Exit Wounds: The Day I Mooned Steven Seagal

I’ve always been a bit of a live wire—the kind of person who can turn a seemingly mundane Tuesday into a cautionary tale. I’m not reckless exactly, just… creatively impulsive. A tad mischievous. I find absurd moments and run with them. So it wasn’t entirely out of character when, at twenty years old, I dropped my pants and mooned fading action star Steven Seagal.

He was shooting some low-budget revenge flick behind my acting school—probably Out for Irrelevance or Hard to Watch. Whatever it was, it went straight to DVD, no doubt. But anyway, there he stood: unmistakably smug, leathery, and greasy-ponytailed, surrounded by a film crew trying to transform washed-up and douchey into mysterious and valiant. I’d just finished class, full of righteous energy and the feminist fire of someone who’d recently read The Female Eunuch. My ass was in peak condition—and frankly, it felt like a waste not to weaponize it.

A real douche dunked in testosterone, Seagal’s whole aura radiated that special brand of ’90s action hero misogyny—you know, the kind where women are disposable and the stoic main character grunts in response to every question. As bad as his movies are, I always got the vibe that the man himself was much worse. There had long been whispers about how he treated women in film, and yet there he was, churning out yet another low budget blow-’em-up.

What's a girl to do? The moment presented itself like a dare from the universe. So I turned around, dropped trou, and offered him a full moon he did not request.

It wasn’t mature. It wasn’t wise. But it was, unquestionably, art. Subversive theatre, if you will. Let’s just say he’s been under seige before, but probably never like this.

He didn’t respond—just looked blankly at me, gave my juicy ass the old up-and-down, and went back to filming. It was, frankly, a little insulting. Not one to be cast aside, I pulled up my pants, shouted, “Hey Steven, you’re a douche!” and continued on with my day.

Sure, it probably earned me a strike in the Vancouver acting scene—but it was worth it. Call it indecent exposure or immature protest, but in that moment, my ass had more agency than any woman in his entire filmography. I wasn’t staging a feminist coup—I was twenty, underpaid (literally a waitress), overconfident, and running on a dangerous cocktail of theatre school ego and Germaine Greer. But in a business where women are told to be pliable, agreeable, and camera-ready, flashing my ass at a human leather jacket felt, oddly, like a stand. A cheeky little protest, if you will. Maybe not the revolution—but a solid dress rehearsal.