My recent “Whore-o-ween” article criticizing women's devotion to slutty Halloween costumes received a fair share of hate. Readers called me everything from a bitter fattie to a hypocritical whore.

True, not all are on my side. Slog columnist Dan Savage complains, “People I know to be reliably pro-pleasure lefties—people who are all for recreational sex and legal drugs and strap-on dildos—sound like religious conservatives when Halloween rolls around.”

So why does a leftist like me roll her eyes at slutty Halloween costumes?

First let’s address the obvious: Sex equality issues.

The girls' costumes bare a lot of flesh; the boys' don't. There’s a sexy nurse costume but no sexy doctor. The blatant gender stereotyping pisses off the feminist in me, though I’ve learned that whenever I start to get riled up about something like this it’s best to just count to 10 and pour myself a vodka and vitamin water.

But maybe I can save the vita-vod. Third-wave feminism reclaims what was once used against us. Feminist Inga Muscio has suggested that we change the meaning of a sexist word instead of censoring it from speech. (The empowered magazines Bitch and Skirt! come to mind.) Similarly, why not embrace the sexy holiday? Prove you’re comfortable with yourself and flaunt your shape.

It’d be less a problem if straight guys showed off their bods too. Men shy away from this in part because many automatically assume that dudes in tight-fitting, revealing clothes to be gay. (Oh America and your unwavering homophobia!) Additionally girls just aren’t as visually stimulated as men. If women demanded that guys dress up as Chippendale dancers or shirtless firemen, then they’d do it. But we don’t.

Savage and others liken Halloween to a gay pride parade for straights. Like the Pride Parade, Halloween celebrates sexuality (straight or gay) and gives partiers a free pass for naughtier-than-normal behavior.

As a country that panics over a nipple slip at a halftime show, we’re in dire need of a let-it-all-hang-out holiday. Why can’t Halloween be that day? New Orleans’ has Mardi Gras, Brazil has Carnival, and Northern Europeans have Fasching.

For those still uneasy about whore-ification of Halloween, consider its origins. Scholars believe Halloween started from Samhain, this super sezzy Celtic Pagan festival celebrating the end of the harvest. Samhain is also the name used for one of the feasts in the Wiccan wheel of the year. (Oooh, Wicca!)

Irish tales of the Sídhe as well as Catalan mythology suggest that Halloween makes magic spells extra potent and facilitates contact with the dead. Later on Christian missionaries flipped shit on the sinful pagans and tried to eliminate Halloween. The pagans were all, “Hell no, we love our sexy ghost time!” Then the Christians shrugged, and said well let’s just call it something else and say it’s Catholic. They achieved this by combining it with All Saints’ Day and watering down the pagan aspects. Thus, the holiday was never meant to be tame.

Still, something about a lycra “police officer” costume with pleather thigh-high boots rubs me the wrong way. It’s not the overt sexuality that offends me but the cheapness and lack of authenticity.

I bake pumpkin pie with real pumpkins. I hand-make Valentines. As a child, when my parents switched to an artificial Christmas tree, I saved up my allowance and bought a 4’ Douglas-fir for my bedroom.

Buying a pre-made ‘stume feels like cheating. Besides, I dress up for a costume party at least once a month. I run with a quirky gang set on making house parties as bizarre as possible. Recent favorites include the Joanna Gallery’s “Gods & Goddesses” party, where I came as Mother Nature in a green dress wrapped in ivy garlands ornamented with pinecones, sparkly leaves and flowers. I even wore a bird’s nest on my head.

This past summer the roomie and I threw a “Todo Toho” (Toho is short for townhouse, obvi) party parodying Houston motorcycle gang, Todo Moto. Bandanas and personalized jean jackets were mandatory.

For Bastille Day (La Fête Nationale) a dozen friends and I donned black-and-white striped shirts, red sashes and berets to consume fancy French wines in celebration of France’s independence. Once properly liquored up, we drew straws. The short draw had to be the bastille, which we then stormed violently. Although it took a glue gun and some creativity, I pieced together all these get-ups in less than an hour and for under $20.

If you still choose to wear that French maid costume from Party City, all I ask is that you do it for yourself. Don’t put on an Dorthy of Oz spandex mini-dress because you’re lazy or pressured or (worst case scenario) you think it’s the only way to catch a guy’s attention.