Posts tagged “ugly

Sluts Are People Too

slut · noun \’slət\ · a promiscuous woman

Slutty girls used to make me really mad.  They were hot, they knew it, and all they had to do was flash a little cleavage and they got whatever they wanted.  They made me look ugly and prudish by comparison, and I feared that no man would want to “settle” for me when they were constantly seeing their scantily clad fantasies walk by.  I was jealous and wished I could look like them, yet I loathed their unfair superficial ways on principle.

All of this changed when I became friends with a few of these girls and saw what being a slut really entailed.  I realized that my jealousy and resentment were stupidly pointless and unfounded.  Maybe they got whatever they wanted in an immediate sense, but it came with a huge price – human respect.  Sluts might get what they want in a short-term, physical sense, but in the process, they are dehumanized and hardly anyone truly respects them.

  • Women don’t respect sluts because they are jealous and/or fear that they will steal their boyfriends away.  They also fear that the presence of slutty women gives men impossible high expectations for how women should look and perform sexually.  Don’t be jealous that most women (including other sluts) hate sluts.
  • Men don’t respect sluts because they don’t have to respect them in order to get what they want.  They see them more as toys instead of people.  They have no idea that the girl they slept with one night and then never called again is now crying over a tub of ice cream, wondering why she wasn’t good enough; it doesn’t enter their mind because toys don’t have feelings.  Don’t be jealous that emotionally immature and selfish men use and abuse sluts.
  • Sluts don’t respect themselves.  They give themselves away because they don’t realize that they’re worth so much more.  And with women hating them and men using them, why would think highly of themselves?  They stake so much of their value on how they look that a pimple or cowlick can crush their self-esteem into a million tiny pieces.  Don’t be jealous of fragile self-esteem and self-loathing.

I know, I know, this isn’t always the case.  Before you accuse me of generalizing, let me confess that one of my friends is a self-proclaimed “slut” who can sleep around without falling apart.  She is incredibly self-assured, independent, and able to be emotionally detached in her sexual relationships.  Not all sluts are suffer equally, some girls can successfully pull off the slut lifestyle.  If that’s you, congratulations –slut away!  Based on a rudimentary survey of my social circle, however, self-respecting sluts are incredibly rare.  In fact, my aforementioned friend is the only woman I’ve met who can live like that.  All my other slutty friends are insecure wrecks.

I always wonder why they choose to do this to themselves.  I watch my friends cry and vent about how stupid boys are and wonder why they don’t just say “no” when boys ask them to go home with them.  A lot of times, they believe this is just how relationships are supposed to be, especially when they see the same thing happening all around them to their fellow sluts and all the magazines talk about it as if it’s totally normal.  For many of them, it’s repeated naïveté: they genuinely mistake male lust for love, so when they get dumped, their response is to try to make themselves hotter in hopes that it will prevent it from happening again.  Their self-worth and value hinge on their ability to constantly attract men.

But, you might ask, isn’t it their fault that they are slutty?  Aren’t they responsible for forfeiting their own right to respect?  Yes, in some ways they are.  But in other ways, they’re victims of their culture, and they’re paying a hefty price for it.  The idea that looks are of utmost importance is such an obvious lie to me because I grew up being told I was ugly and had to get my self-worth from other sources, but it’s not necessarily obvious to girls who grew up constantly being told how pretty they are, with that as their main value. Hollywood tells us that women are worthless if they’re not hot, and the hotness barometer is popular male opinion.  These girls desire to be affirmed by male opinion more than they desire respect.  It’s no wonder that these girls can’t see a way out.  This certainly doesn’t warrant jealousy.

So, no matter how much you want to strangle the next hot blonde with giant boobs who snags your crush (girls) or tap that thang with no strings attached (boys), remember that sluts are people too and should be treated accordingly.

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The Sexy Man in the Elevator

Have you ever had one of those days where you just feel so gross and awful that you can barely function?  I had one of those days this week.  I felt and looked like death and had no intention of interacting with anyone that night.  I hadn’t been able to sleep well in days, I had sweated off all my makeup earlier in the day and was too tired to reapply, and my allergies were killing me and making my eyes a bloodshot drippy mess.  To top it all off, I had spent most of the day taking headshots of one of my best friends, who is a model, which had only served to remind me that I was not (and never would be) hot enough to be a model.  So I felt hideously gross, super depressed, and physically sick.  I was a wreck.  I never would have left my apartment, except that I ran out of food and I wasn’t sure when I’d have another chance to go to the grocery store.  So I mustered up what little energy I had left and made the trek to gather sustenance.

My goal was to get in and out as quickly as possible without talking to anyone, and I almost succeeded.  Almost.  I pushed my cart into the elevator, but was in such a daze that I took it up instead of down to the parking garage.  My food and I rode up to the balcony of the shopping plaza as I cursed my stupidity.  Then the doors opened, and in walked this cute guy.  He paused to let me out and I awkwardly explained that I wasn’t getting out.

Now, everyone knows that the normal protocol for riding elevators is to ignore everyone else and stare at the wall or phone, as if deep in thought.  I guess this guy doesn’t ride many elevators though, because he kept talking to me.  He was very friendly and had a nice smile, which he couldn’t seem to turn off.  About halfway down, I finally realized that he was hitting on me!

