Badge of honour
I've mentioned before that this process of weeding out belongings also stirs up memories, and then seeing someone I went to school with twenty years ago at the freaking Oscars threw a little whirlwind into that, dragging out ancient things in more detail than I would have said that I remembered them. I suppose my brain was primed for that, particularly as feels_like_fire had recently linked to this entry over at Tomato Nation and I'd been thinking about it since I read it. It's an older one, though no less relevant, about the real meaning of the word, 'slut.'
I've worn a slut badge since I was twelve years old. The label was stuck on me for essentially the same behaviour that anyone reading my journal has come to expect: frank interest in and dialogue about sex. That, combined with a physical appearance that was well beyond my chronological age (I was offered alcoholic drinks in the USA when I was thirteen), meant that certain assumptions were made about me. I couldn't possibly look that grown-up and fuckable if I weren't actually fucking someone, right? Of course not.
We used to go to this club called No Jacket Required on Sundays for all-ages night, get wristbanded and spend the night dancing. I was the one dared to go ask the bartender what was in an Orgasm. (Bailey's, Kahlua and peppermint schnapps, in case you didn't know.) When there was a group of girls wondering if the boys masturbated, I was the one who flat-out asked. I can't recall if it was worded specifically or generally, and I know I chose that particular boy to ask because we'd never been interested in each other and he had a habit of blunt speech. I'll never forget the answer, though. He had wide blue eyes, ginger hair, and freckles galore, and after a moment of pure shock at the question he gave me a cheeky grin and drawled, "Do bears shit in the woods?" And walked away still grinning, hands in his pockets. Perhaps because of the analogy, or the unselfconscious honesty of his response, or maybe just because I can't remember a time when I didn't know what sex was and have never thought it or anything associated with it to be anything but natural, the idea of masturbation never bothered me after that. I don't think it did before, either, but it also wasn't something I'd given much thought to until then and I never developed the hang-ups that most of my friends did about it.
It's been a point of pride that despite my often ambivalent relationship with the slut label, it really didn't affect my behaviour. I had some hesitancy about kissing the boyfriend I had at the time - I think his friends were all hoping/expecting he'd get laid - but to his credit, he never ever pushed and after a few months I stopped caring. The fact that the whole thing started because the boyfriend before him had chosen to share something I'd written down with all and sundry hurt more because it had been private than for what came of it. It didn't even stop my letter-writing habit. Those of you who've known me a while and/or very well will know that I am still given to the occasional passionate outpouring. It tends to be electronic these days, and more often than not appears right here as a general journal entry, but I still have times when I need to emotionally unload on someone privately in a veritable flood of words and I still do it. I might be a little more careful about the target, but that's all.
I sometimes wish I were sluttier. I believe that anything that happens between consenting adults who practise safe sex and aren't getting it "on the side," aka without the knowledge of their monogamous partner, is good. Sex for the simple reason it feels good is completely okay in my book; I think a lot of the problems people have nowadays can be traced in part to the lack of human contact that modern life tends to cultivate. The unfortunate part is that while I wholeheartedly believe all of that, my cunt's opinion is more along the lines of, "O_o I don't know you, go away." I vaguely envy those who are able to treat sex as something for pure fun because I can't; just not wired that way. I seem to need a certain level of trust and caring to exist before my pants come off. And that's okay too, if occasionally annoying, but the absolute irony of it has never failed to amuse.
So in honour of being a proud if currently celibate slut, and dedicated to those who tried to pin me down with a label and failed miserably to have it make a difference, I offer you a song. It's also going out to the nice boys that I dated, and that I didn't, the vast majority of whom became well acquainted with another word: No. And if anyone ever wondered what this icon means to me, well, this is it.
Vanilla Sex - Rancid and NOFX
Don't ever take away from me my pornography
We obviously don't agree on what's obscene
I have the right to choose
What I want to see and read
* * *
So stay in your missionary position
I hope that you get bored to death
There's no way in hell I'm going through life
Having vanilla sex
*grins* Back to cleaning out my life! ;D
I've worn a slut badge since I was twelve years old. The label was stuck on me for essentially the same behaviour that anyone reading my journal has come to expect: frank interest in and dialogue about sex. That, combined with a physical appearance that was well beyond my chronological age (I was offered alcoholic drinks in the USA when I was thirteen), meant that certain assumptions were made about me. I couldn't possibly look that grown-up and fuckable if I weren't actually fucking someone, right? Of course not.
We used to go to this club called No Jacket Required on Sundays for all-ages night, get wristbanded and spend the night dancing. I was the one dared to go ask the bartender what was in an Orgasm. (Bailey's, Kahlua and peppermint schnapps, in case you didn't know.) When there was a group of girls wondering if the boys masturbated, I was the one who flat-out asked. I can't recall if it was worded specifically or generally, and I know I chose that particular boy to ask because we'd never been interested in each other and he had a habit of blunt speech. I'll never forget the answer, though. He had wide blue eyes, ginger hair, and freckles galore, and after a moment of pure shock at the question he gave me a cheeky grin and drawled, "Do bears shit in the woods?" And walked away still grinning, hands in his pockets. Perhaps because of the analogy, or the unselfconscious honesty of his response, or maybe just because I can't remember a time when I didn't know what sex was and have never thought it or anything associated with it to be anything but natural, the idea of masturbation never bothered me after that. I don't think it did before, either, but it also wasn't something I'd given much thought to until then and I never developed the hang-ups that most of my friends did about it.
It's been a point of pride that despite my often ambivalent relationship with the slut label, it really didn't affect my behaviour. I had some hesitancy about kissing the boyfriend I had at the time - I think his friends were all hoping/expecting he'd get laid - but to his credit, he never ever pushed and after a few months I stopped caring. The fact that the whole thing started because the boyfriend before him had chosen to share something I'd written down with all and sundry hurt more because it had been private than for what came of it. It didn't even stop my letter-writing habit. Those of you who've known me a while and/or very well will know that I am still given to the occasional passionate outpouring. It tends to be electronic these days, and more often than not appears right here as a general journal entry, but I still have times when I need to emotionally unload on someone privately in a veritable flood of words and I still do it. I might be a little more careful about the target, but that's all.
I sometimes wish I were sluttier. I believe that anything that happens between consenting adults who practise safe sex and aren't getting it "on the side," aka without the knowledge of their monogamous partner, is good. Sex for the simple reason it feels good is completely okay in my book; I think a lot of the problems people have nowadays can be traced in part to the lack of human contact that modern life tends to cultivate. The unfortunate part is that while I wholeheartedly believe all of that, my cunt's opinion is more along the lines of, "O_o I don't know you, go away." I vaguely envy those who are able to treat sex as something for pure fun because I can't; just not wired that way. I seem to need a certain level of trust and caring to exist before my pants come off. And that's okay too, if occasionally annoying, but the absolute irony of it has never failed to amuse.
So in honour of being a proud if currently celibate slut, and dedicated to those who tried to pin me down with a label and failed miserably to have it make a difference, I offer you a song. It's also going out to the nice boys that I dated, and that I didn't, the vast majority of whom became well acquainted with another word: No. And if anyone ever wondered what this icon means to me, well, this is it.
Vanilla Sex - Rancid and NOFX
Don't ever take away from me my pornography
We obviously don't agree on what's obscene
I have the right to choose
What I want to see and read
* * *
So stay in your missionary position
I hope that you get bored to death
There's no way in hell I'm going through life
Having vanilla sex
*grins* Back to cleaning out my life! ;D