The first time a friend congratulated me for my sexual conquests was on a playground. I was about 18 or 19 then, either about to leave for college in New York or back on my first visit. There we were, on the cusp of adulthood, drunk on a swing set. My friend was impressed by my ability to fuck guys without guilt or regret, especially in the case of a casual one night stand. I nodded along gratefully, glad that my quest for sexual liberation was getting the recognition it deserved; why let society’s antiquated standards for how a woman should regulate her sexuality get in the way of what I wanted?
I’ve never forgotten this little blip in the narrative of my life, partly because I still hold on to some pride from the days when my door was always open to the possibility of a fresh love affair with a new stranger. Looking back, I can say that what I was attempting to satisfy in those brief encounters is my almost hysterical longing for physical affection and the more unfortunate predilection to look for validation from men.
I’ve never viewed the title slut as an insult, though I know the people who have leveled it against me meant it maliciously.
I did not see myself with such clarity until very recently, but I remain confident in my youthful declaration that, yes I love sex, and no I am not ashamed to admit it in public. As early as high school (probably motivated by the boy in my history class who wrote “ruined woman” on the inside of my thigh after I lost my virginity) I wanted to start a movement — even if it was just a movement of one — in which sex could be a shamelessly fun fling, a moment to feel sexy and seductive without the heavy baggage of emotional attachment. By the time I left for college, I was determined to undermine the misogynistic rhetoric lurking behind sexual politics. My mantra was that I did not need to feel comfortable, or even connected (accept physically), with a guy to sleep with him. What I did feel comfortable with was my desire to meet cute guys and use them for my personal pleasure.
How would I undertake this mission? By sleeping with everyone I could. I now joke among friends that that’s a good chunk of the population of Manhattan, but underneath my self-deprecating laughter, I know there’s some truth to it. And that’s okay on its face. Because if a person really is at home in their desire for sex (which I believe is how I started) and not looking for a quick-fix for crushing loneliness or low self-esteem, then why not indulge?
But after college, not much changed: I went straight into graduate school, around which time time I started spending my Fridays at a dive bar in the East Village where a close friend worked. This period marked the beginning of a three-year binge on the guys I met at this bar: Some of them lasted a few months, some just one night. I fucked my way through almost all the regulars, and none of them stuck around — but then again, neither did I. Eventually my bartender friend had to text me, “Please Liz, let there be one guy at the bar you haven’t slept with.”
I had long ago lost sight of my noble mission to advance the feminist sex-positive cause. Now I was struggling to make a connection with another human, searching vainly for intimacy. I just wanted to be close with someone, to find that source of comfort that I insisted I didn’t need. I only stopped making rounds at the bar because I abruptly left New York after I finished school.
I did not see myself with such clarity until very recently, but I remain confident in my youthful declaration that, yes I love sex, and no I am not ashamed to admit it in public.
Alone with my thoughts, I started to believe that I was not destined for love, that there was some inherent part of my personality that allowed for a spark of passion but that couldn’t sustain a long-term romance. And even worse, I began to believe that this flaw made me unworthy of any kind of deep, lasting affection from a man. Men didn’t want to date, let alone marry, a girl like me: aggressive, sarcastic, impatient, independent. The monogamous life just wasn’t for me. I accepted this belief as fact, content with being unwanted, unloveable.
Still, I’m not one to give up hope, and almost as soon as I left New York, I reactivated my online dating account. About three-and-a-half months later, I found myself eating dinner with a high school teacher from Portland and thinking to myself, “Don’t sleep with him tonight, go out with him again first.” We continued to see each other, but every time he tried to be intimate with me, I’d push him away. Then, at home alone, I would make up excuses to explain why I couldn’t bring myself to have sex with him: Maybe he’s a little out-of-shape, we don’t have the same sense of humor, he’s doesn’t pay attention when I try to talk to him about my writing (all unfounded).
After years of treating sex as a casual encounter between two people who couldn’t care less about each other outside of the bedroom, that became my only definition for sex. I became comfortable with the idea that if I slept with a guy he would leave me; certainly this new guy would do the same. I’d brainwashed myself into believing emotional intimacy and sex don’t mix. Not only that, I was (and am) uncomfortable with sleeping with someone I care about because I couldn’t run away from him. Questions I had never asked myself before suddenly mattered, questions you ask yourself if you plan to see someone again in the morning: Should I shave my legs? What if he asks me to cook dinner? I can’t cook! What should I say if he asks when I’m getting my adult braces removed? What if he asks to meet my dad? That level of vulnerability terrifies me, a girl who spent her youth avoiding love. Suddenly that’s all I wanted, but I had no idea how to use the tools that would nurture such an emotion.
Looking back, I can say that what I was attempting to satisfy in those brief encounters is my almost hysterical longing for physical affection and the more unfortunate predilection to look for validation from men.
Eventually, he started to wonder why he and I weren’t intimate more regularly, and I tried to explain that I felt an emotional and intellectual connection was more important in romantic relationships than a physical one (true) and therefore it took me longer to get comfortable enough with a new partner to have sex with him regularly (sort of true). But that isn’t the whole story. Will I ever be comfortable enough with a man to let him in on my dirty little secret? What would I even say? “Sorry, I was so slutty in college that sex has become strictly non-sacred.” I decoupled sex from love and now I worry that there’s no going back for me.
I try to talk to my new partner about my issues as openly, and as often, as possible. In doing so, I am empowering myself to admit that I’m scared he’s going to dump me if we have sex, and that if we do it regularly, he’ll never come to love me. I don’t need to have tons of meaningless sex to subvert sexism (though that method had its fun moments). My feminism can also mean rejecting any societal standard that harms me, flattens my personality, shames or guilts my feelings of desire, makes me feel less than the powerful, intelligent person I strive to be. I must define sex on my own terms, without — as difficult as this may be — the influence of a culture that demands control over my sexuality, inhibits its growth or marks it as unnatural. The new politics of my sex life? Only that I have agency over it.
I’ve never viewed the title slut as an insult, though I know the people who have leveled it against me meant it maliciously. Maybe it’s time to expand it though: I’m a slut who’s willing to commit — a committed slut, even — to becoming comfortable with sex and love and finding, in my own time, in my own way, the place where the two meet.
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