Love Being A Whore

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Love Being A Whore
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Actress. Author. Freelance Journalist. Sex-Columnist.
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Actress. Author. Freelance Journalist. Sex-Columnist.
Many would feel shame identifying with the traits of a whore but I feel incredibly proud. I’m whorish down to my bones and I’ve felt this since I was a young teenage girl. It’s not just a physicality ― it’s a consistent mental, spiritual and emotional state.
Theorist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung coined the term ‘archetype’ in 1919. An archetype is a universal personality-style that individuals the world over can resonate with.
Some popular archetypes are: the mother the martyr the jester the devil the child and the victim.
Most people identify with one particular archetype but some identify with an array of archetypal behaviors.
Depending on what texts you choose to read. The whore archetype can be insanely positive or negative. I only perceive ‘the whore’ in a positive light.
I laugh at people's stupidity when they label women 'whores' as a put-down. Let's not get high and mighty. We're all whores. We're all selling ourselves in some capacity.
To me, the whore represents an open and non-judgmental sexual channel.
She is empowered. She is the queen of honest transactions. She is the goddess of counsel and nourishment.
I've always fully enjoyed pleasuring men (and women...but mostly men). It feels very natural to me.
Pleasuring men feeds me pleasure. When I'm not pleasuring men -- I'm either thinking about pleasuring men or writing about pleasuring men.
I like how their bodies feel on mine. I like the safety I feel when they are inside of me. I like watching them climax. I like being the warm place that they visit.
This realization and acceptance isn’t degrading or defeatist. It’s powerful!
Embracing my inner and outer whore-archetype on the world’s stage has it’s drawbacks but for the most part it causes me enlightenment. I feel that it’s important to be true to myself. There’s nothing shameful about loving to fuck. It’s the most natural act in the world and it makes one feel so unbelievably good.
My sexuality is a sacred place inside of me where I live and create ― it is the fabric from which I’m made. What an honor it is to gift pleasure. What a god-send to acknowledge my gifts.
Isn’t that what life is about? Giving to others? Sharing joy? Making myself happy? Perhaps we all contribute in different ways.
Vanessa de Largie is an actress, author, writer and sex-columnist based in Australia.
Actress. Author. Freelance Journalist. Sex-Columnist.




