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I Miss Being A Slut

I Miss Being A Slut

They say slut is forever. I think. Or at least that’s how society paints the picture. That a girl’s past dictates her future, and I’m here to begrudgingly disprove that. I’m a reformed slut. I went from wild to mild, and FRANKLY, it’s terrible.

Dating

Then: If I met up with a guy at his house where he lived, and he was already having a party, I pretty much considered that a date. If I met a guy at a bar and he bought me a drink, danced with me, and then bought me pizza before we went home? Three dates. One time a guy bought me a bagel, and I called my mom to tell her about it.

Now: Dates consist of boring text messages, questions about my job, and hopes for food, but generally they end with me rolling through a drive-thru, drunk, and starving at the end of the night.

Drinking

Then: I was the first one to suggest shots, body shots, drinking games. I woke up at 7 in the morning to start drinking, took a two-hour nap, and stayed out until 4.

Now: I literally puke at the mention of tequila, and when I drink, I am hungover for a full 36 hours.

Bragging rights.

Then: I got a secret thrill out of losing Never Have I Ever and purposely drew attention to myself every time I put a finger down. I found myself exaggerating or asking “does it count if I did X?” because I wanted everyone know what a badass I was. There was nothing better than going to chapter on Sunday and winning the weekend with the craziest story.

Now: I lie about my number. And pretty much everything else.

Exhibitionism

Then: I literally did nothing but flash my tits for a year and a half. I did it in a bar. I did it to get a free taxi ride home. I did it just because people were looking. Every person who knew me during my slut days has seen my tits, probably my ass, and maybe my vagina. I walked through my apartment complex naked. I played strip poker. And I sent the hell out of some nudes.

Now: I recently got uncomfortable being naked in front of a man I was wont to sleep with. I don’t stand up in a guy’s room without a t-shirt.

Dance Floor Makeouts

Then: I DFMO’d one out of every five times I went out, and one hundred percent of the times that I blacked out. Once a semester, I may have snuck away to a private area of a venue, like a coat closet, or a secret bathroom and done more.

Now: The idea of making out with a guy I don’t know on just a regular day is almost outside my realm of comprehension.

Adult Sleepovers

Then: This was always the goal. Picking out a dime and going the full nine. Maybe kicking them out before the night’s through, because it’s fun to have that power, and then collecting the “wyd” texts the following weekend.

Now: Nothing is more terrifying to me than sleeping with a new partner, and I think maybe my hymen is growing back.

How’d this all happen? A pretty heavy case of slut-shaming to be honest, but what I’ve learned is this: I was happier when I was slutty. I don’t feel cool or “respected” now, I just feel horny. Hold onto your sluttiness, ladies. Do you.

Image via Shutterstock

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