The tale of a naked Ken doll

...or why not giving a fuck is a privilege.

When I was in the very early years of kindergarten, my three favorite toys were a little yellow plush unicorn (that I still suspect was a guinea pig toy someone sewed a horn on), a small lilac monster truck (one of those you could rev up by pulling it back, and when you released it, it jetted forward into the ankles of your unsuspecting mothers) and a naked Ken doll.

You see, my well-meaning relatives saw me hauling around my sad truck and rodent duo and thought I should have toys that were more appropriate for a little girl.

Thus, I was given a second pair of toys.

A Party Changes Barbie doll with a cute removable rose-petal skirt and a Sun Sensation Ken. For those too lazy to google the Ken in question, he looked like this. A blond, tanned man in neon green cycling shorts and a gold mesh crop top. The second I ripped the packaging paper on this absolute Ferrari of toys (keep in mind, this was the early post-soviet era of my wonderful home country), the whole room erupted into oohs and aahs. All the aunties and cousins flocked around as we collectively tossed the Barbie doll aside and examined Ken and his scandalous outfit.

It wasn't until one of my cousins pulled Ken's shorts down to reveal the shapeless plastic bulge in his crotch that a wave of outrage and amusement gripped the entire room. And I knew, that very second, that I now possessed something that gave me unparalleled power over adults.

I could wield a naked man and cause discomfort.

Limited edition Live-Laugh-Lovecraft Barbie, generated with no soul by Midjourney

From that day forward, I took Ken everywhere, neon green shorts carefully hidden behind my bed. Any attempts at taking the plastic hunk with his mesh crop top from my hands resulted in a bunch of growling and semi-feral explanations that he LIKES to be pantsless.

"But you can't carry him around naked." Why. "Because people don't walk around naked." Why. "Because we have to cover up." Why. "Because we would be ashamed if we weren't." Why. "Aren't you ashamed people don't like your Ken?" Why.

You get the idea. With the determination of an ancient Greek philosopher, miniature me was ready to fight for my (and Ken's) rights.

I brandished him like a flaming sword, proudly whipping him out from my backpack anytime an adult tried to approach me. I didn't particularly care for him as a toy (coming up with backstories for a naked man was a lot less fun than the sentient ankle-eating monster truck ones), but the reactions of grownups made up for it.

Some of them laughed, and as someone who quickly understood that being funny gets me further in life than my humanoid pug looks, I ate that up.

Some of them got deeply uncomfortable and decided to leave me to my devices, which was even better.

Nowadays, it would cause a great deal of concern if a four-year-old girl announced she was going to show Ken's weenie to the pigs and to not expect her back before dinner but listen. Back then, we were barely starting to grasp the concept of human rights (which we apparently still struggle with to this day). And so, nobody stopped me.

Most of the time, I just crawled into the doghouse of my aunt's German shepherd to brief the dog on the latest dinosaur species I discovered in encyclopedia pictures, the Ken doll discarded somewhere in the corner. If an adult attempted to approach me, I quickly waved him in the air, saying that Ken, Rex, and I were busy playing house. Feeling highly protective of the strange hairless puppy he somehow acquired, Rex always backed me up with warning growls and snaps towards any hands that tried to drag me out.

As you might have noticed with trends from my past articles, this clearly isn't just about the Ken doll (though I did want to share this mildly unhinged but beloved childhood memory).

Naked Ken wasn't the beginning, and he certainly isn't the end of my insatiable desire to make people uncomfortable to a point where all that is left is accepting the new weird as the status quo. Ranging from my tattoos and alt-fashion sense to the 'it's not that deep' approach I bring to work, I continue figuratively arming myself with a naked Ken. To be allowed to...well, be myself. And help others in my personal and professional life to do the same.

But all this didn't just magically come from my indomitable contrarian spirit.

I was allowed to shine Ken's bare ass in the face of every random villager we passed. Somehow, in her (now heavily cracked) conservativism and what-will-they-think-ism, my mom just let me do it. If she snatched him away the second I figured out how to take his pants off, I would probably have found some other way to outrage the collective village hive-mind.

My mother, bless her patient heart, knew me well enough to realize I wasn't above catching frogs, snakes, or attempting to lure in a rat. The vision of having to drag her daughter for a rabies shot as she loudly complained her naked man was taken away probably played a part in this.

Somehow, through a series of inexplicable events and being somewhat funny, I had friends across all cliques in high school despite wearing a chain dog collar on my pants and listening to music that sounded like gurgling.

I came to countless interviews with my hair dyed bright rainbow colors and got hired. You see, in one of the jobs that helped me grow into the eldritch girlboss I am today, the CEO opened up his welcome speech to newcomers by announcing the only rule in the company: "Don't be a dick."

As I eldritch and girlboss and turn Live Laugh Lovecraft into a brand, I can unabashedly look a board member in the eyes and say we might as well start making live sacrifices if we think incentivizing metrics will make us more efficient.

I have a massive privilege acquired from a chain of supportive (or mentally defeated) people who looked at the little girl with a stripper Ken doll and said, "Hold on, let her cook."

So why am I publishing this on Substack?

To BEG YOU to bring your naked Ken crotches everywhere. Your everyday lives, your jobs, and most importantly, your writing.

I have had the misfortune of dipping my toes into literature that follows the rigid skeletal traditions of our local writing community, and it terrified me. The neatly laid Barbie dolls in pristine clothing, the carefully rehashed and examined childhood trauma, the lengthy descriptions of rolling fields.

I want things to crack, smudge, and strip their golden mesh crop tops. I want to see people expressing themselves in new forms and with authenticity. Not by unquestioningly following King's On Writing and literary judges that hemorrhage from all orifices if somebody uses a protologism in their writing.

So, please. I showed you mine; now show me yours.