The first slut icon I was exposed to was Samantha Jones from ‘Sex And The City’. I actually used to think it was ‘Sex In The City’, (which I, for the record, still think makes more sense as a title). Believe it or not however, this is not the central argument of this article.
A group of 30-something women having casual sex with multiple lovers and discussing it in scrutinising detail over brunch (every scare, every painfully awkward and intimately unfortunate moment) like some erotic book club, was an entirely strange and, frankly, ground-breaking concept to me at twelve years old. I gleaned something from Samantha’s playful and provokingly bold character, then. I realised how passionate, full of desire and daring women could be, and the immense power that is held in writing, or re-writing, the narrative of your own sexuality. In reclaiming the word ‘slut’, and taking it back.
This infamous word, tangled up in a history of fear and prejudice against women being sexual beings with desires of their own. It has been utilised as a patriarchal weapon of ridicule and blame in an attempt to suppress any autonomy she holds in her sexuality. Although it has been widely established that women can also think sex is nice and want to have it and we aren’t shunned or eternally damned anymore for having multiple sexual partners, we still must deal with society’s confusion with the idea of female sexual power and honesty.
The ‘how to survive the hoe phase’ Manual, read it. (or at least, pretend you have.)
The plan is this: don’t want sex too much, or too little, don’t be desperate, don’t be dismissive. Don’t beg for it, don’t be easy, don’t be a prude. Play hard to get, but not too hard or he’ll think you’re celibate or something. Arrive at his house the right amount of drunk. Be effortlessly breezy and non-committal, the French do it and so can you.
These are the rules we’ve been given on how to navigate the mathematics of casual sex in the current day. They have a lot to do with hiding, performing and upholding a dynamic which is conveniently patriarchal.
The ‘hoe phase’, as defined by our society, is a somewhat messy, spontaneously reckless and short-lived enjoyment of sexual agency. It is characterised by morning-after regret and guilt, by dreaded moments of having to use his 3-in-1 shower gel, and by the ‘walks of shame’ which harbour a certain type of belittling embarrassment, as though you’ve had pen on your face all day and no one’s told you. Most importantly, it’s a ‘phase’; it is brief, fleeting, and will soon be over with.
This term, this heavily stigmatised phenomenon used for detailing the experiences of ‘loose’ women who aren’t ‘tied down’, has become a breeding ground for internalised shame which lies at the very root of this fun little list:
The Patriarchy’s Favourite Reasons for Why You’ve Been Sleeping Around!
- ‘Daddy Issues’. The pièce de résistance. Seriously creepy. Let’s stop this one, shall we?
- You haven’t found ‘the one’ – you’re still searching for yourself – you don’t know who you are.
- You’re insecure – immature – craving male validation.
These ‘reasons’ try to insist that a woman exploring is a woman lost, when, in fact, the very purpose of sexual freedom, outside or inside a relationship, is the pursuit of pleasure and happiness, of learning your body and of liberation.
While we’re dispelling myths, let’s tackle some others.
Is my bodycount intimidatingly feminist, or not feminist enough?
The haunting question, ‘What does your body count say about you?’ The idea that the number of people you’ve seen naked is directly proportional to how radical your sexual politics are, is ridiculous.
Another one, ‘if you’re in a secure and committed heterosexual relationship, you are complicit in the patriarchy’. Essentially, if you’re in love with a man, that’s it. No more liberation for you.
Or, ‘you can’t be a romantic and a feminist’ (I hate this one because I am both these things). I also think that romance can be radical in its own, gentler way.
From my experience, responding to intrusive thoughts in this manner exposes how both comical and completely untrue they are. While writing this article, I questioned whether I’m actually feminist enough to be voicing my opinions in this way. This created quite the barrier between me and the writing, as you can imagine. It speaks to the crushing weight that women bear of thinking that if she missteps, she betrays the whole sex, and her political credibility goes down the plughole. If this is the case, I might as well live as a hermit and not see the light of day until I have read all feminist writings to ever exist.
So, being a slut, then, can mean this:
It means solidifying a nurturing relationship and open dialogue with your sexuality, creating your own rules, to acting on your own desires. It means to be curious, honest and kind with yourself. It means to learn the colours of your sexuality, to find them beautiful in their vibrancy, to revel in them.