As a teen, I was called slut a few times. It certainly wasn't meant
as a term of endearment, and it actually wasn't true—at least
not how it was intended. At the time, it made me furious and humiliated
and full of righteous indignation. It made act as squeaky clean as
I could. For a while.
The last time anyone called me a slut was in college. I was dressed
as Blackie from Twin Peaks for Halloween, and a frat boy on the street
muttered "slut" as he passed. That time, it made me mad too. I guess
because coming from a frat boy gave it the same moronic sting as when
it came from Miss Alford at dear old Humble High School (ah, the horrible
and malicious Deborah Alford. I'd like to hit her in the face with
a shovel even now). It was the same bewildered outrage I felt when
this stranger approached me at Wal-Mart and told me to cover myself
and suggested that my state of "undress" (I was wearing a tank shirt
& a cardigan sweater. I still haven't figured that one out) was equivalent
to him exposing his "thing" (his words; not mine). The kind of outrage
only the most loserful strangers can inspire.
