How The Pandemic Helped Me Claim My Slut-hood

I have always been a bit “boy crazy.”

Gosh… there’s a lot to unpack in that term.

But from as early as second grade I can remember being heavily interested in the boys.

A slutty past

I remember second grade clearly because that’s when I wrote my first secret admirer letter. In third grade, I floated for months after my crush noticed my new haircut. In fourth grade, I pretended to like the Flyers so Jimmy would like me. In fifth grade, I decided to pick up the electric bass because Travis was going to be playing it. In sixth grade, I made him a bass guitar-shaped birthday card, but a friend eventually talked me out of giving it to him.

As seventh and eighth grade rolled around, just like the rest of the world, my social life was becoming more digital. AIM (AOL Instant Messager) was where all the important conversations were happening. The cheeky away messages. The honor of being quoted in another friend’s profile. I would spend hours on the computer talking with my friends, filling up the time as I stared at my crush of the month’s username, willing it to come online.

Unfortunately, the most romantic message I ever received on AIM would end up being from a classmate who told me he “couldn’t stop thinking about my boobs”. Ah, puberty.

I wanted a boyfriend so bad. And while I was highly aware that having one contained a certain amount of social capital, I don’t think that’s what was (primarily) fueling this desire.

High school is where the real tears over boys started getting shed. More crushes than I can count. And, at that time, either the person was also interested in you, meaning that you’d automatically become girlfriend/boyfriend, or they weren’t. Meaning you’d cry locked in your bedroom at night as you sang along to I’m Not That Girl from the Wicked musical.

A slutty reckoning

After years spent in therapy, I’ve analyzed and reanalyzed this yearning for romance. More often than not, my therapist and I land on something akin to searching for some validation. Looking for a formal, external stamp of approval.

And while there is so much validity to this it hurts, this theory heavily discounts a real thing I’ve come to realize about me:

I’m a slut.

Merriam-Webster defines slut as —

I mean, I think we all know what Merriam-Webster defines slut as. A definition based in sexist ideology that sexually active women are lesser than, while sexually active men are studs, heroes, idols, etc.

There has been pushback against this definition with the introduction of the term slut shaming into our lexicon. Unlike with the term slut, there is no allusion to disparagement or offensiveness in the definition. OED states that slut shaming is:

The action or fact of stigmatizing a woman for engaging in behavior judged to be promiscuous or sexually provocative.

So, a more socially progressive and neutral definition of slut is just that: someone (typically a woman/femme) who is promiscuous or sexually provocative.

And even though I’m a feminist and even though I don’t think anyone should be shamed because of their sexuality, I struggled to internalize those feelings for myself.

And yes, I give credit to my therapists. A lot of this was me seeking validation. I often felt ignored or forgotten about. I felt unloved or uncared for at home. I had internalized so many messages about not being skinny that I believed to the deepest, darkest corner of my being that I was inferior. (It didn’t help that I grew up in the ’90s when the body fashion was “Heroin Chic”.)

I wanted someone to look among all the people, all the cool girls, all the pretty girls, all the musical girls. I wanted someone to point at me and say “Her”.

But at the same time, I’ve always had a lot of feelings. Like, a lot. And they weren’t contained to feelings of sad, happy, angry, frustrated… (You know the chart.) But I also had these strong feelings of wanting to connect with others. Of being attracted to others. Of wanting to be affectionate with others.

Because, as much as online dating is trying to convince me to not, I genuinely love people.

This can be illustrated by this one night my freshman year of college. I was at a band party, because… of course I was.

It started with a friend of mine playing around by touching our bottom lips together. I think flirting with the edge of kissing without kissing. (It would go on to become our platonic way of greeting one another.)

And before I knew it, this friend was pointing at different people in the party for me to go up to and kiss. It was a game. It was point and kiss. Point and kiss. I would walk up to the person and ask if I could kiss them. If they said yes, we’d kiss.Gay, straight, boy, girl. Didn’t matter. Only one person politely declined.

I mean, sure. I was definitely drunk. And sure, anyone who’s ever dated me can tell you I tend to get friskier when I drink. But I enjoyed it! I was having fun! It’s not like it was a hardship or like I was hurting anyone. Although right now I’m getting the heebie-jeebies thinking about doing it now because, well… you know.

I’m sure people judged me. I’m sure people talked about it and me behind my back. “Did you hear that freshman who made out with everyone at Tony’s party?!”

Although if I had been a guy, that probably wouldn’t have been the case. I would have been perceived as being sweet or loving or — at worst — a player. “At least he wasn’t trying anything more! What restraint! And he even asked for permission?! What a gentleman!”

An un-slutty marriage

A couple years later, I would start to date the man who would eventually become my child groom. I kid. We were 22. But still, pretty young.

And the perception of my own sexuality and yearning to express it did not progress within the context of this relationship. In fact, I’m sure it regressed. Significantly.

You see, he’d grown up in a very religious household. One of those Christianities. And not one of the like… cool ones? But one of the ones that would urge parents to ban Harry Potter from their homes because witchcraft was how the devil wins.

Even though his parents enforced ideas like the Harry Potter hate, he definitely didn’t subscribe to all of them. I’m pretty sure he thought that one, in particular, was rather silly.

