There is nothing novel about this story. Like every young woman, I’ve been called innumerable horrible things, mostly by men on the street who don’t know me. Girls get called 'slut ' all the time. So, I'm always surprised by how few of the men in my life know how this story goes when we girls know it by heart.
Last school year – for the first time – someone I knew called me a slut to my face in all seriousness… and it hit me harder than I thought it would.
I don’t know whether to feel lucky that it took so long for someone to say it to my face or feel horrified because it’s such an accepted slur that I’m genuinely surprised I avoided it for so long.
Fall, 2014: I was standing in an overcrowded dorm room on a Friday night, trashy pop blasting through the speakers. Clad in the party-girl uniform of tiny skirt, crop top, and dirty Converse, I chatted to some friends about my latest encounters with frat boys.
“Wow…that’s…” The judgmental tone penetrated the cacophony of hyper freshmen. I turned to a male friend of a friend who clearly thought he was a part of our conversation.
“It’s what? You can say it.” With a slight smile and a raised eyebrow, my tone went dead cold and polite, generally not a good sign for whoever I’m addressing.
“I mean, no…well OK…slut much?” He tried to mask his words in a light tone.
“Excuse me?” Any trace of restraint left my now raised voice. My other friends muttered uh-oh’s. I don’t remember how I told him off, but he never commented on my life again.
Someone either sees me as a human being or they see me as a slut, only valuable to the degree I can be owned. There is no middle ground to me.
This was the first and last time an acquaintance said the word slut to me directly. I know I have been called slut and worse behind my back. I also know how people say slut without those four letters. It’s there in raised eyebrows, side-eyeing, uninvited jokes, and innuendo.
This direct confrontation probably took so long to find me because I did little that could provoke slut shaming until college and, perhaps more importantly, because I’m a mess-with-me-and-I’ll-end-you type of girl – commonly known as a b*tch.
I recently had a conversation with an incredibly sweet, fun-loving girl. She was upset and wanted to know why our guy friends walk all over her, make jokes at her expense, and generally treat her poorly. I told her it’s because she’s nice.
“I know it’s messed up but they don’t do that to me because they’re afraid of me. They know I’ll tear them apart before I let them hurt me. You’re genuinely nice, and it’s not fair but guys take advantage of that.”
Amber Heard said it best in her (little-known and poorly received) movie Syrup: "Men categorize women in one of four ways: mothers, virgins, sluts and b*tches."
Is this the choice young women face? Piece together armor made of demeaning labels? Does my kind, caring friend have to choose to be the b*tch everyone fears and a lot of people hate, or else be perceived as someone who can be taken advantage of and insulted?
It comes back to the Machiavellian question: Is it better to be feared or loved? Somewhere in these questions, we lose the option of respect. That’s all I want.
I don't want to have to intimidate my male friends into treating me reasonably. I don’t want to be angry and defensive all the time. I really don’t want to educate boys about the hypocrisy placed on female sexuality at parties. It’s actually not fun to try to invoke fear.
However if the alternative to fear is love, trusting and being open with more people, only to be called slut…well, I’d rather be a b*tch than be hurt.
Like I said, there's nothing novel about this article. So long as people still call women sluts and b*tches there will be stories like this, hard choices to make, and young girls made defensive and cold by that little word. Slut.
