure you that it was no accident. Fashion designers are creative people. As such, while our present status may indicate otherwise, we’re likely to come from underprivileged backgrounds. We’re just as sickened as you are by the horror of peddling handbags that cost as much as a house when the average person can’t even afford to buy the latter. That’s why we use our position to clothe the people who purchase our wares so they look like human genitals.
For me, it started small. It was a beanie that looked like a dick. Flesh-colored, shot through with a number of lovely purple threads. Purple was very in that season. The beanie was a little squatty on the top and around the sides, curved to a point so as to perfectly resemble the head of a human penis. But would those rich idiots notice? Of course not. We sold it for $5,700. There was a waiting list hundreds of names long all season. I can’t tell you who was on it, but I can say it was, appropriately, a whole lot of dickheads.
It just kind of spiraled from there. Soon, I was designing handbags that were just as delicately folded and the same muted pink as your typical labia. Belts that buckled with a dingy brown pucker that looked just like the common butthole. Ruffly beige sweaters accented in fine, curly black threads. I even added some tiny red buttons to look like ingrown hairs. I’m really proud of my attention to detail on that one. But I just don’t know how long I can keep this up. Sure, it feeds my soul for now, but for how long? When I started, it was all about the art. I long to return to my roots: dressing rich people as animals, weather phenomena, abstract concepts, and other bizarre objects that aren’t body parts.
But to do that would be to succumb entirely to an industry that exists entirely to oppress, and I can’t have that on my conscience. On the other hand, if I quit, someone would only replace me, and I can’t be sure that person would be as dedicated as I am to turning the wealthy into a walking dick parade. It’s better to stay right where I am. It’s better to take down the system from within, one butthole belt at a time.