Sluts At School

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Sluts At School
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Brett Kavanaugh should know that yearbook boasts about supposed sexual conquests lead to real-world abuse.
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Part of HuffPost Personal. ©2022 BuzzFeed, Inc. All rights reserved.
In Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh ’s high school yearbook, he identified himself as a “Renate Alumnius.” It was an allusion, repeated on other boys’ pages, to the supposed sexual conquest of a girl named Renate Schroeder.
This kind of macho bragging, whether based on real events or not, can give a young woman what’s politely referred to as “a reputation.” What teenagers like Kavanaugh probably didn’t bother to consider is how giving a girl that kind of reputation can open her up to bullying, abuse and a lifetime of emotional trauma.
I know because I was the “class slut.” Ask anyone from my high school class, and I’m sure they’d tell you. What I wish I could have told them then, and what I wish I could tell them now, was just how dangerous and damaging that label turned out to be.
It started on the first day of sixth grade.
On the last day of camp in upstate New York, I’d had my first real kiss with the boy I had a crush on all summer ― in the hammock on the front porch of his bunkhouse as we said goodbye. I’ll spare you the mopey song lyrics I copied into my diary when I got home to Bethesda, Maryland, and missed him terribly, so far away in Westchester County, New York. When I arrived for the first day of middle school, still pining for a romance that could never be, I told my friends in the cafeteria about our magical kiss.
Word got around and somehow one fairly chaste kiss turned into making out. As I was apparently the first to have kissed anyone, or at least to have told people about it, this was evidence that I was “fast.” But of course, the rumors didn’t stop with kissing. Though my behavior was pretty on par with what I witnessed and heard of my classmates doing, I was the “slutty one.” So by seventh grade everyone “knew” that I was giving blow jobs, though I never had.
Boys openly groped me in our school hallways. My AOL instant messages were filled with propositions for sex acts I hadn’t even heard of at that point, let alone actually done. The rumors of my sluttiness made their way to the high school boys, who came on to me while we loitered on Wisconsin Avenue outside the local movie theater. Eventually, I let a 17-year-old take me into the park up the street. He expected a blow job. I just wanted to make out. He got his way.
Things escalated further when a boy asked if I would meet him in the stairwell during third period to talk about an issue with his brother. He groped me, and when I said no, he pushed me to my knees and unzipped his pants. I ran away, back to class, though I doubt I learned whatever the teacher was trying to teach that day. My mind was reeling from how quickly a boy I had been friends with for years could get physically aggressive. How he felt so entitled to my body, all by eighth grade.
Weeks later, a boy put a price tag sticker on my shirt at a school dance ― because I was a whore, get it? All these years later and I can still feel the shame and hurt of that moment. I shoved him into a trash can because he deserved it, and because I didn’t know how to tell him that his rumors and jokes had just led one of his peers to shove his penis in my face.
Being labeled a slut at 11 years old meant I spent the next seven years in school fending off advances and narrowly dodging being raped. Though I was hurt by those interactions, I never conceived of them as anything outside the range of normal. As far as I could tell, this was just the way boys behaved.
That I never once felt like the adults in my life would take me seriously if I told them what was happening can be attributed to the “boys will be boys” attitudes that permeated my public schools, the elite private schools some of those boys attended and American culture writ large.
By high school, the rumors were out of control. In sophomore year, a classmate supposedly found video online of me doing porn (the only resemblance was in the shade of our hair and general size of our breasts). I heard that after our senior prom, I’d had sex with six different guys, including my prom date. (He was gay. While others spent after-after-prom drinking at house parties, my group of friends went back to Michelle’s basement and played board games.)
By senior year, word of my supposed sexual prowess made its way from Walt Whitman High to Landon, an all-boys prep school up the street (and a rival of Georgetown Prep). I met a Landon boy when, I think, he IMed me one day. The first and only time we hung out, he parked his Jeep on the access road along Wilson Lane and leaned over to kiss me.
I told him I only wanted to be friends; I had a boyfriend. He told me he’d heard from the guys at my school that I gave the best head. He wrapped his hand tightly around the back of my neck and pushed my head into his crotch. When my screaming made it difficult for him to stay erect, he hit me hard across the side of my head with an open hand. I wrestled free of his grip and then kicked the door and window of his car until I could break away and run home. The sound of his epithets faded as I sprinted down Aberdeen Road to the safety of my bedroom a couple of blocks away.
The friends I told at the time ― about the rumor of my blow job skills, not a word about the violence ― said I should take it as a compliment.
The message to boys has always been clear: Any girl who’s a “slut” is there for male enjoyment and doesn’t have any right to say no. A “slut” said yes to some other guy, so she doesn’t get to say no to you. The girls and women whose real or imagined promiscuity lands them with that label become the scapegoat for boys’ and men’s harmful behavior. One kiss at summer camp somehow set me on a path where many boys didn’t recognize that I had any right to withhold consent.
I stayed away from dating or hooking up with most of the boys in my school for years, having learned that it wasn’t safe. Instead, I dated older boys, who seemed more respectful. I thought dating older guys made me cool. Obviously, I was smart and fun and mature, not like the other girls my age.
