The Enduring Sex Appeal of the Turtleneck
From Medieval Chainmail to Marilyn Monroe
There is a particular thrill I feel when pulling a tight black turtleneck over my head. Maybe it’s the light asphyxiation of the tight collar or the sinewy silhouette created by tucking the hem into my waistband. Perhaps the unrelenting sunshine in Los Angeles has given this après-ski staple some kind of perverse exoticism in my wardrobe. Whatever the reason, when I see myself in the mirror, I feel the same way I did when I first heard that snaky electric violin in the first bars of “Buttons” by the Pussycat Dolls: hot.
I’m certainly not the only one who has discovered the latent horniness of the turtleneck. In the queer community, it’s essentially the “freakum dress” of chapstick lesbians—a versatile top for other versatile tops, if you will. Despite my current die-hard fanaticism, I was not always a fan of the turtleneck. Growing up in the late 90s, I found turtlenecks slightly repulsive—a dumpy, shapeless afterthought atop a pair of light-washed “mom jeans.” Jerry Seinfeld and the Rock set the styling standards of turtlenecks on men. Now oft-memed mall photography portraits caricatured families’ matching Christmas turtlenecks. They were neutered. Dorky. Midwestern. The signature style of Steve Jobs—the veritable patron saint of nerds. They were for kids who wore suede slip-on Merrells and put too much lip balm around the outside of their lips. From my vantage point on the playground, turtlenecks were for dorks. At what point did they earn such an important place in my heart?
It's no surprise the turtleneck was conceived during one of the most iconic fashion eras: medieval times. The turtleneck was originally engineered as a protective layer of clothing to be worn under chainmail (I can only imagine the degree of chaffing on horseback). It not only provided a layer of protection for the head and neck but enabled medieval soldiers to move more fluidly in their armor. In the mid-sixteenth century, the turtleneck evolved from its masc origins to, arguably, its most femme—the Elizabethan ruff. For Queen Elizabeth I and other members of high society, the ruff was a sign of high status (and likely hid all those pesky boils and rashes from lead-based makeup, infrequent bathing, and syphilis). It returned to its equine origins in the mid-1800s as the “polo neck” for English polo players and soon became a go-to staple of the working class in military uniforms and nautical workwear.
The femme iteration of the turtleneck came back with the ‘Gibson Girls’ of the 1900s, but dropped in popularity in tandem with the plunging necklines of the roarin’ 20s. In the 50s and 60s, we saw the turtleneck on fashion icons plastered all over the walls of freshman dorm rooms: Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, The Beatles. Like every teenage girl, I went through a hardcore 60s phase, obsessively consuming the films, music, and fashion of that era in everything from renting Funny Face to DVR-ing Mad Men. This was the first time turtlenecks represented something with sex appeal. The style now possessed an air of refinement and modernism. Beatniks, cigarettes, mini-skirts, Neitzsche, coffee. Paired with a short skirt, it was the frisky silhouette of the sexual revolution. Mod squads, mop tops—the 60s turtleneck was chic and self-possessed.
Eventually, the turtleneck became a best supporting actor in the history books on second-wave feminism. I distinctly remember my teacher giving a PowerPoint presentation, and there she was: Gloria Steinem, in her signature glasses and a, you guessed it, tight black turtleneck. Side-by-side, Steinem and activist Dorothy Pitman Hughes were pictured in—you guessed it again—matching turtlenecks. As part of the Black Panther uniform, the turtleneck became a symbol of revolution, resistance, and progress. A shorthand for strength and anti-establishment—sharply defiant and intellectual—the turtlenecks of the 70s felt radical. Both youthful and timeless, they were the perfect items of apparel for a historic uprising of young and marginalized voices in a changing political landscape.
