Becoming A Slut

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Becoming A Slut
Sex. Celebrity. Politics. With Teeth
Sex. Celebrity. Politics. With Teeth
There's no insult in the English language like "slut": hurled as abuse, it can have a devastating impact. Being designated a "slut" can be reputation-ruining; however, it can also be taken as a compliment in certain situations, as a signifier of sexual attractiveness. A "good slut" is someone fun, sex-positive, and sexy — such a Samantha! Such a Jessa from GIRLS ! Tequila shots for all my sluts! A "bad slut," on the other hand, is someone who deserves the full force of our collective scorn and disdain. What's the difference, though?
The word "slut" can be used punitively, aggressively, shamingly, chidingly, in seemingly congratulatory manner, jokingly, with complete vitriol, etc. In short, it has no real, clearly-defined meaning. It's a collection of (sometimes contradictory) connotations huddled around an empty set, its only true defining feature being a murky connection to sexual impropriety. According to the dictionary , a "slut" is "a promiscuous woman; especially: PROSTITUTE." (Definition b: "a saucy girl: MINX"). Apparently, it comes from the Norwegian word for "impure liquid," which makes sense, because we sluts are constantly stewing in a collection of impure sauces, like those of the bog from which Grendel emerged.
So, fine, we can all agree that the denotation of "slut" is "a promiscuous woman" — but what even constitutes promiscuity in our era of ever-dissolving sexual prohibitions? Casual sex hasn't been a taboo (or even a source of deep-rooted, lingering shame! Woohoo!) for a long time, now — and, yet, the designation of "slut" lingers on as something we're still permitted, if not tacitly encouraged, to call women who don't have sex the way we think they should.
Enter slutformula.com , a website I came across this morning, that was probably crafted by an angry 15-year-old who lives in the stomach of a Balrog. It claims to contain "the official Slut Formula." Through some sort of complicated algorithm (misogyny x cum-sock/I hate vaginas), the site's author alleges that they're able to calculate your "Sluticity Value." Here's a fun bit of reasoning that accompanies the calculator:
Why the Slut Formula? Why does it only apply to Women? Women can pick and choose who they sleep with while men aren't nearly as picky and must constantly prove themselves while doing the attacking (ex: typically men approach women, not the other way around). Sluticity corrupts, and absolute sluticity corrupts absolutely. With provocative female attire, strict sexual harassment laws against men, and this innate ability to control them via vagina, women are the ones who must accept this responsibility and not abuse the power... if they do they will earn such titles as slut, whore, cock gobbler, etc.
The website, obviously, is a stinking pit of troll-feces that any woman with an ounce of self-awareness would likely know better than to take seriously (case in point: in order to not be a slut at all, at age 28, you can have had, at most: 3 sex partners, 5 kissing partners, and 5 oral sex partners). However, it didn't just hop out of a void, wielding a graph that shows a "linear relationship of sex and slutdom for a female." There are unspoken assumptions and deep-seated values in our society that create an environment in which less blatantly swinish iterations of this line of thinking proliferate.
Last week, Jezebel staff was discussing a recent psychological study that finds that college students who have meaningless sex (which is defined here as "sex with someone the respondent had known for less than a week") are more likely to exhibit "psychological distress." As lead researcher Dr. Melina M. Bersamin told Business Insider , "casual sex was negatively associated with well-being and positively associated with psychological distress." The idea that casual sex isn't always emotionally or physically fulfilling is, obviously, neither shocking nor new. But if casual sex is supposed to be the millennial's playground (no one steal this phrase and use it to name your nightclub because I am having it trademarked), shouldn't we at least be cool with it? Why does it cause us so much distress?
Looking to the lifestyles of twenty-somethings as an indication of what's broken or wrong with our…
The general consensus was that casual sex isn't necessarily easy to be casual about. It involves navigating a veritable minefield of pleasure, expectations, desire, miscommunications, muddled emotions, fun!! (let's not forget), but also of judgment and shame. Taking up the Mantle of Sluticity is not always a simple task, because it's caked with centuries worth of fears and myths and horrible assumptions re: sexually active women. So how does one even go about being successful at casual sex without experiencing emotional consequences? What makes The Perfect Slut?
