When a journalist asked me if the Oatman story sheds any light on expectations of women today, my first impulse was to talk about how far we’ve come since the 1850s when she became a public figure whose story was written by a man, who was concerned about remaining in her proper sphere on the lecture circuit, and who had to conceal her body even as she discussed her tattoos. But there is a striking continuity: people were fascinated by Oatman largely because of her body: they lined up to see her and pondered her physical violation both sexually and through the tattoo. Her story gave them permission to stare at a woman and allowed her to present and even refer to her body in public.

As in Oatman’s day, when women were forced into body-modifying clothes involving corsets and bustles, we’re still obsessed with women’s bodies in terms of shape (whether they’re too fat or thin or old or mannish or cosmetically reconstructed or in need of reconstruction) and in terms of behavior (whether Britney’s wearing underwear in public or not, whether President Hillary Clinton would have aged in office to Rush Limbaugh’s satisfaction, whether Michelle Obama’s arms have semiotic significance, and so on). Oatman had to be very careful about discussing her tattooed body in public, reinforcing the notion that whatever her physical experiences had been with the Mohave, she was their victim. Today, women are much physically freer, but our culture is equally obsessed with the body and what women do with it.

The difference is that now, showing is not only permitted, it’s expected. I sometimes wonder if centuries from now people will look back at public rituals like the Grammys and the Academy Awards and marvel that exposure is virtually a requirement for women in formal wear, while men’s bodies are fully concealed. The same applies to Esquire’s Women we Love entries (of eight photos posted in this page right now, two women are naked, two are topless, three are wearing lingerie, and one wears a tank top). And Elle’s best loved men? A hairy forearm is as racy as it gets.