After all that hard work, the turtleneck sat a short sabbatical in the 80s followed by a triumphant comeback in the early 90s. We are all-too familiar with the enduring prep-revival brought on by Princess Diana, but it was another fashion icon that stole my heart: Fran Fine in The Nanny. Miss Fine, who dresses like a self-proclaimed “cheap floozy in tight clothes" is nothing short of a 90s fashion heroine. Rewatching the 1993 debut season, I saw a particular pattern emerge in her costuming: a tight black turtleneck in almost every episode of the season. Layered under dresses, atop a short mini skirt, under waist-cinching vests, and on rare occasions, with jeans. Fran’s wardrobe pulls from distinctly retro 60s revival silhouettes featuring mini skirts, bold color-blocked patterns, bumped hair, florals, headbands, and more. In Season two, Fran does a re-enactment of one of the most iconically sexual turtleneck scenes in cinema history: the leg-crossing iconography from the 1992 classic Basic Instinct. Oh yeah, we all stopped to rewind that scene a few times, and there was certainly one detail I didn’t miss: Catherine Tramell’s gorgeous white turtleneck dress.
Although the turtleneck hit peak sex appeal in the early 90s, it met a devastating fate later that decade and into the early aughts. The culprit of this heinous crime? Rom coms. In contrast to the style’s position in the 60s and 70s, it fell prey to the beige abyss of Nancy Meyers movies—cowl necks, collared ponchos, oversized cable knits. The sexiness and radicality had all but disappeared into tropes of single women haplessly waiting by the phone and drowning their feelings in Haagen-Daaz. The turtleneck had about as much sex appeal as those sad little phrases on the inside of chocolate wrappers so clearly meant to console lonely women. “Calories don’t count if you don’t count them!” “You have a great laugh!” As an impressionable kid, turtlenecks were synonymous with desperation, unrequited love, and milquetoast Christmas movies. Love Actually was a veritable parade of chunky turtlenecks visually communicating each character’s suppressed romantic desperation, and the only turtleneck with any sex appeal was saved for the one villain: Alan Rickman’s lascivious secretary.
By the mid-aughts, we started to see a distinct 60s revival take place (which was really the early 90s all over again). In 2006, we were hit with the historic, game-changing Gap ad mashing up Audrey Hepburn’s dance from Funny Face with an AC/DC song and ending with the tagline, “The skinny black pant is back!” That was the beginning of the now-cheugified skinny jean, but it was also the return of one of cinema history’s most iconic turtleneck ensembles. In the summer of 2007, Mad Men aired on AMC. The season began in the year 1960 with looks still borrowing primarily from the 50s. As the eight seasons progressed, the hemlines and necklines rose. Fashion is cyclical; by the early 2010s, the turtleneck returned from the sexless rom-com grave. 2014’s“normcore” faced a community who had learned from Seinfeld’s mistakes. Mom jeans had a secret weapon: crop tops. The silhouette was sexualized again—small waist, tight shirt—and with it, the tight turtleneck could carve out its own space in revived 90s fashion. The Fran Fine silhouette was back in all its glory.
By the late 2010s, (and thus, by 2023), turtlenecks secured their tenure in the role of “timeless staples,” and became the Everlane, “Forever 31,” must-have basic we know today. Those who live and die on the hill of Taylor Swift’s Evermore, Nancy Meyers’ The Holiday, and Starbucks red cups have gone so far as to revive the early aughts iteration in the form of the “cozy” turtleneck. Christian Girl Autumn is as much about cream-colored chunky knits as it is about thigh-high brown boots (my personal distaste for rom-com silhouettes aside, if this is what makes you feel sexy, all the power to you). However, the turtleneck by way of Miss Fine, Catherine Tramell, Marilyn Monroe, and femme fatale villains—the vixen, flirt, maneater, office hottie—will always be my personal North Star of turtleneck elegance.
The turtleneck’s power lies in its inherent versatility and ability to parlay its own historical significance. Since its inception, a turtleneck has evoked armor. Paired with a short skirt, I can feel frisky, retro, and flirtatious. Due to its full coverage, you are always granted the plausible deniability that you’re simply being sexy on accident. With the small addition of glasses, I easily transform into a bookish, misandrist feminist when I’m in no particular mood to be bothered by men. I can be preppy, boho, rebellious, elitist, nerdy, scary, posh, sporty, baby—you get the idea. The bottom line is: when I put on a turtleneck, I am in control. And isn’t that the single greatest gift an article of clothing can offer?