I don’t remember the first time I heard your name. I think I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and I remember hearing that you had given blow jobs. Everyone was scandalized, calling you “Easy.” I don’t remember the names of any of the boys.
I remember the first time that I saw you. You looked so normal, sitting in class, dressed like a normal person. I don’t know what I expected, but you looked normal. Okay, maybe you wore heavy eyeliner, but this was the early 2000’s, and we all did. But you looked normal, juggling a bookbag and a sports bag. You smiled, sat down, and started a conversation with the girl next to you.
You were legendary at our school. I remember a story in which my friend sat in front of you for a standardized test. She said that you kept talking about blowing a guy in the wrestling room. She was so shocked at your lewdness, and then went to talk about how hot make-up sex with her boyfriend was. You were a slut, she was normal.
I’m sorry, B. I wonder now, if you figured that you might as well be notorious than unknown. I’m not sure if you just loved sex, if you actually did anything that people said you did, or if you used crudeness as a defesne mechanism.
I don’t know anything about you except that you allegedly are a slut. And I shamed you for it. I’m sorry; I wish I’d known you better. But I judged you for violating a rule I didn’t even understand. I understand now. And I’m sorry because I didn’t know you, so I had no right to judge you.
I remember when I met you. I thought that I knew everything, that sex was amaaazing, religion was repressive, and you were a brainwashed idiot.
In hindsight, your religion made you happy and a more forgiving person than I’ll ever be, so I shouldn’t judge you for being more devout than me.
I was a mean person. I talked about you behind your back, shaming you for being a prude about sex. I insinuated that you should just get laid already, that it was the right thing for you to do. I shamed you for asking questions that you were genuinely curious about. My reactions probably deterred you from learning and asking questions. And it’s not like I knew anything about sex, either. I was a virgin, too. So who was I to judge what was right for your body?
J, you were a sweet person. I shouldn’t have pressured you into going out to a party with me, or insinuated that you were wrong for your more conservative beliefs. I was young, naiive, and a true sophomore. I was truly a wise fool.
I’m sorry, J. I hope that you marry someone who deserves you, and who rocks your world. Because I want you to have that happiness. Because your sex life is not and never was any of my business.
- Slut Shaming (mzeve.com)
- Slut Dropping: the Slut-Shaming Craze “For Lulz” (intentious.com)
- Stop ‘Slut-bashing’. (ohtobeamuggle.wordpress.com)
- First Things First: I Stalled For Years On This Blog to Avoid Slut-Shaming (thedrtywrk.wordpress.com)
- On Slut-Shaming, Angrily (katiemarybarry.com)