I can’t tell you what my body count is, other than a lot. When I was 22 I tried to count. I hit 13, got depressed people would think I was a slut, and wiped my tears with some sex.
The body count is the number of sexual partners you’ve had as a woman. This is often referred to by me as pussy mileage. I’m not ashamed of mine, and you can’t make me feel ashamed.
I am a woman who fucked before you met me. I have a biological child, and that story about the Virgin Mary is a bigger fantasy than Santa Claus.
So we know I’ve had sex….at least once.
I am proud to say I’ve had it more than once, prouder to tell you almost all of it was good.
If I told you I lost my virginity at nine would you think me a slut? How about I add to that sentence it wasn’t consensual and it was my older half brother? Am I still a slut?
If I told you that one night at a cookout I approached a man I found attractive, and asked him to meet me at my place after, am I a slut then? The rest of that story is he did come over and brought two of his cousins. I did them all that night multiple times until they were all passed out in different locations of my apartment. I woke the next morning annoyed they were still sleep and kicked them all out before my morning coffee. How about now? Slut worthy?
You don’t get to define me by my sexual history. I define myself and I proclaim on the sixth day of October, year of somebody’s lord 2015 I am not a slut.
The piece before this post is about the origins of Slut Walk. It is the story of how a law enforcement official in Canada told women not to dress like sluts so they would be raped. The Wednesday my half brother forced his penis inside my prepubescent vagina I was wearing saddle shoes and a Catholic School jumper. I hadn’t grown a single hair under my arms and my chest was flat like the heart monitor of a dead man.
Real slutty hunh?
That time I took a coworker to the parking garage and promised him I would make him cum in under five minutes giving him head I was wearing a red business suit (blazer and skirt) and sensible heels.
The last time B and I did it we were in a hotel room and I swallowed.
I own each and every sexual experience I’ve had in my life. Even the ones which weren’t consensual. They are as much a part of me as my tattoo on my right ass cheek or the mole under my left eye. I am not ashamed of them and no matter what you say, you can’t impose that on me.
There is nothing wrong with my body count, whatever it closes out at when I am done. I am a human being having a human experience and I am no better or worse than that chick up the street saving herself for marriage. She isn’t somehow more valuable for her “pristine” condition than I am in my high mileage condition.
I am a woman and like every other woman our value is not attached to the body count so many of you worry about. In fact asking our body count should be the least of your worries. She might not tell you the truth and no you won’t be able to tell. You are not some sort of sexual RainMan who can sniff at labia and come up with a number. You certainly can’t get inside and listen to her walls talk. That’s not how it works.
Guess what? My high mileage pussy is likely tighter than your girls. You see I like mine, I like using mine, and I like keeping mine in shape to be used early and often. It makes me feel good. I do things for it like clean it, exercise it, and don’t put it up on the shelf to atrophy.
For millennia men have exerted control over women’s bodies. The United States Congress is trying to do that as I type as they consider shutting down all government to make sure women can’t get health care from 4,000 or so Planned Parenthood clinics.
Today I exert control over my body opting to no longer all antiquated men with their caveman logic to determine for me what is right and best.
Pleased to meet you. My name is Aphrodite Brown and my friends call me slut. My lovers call me early and often. You don’t get to call me anything if you’re neither.