BLOGPOST: Fishnets and Flannel Pyjamas

I remember the first time I was ever called a slut. It was at the very beginning of Grade Ten. I don’t remember who it was that foisted this term upon me; all I remember is that a friend of mine came and told me, “I heard [enter random girl’s name here] calling you a slut! What are you going to do about it?” I remember not feeling all that insulted as I was still, in fact, a virgin who had never even been kissed at the time. I think I found it more comical than anything else. But I did wonder what exactly it was that I had done to be dubbed a “slut” since it certainly had nothing to do with my (non-existent) sex-life. Most likely, it was my choice in clothing. You see, it was the 90s and I was very much a Riot Grrl. I constantly wore fishnets and skirts or cut off jean shorts. In fact, I had every colour fishnet you could think of. And I loved them! I loved the way they looked and the way they made me feel. I thought I looked pretty darn foxy. And this made me feel good about myself. And still does. I LIKE looking and feeling sexy. And I don’t see anything wrong with this. Not then and certainly not now that I’m in my 30s.

This is also the same year in which I experienced my first encounter with blatant and overt sexual harassment. I was wearing my beloved fishnets with a pair of cut off shorts, a t-shirt and a flannel shirt over top of that. I was at a school dance and my best friend and I went up to the DJ to request Should I Stay Or Should I Go? by The Clash. He gave us both a slimy once-over and asked us what we would do for a quarter and then laughed it off with his co-worker. Not knowing what to say, my friend requested the song and we went back and sat on the bleachers and talked about what just happened. And we both agreed that what he had said had made us feel like crap and that we should probably say something about it. So we did. The next day at school, we made an appointment with a guidance councillor and told him our story. About a week later, the principal had hauled the DJ’s sorry ass into the office to apologize to us. I can still remember his pinched little face and how he was wringing his hands while he said how sorry he was and then begged us not to tell anyone about the ‘incident’ as it would ruin his business. Gee, ya think?! (Of course, we went back to class and told everyone about it. How could we not?! Looking back, I kind of wish we had told more people but we were only 15 at the time and our attention spans were probably not very conducive to starting a slam campaign against the dude.)

(To this day, I always cringe when I hear the opening riff of Should I Stay Or Should I Go? before I shrug it off and just enjoy the song. I mean, hey—it’s not The Clash’s fault some douchebag made me equate their song with sexual harassment, right?)

Fast forward to university. And my first “adult” relationship. Or at least, what I thought was my first adult relationship. I thought living together made us grown-ups, but really we were just playing house. This relationship was a tumultuous one at best and I confess this was, in no way, one-sided on his part. But one night, when I was in bed sleeping—wearing two piece, flannel, mens’-style pyjamas, in case you were wondering—he came home after a substantial night of partying, drunk and high out of his mind, and proceeded to wake me up and have sex with me even though I said no and told him to get off of me. I was unable to push him off as he was quite a big larger than I am, so I suffered through it until it was over. It felt like hours had passed while I tried to pretend that I didn’t exist. The next day I talked to him about it, hoping for some grand apology but only receiving something along the lines of, “Really? I did that? Huh! I don’t remember. Sorry.” At the time, I had no idea if what had happened qualified as “rape.” He was my boyfriend. I lived with him. And he certainly didn’t seem to think he had done anything terrible. But I never did shake the stomach-dropping feeling that I didn’t want it and said no. To this day, I’ve never really talked about this publicly, nor did I tell my family or even many of my friends at the time, but I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt, that on the list of “Things That Have Made Me Feel Completely And Utterly Shitty And Worthless,” this remains, after more than a decade, Number One. He has no recollection of this to this very day, I’m sure. But I know I will never forget.

Another giant leap to the demise of an 8-year relationship. It was messy, to say the least. I won’t go into too much detail so as not to infringe upon his privacy, but let’s just say that he wasn’t exactly faithful. So after seven years of my utmost fidelity to him, (yes, yes-seven year itch—how predictable, I know, thank you), I decided what was good for the goose was good for the gander and I cheated on him. And then I said I needed a break and moved out for a bit. And I had some more fun. He eventually found out and giant, sloppy arguments ensued. We decided to head for counselling to try to work it out. But when he basically told me that he thought that his cheating was justifiable since he was a man and had different needs than I, as a woman, did, I lost my shit. Was he serious?! We broke up. No big surprise there.  Afterwards, I played the field. A lot. It was fun. I needed some attention that was so completely not special after what I would definitely consider a messy divorce, sans the actual marriage certificate and court appearances. I needed affection, but was emotionally unavailable for any type of connection besides friendship and I made this absolutely clear to those I played with. It made me feel wanted, but not suffocated. And I don’t see anything wrong with that.

After several months of “sluttiness,” I felt I was ready to let someone else in and decided that perhaps my actions weren’t really making it clear to the universe that I was ready for another relationship. So I stopped “going all the way” with guys unless I thought it was going somewhere. It was difficult, to say the least. Especially when there was one guy in particular that I knew would be hard to resist. He was smart and funny and well-read and devastatingly handsome. He was amazing in bed. But above all, he was honest. To a tee. Something I hadn’t experienced in any of my relationships with my exes. I respected and enjoyed that quality in him very much. He was also a terminal bachelor. Completely unavailable, but I enjoyed my time with him for what it was: fun, respectful, and no-strings-attached. So when I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with guys anymore unless they wanted to legitimately date me and I thought it was leading somewhere serious, he didn’t understand at first. It was so against my nature. I told him that I wasn’t asking him to understand it, but I was asking him to respect it. And that I hoped we could still hang out because I greatly enjoyed his company. Being the awesome guy he was, he agreed to respect my wishes and said of course we could still hang out. He enjoyed my company too. And we did hang out once or twice after that until one night he invited me out for a drink at his local pub. I got there before him and waited on the patio until he showed up and greeted me with a giant bear hug as he is wont to do with his female friends. We went inside, had a couple drinks, and shot the shit for a bit until he needed a smoke. We went outside onto the tiny fire escape smoking area where he asked if I was still on my “no sex unless it’s going somewhere” kick and if there was anyone “special”. I told him I was and there was not. I told him about my horrid Plenty of Fish dates and how I subsequently closed my account. And then he said the weirdest thing he’s ever said to me and probably ever will: “Didn’t you realize that I wanted to date you?!” My response: “Um…NO!!” So he took me out to dinner and here we are, a year later and he’s my big, bad, handsome man. And he’s very good to me. But please make no mistake with this last story—I am in no way saying that becoming abstinent or less promiscuous will land you a partner. It’s what ~I~ felt was right for me at the time. It was my choice.

Perhaps I can be seen as a “slut” in some people’s eyes. I suppose I already have since I was quite young. And maybe I am. And so what? I like myself. I am a good and kind person. And I am no longer willing to apologize to anyone for being who I am and doing what I enjoy as long as I’m not hurting anyone else. At the very core of what I believe in is the Golden Rule. “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.” As far as I’m concerned, EVERYBODY DESERVES RESPECT, NO MATTER WHO THEY ARE OR HOW THEY CHOOSE TO LOOK.