To be clear, here's a handy list of how to be the Right Amount of Slutty:
The concept is bullshit for a lot of reasons — mostly because it causes women to worry that they're not behaving properly, according to a set of criteria that are both insane and lacking logic or any form of coherence.
Personally, I have always been a terrible slut. In my time at college, the only thing I was worse at than being a cool and fun slut was probably not falling asleep during that CogSci lecture I took by accident. This is because, during my time at college, I was growing up and starting to realize what kind of person I wanted to be. That's a fraught process, and one that almost necessarily involves a lot of insecurity and self-consciousness. A time of great uncertainty about one's own identity, it turns out, is not a ideal time to try and be a fun and carefree casual sexer — I realized this the hard way (i.e., crying under a strobe light at a party while eating a bag of Tostito's).
Having however much sex you want, with people you may or may not know very well, should be enjoyable, it should be easy, and it should never make you second-guess yourself. In other words, it requires that you're comfortable with who you are and what you want, and capable of communicating both of those things. It requires you to have reached a certain level of self-actualization and self-assurance. I wasn't there yet, so I sucked at being casually promiscuous. I projected my anxieties about myself as a person onto the "relationships" I was having, and it put me in a state of mild psychological distress.
What's even more baffling about the Slut Conundrum is that "psychological distress" is caused by pressure on both sides. Yes, negative stereotypes about women who have too much sex abound, but so, too, do stereotypes about women who don't have enough sex. Having had sex with far too few people at a certain age is seen as shameful — maybe in a different way than having had too much sex with too many people is, but it's a real pressure nonetheless. In environments where hooking up casually is the norm, there's a tacit pressure to fit in with one's peers. But when we're not given the right tools — either through a general unwillingness to have frank discussions about sexuality, or through a lack of self-possessed sexual female role models in the media, or through something else entirely — the very desire to "keep up" can be depressing and emotionally draining.
There's a line every woman must walk with her sexual identity. The old, strict, prohibitions around sex have been replaced with a set of nebulous demarcations: yes, you should have premarital sex; you should even have casual sex if you want! But there are certain ways you have to do it and certain patterns of behavior that are acceptable, otherwise you are gross and sad. It's a different type of sexual policing, but it strongly impacts the way we see the world, the way in which we think sex should happen, and what we think should happen afterwards.
I don't think that anyone can pinpoint the fine line between what's perceived as "healthy, sexual woman behavior" and "big slut behavior" (or, conversely, between what's seen as "healthy, sexy woman" and "sad prude"). And that's because it does not really exist. It's just an arbitrary distinction that allows us to malign women as freely — and illogically — as we please.



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Why I'm So Proud to Be a 'Promiscuous' Slut
Life is like a cock. You have to grab it with both hands.
ORIGINAL REPORTING ON EVERYTHING THAT MATTERS IN YOUR INBOX.
I can't remember the first time I got called a slut—probably around the time I started cocking my leg up in alleyways and acting like one. But I never had a problem with that, about being a slut or announcing myself as such. The problem I've always had is other people thinking that being a slut is a bad thing. Because it's not; being a slut is glorious.
This debate about promiscuity is about judging and shaming people—thinking that you know what's best for them. Well, sluts don't need your disapproval or advice on how we should live our lives. We're quite capable of making our own, terrible drunken decisions. What I can deal with, though, is your disapproval. It's hot. I don't know why, just like I don't know why other people's boyfriends taste better—they just do . And there are more and more people like me these days—come and find us on Tinder, Grindr, and all those other hook-up sites that, like, EVERYONE (even your mom) is on. We're all sluts now.
I prefer the term "fun" to "promiscuity," because I'm a fan of good, clear English. I can only speak from my own (admittedly vast) sexual experience, but if I get into a car with a strange man, for example, and I'm pouting and he's looking at my legs and tits and stuff, he doesn't drive me off for a "bit of promiscuity"—he drives me off for a "bit of fun." I even looked up how the Oxford Dictionary defines promiscuity, and it says, "The fact or state of being promiscuous; immorality."
The word is defined as "having or characterized by many transient sexual relationships." Of course, it doesn't tell us how many is many , because—like so much of this debate—the exact amount of people you need to sleep with to qualify as promiscuous is an arbitrary judgment imposed by other people.
