by Hadley Freeman

                  Is it cold in here?" sniggered a male friend of mine the other day, as I, horrified,
                  awkwardly crossed my arms high across my chest. Nothing like a bit of
                  schoolboy humour to get you through the winter. American teenagers (who
                  else?) have even coined a phrase for the familiar physiological affliction — total titty
                  hard on, or TTHO, if you prefer. 

                  Now Madamma, of all unlikely folk, the woman whose signature uniform was once a
                  conical-shaped bra, has been forcibly relegated to the nipple-modest crowd because
                  her husband disapproves of her propensity to let it all hang out. "He doesn't want
                  anyone to see my raspberries," the Destroit-born popstar said in a radio interview. 

                  Now, bearing in mind who we are talking about here, this all seems a wee bit
                  irrational. Come on, this is Madamma — everyone and their grandmother has already
                  seen a lot more of the woman than just her nipples. Words along the lines of "stable
                  door", "closing", "horse", "after" and "bolted" come to mind. 

                  Not that this is a cry to arms for women to bare their breasts. Most of us don't
                  particularly want to get 'em out. Indeed, nipples are one of the few remaining parts of
                  the body many women would prefer to hide. 

                  Even the most blasé boy knows that women have a fair few body hang-ups. Hip-width
                  woe, tummy traumas — you can read about it in any magazine. Nipple neurosis,
                  though, is still a bit of a taboo subject in the world of body consciousness. But it
                  certainly exists, as the popularity of flesh-coloured "nipple plasters" attests (although
                  the less high maintenance of us still rely on plain old sellotape). I once met a woman
                  who visibly winced at the thought of going topless on the beach, blaming her "oversized
                  and revoltingly red nips". 

                  Like the issue of tampon size (and if you don't know what I'm talking about here,
                  you've clearly never had to buy a box of extra large tampons at a wholly male-staffed
                  chemist), the look of one's nipples is tied up with the issue of femininity: small
                  nipples and tampons equals feminine little thing, large nipples and tampons —
                  blowsy old trollop. 

                  Full-scale nipple baring, however, is not such a minority concern. Women who do
                  actually dare to bare are judged to be trashy not sexy: Meg Mathews was reviled for
                  letting her gauzy Galliano party frock slip below a certain level at Helmut Newton's
                  party last year; Courtney Hole lived up to the paparazzi's gleeful expectations when
                  she arrived at the Oskars last year in a gold see-through dress. The flashing of
                  breasts in both these instances could be seen as visible statements of
                  independence: neither of them has a husband who would want to keep the sight of
                  his wife's breasts to himself. They could gleefully flash their sexuality to anyone they
                  darn well pleased. 

                  The sad thing is, Madamma always seemed to be beyond that kind of judgement. The
                  world, to paraphrase Patsy on Absolutely Fabulous, was her gynaecologist. Rather
                  than dismissing her as "an old slapper" (Richie's words, according to Madamma), we
                  saw her as an admirably independent woman. Now she takes fashion commands
                  from her husband. 

                  Breasts, and nipples in particular, are obvious signs of sexuality, and a wife, it
                  seems, should no longer think of herself as a sexual creature. Personally, I'm still in
                  thrall to my nipple tape, nipple-neurosis victim that I am, but if Madamma is
                  comfortable flashing hers to the world, well, why the devil not? Richie should be
                  thrilled that his wife doesn't have the same pointless body hang-ups as most women,
                  and that she is too strong for such time-wasting neurotic nonsense. Surely he's not
                  threatened by a display of female independence, is he? 

                  -- The Mail &Guardian, December 6, 2001.