words, words, words

Let’s talk about my sluttiness, shall we?

Currently, my slutitutde is of the intellectual flavor. Currently, my slut’s thighs rest demurely against one another, metaphorically that is, as I sit typing with my knees parted like a stevedore with a big pair of hanging balls. Currently, my thighs part for no one but my beloved and protean Donny, who does not avail himself of the national treasures nestled between my thighs’ girlflesh nearly as much as he might.

Or should. Or could.

Currently, my slut status has an Ivory soap 99.9% purity of nearly almost entirely wholly imaginative and hypothetical. My slut sits on a back burner, just under a boil, but not anywhere near boiling over to create a crusty mess on the white enamel stovetop of my sexlife.

And currently my slut bristles at things I said earlier this week. 

My slut agrees with those commentators who suggested that I define my own sex on my own terms. And my slut urges me to eat my words with a hyena’s delicacy of etiquette, but I myself am not that ravenous.

I do agree with Introspectre, with Pussy Talk, with others that words are open to redefinition—the ability to reconfigure meaning is, for example, why Latin has so few words and why those few words capaciously embrace so many meanings. Romans eschewed neologism. I do not, yet I recognize that we can own previously unsavory terms by appropriating them, and this I say as a self-avowed tasty bitch.

However, there is a rub, there is always a rub, and here it is: I love being a slut not because “slut” has come to mean something else to me but because it hasn’t. My slut revels in her skanky wanton ways not because she strides as an amazonian colossus among the sexually paradisiacal ruins of a post-patriarchal society but because she is exactly that dirty and feral girl crouching in the corner, horny and hungry for cock.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

Words, words, words: I remember exactly the man who made me realize that I liked the dirty patter. His name was, and is, JP, and he liked to talk dirty to me in bed. I’d never had that before. The men I’d been with, almost to a one, had acted reverential and often deferential during sex with me. Things were as hushed as in a church, but for moans and sighs and other moments of evangelical speakings in tongues.

And then there came JP who referred to cunnilingus as “strapping on the beave-hat.” Who drenched himself in sweat when we were fucking, who fucked with the energy and single-minded dirty purpose of a steam engine, who kept up a low and sibilant commentating monologue of what we were doing.

And I loved it.

And after JP there were others, though not until much later, SlutFest ’04 really, who left the reverence in the dust and replaced it with smut. Men who called me their “good girl,” who called me their “little slut” or their “whore pet” or some other dirtygirl permutation.

And I loved that even more.

And I loved it, or love it, really, not because in some kind of guerilla-grrl, grrrl-power act of redefinition I’ve turned these terms from their original negative connotation to some kind of state of linguistic empoweredness, but because I haven’t.

So thereby lies the conundrum. Yes, as Pussy Talk avers, “cunt” might be a good word and true, but I like it because it’s naughty. And as Introspectre suggests a “slut” is a lovely thing to be, but I find it lovely—as I suspect she does too—not because I’ve turned it into something other than its dirty girl self, but because of its crusty state of  dirty panty naughtiness.

I have no desire to redefine. To redefine would divest these terms of their erotic charge for me. I like to be a slut because it transgresses. Because it brings to the forefront of my memory of sucking a hockey player’s cock on the school bus. Because I did and because I did it because I was—and am—a slut.

Because to be a slut it to position one’s girl self outside of normative culture.

Which is not to say I don’t feel, didn’t feel, won’t continue to feel, deeply ambivalent about it. I sucked that hockey player’s cock both because I knew it would label me as a slut and in spite of the fact that it would label me as a slut.

I write about these matters both because I find them liberating and because I find them confining.

(It’s a lot like bondage, really. Somehow, it all comes back to bondage.)

I probably wouldn’t enjoy bondage as much if it were taught in high school sex ed. I suspect I wouldn’t find being fucked up the ass quite so divine if the next Hollywood blockbuster had a graphic John Williams-scored scene of Julia Roberts’ kiester being impaled by Jude Law’s brit dick. I probably wouldn’t love being a slut if Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise went on Oprah and cheerfully trumpeted her benign sluttery.

In other words: the limits of my language are the limits of my world. My transgressions, I think I’ll keep ‘em.

Comments

[introspectre]

Ah my ChelseaGirl love, you are so correct! I DO love being a slut and being called a slut for the dirty-panty aspect of it. Since you clarified, I shall, too:

The word "slut" used to make me feel ashamed and guilty.
Now it makes me feel wicked, powerful and even more hungry for cock.
And I fucking LOVE IT!

Yes, it is constricting (the bondage comparison, priceless) and that's what is fun about it. If being a wild sexual woman was considered socially acceptable, would it be quite as much fun? (as well as anal sex, etc) I just don't know. I love to be "a lady on the street and a freak in the bed", it's that dual existence that makes it delectable. To go grocery shopping and looking like a respectable mom while thinking about having Jack spanking my ass while I shamelessly begged for his cock is just fabulous. That's the good stuff.

[O]

Damn, Girl. Damn. What Introspectre said. I love that phrase, 'dirty panty aspect'. Hell yeah!

[headsh0ts hurt]

A very lengthy and entertaining read. I'll put this url on my list of lunch time sites to visit.

Seeing that everyone else is clarifying, so will I.

I do not "redefine" those old words, ChelseaGirl. Au contraire. If anything, I aim to restore their original definitions.

Take my favourite, "cunt." I always use this word in its original sexual sense as opposed to its newer abusive and degrading sense, as when one man might call another "you stinking cunt".

Many women dislike the word "cunt" because of this abusive connotation, which is comparatively recent. I resent that this ancient word for my genitals has been taken over since the 19th century as a term of abuse.

So I use "cunt" (over the cuter and more acceptable "pussy", for example) precisely to restore to "cunt" its erotic meaning and power, and to counter its co-opting as a term of abuse.

DTG xxoo
PussyTalk
http://www.livejournal.com/users/nicebluejournal

[chelsea girl]

To DTG of Pussy Talk,

Your response raises one question for me: if your favorite word is "cunt," and you find "pussy" cute, then why is your blog not "Cunt Talk"?