“It’s OK to be a whore.”
There’s a point during mutual attraction at which my body takes over and tells my “proper lady” brain to shut the fuck up and enjoy. The people on the receiving end of that shift seem to enjoy it, but I’ve definitely felt disgusting and apologized for it once my brain came back. I have no idea where this comes from. It’s improved, but I sometimes still find myself sinking into a rabbit hole of self-slut-shaming for some of the choices I’ve made.
And this is also getting better but I still do tons of things I don’t want to do because I don’t want to be rude, or hurt anyone’s feelings by saying “no.”
So… this. All of this: “We need to keep changing the attitude that raises our girls to be demure and our boys to be assertive… We need to keep changing the attitude that punishes women for their sexuality and rewards men for theirs.”
Full article via Glamour magazine: President Barack Obama on Feminism and the World He Wants to Leave His Daughters
Therapist assures me she can change my thinking of myself as “Slutty von Slutwhore.”
*challengey face* You go ahead, dearie. It’s so much a part of my lexicon that my phone knows the word “Slutwhore,” so let me know how that works out for you.
Unless you’re gonna, like, “Eternal Sunshine” me? Yes. I would like my mind to be spotless, please.
“Well, it sounds like you didn’t feel slutty until [Thing] happened.”
Um, yeah, in which “Thing” = “I started being slutty.” Christ, I pay you for this?
Seriously, though, I’m glad she’s planning to help me get past this, because I could REALLY stand to get laid without torturing myself after. It’s quite a lot of tension at this point — I almost feel bad for the unfortunate soul who has to be under me when I get unleashed. I might need backup dick.
N.B. Some of this has dissipated just with the passage of time. I know I wasn’t “slutty” — I made a few bad choices and fell for one wrong person who, intentionally or not, made me feel that way. But I learned from all of it, including the very valuable lesson that sometimes I NEED to get laid.
Besides, “slutty” is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone who beholds me doesn’t see it. (And if you do, fuck you, go away.)
Recently a friend told me about a writer named Brené Brown, who I guess is a “self-help” author (I know, I rolled my eyes, too), and talks a lot about fear, shame, and vulnerability. I liked her approach, and have been mainlining her lectures on YouTube. (For someone who writes a sex blog, I have a LOT of self-slut-shaming issues…among others, obviously. It’s part of why I started writing it.)
Anyway, I reported back to my friend that I found Brown’s perspective helpful, and because my friends keep shit real, she said: “That’s great!…You know you still need to find a therapist, though, right? This isn’t a substitute.”
Yuuuup. Yup, I do. Bleh. Feelings. UGH. I’ve maxed out my coverage on “friends as therapists,” and Lexapro is lovely, but it’s probably not helping as much as it could if I would just stop being so…ME about this.
“I think I have a problem, and I just… I need some help. But here’s the thing — no family stuff. No childhood shit. I JUST need some strategies.”
(I’m not naive enough to think I’ll ever fix my Slutty von Slutwhore problem without discussing family/childhood shit. This is gonna blow, like, several goats. But it needs to be addressed.)