Also, where does time fit into all this? Let's say an 80-year-old has had ten sexual partners over the course of her life. Is she promiscuous? Would we consider her to be a promiscuous person? Probably not. But what if she had slept with all ten of those people in the same week—back in the summer of '69—and then never had sex again for the rest of her life? Would that "equal it out"? And if so, why? What does the gap do? Why does spacing your booty calls out lend to respectability?
None of it makes sense because it's just an idea, and a shitty one at that. Promiscuity doesn't exist. It's just a word people came up with to describe and judge certain human behaviors. It's about as real as doorism. Never heard of doorism? That's because I just made it up. It describes a tendency to open doors. I opened the bathroom door this morning to take a pee, and I also opened several doors to get me from my bed to my breakfast table. And when I finish writing this article I'll open lots more because I'm a dirty, door-opening doorist, and I'm pretty sure that you are too.
We don't apply any particular significance to how many times someone opens a door on a given day, but we do tend to have an opinion on how many times someone her their legs. I don't see why. Unless you're the lucky dude I'm opening my doors, legs, and heart to, what has it got to do with you? And all this shame is almost always directed at women. This is an ancient point, I know, but it's time to point out yet again that when a guy fucks around he's considered a stud, but when a woman does the same she's a slut and a whore.
Do you remember when you were very small and learning to read? I do. I love to read. Reading is what I did before I discovered fucking. Like fucking, though, reading is something you have to "work on" until you "get there." Getting there means when you can read a book like an adult and it doesn't feel like a chore anymore. That it comes naturally. I was always pleased, as a kid, when my reading age improved, but I remember—when I was about 13 or 14—noticing that some people in my school just gave up. They never made it to the place where you read for the joy of it, and that made me sad. It still makes me sad today when I meet people who say they haven't read a book since their school days. I feel like they're missing out on something that's been such a profound and pleasurable part of my life. And I feel exactly the same way about fucking around.
I was invited to speak at the Oxford Union last night, debating the notion that promiscuity is a virtue, not a vice. I was "for" the notion, obviously. I was going to come up with lots of clever reasons to back up my position, but the truth is that there aren't any. Promiscuity is neither a good thing nor a bad thing… It's just a thing. Some people aren't promiscuous and are fine. Some people are promiscuous and are fine. Some people are promiscuous and have horrible lives. Some people aren't promiscuous and have horrible lives. Whatever.
A few years ago I walked into a nightclub. It was a kink night with a freaky crowd. I asked a guy if he wanted to come back with me. He did. I asked him if he minded extra company. He didn't. I invited his friend to join us. And another. And another. We got a cab. I invited the cab driver to join in too, but he was too scared (he did take my number, though, and we did the dirty at a later date). If two's company and three's a party, five's definitely an orgy.
It turned me on, standing in the hotel reception with four hot guys, aware that the chap at reception knew that we were booking into one suite and what we were clearly planning to do inside—me, in a word. It must have been obvious that they were all going to fuck me. I wonder if he fantasized about that. I've fantasized about him fantasizing about it. It was good, dirty fun. One of them was inside me. One of them was working on me. One of them gave me something to shut me up. One of them gave me something to keep my hands busy. It worked because I was the center of sexual attention. I wanted it. I was in control. I was shameful but not ashamed. I was wanton, almost a caricature, a porno fantasy, a make-believe slut. I came with their hands all over me, their eyes watching me, their dicks prodding me. I was drunk. I was high. It was fantastic—fantasy made flesh. Like my genitals were eating a pot of honey.
And that's why I'm so passionate about people's right to be promiscuous. If that's what floats your boat, stiffens your penis, creams your vagina, go for it. Wouldn't you rather be on a beach somewhere right now, with beautiful people, coming? Coming is brilliant. Why shouldn't we strive to do it as often as possible and with as many people as possible? So much of our lives are spent taking the bin bags out, brushing our teeth, waiting for the microwave to end, wondering when we can take our shoes off because our feet ache.
Life isn't fun or glamorous. It's dull and tedious and savage and cruel, and you have to go to work and feed your kids and send people birthday cards—all that old shit. Those moments of pure release, though—that hedonistic abandon—they're the bits that make life worth living. Sure, you can have special moments with the person you love, but don't look down on those of us who like to rub genitals with anyone and everyone. Like you, we just want to feel alive.
Life is like a cock. You have to grab it with both hands.
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