Loves Slut

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Loves Slut

The Four Levels of Slut Sleeping around carries an unfair double standard, but sluttiness does have levels.
by Nathan DeGraaf | June 21, 2006
Points in Case is a daily literary humor publication featuring enlightening and irreverent comedy from seasoned writers and fresh voices, since 1999.
Main: Man, she’s a whore?
Nathan: How can you say that? She never got paid.
Main: I stand corrected. She’s a slut.
I think it’s unfair that women are often considered sluts for sleeping around. Women say that this perception of them propagates a double standard because men are never considered sluts for rampant sexual activity. (Although, if that were truly the case, then why do so many women I know call me a slut?) And recently, because I just dumped a girl who cheated on me, I have been pondering exactly what it is that makes a girl a slut .
Now, when I get to pondering, well, sometimes I just have to get out a pen and write down my thoughts. This was one of those times. You see, there are many different kinds of sluts, and there is not one hard and fast rule that simply defines a woman as a slut. But there are (at least) four levels of slut.
“Sadly, the Cheating Slut is really what most men mean when they say ‘slut' or ‘whore.' The first two levels are just people being people.”
This woman is not technically, by definition, a slut. She is the woman who gets stereotyped as a slut simply because she likes to fuck around. This woman typically has no boyfriend (or a boyfriend who doesn’t care that she fucks other men) and simply goes out looking to get laid. She doesn’t feel that she should have to settle down, and she thinks it’s unfair that other women degrade her for this. She is right. She is also one of the reasons I get up in the morning.
Of the last four women I’ve slept with, three fall into this category because (as far as I know), they were not cheating on anyone, were not lying about who they fucked, and were not asking for anything more than sex. Women love sex, too; they should not be blamed for seeking it. Stereotypes hurt everyone. Ironically enough, usually other women hate this girl because she can fuck who she wants, while men bare her no ill will. She is, after all, simply doing what she likes. And men, for the most part, respect that.
Unlike the whores that make up the second level of slut.
Much like the Sexually Liberated Woman, this slut has no boyfriend. She does however, and for whatever reason, feel she needs to lead men on. She fucks several different men at one time while tricking the men she fucks into thinking that they are pursuing a relationship. Which is to say that every one of the suckers she fucks happens to think that they’re the slut’s soon-to-be boyfriend. She also loves seeing men fight over her, which may be (at least in part) the motivation for her leading these poor bastards on.
The main thing that separates her from the Level 1 Slut is that she is not honest with the men in her life because she derives pleasure from wrapping suckers around her little finger. The women representing this level of slut usually leave me alone. I’m not sure why, but I’m pretty sure the Garden Variety Slut has a radar for suckers, and because I am not one, I hardly have to deal with these bitches.
I can’t say the same for the sluts in levels 3 and 4.
Cheating Sluts come in three different categories. There are those who simply cheat on a boyfriend they’ve had for a few months and then tell him (no big deal); those who cheat on a guy they’ve dated for a few months, never tell him, and force him to find out from his friends (a slightly bigger deal because these sluts lack honesty); and then there are the worst kind—the sluts who fuck around on a man they’ve been with for years and never tell him about it.
The first girl I fucked after the breakup belonged in last category. The bitch was engaged. She fucked me late in the afternoon and left early in the evening because her man would soon be arriving from work. To her fiancée, I say, “I hope your parents are proud of you for preparing to marry a 21-year-old waitress with no education. Oh, and by the way, I’ve never met a girl who had a tell for her female ejaculation before. I mean, her leg quivers like an epileptic in mid seizure and then she squirts. That’s kind of weird. And yes, I like her body, too.”
Sadly, the Cheating Slut is really what most men mean when they say “slut” or “whore.” The first two levels are just people being people, not people being disloyal bitches. What separates this level of slut from the fourth and final level of slut, is, quite simply, the motivation for cheating.
Fortunately for me, I live in a college community where finding a man with his own car, no roommates and a steady income is like hitting the jackpot for most girls. Unfortunately for me, this means I often get hit on by the Money Grubbing Slut.
The saddest thing about the Money Grubbing Slut is that she really does like (or even love) her boyfriend. She simply expects more from her man in terms of monetary consideration. She doesn’t make her own money and can’t live off her boyfriend’s petty McDonald’s wages, so she seeks out men who will take her to nice places and buy her shiny objects. This is the worst kind of whore because she’s pissing on love and respect all in the name of a few dollars.
I love promising this girl I will take her some place nice, then fucking her and ordering a pizza, explaining to her that I’m broke. After this, I can usually count the seconds until she leaves, feeling used. Then I double check my wallet; you can’t trust a Money Grubbing Slut (at least, not until she starts making her own money, in which case, the nickname gets changed to “Materialistic Shark,” which is unfair—I mean, why blame a girl for wanting money and making it?).
So guys, the next time you take a woman home from a bar, or fuck her in the bathroom at a party, or on the rooftop of a shopping mall, or in the grass median on the side of a highway (you know, whatever works for you), you may want to consider exactly what level of slut you are fucking. Remember, it’s not wrong if it’s just sex for sex’s sake (hell, female sexual liberation was the best thing to come out of the women’s rights movement). But if she’s in a relationship with some other guy (or guys) when you first fuck her, odds are she’s not the kind of girl you want to spend six bucks on.
Then again, few women are worth six bucks.
Nathan DeGraaf graduated fucking years ago with a BA in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida, which he still lives near because college chicks are the best. On... See full profile »
When we were told to chase our dreams, nobody mentioned they’d be mostly anxiety dreams.