These older “boys” were grown men ― 24-, 25-, 26-year-olds who wanted to spend time with me, as long as the night ended with them getting off to their own “Barely Legal” fantasies. I fantasize now about getting them charged with statutory rape.
My high school experience left severe and lasting effects on my self-esteem. What I came to expect from the way boys and men saw and treated me as a teenager became a self-fulfilling prophecy for a while. If they were going to call me a slut no matter what I did, I might as well be one. It’s all boys and men wanted from me anyway, right?
Twenty years after I told friends about that first kiss and it spiraled into a reputation I was never able to shake, I still sometimes struggle to relate to men who aren’t trying to fuck me.
My classmates were being kids ― cruel jerks who didn’t realize how this label would follow me. I wonder if they realize now what rumors can do. I wonder if Brett Kavanaugh and his prep school friends know or care now about the straight line between bragging about their supposed sexual conquests and the ways boys and men feel entitled to abuse ― and legislate about ― women’s bodies.
I wonder if any of them would care that I still have a nightmare nearly every week where I’m trying to kick my way out of a Jeep whose window and door never break.
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My High School’s Secret Fantasy Slut League
Story by Lena Crown  ·  Illustrations by Vicky Leta  ·  Edited by Julia Métraux and Brendan Spiegel  ·  3.17.22
My High School’s Secret Fantasy Slut League
Your favorite Narratively stories, read aloud.
Our wealthy California school had a hookup game where boys “drafted” girls, then tracked their sex acts. A decade later, my classmates still debate whether “FSL” was harmless teenage hijinks or a symptom of toxic rot in our elite enclave.
I t was a Saturday night in early spring 2011, and Charlotte was cold. She wasn’t yet drunk enough not to be. The zipper on her North Face kissed her stomach, and she shivered. Under their jackets, she and her friends were wearing nothing but thin tube tops and leopard-print spandex skirts, matching uniforms purchased from Wet Seal that afternoon to reflect the party’s theme: “Welcome to the Jungle.” This was the weekend ritual in high school: Coordinate outfits, plan the pregame, secure the booze, put on the costumes, drink the booze, take pictures, then trek 20 minutes into the hills to whatever house was hosting that week’s big “DP” (short for “Dance Party”). Above Highland Avenue in the wealthy enclave of Piedmont, California, the land sloped sharply toward the sky, as did the property values. Walls of windows looked out over the San Francisco Bay. The body of water was a black morass in the dark, the city a scintillating constellation beyond it. 
Charlotte and her friends double-checked the address and walked around the side of the mansion, where a few upperclassman boys — “bouncers” — had set up a card table in the driveway. The girls made a pretty cavalry: Thin and striking with natural flaxen threads in their hair, which hung in varying stages of unruliness. An illuminated window in the main house told them that the host’s parents were not just home but awake, though they knew little about what went on in the barn where the party was taking place, and they probably didn’t care to know. One by one, Charlotte and her friends gave their names. Normally, their humor was lewd and sarcastic, but now they quieted, waiting for a boy to run his pointer finger down the guest list, fighting the urge to tell him, “It will be there, I swear .”
Meanwhile, in the basement of a house nearby, James and a group of about 15 boys — many of them his football teammates — were getting loud. James was friendly but reserved, and he remembers enjoying this aspect of their pregame party ritual: the sheer commotion of it. The boys roared over music that made the objects on the counters shudder. Someone had bought a few 30-racks of Bud Light, and crushed cans glinted in the corners of the room. James ran a hand through his hair, although he didn’t need to; it always seemed to soar up and away from his forehead of its own accord. The fabric of his parachute pants whispered like torn paper. Not that anyone could hear it.
Over at the high school auditorium, Audrey was backstage, running late for the party. (“Audrey,” like “James,” “Charlotte” and the other students interviewed for this article, agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity, to mitigate any personal or professional ramifications that might come from talking openly about these experiences.) She narrowed her eyes at her elfin features in the mirror and attempted to scrub off some of the orange rouge she’d daubed onto her cheeks to mimic the symptoms of tuberculosis. The show was Les Misérables , and she was supposed to be a ravaged lady of the night in torn fishnets and a wide-brimmed hat. It felt good to be chosen for the role, especially as a freshman. She didn’t have to fake the exuberance in her voice when she sang alongside a coterie of corseted upperclassman girls: See them with their trousers off, they’re never quite as grand. But tonight, her mind was elsewhere. During the finale, she ducked into the changing room and shimmied into the miniskirt and neon bandeau she had stashed in a string backpack, then escaped out the back door.
I was on that stage, too, as the “lovely lady” in the orange corset. But I didn’t go to the party that night. I hadn’t been invited. Instead, I went to Jean Valjean’s house, where we drank bad vodka and played a bridled game of spin the bottle. I knew why I hadn’t scored an invitation, or rather, I knew all the possible reasons why, including but not limited to: (1) my lingering status as a new kid, (2) my ardent shyness and (3) my nonexistent boobs. Most of those impediments would resolve themselves within the year, but until then, I flitted on the outskirts of the party scene with wary curiosity. Like everyone else, I examined the photo albums posted on Facebook, which would memorialize the sexual circus playing out over at the mansion. Sometimes you could even see whose hands went where.