But messages around sex got through loud and clear.

He had been conditioned to be ashamed of his own sexuality. I think more so than I was. Catholicism has a great way of shaming you, but they’re real abstract or old fashioned about it. In my experience, it was easy to separate that from my everyday life.

But, for him, I think it was harder to make that distinction. So he was afraid of sexuality. He ran from it. He mentioned how he used to suffer from a porn addiction in high school.

Let me just note here that I do believe porn addiction is a real thing. I’m not trying to invalidate that. I think someone can watch so much porn where it starts to become harmful to the person both psychologically and physically.

However, from context and simply knowing the guy, I don’t think this describes what was going on with him at all. I literally think he just started watching porn. Like most teenage boys. (Well, like all teenagers but it’s certainly more normalized for the boys.) And then he found that he enjoyed it and wanted to keep doing it. The struggle was around the shame. That’s what he was wrestling with. He thought he was sinning. He thought he’d go to hell. He thought — perhaps worst of all — he’d lose the approval of his father.

So, here I was. An unidentified slut within the confines of a sexually repressed marriage. But I didn’t see anything wrong with the situation. Instead I turned it all inward. Maybe if I didn’t struggle so much with depression or my disordered eating, if I were skinnier, if I were more successful in some way, if, if, if, if, if…

Then maybe he would want me more. Then maybe we’d have more sex. Then maybe he would initiate the monthly sex.

Our relationship was unstable, and we — somewhat amicably — parted ways after three years married, five years together.

A slutty awakening

Ever wonder to yourself what happens to a slut who’s been in a sexless marriage when she and her husband separate?

She becomes a kid in a candy store.

And by that I mean, a consenting adult doing online dating. A lot of it.

Really. I’ve dated a lot. Too much? Is that a thing?

And while I really am a person who is wired to be in a longterm monogamous relationship, I got out there. I’ve had hundreds of first dates alone. And the majority of the successful ones at least ended up in kisses, if not more. Sometimes much, much more.

It certainly wasn’t always fun. There was rejection. Confusing communication. Occasionally not feeling safe. The exhaustion of going out so often and staying out so late. But I liked connecting with people. (In more ways than one, if you know what I mean. *wink, wink*)

But still it felt like I was doing something wrong. That I shouldn’t be dating that much. And even if I were dating this much, I shouldn’t be kissing or hooking up with so many people. I would get veiled judgments from friends. I would judge myself. I would question what was wrong with me?

And a lot of that came from this archaic notion that if a woman is out there dating a lot or “getting around”, then she must be all used up. Desperate. Possibly even crazy.

(Oh, so we did make it back to boy crazy!)

For as long as there has been a patriarchy, there has been this inclination to dismiss girls and women. One of the most tried and true methods of doing so would be to categorize the girl or woman as being “crazy” in some way. Insane. Hysterical.

Hysteria, which comes from the Greek word for uterus, has been used as far back as 1900 B.C. to describe abnormal behavior occurring with girls and women. That’s two Jesuses ago!

We’ve been known to do this when women were upset about such ridiculous things as their husband abusing them or the death of their child. We’ve done it when women had novel, rational ideas in such manly fields of math and science. We’ve done it whenever women were at all threatening to the status quo.

And we’ve done it especially to women who are particularly interested in sex. Punishing them through various methods such as social isolation, imprisonment, or even death — practices still in effect in our modern-day world.

Really takes the innocuousness out of the term, huh?

Anyways, back to my main point. What was that again? Oh, right. I’m a slut.

The forced period of rest and reflection the pandemic has provided, when touching other humans could mean literally taking people’s lives in your hands, clarity on how much I need this connection. How much I need touch. How much I need to kiss and hug and, yes, even fuck.

It’s what we all need, to varying degrees. We all need connection. Because, word on the street is that humans are social creatures.

Having this part of my life restricted again, because of this pesky pandemic, is bringing my perception of my sexuality into focus. That this is simply something I need. Something that is a part of me. And I’m not desperate for wanting it. I’m not (only) seeking validation and verification of meaning. And I can hold that I might be seeking validation while at the same time hold that I am wired this way.

It’s complex, sure. But so is human sexuality. Even in just my lifetime so far, the understanding of its complexity has grown exponentially. As has the understanding and acceptance that women are sexual creatures. And being vocal about that or even proud about that shouldn’t be demeaning, offensive, or even dangerous.

More and more, people are understanding that no matter how sexual a woman is or seems to be, consent is still a very real and important practice. She can’t have been “asking for it” unless she was literally asking for it. It doesn’t matter what she was wearing. It doesn’t matter what she was drinking. That she could be named a slut, and it have no bearing on her as a human.

I’m still working on it. For example, I don’t know if I’m comfortable enough to refer to myself as a slut to my family. Maybe one day. But I have started referring to myself as such with friends and friendly acquaintances. They might giggle or smile when I say it, but I think one day it’ll be as bland as saying I’m 5"4' or that I’m right-handed.

But I no longer look back at my dating and crush history and think there was something wrong with me. I don’t look at the numbers and believe I need to change my behavior. I accept this part of my life just as I’ve come to accept many other elements of what I am. And what am I?

I’m a slut, baby.