I Was a Slut — Can I Say #MeToo?

Or did I secretly want it?

Trigger Warning: this article contains descriptions of sexual assault that may not be suitable for all readers. Fearless community, please read with care.

1995

“Why is there a condom on the ground?” I asked, eyes swollen, my first hangover pounding.

“Because we fucked,” Danny matter-of-factly replied, with a smirk.

In the kitchen, I could hear Nicole cleaning up crushed cans of Natty Lite and red Solo cups with remnants of last night’s debauchery.

We had Nicole’s house to ourselves. Her parents were spending the night in the hospital. Her dad’s cancer required medical attention.

As responsible 16-year-old girls, we were trusted to stay home alone. Her younger siblings were at an aunt’s house.

“We’ll just walk up to BlockBuster and order a pizza. We’ll be totally fine,” Nicole lied to her parents.

The truth was, we had boys coming over.

“Have fun, girls. Be careful,” Mr. Murray weakly advised.

The night started innocent enough. Nicole invited her boyfriend, Dave, over. He brought his friend, Danny.

No big party. No disrespect of the Murray household.

They brought booze; Nicole and I had never had alcohol before.

So, we tried it. With a straw, we drank our beers, somehow thinking it would make the taste more tolerable.

We blasted Jagged Little Pill. With our newfound liquid courage, we did a sloppy, stumbly performance, substituting wooden spoons for microphones.

“Was she perverted like me? Would she go down on you in a theatre?”

— Alanis Morissette

Between the booze and the stellar performance arts, my fatigue hit fast. Plus, I knew that Nicole wanted to be alone with Dave.

I announced I was heading to bed, and I retreated to the guest room.

I locked the door, pulled off my black Doc Martens, chugged a flat Diet Coke, and passed out — hard.

Fully dressed, I even left the pinch roll on the lower shins of my baggy GAP jeans.

“What do you mean ‘we fucked’?” I replied to Danny the next morning. “You didn’t even sleep in this room.”

Disoriented, I realized that my pants were unbuckled, and the fly was down. My underwear was missing. My pinch rolls were undone.

“Oh, c’mon, Emme. You didn’t seem to mind,” Danny replied, keeping that smug look. “You’ve fucked that fatass, Greg McDonald, so consider me an upgrade.”

Growing Up Too Fast

Greg McDonald was my first real boyfriend. The love of my life. I was certain I would marry him and become Mrs. Emme McDonald.

I practiced crafting my future signature in my Trapper Keeper during French class when Madame DuBois wasn’t looking. Quand elle ne regardait pas.

Greg was not a strapping specimen of the stereotypical teenage heartthrob. Quite the opposite. He was chubby with weird fingernail beds, and an even weirder sense of humor. He loved wizards and hunting. He had a slight accent, even though he grew up in my town.

I loved him madly.

I loved the smell of his sweaty feet and his armpits when I nuzzled in his nook. Pheromones are real. His lips were plush and swallowed mine. His tongue was soft and hungry.

He was gentle with his hands. He was gentle with my heart.

My husband has seen old photographs of us and is also confounded by this boy who has my virginity. But, love is love.

The bleeding between the legs began at age nine. I physically developed long before my peers. Breast buds, a mustache and all the wild, female hormones that go along with it.

My flat-chested counterparts still seemed like cherublike children in their skin-tight leotards and satiny pink ballet slippers.

I had to quit ballet because you could see my maxi-pad.

“What it all comes down to Is that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine”

— Alanis Morissette

Along with my early-onset puberty, came a frenzied thirst for boys. Playing with my Barbies at 9-year-old, I would feel tingles between my thighs when I’d make Ken and Barbie kiss. It was a 9-year-old’s version of watching porn in the pre-digital age.

I wanted to feel it for real, for myself, with a boy. Not with plastic dolls.

Looking back, I must have been so annoying to the boys in 4th grade. I forced them to be boyfriend/girlfriend with me. They dopily would say, “Uh, okay.” And then I would smother. I took being a 9-year-old girlfriend very seriously.

Here I am though, with a nine-year-old son, and he has ZERO interest in girls. All he wants to do is fart, play sports and FortNite. He would have no tolerance for a hormone ridden, obnoxious girl claiming to be his girlfriend.

And as his mother, neither would I.

“An upgrade? Please. I hung out with you all night and I didn’t even want to kiss you. Why would I have sex with you?” I argued.

“Because you have sex with everyone,” he replied. His main defense.

Earning my Reputation

He wasn’t wrong. Well, I didn’t have sex with everyone. That would be crazy. But, I had very few boundaries as a teenager.

After Greg moved to Montana, I was on the market. A free agent. With experience. And boobs. A triple threat.

In a sea of goody-two-shoes teenage girls who actually had self-respect and prided themselves on their prudeness, I stood out to the boner-stricken boys. Easy prey.

I had casual sex at an early age. I gave road head. Handjobs. I let them touch me all over.

I fell in (what I thought) was love so many times. I got my heart broken every single time.

“And don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet”

— Alanis Morissette

I enjoyed the attention. I enjoyed the sensation. I always used protection. I wasn’t hurting anyone. So what was the big deal?

Why should there be shame in being a slut?

“How did you even get in this room? I locked the door.” I asked, swimming for answers, wishing my memory was clearer.

He ignored the question and said, “You should be thanking me. I didn’t know if you were on the pill, so I used a condom.”