From the driveway, Charlotte and her friends could hear faint music pulsing from a dark structure at the end of a winding path through the garden. Charlotte hopped from one concrete lily pad to another, then paused before the barn door. She rolled down the waistband on her skirt one last time and took a deep breath. And then: Bodies, so many bodies that she slicked herself with their sweat when she took a step. The lights were off. There was no furniture. A girl crouched in the middle of the floor, peeing. Couples lined the walls, gyrating in the cold white flashes of a digital camera. 
Charlotte would make out with eight people that night; Charlotte’s friend with 11 — or was it 12, or 17? — the alcohol and adrenaline made it hard to remember. The next day, and for years afterward, they would laugh and try to name them all.
But someone was keeping score. In the morning, still bleary-eyed, several of the boys would open their laptops. They would enter a secret Facebook group, and there, conjuring what they’d seen and done in that dark room, they would tally the girls’ scores on their respective brackets of the Fantasy Slut League. 
F antasy Slut League, affectionately known as FSL, was tradition at Piedmont High, one that had been handed down by the varsity football players for about six years. In teams of two, the participants started by “drafting” their classmates — girls, always — onto their personal rosters. Like any fantasy football draft, FSL was based on players’ performance in real life: Girls scored points for their teams by engaging in sexual activity, which the boys traded information about through ongoing posts in their secret Facebook group. Points corresponded to the duration and degree of intimacy of said sex acts. Kissing earned you five points, 10 for making out “for an extended period of time,” 15 (give or take) for fingering. Penetrative sex might garner 25 or 50. 
There may have been a league champion named at some point, but FSL was more about the journey than the destination. Rumor had it that at the end of the “season” — in other words, the school year — the girl who scored the most points earned the title of “MVP” and was presented with a cupcake at school, though no one I spoke to remembers a cupcake ceremony actually taking place.
As a senior, in the fall of 2012, James stepped into the role of commissioner of the FSL, which required him to help facilitate the annual draft, in addition to running his own roster. At the start of the school year, 20 boys — mostly juniors and seniors — gathered in a large basement room, perching on couches and chairs before a large whiteboard. Some leaned forward in anticipation. Others joked around or strategized with a teammate under their breath. After drawing the first team out of a hat, the selection process proceeded down the jagged line of boys in a “snake” formation, across the room and back again. Shouting erupted whenever a highly sought-after name was snatched up, followed by a scramble to reprioritize as the commissioner called in vain for order. Rosters filled up at roughly five girls, and once a team drafted someone, she was off the table. Unless you could convince the owners to trade with you.
The final rosters were then typed up and posted to the secret Facebook group, where boys would self-report and fact-check the points their players earned. James helped keep things in check. “Administrative duties,” he says with a pained chuckle. Occasionally, he “resolved disputes” and answered questions. Someone might suspect that another boy was manufacturing points for their team, for instance, or they might wonder about what “counts” as making out, and the number of points they were owed.
Piedmont High’s teachers and parents remained oblivious to the league’s existence for most of its life span. Then, on October 19, 2012, shortly after James took the helm, the high school principal sent a letter informing parents of several “troubling incidents involving our students.” The letter outlined the tenets of the Fantasy Slut League as they knew it: Girls were drafted “unbeknownst to most of them,” though “many students (male and female) were aware of it and participated.” The sex acts girls engaged in had often been encouraged by “manipulation by older students that included alcohol to impair judgment” and “social demands to be popular.” An investigation had been conducted. The letter urged parents to “Please be bold in your conversations with your child.”
As the letter described, many of the girls, including Charlotte and Audrey, already knew the league existed. Audrey had heard about it as a freshman from her athlete friends, although they refused to divulge a key detail: “For the longest time, I had no idea whether I was drafted or not, and I was really cut up about it,” she says. 
Charlotte discovered both simultaneously: During her sophomore year, she was approached at a party by a couple of older boys, who told her they had some people who were “underperforming” on their team and asked if she’d like to join up. “Me, who had just kissed a boy for the first time, like, six months before,” she says with a scoff. “So, I said sure.”
Years before he became commissioner, James had heard about the FSL from a friend’s older brother, and he was excited to get involved. “Gossip about people hooking up was inherently interesting to me,” he says. But the attraction involved more than just what the league entailed. “It was this exciting club I knew I would get to be a part of.” In other words, an inheritance.
P iedmont’s culture of drinking, partying and clandestine cliques stretches back to long before the existence of the FSL. Until the 1960s, Piedmont High — the main public high school in Piedmont, a small charter city in the middle of Oakland — had school-sanctioned “social clubs,” divided by gender, which threw themed parties and weekly keggers on Friday afternoons. After the clubs were outlawed for unseemly behavior , they continued operating under the table until the 1990s, when they lost steam. Audrey heard about the social clubs from her mother, who was a student at Piedmont High before the clubs disbanded. When her mom got upset with her for drinking or staying out too late, Audrey would
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