I don’t think of myself as a slut. I’m always surprised when I’m referred to as one, whether it’s with the recognition of a fellow traveler, or within a context where it is, theoretically, only a fantasy, or even as an attempted insult. These days, to be called a slut gives me something of an anthropological pause, a gentle but insistent sense of disidentification: Me? A slut? <Staring off into the sunset> You really think so?
I’m not denying my lifestyle or quibbling over my body count. It’s just that slut doesn’t feel like me. I mean no disrespect the proud sluts in my life, and I’m certainly not arguing against my more-than-reasonable inclusion among their ranks. But over the years, slut has acquired an insufficiency, an obsolescence. Changes to my gender, pop feminism, and queer social mores are all in there, to be sure, but it seems like something else is going on.
Of course, masculine women are not sluts the way normal women are. When I was younger, I often found myself in situations—parties, book fairs, demos—where I was, if not unwelcome, then at least assumed to be unable to relate to the fears and frustrations of life as a slut. I was ashamed of the emotions stirred up by what were usually oversights, and mostly kept them to myself: I’m fem in my own way! I may not look it, but I was once a girl, too! Rapists don’t care how pretty you are! These encounters made me feel lonely among comrades. They made me feel undesirable, though the cash in my pocket said otherwise. They made me feel as if a lie that had long been told about me had been suddenly retracted, without apology, before I could even begin to deny, much less reclaim, it.
Last weekend, I went to a party where feet penetrated holes, bound dykes dangled over the floorboards, and someone was ridden like a pony over big-gauged knee piercings. (Unfortunately, this last scene happened after we left, so I can only enjoy it via social media.)
I love parties like this. At their best, they both distill and amplify the feeling you get when you share a sad story with someone who can laugh at, rather than look away from, its cruel absurdity. It’s brave to accept pain, but I think it may be braver to share it with someone else or to witness it for them, especially if you care about each other. I knew most of the people in attendance, but even if I hadn’t, I would still have felt like I belonged there. When I looked around me, I was puzzled by the notion that we could be violent1. Violent, in that context, feels as foreign to me as slut does.
I don’t remember hearing slut (or seeing it written on someone’s body in ink or blood) that night, but I’m sure it was there, one of the many handy tools of negotiated sexual degradation between friends.
Most mornings, the first thing I do when I wake up is tidy my apartment. This extension of my meditation practice relaxes me, and builds anticipation for the first treat of my day: a hot cup of drip coffee, black.
I count as an accomplishment the fact that I can now do my tidying, most mornings, without aural distraction: no TV, no Democracy Now!, not even Schumann, who is the artist I listen to the most, according to Spotify2. It gives me the space to not think, which is naturally one of the best ways to foster thoughtfulness. This morning, while doing dishes, it occurred to me that it’s been five months since I’ve had sex with a stranger. That last stranger has since become a lover, so for our purposes he doesn’t count, pushing the timeline back even further.
Do I feel the need to correct this? I wondered, rinsing a preferred porcelain mug. Yes, but not strongly enough to act upon it right now.
It feels unnatural for me to not be available—up for it, ready and willing, submissive and breedable, etc.—in that way. I have been a slut, by all common definition, for many years, perhaps my whole life, at least according to the people who raised me. It’s the story, often sad but often not, that I have always known about myself, and it makes me uncomfortable when I can’t see myself in it. In the parlance of SSRI adverts, I don’t feel like myself. I wonder if this could be a good thing.
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I have been following the coverage (or lack thereof) of Columbia University’s use of chemical weapons on students protesting the Palestinian genocide. There are too many worthy places to direct our attention at this time, but for anyone looking for more evidence of how these foreign atrocities affect “us” “here”: these students (who are consumers, by the way, paying to attend this institution [when is the customer wrong?]) have been assaulted with chemical weapons used by the Israel Defense Forces against Palestinians and which American police departments have acquired from them in the past. Even if all you care about is your own safety, the relationship between the IDF and the American military/police, funded by our tax dollars, should galvanize you.
Even “kinky” straight people are like this, yet more evidence that “kink” and “leather” are not the same thing.
Couldn’t tell you a single thing about him or his music but here we are.
there you go again, giving vocabulary to my nonverbal brain emissions