Opening Up, Ethical Sluts, and Wild Wild Women Like Me

I've known about Dossie Easton and Janice Hardy's The Ethical Slut for a little over a year now.  I'm a fan of Easton and Hardy's easy, approachable writing style, and The Ethical Slut doesn't seem to be any different, nor does the sample I've read thus far disappoint.  If anything, I find this may be a very helpful and healing read.

Dear Readers, I was what you might consider a slut.  When I was in my teens and twenties, I enjoyed the tiny tingles between my legs, I participated quite often in mutual and single masturbation, and once I got that cherry popped, I really enjoyed sex.  I mean I really, really enjoyed sex!  Of course I was safe.  I'm not stupid.  No slut really truly is.  But some of that changed when I was in college.

Lots of young men--and a few young women, too--rather enjoyed my company, as well as my body.  Quite a few of the young men also ruined any sort of "good" reputation I had.

Then something truly hideous happened.  I was gang-raped.

At that time, there was a phrase that I had never been exposed to before I went to college:  "You can't rape the willing."

Really?  I wasn't willing to be dragged into a dorm room.  I wasn't willing to be humiliated, literally shat and pissed upon (those of you who are down with water sports, anal and scat--more power to ya, but this is part of why I don't dig it.  I'm not judging those who are down, but this is part of why I'm not).  When you've had what little power you're tapping into ripped from you by force and humiliation, it's a helluva long way back to get your confidence, groove, and sanity back.  I was known as a train girl, and I didn't even know what the fuck a train girl was.  Irony, indeed--my grandfather worked for the railroad.  Would he have done to me what these young me did?  Hell no!  Would he have stopped it if he could?  You better believe it!

Anyways--Easton and Hardy's work make me want to reclaim the moniker of slut.  They make me want to celebrate my body, my sexuality, my weirdness.  They make me want to travel back in time to slap a Victorian man.

Please excuse me, Dear Readers, while I embrace and get back in touch with my inner Wildness.

A Brief Update

Just prior to the announcement of the AWOL status, I had written a post in regard to rape, forced Dominance via sexual violence, and a call-out to do something about it.  Here's part of my personal dilemma, if you will.

Yesterday was a rather nice day.  I have some work responsibilities to take care of, and will quite possibly be employed for a majority of the summer.  I am not complaining because as long as my paycheck doesn't bounce, I'm cool with any extra duties I may incur.  I like dressing in cool, flowing things for summer because it gets hot in my library, so the extra cotton and shorter lengths are quite nice.  I had gone downtown to a small funky boutique I have driven past often but never been in.  It  began to rain hard, and cool down dramatically.

She was standing outside, holding a battered umbrella.  Though her clothes were relatively clean, she was wearing sandals, and only had vision from one eye, the other milky with a cataract. Her glasses were torn all to hell too.  "Excuse me, ma'am," she said, "I need me a bus ticket.  I ain't got no money.  I gotta get home.  I need me a bus ticket. Ticket-man says I need forty-fi' dollahs.  I need me a bus ticket.  You got any money?"

"Sister, I'm coming right back.  Money's in my car."

I knew she was thinking, "Bullshit, bitch, you just walked out of a shop."  I only pay for my stuff using my debit card when I shop.  It's easier for me to track purchases via my bank's web site than to futz about with receipts.  It also keeps my wallet lean n' clean, and my handbag is much, much lighter that way.

So I came back around the corner, gave her the five I found in my car, and all the coins in my cup-holder.  She was having trouble holding onto it all.  "Thank you," she said.

"I'm always willing to help a Sister in need.  You have a bless'd day."

"God bless you, baby girl," she said with a gappy smile.  "Oh, honey, you better get out of this rain.  And don't hang out down here by this bus station.  This here's a rough neighborhood.  They don't bother me 'cause I'm old.  They'll bother you, though, and I don't want nothin' to happen to ye.  God bless ye baby."

This is especially for those submissives who think they can coast on the good will and good fortune of their Dominant, whether male or female.  Somewhere, someone had to save you, whether just a friend, your Dom/me, or someone else close to you.  Before you get all complacent and think you're off the hook for the next couple months, here's my request:  help someone.  More specifically, help someone besides your damn self.  Look, Sisters and Brothers (or should it be Bothers, ha-ha) we're all trapped on this planet together.  Basic kindness to other humans, no matter how sub- they may be, knows no boundaries--not race, not politics, not gender, not socio-economics or any of that other stuff the media keeps flinging at us like it matters.  So here's my challenge---help someone.