My God, You’re a Whore

I was reading through some of the nice comments people have left me this morning. A comment by Betka Spitz reminded me of something I’d been meaning to write about, something we women should be encouraging in each other: as Betka put it, unapologetic sexuality. (Thanks, Betka!) On with the story.

Last week some friends and I met up at Birds’ for lunch. Julie brought along a couple of her coworkers. I looked the two women over speculatively. They were both cute enough, but I adhere to the unspoken rule, “Thou Shalt Not Put Friends In Awkward Positions” (sexually or socially), so I wrote them off as unavailable.

We got our orders, and I single-mindedly applied myself to my food, listening to the conversation with half an ear and interjecting the occasional pertinent grunt. I was idly surveying the restaurant when a guy walking towards me met my eyes, glanced away then did a quick double take. He strode to our table and looked down at me, smiling.

“I know you,” he said warmly. “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” I told him. “What was your name again?”

“You don’t remember me?” he asked, a little unsure now.

“Oh, I remember you,” I said in a throaty voice, smiling up at him. “I remember quite a lot of you. How are you?”

“Pretty much the same, nothing’s changed.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

We laughed, both of us mentally reminiscing over our last encounter. He’d been an enthusiastic, no-holds-barred type of lover. Our one fling had been a lot of fun, and we’d parted easily with no awkwardness, something I fully appreciate. We said our goodbyes, and I watched him over my shoulder as he walked away, still smiling at the memory. My curious friends brought me back to the present.

“Who was that?” one of my friends, Maria, asked me.

“Some guy I slept with a while back,” I told her.

“And you didn’t remember his name?”

“Nope. I bet he didn’t remember mine, either.”

“God, you’re such a whore,” exclaimed one of Julie’s coworkers, half-jokingly.

She stared at me with big eyes, amused and somewhat incredulous. I looked over at her and held her stare with mine. I wondered if it was the fact that I had had a fling or my apparent disregard for the convention of denial—”I would never do that, I’m a good girl”—that had surprised her.

“Yes,” I said indifferently.

I turned my attention back to my lunch, tuning out the returning murmur of conversation at our table. I noticed her glancing at me covertly a few times before she finally lost interest. I suppose she got tired of waiting for me to evince some kind of shame or embarrassment at the disclosure of my sluttishness. That was never going to happen.

Of all the things that get me peeved, this good girl-bad girl dichotomy has to be in the top five. Am I promiscuous? If promiscuous means that I have a lot of sex, then yes, I have a lot of sex. I’m quite the promiscuous vixen. Am I indiscriminate? That depends on a person’s definition. Some people think of it as a free-for-all, sex for no reason, sex with just about anyone. No, I don’t jump in the sack with anybody who wants to fuck me. I jump in the sack with those I want to fuck (and of course, only those who want to fuck me as well). Has this affected my reputation? Not any reputation I give a damn about. Worrying about a “good reputation”, that you won’t get a call back from somebody you’ve just had sex with, or that you’ll lose his “respect” is plain stupid. Anyone who thinks a woman is a slut for having sex just because she wants to, with whoever she wants to, is an idiot. And if you’ve slept with an idiot, big deal, right? At least you got something out of it: you got laid. Why think of sex as something you give someone else? Fuck because you like it, because you want to.

Now wouldn’t that be fucking sexually liberating?


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