An essay by Catherine Lacey, author of ‘The Möbius Book,’ about joining a WhatsApp group Zoe Mendelson made for friends and strangers to send one another topless photos. Now, the chat is 250 people strong.
Last fall, she made a request on Instagram: “If anyone wants to send me titty pics to help with my post-election depression, that would be cool.” Soon, the group chat had taken shape: a place to share Wordle scores, tit pics, and, at least at first, almost nothing else.I have been shocked by how profoundly a few months of receiving nudes from friends and strangers has affected my sense of my own body and my sense of community. Zoe’s rules are simple: Lurk if you like, post your face at your own risk, and, once you’re in, you can add “anyone with past/present/implied/or future chichis,” as the group description specifies.One of the first friends I added was so excited about the group she rushed to the nearest mirror and immediately fired off a series of pics. Another asked how often was too often to send selfies of her — it must be said — phenomenally sumptuous rack. “Try us,” I said. Her first picture solicited a marriage proposal. Months later, cackling in a single bathroom stall with two friends, we sent a trinity of tits in the middle of my 40th-birthday party.The chat is often (unsurprisingly) horny as many of us are queer, but the point of the group isn’t to be seduced or lusted after. The most common selfie is casual and domestic, a half-clothed body going about her business, the kind of picture that would befuddle the male gaze. There are, of course, brazenly sexy submissions as well. My friend and fellow group member Jessie noted she enjoys doing something sexual for an audience that doesn’t include anyone she’s sleeping with, detached from any particular need for validation or reciprocation.