So, I tried really hard to keep my blog apolitical. I mean, I tried REALLY hard. And for those that know me well, holding out
for three whole blog posts is celebratory and shows personal growth.
At any rate, I found myself, this week, at one of the rare
junctures where what I’m reading pertains directly to what is happening in my
life. It’s an odd feeling, what I’m sure
people that attend church or subscribe to some form of organized religion
consider an “experience”. I just kind of
figure that my life tends to revolve around sex a lot so having a discussion
about sex while reading a book about sex is not really a stretch of the
imagination.
Regardless, the discussion was one of numbers. Specifically, THE numbers, as in THE number
of people one has had sex with. To get
it out of the way now, no, I’m not revealing my THE number here. Not because I’m ashamed of it—I want that
made clear—but because the Rock Star and I have an unspoken rule that we don’t care
and don’t want to know this about each other.
It is out of respect for him that I won’t publish it publically in a
blog. And for my mother who is not only
very supportive of my blog writing, but also very enlightened, but still doesn’t
want to know how many boys her little girl has diddled. So back to the discussion, a coworker of mine
was discussing his sex life and threw a number at me. A number that made me giggle. Just a little! And not in a mean way, more in
an “aw that’s sorta cute” way. He then
proceeded to ask my number, and for a brief moment I hesitated, and for the first
time in a long time, I considered lying.
I got over it and said the honest truth and was pleasantly surprised
when the coworker didn’t ridicule me or give me THAT look. THAT look, the one that every girl that hasn’t
guarded her vagina like its Fort fucking Knox has gotten at least one point in
life or another. You know THAT look, the
one of judgment and disgust and curiosity all rolled up with a healthy dose of “maybe
she’d do me too”. But I didn’t get THAT
look and our friendship, as far as I can tell, proceeds today as it did the day
before.
Regardless of my coworker’s kick assery, I was stunned by
the slight hesitation. Me? The unabashed, unashamed feminazi herself
tripped up by a question about sex? Why
would I feel shame? I’m not, under any
circumstances, virginal (stop laughing, Dean!).
Nor do I equate sex with love. But
I’ve never been ashamed of that. And I’ve
never given two shits what anyone has ever really thought of that mind set (my
mother excluded, hi mom! And sorry!). The reason I never really felt shame about
the sex itself is that I never really equated sex with my self worth, either. I’ve heard the whiny “don’t you respect
yourself?!” BS more times than I care to count.
And the answer is yes, absolutely, I respect myself over anyone else I
know, probably undeservedly sometimes, and often to a fault. Whether or not I had sex with someone has
never really affected that because I didn’t equate wanting to get laid with who
I am as a person. Nor did I consider my
vagina a commodity that I had to barter for financial support, or love, or
stability. I don’t need to be a virgin
to attract a stable mate—I’ll do that with my brains, sense of humor and
qualities beyond what I have between my legs and how many or how few people
have seen it up close. It hit me,
finally, that I wasn’t ashamed as much as I was worried about revealing THE
number to a coworker that I like and respect.
I was worried about getting THAT look from a friend that I deeply care
about. My issue wasn’t about me or my past-- it was about the perception of
that past by others. It wasn’t shame I
was feeling, it was fear.
A couple days before this illuminating and slightly depressing
conversation I began reading a great book, (“Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female
Sexual Power and a World Without Rape”), essentially, a collection of essays
about rape culture and how we, as women, go about changing it. And this is the juncture where my reading and
my reality collided—the issue of slut shaming.
I realized in a big way through my coworker’s unanticipated confession
and my reaction to my own that slut shaming is more pervasive than I thought,
and through my reading I realized that it fits in to a broader context of rape
culture and culturally ordained misogyny.
My fear at the question of THE number wasn’t rooted in
rational thought, rather, it was rooted in a mind-set defined by a culture that
tells myself and all women that our sexuality is something to be locked away,
saved, hidden until it can be bartered for something of value. Something such as financial stability, a good
husband or even professional success; this culturally ordained mind-set thus
simultaneously raises the vagina to something both of unstatable (yes, I’m
aware that’s not a word) value and yet only valuable when given fresh and new,
and, thus, capable of depreciating with use.
This is the same manner of thinking that warns against a male penis so
supremely powerful that it can alter a woman’s physiology (hence the term “loose”,
and it can’t, by the way, sorry boys); but it also does something more
detrimental—it turns sex into something other than a pleasurable act between
consenting adults, it makes it into a commodity, where one person (the female)
loses value and another person (the male) gains value. Every time one of us feels shame or fear when
we admit that we haven’t locked our nether regions down like JFK after a brown
person utters the word “bomb” we become victimized by our own culture.
And this, my dear and wonderful readers, is bullshit. Total, undeniable, irrevocable bullshit, and
patriarchal bullshit at that. And I’m
not trying to come off as some man hating, arm pit hair growing (though it is,
in the defense of arm pit hair, winter) women above men advocate here—consider the
reverse of this patriarchal thinking: if
women’s sexuality is highly valuable and depreciates with use, then male
sexuality is, by this line of thought, inherently not valuable and even capable
of inflicting damage. Male sexuality is
something that is used and given in pursuit of acquiring this highly valuable
experience of sex with a female. I won’t
even go into where this relegates gay men and women.
Regardless of how many people have experienced it, my
sexuality is fucking valuable. Highly
fucking valuable and those that have been lucky enough to be in close proximity
of it should feel special and happy that they have been able to experience
something so undeniably awesome. I’m not
damaged because I’ve had more than a sexual partner and a half and I shouldn’t
feel fear because someone may perceive me that way because that perception
shouldn’t be there in the first place.
My choices were made for a myriad of reasons, some good, others not so
much, but that still doesn’t equate to damage.
And the perception of women that have sex at their own leisure as
damaged goods is detrimental to both men and women and serves to hold us back
from true growth and progress. I’m proud
of my coworker for brushing off THE number as something that is just a fact of
my existence and I’m hoping that this becomes more commonplace than getting
THAT look.
It’s beneficial to both sexes
for sex to be seen as a great experience where no one necessarily gains (nor
loses) anything—think of the implications of this: a world where people don’t
seek to hurt others through sexually based violence, and where men and women
don’t see sex (or a lack there of) as a way of increasing personal value or
virtue. It’s a powerful thought, and
towards this goal I hope that more women (and men!) will kick their fears about
revealing THE number because only our own acceptance and unflintching honesty
can create this vision.
But I’m still not telling my mom. Some things are sacred.
