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Remember the good old days when a slut was a slut? She was the trashy girl; the one who put out; the one all the boys drooled over Saturday night, but then wouldn't look at Monday morning. The rumors exploded about her and the football team. And it always happened under the bleachers. I still wonder how she couldn't see that one coming.
Let's call her "Mandy." Not because there really was a girl at my high school named Mandy who was a total slut, stole my boyfriend, took him away for Senior Weekend and screwed his brains out, making him feel like he was much cooler than all the other sophomore dorks. Well, he wasn't. And so what if her name really was Mandy? The possibility that she doesn't know she's a slut (especially after I have reminded her on so many occasions) is really tiny. Besides, if you Google "slut" I'm quite sure you'll find her name listed.
The " Merriam-Webster's Dictionary" defines slut as: " a: a promiscuous woman; especially: PROSTITUTE; b: a saucy girl; MINX." So, once again the definition proves true for our Mandy. At least parts of it. She was a saucy girl, promiscuous even. But a prostitute?
The fact is that as we grow older, the definition just isn't as concrete. On our journey towards equality, we women long to be as free as men. Free to express ourselves, free to be whoever we want to be, and especially free to get our groove on if the mood strikes. So what? It's just sex. We're not in high school anymore. There are no cliques of people standing ready to judge us at the lockers Monday morning. And even if there were, would it change our behavior? It didn't seem to matter to Mandy.
I think the real question comes down to this: what do you want? If the answer to that question is " just sex," then by all means, be free. Revel in it.
But if your answer is " a relationship," then we need to talk. Now, before you press the " I'm going to send that bitch a letter" button, hear me out. I am not saying that you have to wait five dates before putting out to get that man. There are no rules, despite what the overflowing shelves of self-help books want you to believe.
Because this is the nuts of it, the honest truth. Men are freer to have promiscuous sex than women are, because men feel freer to have promiscuous sex than women do. The old complaint, " if men have sex with tons of partners -- they're studs, but if women do -- they're sluts," isn't going to be solved by forcing men (and other women) to see us differently. As this is not a societal problem, but an emotional one. It's very difficult for women to take the emotion out of sex. Men simply are more able to think of it as just sex and not as a means to something else.
Granted, plenty of good ole boys who want nothing more than for women to remain in the kitchen with a belly full of their precious seed, beer coolers for hands and vacuum cleaners for feet still exist out there. Unfortunately, I don't think there's much we can do to change their perceptions. They will die out soon enough, thanks to Darwin's survival-of-the-fittest theory. We just have to stop marrying them and that will be that.
The real problem comes when we try to use sex as a means to attain something else or to better ourselves. That's what prostitutes do, isn't it? They sell sex for money. Now, I'm sure there is not a woman who wouldn't feel offended if I were to ask, what's the difference between that and exchanging sex for vacations, jewelry, or even another date?
It's worlds apart, you say. I'm more discriminate. I'm not picking up some random man on the street corner and exchanging a blow job for twenty dollars. And I agree with you. But that isn't what this is about. It's about the way we feel about ourselves when that guy we met in the bar last night (not the street corner), who bought us drinks (probably more than twenty dollars worth), who we took home and had sex with (possibly more than a blow job), doesn't call. " Oh, why doesn't he call?" we wonder. He said he had a really great time and wanted to get together again. Before those of you who never have been picked up in a bar start thinking you're excluded, please substitute either " first" , " second" or even " third date" for " met in the bar" , and " dinner/movie" for " drinks."
The answer to the question remains the same. He didn't call because it was " just sex" for him. That's it. There's no mystery. And had it been " just sex" for you, too . . . well, you honestly wouldn't care if he called or not.
But chances are it wasn't " just sex" for you. Chances are you really liked the guy, you thought he was cute and smart and funny, and you felt so good thinking that he wanted you for you. And most of all, you really, really wanted him to call. It's not your fault. You are not stupid. That's just how we're wired. Emotions are a big part of sex for women. We just can't help ourselves.
The other, and probably more urgent, danger to this scenario is that many women get their self-esteem all tied up in whether or not they are desirable to men. If this is the case for you, please repeat after me -- there's more to me than my vagina, there's more to me than my vagina -- two or three dozen times, then proceed immediately to your best friend's house and make her tell you how wonderful you really are. I promise you, your vagina won't be mentioned once.
So the point is (yes, I actually have a point): do whatever you want to do to get whatever it is you really want. If it is just sex, then go for it. Nobody is going to stop you, or judge you. But if it's something else, then wait for it before plunging headfirst between the satins.
Either way, girl, you're no slut.
Bio:
Leigh Hughes is a talentless hack who is really good at starting things but not finishing them. She enjoys writing with many clichés, adverbs, rambling run-on sentences, haphazard POV switching, and way, way, too, many, commas.
She does, however, occasionally strike a peculiar favor from the gods and has had several pieces published in very highly regarded places. Seriously, if they were mentioned, you would undoubtedly be impressed. Mostly creative non-fiction, short fiction, and poetry.
But, this is a fluke. Therefore, this bio will self-destruct so as not to alert said gods’ attention to the aforementioned hack aspect of her writing, in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
Write to Leigh at: leighughes@earthlink.net.
Artist:
Michelle Barczykowski can be reached at barch30@attbi.com
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