And, there it was. You ask. You learn.

I said, “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

Silence.

I continued, “You couldn’t ask me. Because I was asleep.”

“You wanted it,” he said and walked out of the room. Case closed.

“Wait a minute, man. You mispronounced my name.”

— Alanis Morissette

Danny inevitably told everyone in school that he had sex with me. And, everyone believed him, as they should. The boys high-fived him. The girls hated me more.

I never considered that night as rape or an assault. I always blamed myself. For being loose. For drinking too much. For just being me.

Did I give him false signals? No way. I wasn’t into him. I was singing Alanis Morrisette with my best friend all night.

My main priority that night was to distract my best friend whose father was dying.

Could I have slept with him and just not remembered? But, I had every opportunity to make-out with him, but I didn’t want to.

Why would I suddenly change my mind after I had gone to sleep and locked the door?

Did I tell anyone? No, why would anyone believe me? I was a slut. Undeniably.

I later found out that the lock on the guestroom door was broken and never fully engaged.

“Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”

— Alanis Morissette

That night didn’t scar me for life or send me to therapy. I just brushed it off. It comes with the territory of being a teenage slut, I justified.

The plight of promiscuous youth. I guess.

Wait, there’s more:

A year later, I was at Jason Valleri’s house to work on a partner Honors English project. I had known Jason since kindergarten.

His parents were conveniently out to dinner. He suggested we work in his bedroom. He already set up our books and supplies.

I followed him. I trusted him. Why shouldn’t I?

We did work diligently on the project. But… then he unbuckled his pants.

He wouldn’t let me leave the room unless I gave him oral sex. At first, I laughed him off.

Deadpan stare. I soon realized he wasn’t joking.

Despite my verbal protests, he leaned his back against the door, wearing only his plaid boxers. Towering a foot over my tiny 5’1” frame, he continued to restate the conditions I had to adhere to in order to leave.

“C’mon, just put your mouth on it,” he demanded.

“Jason, please move. I really don’t want to. Move. Let me leave. You are scaring me,” I said.

“I’m not moving,” he said. Case closed.

His jovial tone as my classmate from moments before was gone. Instinctively, I knew I was in a bad situation.

There was no violence. There were no weapons. But, there was no way out. I was trapped and I wanted to leave. And he wasn’t moving.

Nobody was home for me to shout out to. There were no cell phones. I hadn’t even told my mom where I was going.

With two hands, he pushed my head down toward his boxers. And, I did as I was told. . .

“Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you When you think everything’s okay”

— Alanis Morissette

Like the situation with Danny, I never fully blamed Jason for that night.

• I was the one who went to his house alone at night.
• I was the one who followed him to his bedroom.
• I was the one who put my mouth on him.
• I was the one known for giving boys pleasure.

I had tasted many boys before, so it was expected of me. In his mind.

There wasn’t a gun to my head. But, I was frightened of what would happen if I didn’t obey.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Man You didn’t think I’d come back You didn’t think I’d show up with my army And this ammunition on my back”

— Alanis Morissette

2020

I am raising two little boys. Consent. Even though my guys are young, I am drilling consent into their heads.

He said stop. No means no. Nobody asked to see your butt. Keep your privates private. Personal space! Someone should only have to say “stop” one time. Nobody asked to see your penis. Did you ask if he wanted his face licked? Always ask first.

My slutty days are long behind me. Now I’m so lame that my husband has to pay me for sex.

I didn’t think about Danny Mayer or Jason Valleri after my teen years. I swept both incidents under the rug as just part of the narrative of my adolescence.

• Trump’s presidency -The explosion of the #metoo movement -Brett Kavanaugh -Harvey Weinstein -Becoming a mother of boys -Bill Cosby

These recent events have brought Danny and Jason’s behaviors into more of a spotlight. During Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d feel if Jason Valleri became a United States Supreme Court Justice.

I was shaking with her as I listened to her story.

I wondered if Danny and Jason watched the hearing and thought of me. I doubt it. Danny’s memory is simply that he had sex with me. Jason’s memory is simply that I gave him a blowjob.

He said. She said. And what he says is what is true.

As an adult, I joke about how slutty I was as a teenager. But it came with a price. All I was was a boy-crazy girl starving for attention.

Why doesn’t boy-crazy sound as bad as slutty?

Dear Danny, Jason, Harvey, Donald, and Brett-

Men like you are pathetic. Weak. Bigly weak. You use your strength and power for what? An ejaculation? I hope it felt good. How did it feel, Harvey? Worth it?

Final Thought

Was my reputation to blame for what happened to me?

If Jason Valleri had been paired with a less sexual English project partner, would he have forced her to give him oral sex? Would they have been working in his bedroom with him in only his underwear?

If Nicole had invited a different friend over, who was a virgin and refused the alcohol, would Danny have snuck into her room and forced himself on her?

Does having the label “slut” give men the false illusion that we want to be performing sexual acts 24/7, despite our protests or state of consciousness?

I never felt permission to tell my stories. I have filed them away as really bad hook-ups. I was afraid that my reputation would work against my credibility.

But today, today I am saying #metoo.

“’Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket And the other one is giving a peace sign”

— Alanis Morissette

*All song lyrics written by: Glen Ballard / Alanis Nadine Morissette

Hey, I’m Emme. I’m a former non-profit speech-writer turned blogger, turned essayist. And an occasional humorist. You can reach me at [email protected].

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