Slut.
Cheap and dirty slut.
When did she cross the line? When her father raped her, that first time when she was 10? The night she wore the pajamas that were too small, didn’t she know they’d tempt him beyond what a Christian man could take?
Slut.
Was it when Johnny swore he loved her, when she did it coz he asked so nicely, so sweet, his hands were gentle, his breath so fresh, not like her father, whiskey laden, reeking of smoke and sweat and then
after he said he’d never tell, but then ~~ behind the bleachers ~
the girls sneering,
and the boys lined up chanting, Suck it suck it suck it slut
so she did, cause what was she s’posed to do? She did and did and did and
they left her there, left alone after all
Slut
And so sometimes she holds tight, untouched, keeping her heart tucked away in a drawer, next to her passion, the purple dildo that only she knows about.
But then, ready to explode, needing the touch just to know she lives,
fucking half a dozen men in a week or two,
discarding them as quickly as they cum ~
~pun intended.
Slut
Didn’t she know she was s’posed to save it for him?
Slut.
*************************************
This is not my story, although it could have been; it’s just a matter of fate that it wasn’t. i don’t know where it came from, it appeared in my mind and slid onto the page in response to some discussion on another blog about the word slut, and who might or might not be one.
In my best fantasies, in the BDSM world, we use the word with love and affection, trying to take the sting and the shame out of it. Slut shaming is practically a national pastime… and i’m so against it.
In my mind, either we are all sluts, or none of us are. And i could talk more about that, cause you know i’ve got more to say on the subject, but not today.
Gotta be at work at 7 for real…