I’ve been a crusader against slut-shaming from the moment I piqued my own sexual awakening. I’ve led tirades against my male (and female) counterparts for dismissing women because they gave it up to soon. I’ve slung diatribes at any willing listener on the nature of female sexuality and the persistent double standard.
I’ve shouted from the rooftops, sounding my barbaric yawp: “I f*ck, hear me roar.” I wholeheartedly believe a woman has the right to do with her body what she wants and it is no one’s place to judge her. No one, I tell you!
It hadn’t occurred to me in the least that I might have played a slut-shaming bully in my own life…until I received a text today.
“I think I like you.”
Jezebel
SLAM THE BRAKES. My commute to the deli was dampened with the agonizing conclusion that I would need to respond. Isn’t this what a girl like me would want to hear? The white picket fence, the 2.3 kids (which I imagine would be something like one full kid and then a pair of legs), the house in Connecticut with stuffy in-laws I hate? Well, no. Not really. I’m f*cking young. I’ve got so much life to live. I’ve got so much lust to give. I don’t want your emotional vomit jacking my party vibes.
What’s the nice way of saying, “Cool your jets” that doesn’t make me sound like some poodle-skirted sock hopper who has issues with the idea of “going steady”?
I texted back after (perhaps too) little deliberation: “Calm your face, bro.”
Well, it’s been twenty minutes with no reply and I’m not losing sleep. I’m not really trying to sleep, but you get the picture.
The text, however, and my subsequent disgust have brought to my immediate attention the relative hypocrisy I have been living.
And there was my “Aha!” moment: I am an emotional slut-shamer.
How many times have I protested against the men in my life who seem to believe that women who sleep with them too early aren’t worth their time? That the ladies giving it up on the first date aren’t any sluttier than the guys giving it up at the same damn time? How many times have I scoffed at the idea of the chase and asked why these men believed the burden of celibacy belongs to a woman?
Yet there I was. Straddled between the deli and the bar at the corner, staring at my phone and silently begging this guy to hold it off a little bit. I wanted the chase. How many complaints have I delivered to people who believe or perpetuate the analogy: why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free? And, yet, I was standing there paradoxically thinking: why would I settle for this lackluster milk when I’d just have to deal with buying the bitchy cow later? Moo-hoo.
It’s a relief to get that off my chest. But, you may ask, what does it all mean, Basil?
I have dismissed men for exposing their emotions too soon. Shamed them for expressing their regard for me. These emotionally slutty men, I have tossed them from life and phonebook like a bad one-night stand.
I lose interest when a guy puts it all on the table. I don’t want to be showered with compliments. I’m the emotional equivalent of the pull out and roll out. I don’t want to meet your parents. I don’t want to know your middle name. I don’t want to know what you got on your second grade science project. And I most certainly don’t want to know that you like me when we’re only f*cking.
Maybe I’m just an emotional tundra; maybe I am where love goes to die. I don’t get it really, my parents loved me. I went to good schools, I’ve developed and fostered meaningful friendships. I should want this, but this needy text has sent me reeling. Bitch, can’t you f*ck without feelings?
On that corner, steps away from a sallow-eyed barman with a blissfully heavy hand, I wondered if I could change. Maybe I need to reconsider how I treat these men who let their feelings hang out. Who give it up too early, who commit and cling and never let go. The ones who spread their love faster than I spread my legs. The ones who don’t understand that saying “I like you” is the emotional equivalent of leaving your toothbrush in my apartment.
I’ve never been f*cked over. I don’t hate men. I don’t hate myself. Why have I soured all my relationships? Why do I avoid affection? Am I the common denominator? Why do I condemn these emotionally slutty men who throw it all out on the first date? These skanky attention seekers who just want a hug or a cuddle? Am I worse than the men who f*ck and chuck?
I’ve fought and challenged gender stereotypes. Are my actions just a response to these notions of inherent female emotional dependency? Have I just been fighting against feelings because I thought they were expected of me? Could this all be in my head? I can smell the whiskey from the open bar window. Honey-sweet and decadent…
Maybe I can change!
Oh. He texted back.
“You’re great.”
F*ck him.
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