For as far as I can recall, I have always been called a slut.
Well, maybe not until I arrived in the Philippines from the States that I became much more acquainted with and accustomed to the word. Slut. It began when I was 13. I was a slut for wanting to play hide-and-seek with boys. I was a slut for having grown up with male cousins and their male friends thus my natural propensity to want to be around the male species. I was a slut for being pretty. I was a slut for having long, curly brown hair and pale skin. I was a slut for looking like sex goddesses Amanda Page and Thalia at such a tender age. I was a slut for being well-endowed and mature-looking. I was a slut for being precocious. I was a slut for speaking with a twang. I was a slut for having been raised in a Western country.
It was already beginning to sound so Third World.
In highschool, I was a slut for being popular. I was a slut because I colored my hair GOLD in a catholic school. I was a slut because I liked changing my hair-do. I was a slut because I was vocal and opinionated and liberal. And yes, I was a slut because break-ups never fazed me. I was a slut for having this superhuman ability to move on quickly.
In college, I was a slut because I was a loner. I was a slut for not hanging out with my other freshie dorm buddies. I was a slut because I wasn’t afraid to speak to my professors on an intellectual level. I was a slut because I smoked and drank. I was a slut because I loved to dance. I was a slut because I held a firm belief that wearing shorts to class was only appropriate attire for tropical countries. I was a slut because men enjoyed talking to me about their problems over a drink. I was a slut because I didn’t have a steady boyfriend. I was a slut because no one wanted to take me seriously. I was a slut because I was always a mistress. I was a slut for believing that he’d leave her. I was a slut because I never gave up hope.
And the more I heard it, the more I became it. I was a slut because they said I was. And it was getting harder and harder to disprove it. Because you realize that you can’t disprove it. Because morals are relative. And you can’t please everybody. And you can’t punch everyone who calls you a slut in the face. It’ll only wear you out. And you will lose. Because everyone’s a critic. I learned that the hard way.
My dad says, “After you sleep with someone, all you need to do is take a shower, and it’ll come right off.”
God help those who have things and people they can’t just shower off themselves.
I’d rather be assumed a nice, intelligent, well-accomplished slut than an unintelligent, classless, pretentious carpetbagger.
But that’s just me.
