I Used to Slut-Shame—Now I Am One
Embodying the true meaning of the word has made me whole
I still remember flipping past some random talk-show with my mom, sometime in my twenties. A pregnant attendant didn’t know which of three men were the father, and the guys were fighting on stage to the cheers of the audience.
—Jeez, how’s it possible to not know who the father of your kid is? Like, who sleeps with more than one person over the course of one ovulation cycle?
Yep, I said those words. Your sex-positive writer and spiller of smut and other obscenities said that. Out loud.
A slut was someone bad and disgraceful. I obviously didn’t want to be that; I wanted to be a ‘good girl’, but also ‘a cool and carefree girl’ who could hang with ‘the dudes’.
Luckily, my mother was the only witness to what makes my present-self shake her head remorsefully.
My present-self understands very well how this is possible, and could have, at times, found herself in a similar situation—had it not been for a meticulous interest in safer sex.
Up until a few years ago, I was a good girl. And because I’d only been in a couple of long, monogamous relationships, I was clueless about the ways of the ethical slut.
I didn’t know the ins and outs of non-monogamy, or the differences between polyamory, open relationships or swinging. I was always more curious than judgemental, but even a threesome sounded like a relationship death-trap to me.
Frankly, it all intimidated the hell out of me. I was scared!
Because of this, I prattled along with the critics, which usually consisted of my ex and other male friends. Often, as a reaction to either how a woman dressed, or how many sex-partners she’d had, they’d shake their heads and say something like “Gawd, whatta slut!”.
A slut was someone bad and disgraceful. I obviously didn’t want to be that; I wanted to be a good girl, but also a cool and carefree girl who could hang with the dudes, so I nodded along.
My father was my mother’s first and only, until their marriage fell apart after twenty-something years. My grandfather was my grandmother’s only, until death parted them.
Growing up in a Christian family, this was the norm, and the majority of my aunts and uncles had followed the same program—at least the women had.
It was known that most of the men, including my father, hadn’t entered chaste into the sanctity of marriage, but we never really spoke of it. Besides, purity is less emphasized for men in these communities anyway.
—For every person you have sex with, you give away a piece of yourself. You become fragmented; broken!
This was the kind of sex-wisdom droplets my father handed me as I was growing up, along with an encouraging pat on the back:
—I’m glad you’re not one of those girls!
Post-childhood, I never considered myself religious, not in a traditional way at least. I had no conscious plan to follow along the same path. In fact, I kind of wanted to be like those girls.
Sex doesn’t make you less whole, or unholy. Sex doesn’t chop you up into pieces and scatter you to the winds.
I brushed his words off, telling him that I thought it was a bullshit concept. And I really believed that. But still, whether by design or chance, I ended up staying with my first boyfriend for six straight years, just to dive headfirst into the next.
For every person you have sex with, you give away a piece of yourself. You become fragmented; broken!
The first was a wonderful relationship, by all means, but I still can’t help but wonder to what degree my programming shaped my choices in the matter.
I may have consciously rejected the concept of the broken wrench, but was my sub-conscious still telling me that promiscuity would dislodge chunks of myself to leave with my respective lovers? Was I holding on to an outdated, patriarchal idea that women become less the more partners they give themselves to? I can’t help but think that I was.
When I became single, for the first time, in my thirties, I immediately, and intuitively gravitated towards sex-positive communities. I don’t know exactly what had changed, but suddenly I sensed the healing potential of regaining my sexual sovereignty.
In these communities, I found some of the most genuine, authentic and beautiful people I’ve met—and, quickly I became one of them. The slut-shamer blossomed into a full-blown slut.
Now, when I use the word, I’m not referring to the outdated dictionary description which insists on a slut being “an immoral or dissolute woman”. My perception of what a slut is has changed.
Informed, in parts, by the authors of The Ethical Slut, Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy who define a slut as “a person of any gender who celebrates sexuality according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you”, I came to view the word as empowering.
I’m proudly a slut!
Us humans often fear the unknown, and when we’re scared we have a tendency to react with hostility. I was unfamiliar with the beauty and power that comes along with free and unbridled sexual expression, and therefore I was scared of it. In my fear, I rejected and even looked down on it.
Having joined the other side I celebrate sexuality and believe firmly that pleasure is good for me—and for everyone. I no longer subscribe, even subconsciously, to the idea that sex shatters us or makes us lesser.
A slut is a person of any gender who celebrates sexuality according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.
On the contrary, I now view sex as a vehicle for healing, and ironically, through owning my sexuality, I’ve become whole!
It’s my deepest belief and mission—and the reason why I write and share about sex: It’s my passion and not something lower that I write about because I think it’s a faster way to make bank.
My wish is for more to experience the potential that lies hidden in their sexualities, and I believe that a world full of happy, shameless and pleasure-seeking sluts would be a better one!