By
Allie Stinson ,
October 17th 2014



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Fifty-two. That’s my number. I’m twenty-five and have been sexually active for nine years. That averages about 5.8 men a year. When you factor in my one three-year committed relationship, that makes it about 8.5, many of which were one-night-stands. What can I say? I’m a slut and I thoroughly enjoy it.
It all started when I was sixteen. I met my first real boyfriend at a keg party at a house he shared with about five other guys. Believe it or not, at this point in my life I was the last of my friends to get laid. The pressure was on. People are lying when they say your first time should be special. Although it was random, sweaty, and totally meaningless, I loved it. I loved the actual feeling of a man (well, he was a boy, but I didn’t think so then) touching every crevice of my body. My one three-year relationship ensued, ending with him sending naked pictures to my mom and trying to sleep with my underage sister.
When that train wreck ended, I thanked God I wasn’t pregnant, and I started casually dating. There was a chubby guy who was so horrible at kissing I told him I didn’t like to make out. I guess he just thought I was weird. When I stopped him in the middle of sex because it was so bad, he spread a rumor that I gave him an STD. After that I made sure to tell him how much I actually love to make out.
After that was a guy I didn’t realize was gay at the time. He has since caught herpes and is a male stripper. His best friend wasn’t the next guy I slept with, but about a year later we briefly dated. I don’t mean to be shallow, but there are some things I just can’t do. This guy had enormous bumps all over his back and a micropenis, so I broke up with him by telling him my bestie and I were lesbian lovers. It was immature, but it got the job done. Shortly thereafter, the “bumpback whale” ran into my friend and I grocery-shopping for dinner together, and not long after he ran into us having dinner together at Outback. It really is a small world.
Then there was a guy of another race I met on MySpace. We had sex on a couch in his garage and I never talked to him again. He was clingy from the beginning.
Then I slept with a guy I met at a head shop. We would smoke out of the hookah in the back and get busy on the couch. It turns out he had a girlfriend who left upon discovering our relationship, and he shot himself in the head. It’s hard to imagine someone ending his life for something so insignificant, but he did. Nobody else knows this, but his last message to me is how I know I’m at least partially responsible. I think he cast a lot of the blame on me for getting caught, but I’ll never know for sure. I try to forget about it.
The next guy is unforgettable to me. He was black and tatted-up and beautiful. He had dark curly hair and a baby face. I slept with him for a year, but since he was too gangsta to actually date me, I had several other flings during that time. I cheated on every boyfriend with him. Honestly, I loved him. He was my first real love and he broke my heart. Toward the end we started exclusively seeing each other but I had a miscarriage and it just ruined everything.
Fast-forward a couple months after that heartbreak. I’m young and obnoxious, so I yell my number to a guy at a stoplight and he actually calls me. This is the worst short-lived relationship of my life. He was a pathological liar, a total disgusting slob, and a wannabe drug dealer. His only redeeming quality was his big penis. We’ll call him Dave. After three months of dating he punched me in the eye during an argument right in front of his best friend. That was the worst black eye I’ve had in my life. His best friend drove me home, and since I’m incredibly spiteful, I dated him shortly after. I had to break up with him because his feet smelled horrible and he was bad in bed.
Dave used to throw a lot of parties and there was one where a guy—let’s call him Mike—got in a fight with Dave, kicked his ass, and stole his weed. Dave considered Mike an arch-nemesis after that ordeal, so of course I had sex with Mike, too.
In between these guys, I still managed to have one-night stands, and God only knows how many I hooked up with but didn’t quite sleep with.
Eventually I got an apartment with my best friend. In that one summer I slept with at least ten guys. I had sex with this guy I had known since I was thirteen. He had a girlfriend so I probably shouldn’t have done it more than once, but he gave me multiple orgasms, so what was I supposed to do? I attempted to have sex with my neighbor, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t get it up. That was my first experience with erectile dysfunction. I also had my first experience taking someone’s virginity that summer, and that guy is actually my best friend now. He’s probably the one I should be with, but monogamy is for the birds. I had sex with guys I don’t even remember that summer because I was so drunk. I should probably mention that I had just turned twenty-one.
I’ve met guys off Craigslist, I’ve met guys at bars and have given them fake names, I’ve met strangers at hotel rooms—you name it and I’ve probably done it.
At the moment I’m involved with several men. One of them is the same guy I met in high school. He gave me multiple orgasms then and he gives them to me now. He’s engaged, but I’m not the type of girl to turn down a man who is so incredibly talented with his tongue.
As insensitive as it sounds, she’s his problem. Life isn’t a fairy tale, it’s real, it’s harsh, and I have needs that he satisfies. It’s like a business transaction to me. I’m not oblivious to the way people think of me; I just truly don’t care. I do it for several reasons, none of which I apologize for.
The first reason is the power. After spending my younger years hopelessly waiting for guys to call me back and experiencing the harsh reality of being used for sex, I realized how liberating it was to have sex with someone I never intended to speak to again. You can do what you want and say what you want because even if they judge you, who cares? You never have to see them again. It doesn’t even matter if they like me as long as they give me an orgasm.
I also enjoy variety. There are so many different and ridiculously attractive guys out there, each with something to offer. I have slept with many races, with many different body types, and with many vastly different personalities. I truly love the thrill of adding another notch to my belt, whether it’s a clean-cut frat boy or a foreign guy with tan skin and a sexy accent. I like them all. Some of the best sex I’ve had has been with taken men.
I’m also a fan of physical satisfaction. I love feeling his mouth on my nipples, kissing my body, licking me everywhere. I want his hands on my hips, pulling my hair, or holding me close. I love watching a man’s face when he climaxes just as much as I love watching his face when I climax. Unlike most of my lady friends I’ve talked to, I have an orgasm nearly every time I have sex. Maybe that’s another reason I enjoy short-term flings; they’ve always satisfied me.
There’s also the curiosity factor. If he’s a good kisser, I wonder what he’s like in bed. If he looks good with his clothes on, I want to see what’s underneath. I fantasize about what he will do to me when we’re alone. I’m like a young Blanche Devereaux—or maybe Samantha Jones, if I really want to give myself a compliment.
Perhaps I have some issue that has made me such a fan of detached physical relationships. I judge the men I sleep with on appearance and skills in the bedroom only. It’s a very shallow way to live, but it gets the job done. They don’t exactly seem to mind, either. I don’t feel a need to be emotionally connected to my lovers.
There’s just something about a short-lived romance. I love being pleasantly surprised with a man who is an amazing lover. And I love the novelty of a new man and the way he appreciates my body. I love knowing his fetishes and quirks in bed. I love being the one that leaves right after sex and gives a lame excuse to explain why I can’t spend the night. I don’t even care when they don’t believe it. I love it. I’m a slut, and I thoroughly enjoy it.
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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.
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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. Thos
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