Back in the late 80s when I was a women’s studies student and knee deep in the identity politics of the era, I read (and read and read) about women being in competition with each other instead of being friends with one another. I didn’t fully understand the concept because I truly didn’t get it.
I wasn’t in competition with any woman for anything.
Was it because my taste in men was kind of quirky? That rather than dating I just slept with my male friends because it was less complicated? Was it having been raised by no-nonsense lesbians that I wasn’t hung up on beating down other women in the name of pleasing men? Apparently I was lucky and my sense of self-worth wasn’t completely owned by the men in my life.
That’s not to say I was perfect. No one is. But I can tell you I won’t be on Jerry Springer calling four other women bitches for sleeping with my man and walking away triumphantly with my cheating boyfriend and a paternity test proving he’s my baby daddy.
And now I see scholars (who perhaps like watching Jerry Springer?) researching the slut-shaming and God-awful way we treat each other while giving men a free pass.
If we strip this issue bare (pun entirely intended) it comes down to biological imperative. Simply put, this whole thing about women too busy fighting to make nice, go shopping together, and take turns telling each other that their asses look great in those jeans they both already know they are buying boils down to competition over (to put it bluntly) available cock.
Really.
That’s all it is.
So let me lay it you down for you: I am not in competition with you. I don’t care who you’ve slept with. I don’t care whether you just gave a BJ to the mechanic and went and joined your husband for lunch and then flirted with me in the check out line at the market. I don’t care if your relationship is open or closed. It’s none of my business just as mine is none of yours.
I love sex and I love my body. Even the parts that set it apart or make buying clothes of a rack difficult. I like my breasts. I like my curves. Sometimes I like yours too. Does that make me a slut? Maybe. Whatever your opinion may be, I’m the Shameless Slut who write the title for this essay.
Just do me a favor and leave me out of the next talk show cat fight.
Well said! I never understood, either, how women would fight about appreciation (or cock) instead of defining their own worth and working towards a better life (and self). But then, that’s me. Everyone else can take it or leave it.