I can’t get enough sex. I love everything about sex
and every variation of sex. I have a lot of sex
with a lot of different boys because, frankly,
I love fucking them.
I love to kiss and to come and to cuddle and to
explore new sexual frontiers. I love sweet sex
and rough sex and nights with no sex.
I love all the accoutrements of sex. I love underwear
and birth control and sex toys and porn.
If I were to honestly list my skill sets in rank
order by an algorithm accounting for both enjoyment
and aptitude, sex in all its iterated glory would
top that list by leaps and bounds.
I’m not a slut because I’m out of control of
my own sexuality. I’m not a slut because I hope
to rope a guy into wanting to be with me.
I’m not a slut because I’m looking for some
kind of validation or self-esteem boost.
Sluttiness
I’m a slut because I make the active, intentional, self-aware and enjoyable choice to be. I’m a slut because I choose to call myself “slut.”
Being slutty is about more than fucking on Saturday night. It’s about rejecting the social imperative to ignore my own desires and keep my legs shut in order to be desirable, to be acceptable, to be the “right kind” of girl/woman/person.
It’s about identifying and going after what I want. It’s about claiming and owning and enjoying my own body and sexuality.
It’s about the euphoria of exploring the miraculous. It’s about the thrill of the chase. It’s about holding yourself accountable for your own sexual choices and health and holding society accountable for its own sexual bullshit.
Sluttiness is not about the number of dates or make outs or hookups it takes for you to feel comfortable rounding all or one or any bases with another person.
In fact it’s not about numbers at all. The emphasis we place on our own sexual numbers is just another example of rigid, moral socio-sexual policing.