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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Labels are hard to shift. I know. I pissed myself in class in grade 2. Since then I got labelled as “that kid who peed his pants.” My friends would say, “Hey remember that time you peed your pants?” Hard to forget when it’s frequently brought up over 8 years. I escaped that identity only when I changed schools. I suspect being labelled “slut” is much worse. I’ve never once called a girl a slut. I’ve had girlfriends who cheated on me though. Not pleasant. Then again, I’ve cheated on girlfriends. Not proud. You might say that’s karma for being a man slut. But perhaps, just perhaps, we all are. Yes. If you’re reading this and you’re female, you’re a slut! Wow, that’s the first time I said that to a girl. Anyway, here’s why you are…
Women are sluts and men are, well, men. We think of men as man-whores already. Hence there’s no point of stating the obvious. But the truth is both sexes love sex. Women are just as promiscuous as men, otherwise the numbers don’t add up. If men were sleeping around with all these women, there has to be “all these women” to sleep around with in the first place. The average male reports having twice as many partners as the average women report. This could only happen if there are twice as many women in the population. Either men exaggerate or women understate. But someone’s lying here.
In nature it’s the male species that use physical appearance to vie for female attention. In humans, it’s the opposite. Women in the Kayan tribe of Thailand extend their necks with brass rings. Women in Ethiopian tribes scar their bellies or insert plaques into their lips. In Japan, women cosmetically unstraighten their teeth, while a tribe in Indonesia file their teeth to be pointy. Women of 19th century Europe wore tight corsets. Meanwhile daughters in Mauritania are sent to fat camps to get stretch marks. Different methods but to the same end. To attract men. It’s true in every society in every part of the world at any time in history. Come to think of it, short skirts, see-through blouse and six-inch stilettos are a bit tame comparatively. Step it up a bit ladies!
Once you’re tagged a slut, it sticks with you. It’s not that you can’t shake it off but often because you won’t. Your resistance to the slut label is the glue that keeps you tied to it. Carl Jung said it best. Whatever you resist persist. So embrace it. Wear it as a badge of honour of your sexual empowerment, and pretty soon the word loses all negative undertones. Take the “Slutwalk” movement. The protest was against victim-blaming and slut-shaming. Women declared loudly and proudly they were sluts. After a while people just told them to shut up about it. The movement died but so did some of the word’s power. What you embrace dissolves.
You have plump breasts. No other primate does. Not unless they’re breastfeeding. It’s a trait non-essential for survival. In the animal world, it’s always the male species that have these “handicaps.” But there’s an adaptive payoff that outweighs the energy cost and survival risk. And that is sexual advantage. Peacocks get more peahens. Women get more men. In nature, sex mostly only occur when the female is ovulating. To prevent males searching for other mates while she’s not ovulating, a woman’s breasts signal she’s continuously sexually receptive. Push up bras, plunging necklines, fishnet crop tops, breast implants. Enhancing your assets opens up your options. It’s not slutty. It’s called natural selection.
While men are typically penis-centric, women have a lot of erogenous zones. Virtually every part of their body can be a feel-good button. The clitoris has twice as many nerve endings as the penis. It’s there for fun. The organ has no other function. Women were made to find sex pleasurable, arguably more than men. In our ancient past, humans evolved to find sweet and salty taste pleasurable. Times of plenty were rare. So when we did have access to those type of food we tended to gorge on them. Today this adaptive mechanism doesn’t serve us. But we still have the biologically urge to choose coke and fries over the salad and kale juice. Wome
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