The other day my sister and I were talking about sluts.
And by that, I mean we were talking about ourselves.
Oh, we’re both too functionally lazy to be truly shocking, but we’ve had our less than virtuous moments.
Don’t judge.
Unless, of course, you must:
May 9, 1985
…Tracey is such a slut. She told Derek O. that she would do “something” with him on the class trip. Jenny G. said she would too. Give me a break! Tracey is ugly and has no body at all. (better no body than too much body I guess) He will just use her. She knows it too – and likes it!! Maybe along the line she’ll develop a brain – sometimes I wonder! It’s too bad Jenny can’t think for herself and has to do whatever Tracey does. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is just jealousy talking, but I don’t feel jealous. Anyone can be slutty like them. That’s all for now…
Look, I’m glad I had the good sense at the age of 13 not to get involved in this ill-advised threesome that Tracey and Jenny were plotting.A school bus is no place to get your first STD.
But why was I so quick to condemn (and insult) these girls?Tracey was not exactly “ugly” by the way.She did have an unfortunate asymmetrical hair cut, but I blame Cyndi Lauper for that.As for Jenny --short, cheerful and hopped up on Skittles by 8:00AM. What’s not to like?
Anyway, doing “something” could mean anything, right?
Yeah.Right.Something means something, and we all know what.(or we can at least guess)
Back then it all seemed so clear.There was a moral code.You were either a dirty whore or you weren’t.And if you were, you were.No going back.And you got what you deserved.(and obviously you deserved things like teen pregnancy, herpes and subtle, sexually-themed nicknames like “Head”)So there.
Turns out I was right about one thing.Anyone can be slutty like them.Including me.
Face it, male or female, if you’ve stayed single past the age of 25, you probably have been too.
It’s not your fault.Or maybe it is.I’m not here to wrestle your demons.
Point is, life is long.Way longer than that class trip.And life is full of bars.And bars are full of strangers.And those strangers may or may not want to make out with you.Mistakes will be made. And maybe we ought to cut the sluts (and ourselves) a break.
I realize there are so-called “rules” to dating (mostly made up by rulesy women with tidy hair-dos and pastel sweaters).To be honest, I never did much actual dating.I think I maybe went on 5 dates in over 30 years of being single.The best of them were comically bad, the rest were just awkward.
And so, you learn to improvise.You relax the moral code.Not all of your choices are proud moments.Some you regret.Some you don’t.Others you pretend to regret, even though you so don’t.
It’s not a perfect system, and it’s not for everyone…but in my case, it beat dying of boredom.(Well, sometimes anyway.)
I don’t mean to sound jaded or like a cautionary tale from the ’70s.And I certainly don’t advocate slutty behavior amongst teens – though according to the CW, teenagers today are a tribe of half-naked, insatiable perverts who basically give each other hand jobs while doing their math homework then post it on YouTube.
Anyway, I still consider myself a medically responsible yet incurable romantic.I love a love story. And just because yours doesn’t begin with “once upon a time…” doesn’t mean it can’t end happily ever after.Or happily ever after happy hour, whatever.
The casual stuff is tricky like that.There are times when it’s hard to tell if you’re actually dating, or just a couple of sluts with nothing better to do.You may even develop feelings (if you’re the sort who goes around doing things like developing feelings), and hey, there’s nothing wrong with that.
You’re human, not a whore machine.
(FYI: my sister and I made up our own version of the song Love Machine.Sing it with us: “I’m just a whore machine, and I won’t work for nobody but you…and you!And you!”And so on…)
In the interest of full disclosure, I did eventually “fall” in “love." (does it make it less nauseating if I put it in quotes?)And I even got married which I was pretty sure I’d never do -- to a guy I met at work and then accidentally made out with in a dark, smelly bar with antlers on the wall and “Slow Ride” blaring from the juke box.
It’s one of those filthy strip mall bars with chicken wing vomit in the parking lot and white Christmas lights outside even in the dead heat of July.
I pointed the place out to my sister one night as we were driving by.
