Slut 16

Slut 16
Roget's 21st Century Thesaurus, Third Edition Copyright © 2013 by the Philip Lief Group.
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Such rude candour on "The Cub- Slut 's" part had made her feared; so that nobody durst provoke her in the slightest degree.
"The Cub- Slut " stood firm before Csar, provocative, with flashing eyes, in an attitude of challenge.
This island was of the drift formation, and as late as half a century ago, a portion of it still remained, being called Slut Bush.
Then suspecting that she was shut up with a gallant, he struck great blows upon the door and began to shout ' Slut !
"The Cub- Slut " answered in the negative, by an energetic movement of her head.
Did Ma'm'selle Slut not wait at table in this house and lead the men a dance here night and day-day and night till I found it out!
bitch noun (vulgar) malicious woman
Roget's 21st Century Thesaurus, Third Edition Copyright © 2013 by the Philip Lief Group.
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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.

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Bored after 18 years with her husband, Robin Rinaldi placed an ad seeking casual encounters with new men and women. She tells what happened on her yearlong sex odyssey in her memoir "The Wild Oats Project."
John Chapple

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Trapped in a marriage where the sex was routine, freelance journalist Robin Rinaldi , now 50, embarked on a 12-month experiment in which she lived apart from her husband during the week and took lovers. As she publishes her memoir, “The Wild Oats Project,” on Tuesday, she talks to The Post’s Jane Ridley about her erotic journey.

Pulling on his pants after our intimate encounter in my Las Vegas hotel room, the cute 23-year-old I’d just picked up holds out his cellphone, urging me to tap in my number.
“You really don’t have to take it,” I say.
Having sex with a stranger is thrilling, but I’m not that interested in a repeat performance.
Two minutes after he’s gone, I climb back into bed and text my husband, Scott, whom I’ve been with for 18 years. “Just saying good night,” I type. “Good night, dove,” writes back Scott from wherever he is.
Scenarios like these were typical during my year of living dangerously — the crazy 12 months in 2008 and 2009 I jokingly call my “Wild Oats Project,” when Scott and I had an open marriage.
Stuck in a rut — our once-a-week sex life was loving, but lacked spontaneity and passion — I was craving seduction and sexual abandon. I was having a midlife crisis and chasing this profound, deeply rooted experience of being female.
Before then, starting a family had felt like one route to this elusive state of feminine fulfillment. But Scott had made it absolutely clear he never wanted a baby, and even had a vasectomy.
Many people will find this hard to understand, but, as the door to motherhood closed, I found myself rushing towards this whole other outlet of heightened female experience — taking lovers.
I’d always been “the good girl,” and had slept with only three guys before getting involved with Scott at the age of 26. I was pretty conservative.
Sexually, I was experiencing what happens to a lot of women in their late 30s and early 40s. I was approaching my sexual peak and was relaxing into myself.
I broke the news to Scott that I wanted an open marriage in early 2008, a few months after his vasectomy. “I won’t go to my grave with no children and four lovers,” I told him repeatedly. “I refuse.”
Against the idea at first, he eventually relented. According to our deal, I’d rent a studio apartment during the week and come back to our home on weekends. Both of us could sleep with whomever we chose as long as we used protection. It was a case of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”
My first step was placing an ad on nerve.com , a kind of intellectual version of Craigslist’s Casual Encounters . Under the heading: “Good girl seeks experience,” it read: “I’m a 44-year-old professional, educated, attractive woman in an open marriage, seeking single men age 35-50 to help me explore my sexuality. You must be trustworthy, smart, and skilled at conversation as well as in bed.”
I added: “Our time together will be limited to three dates as I cannot become seriously involved.”
Within 24 hours, my inbox offered up 23 prospective suitors.
The first lover I met through nerve.com was a 40-something lawyer called Jonathan*. Slim, handsome with glasses and a stylish haircut, he suggested we kiss to test our sexual chemistry. “There’s a lot of heat there,” he said.
On our second date, the following week, he came to my studio after work with a cooler of snacks and some wine. We stumbled to the bed, where he turned me onto my hands and knees and took me from behind.
We had intercourse twice and, after he left, I felt satiated.
Around the same time, I took workshops at OneTaste , a sexual-education center, which has branches in New York and San Francisco, where I lived at the time. A sort of “sex-friendly” yoga retreat, it taught me something called orgasmic meditation, which is centered on the woman.
OneTaste was the place where I selected most of my lovers, although I picked up a couple of guys, like the 23-year-old in Vegas, on business trips. OneTaste was populated by cool, open-minded San Franciscans who wanted to expand their horizons.
They included an astrologer named Jude, 12 years my junior. The moment I saw him, I was irresistibly drawn in.
Slightly built and neo-hippy, he was spiritual, calm and centered. I was an Italian, meat-eating, busy magazine editor. But we had a real connection. I became infatuated with him, but the sex soon fizzled.
And then there was Alden, a writer, in his late 30s, who answered my nerve.com post.
“So your ad said only three dates,” he said, as we ate dinner in a crowded restaurant. “Yes,” I replied. Without missing a beat, he reached over and lightly took my fingertips in his. “Do you think we’ll be able to do that, to limit it?”
I loved our conversation, the fact he was a writer, the books he read. Things in the bedroom were mind-blowing and, before I knew it, I was hooked. But I’d made a pledge to my husband that I wouldn’t get involved with any of my lovers. I stuck to that.
And so the year went on. I had lots of “firsts,” including being intimate with women.
But the lessons I learned weren’t purely physical. They were about growing up, making mistakes, learning to live without so much fear, owning up to my dark side and, eventually, finding out the difference between being a “good girl” and a good person.
I owned up to my dark side, finding out the difference between being a ‘good girl’ and a good person.
On weekends, I’d go back to Scott. It wasn’t as strange as you might imagine. I liked it. It was the perfect balance, living on my own during the week and then returning home.
We knew we were both sleeping with other people, but we kept to the rules and never spoke about it. We had sex as always and the open marriage spiced things up — at least at first.
But, by the end of the 12-month project, moving back home full time proved more difficult than I had thought. After you open up a marriage and experience a whole range of sexual variety and aspects of yourself you’ve never had before, it’s hard to put everything back in the box.
I slept with a total of 12 people (including two women) during the Wild Oats Project.
Suddenly I found an updated version of myself. The person I was at 44 was so much different than the woman I’d been when I was last single at 26. She was less shy, more confident, wilder.
Meanwhile, it turned out that, for around six months, Scott had been exclusively sleeping with one woman, a lot younger than me. That bothered me, especially as they hadn’t been using condoms. But it wasn’t the catalyst for the end of the marriage, because he broke things off with her.
The turning point was hearing from Alden. He sent me an email, out of the blue, several months after the project had come to an end.
Before long, we were having sex again. Being with him was exquisite. After reconnecting with Alden and falling deeply in love with him, there was no going back.
Five years on, Alden and I are happily living together. It’s a regular, monogamous relationship. I’m grateful I experienced my marriage to Scott (who has since found a new partner) but now, for this part of my life, I believe being with someone who is the most temperamentally like me is where I can learn more.
As for not having children, I’m at peace with that, too.
First I channeled the creativity I would have used to become a mom into my sexuality, and then I channeled it into writing my memoir. As my story shows, there are many different ways in life to find passion and fulfillment.
* All of Robin’s lovers’ names have been changed.

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