You have to understand that I rarely get hit on outside of Home Depot and Walmart parking lots.  On the rare occasions that guys do take notice of me, it’s usually with that creepy “heyyy” kind of flirting.  But this guy was different; he was nice, and he treated me like a human.  I was in shock, this doesn’t even happen on days I look relatively good.  This guy was special.  When we got to my floor, he said, “You know, you’re pretty cute.”  He must have some serious vision problems, but I was genuinely touched.

Unfortunately, this story has a very sad and anti-climactic ending, thanks to my sleep-deprived, allergy-ridden brain’s inability to function that night.  I never ever give my number out to strange men because I’m always terrified that they could be serial killers, even seemingly nice ones.  So when the guy asked if I had a boyfriend, I stupidly replied, “kind of.”  What does that mean???  Funny you should ask me that, because he did too.  I didn’t know the answer.  The conversation came to an awkward end as I pushed my little cart out of the elevator and mentally kicked myself for not being a more eloquent liar.

I realized very quickly that he probably thought I was rejecting him because I didn’t think he was attractive or thought he was creepy or something.  I felt horrible!  I desperately wished that I could go back in time and explain that my brain wasn’t working very well, and that I thought he was cute too, and that I so appreciated his kind words, and that he made my crappy night a whole lot better.

So if by some far off chance you are reading this, sweet-guy-I-probably-should-have-married, thank you for making my night.  I’m sorry for accidentally rejecting you.  Here’s to hoping we meet in another elevator someday!


Confessions

Did you ever play that popular middle school slumber party game called “Never Have I Ever”?  In case you were deprived in junior high, here’s how my friends and I played: everyone started with all ten fingers up, then we took turns saying “never have I ever [insert interesting experience]” and anyone who had done that thing puts a finger down.  Usually the experiences had something to do with *eek* boys!  Once someone had all ten fingers down, they were out.  We played until there was only one person left, who would then be declared the winner!

Well, kind of.

The “winner” was almost always me.  But though normally winning is the goal (just ask Charlie Sheen), this wasn’t really a game anyone wanted to win.  The real winner was whoever put down all their fingers first, because it meant that they had done a lot of stuff with boys, and in the eyes of a group of tween girls, that made them really really cool.  But then there was me, the tiny shy girl with all ten fingers still up, all accusing me of being really reallyuncool.   

Now, a decade later, I find myself in my early twenties and not much has changed:

  • Never have I ever had sex.
  • Never have I ever been in a serious relationship.
  • Never have I ever kissed a boy on the lips.

Sometimes I find these confessions kind of embarrassing.  I mean, it’s rare (but not completely unheard of) to be a 20-something technical virgin of the done-everything-except-had-a-penis-in-my-vagina variety, but I was terrified of what would people think if they knew I was a super virgin – a virgin of the never-even-been-kissed variety.

The obvious question, then, is how and why did I let this happen?  Oh trust me, this wasn’t on purpose.  I always wanted a boyfriend to take off the last two bullet points, but a disfiguring medical condition effectively kept the boys at bay all the way through high school.  Having been in and out of the hospital and called everything from “monster” to “freak” my entire life, it wasn’t any surprise that no one wanted me.  Don’t worry, my story isn’t a tragic case of social isolation; I was super blessed to have many friends, including boys, but even if they liked hanging out with me and felt sorry for me, they certainly weren’t about to ask me out.  In fact, I was told I shouldn’t expect to date until I was in my 30s, when men would be mature enough to see my “inner beauty” and/or desperate enough to settle for an ugly girl (ironically, this was meant to encourage me with hope that I could ever have anybody at all).

However, as I got older and came towards the end of my treatment, I miraculously also started to look more and more normal.  It surprised everyone, including my doctors, who had expected that becoming healthy would make me look more normalish, but it’s rare that people with my condition ever get to successfully blend into a crowd without at least getting double-takes.  I know that I don’t deserve to look normal, but I am so so so grateful for this blessing.

I graduated from my small town high school, where everyone knew my story, and moved to Los Angeles for college, where no one had a clue what had happened.  Moving to LA – a notoriously superficial metropolis – would be the ultimate test of whether or not I really looked normal.  I thought that people would definitely notice something  and judge me for it.  But when I arrived, people didn’t whisper insults or stare when I walked by, children didn’t run away screaming, and creepy old men were even hitting on me – I really was being treated like a normal person!  And it was awesome.

Being normal brought many perks, just one of them being that guys finally took an interest in me.  I was nervous about the fact that I was so far behind everyone else, but I figured that since I had mastered calculus and far more difficult subjects in high school, catching up wouldn’t be too hard.  For the record – I’m not “hot,” just “normal.”  However, my lack of hotness didn’t seem to be a problem.  I was literally surrounded by hundreds of horny college boys just waiting to pounce on anything, hot or not, with a vagina that would consent to sex with them!

Wait… WHAT???

Yes, it didn’t take long for me to realize that a willing vagina was all that most horny college boys were after.  I was suddenly struck with the epiphany that maybe these particular boys – eager as they were for my now-healthy body – would not necessarily romance me like a Disney prince.  They spoke of hot women as if they were trophies and not-so-hot women as if they were animals (specifically, as female dogs…).  The more I learned, the more the idea of doing anything physical with one of these pigs – er, I’m sorry, men – started to disgust me.  My fairytale dreams of romance were shattered.  I felt like I had traded one form of objectification (really really mean) for another (um, flattering-but-gross).

So this is how I finally came to realize that my unintentional “super virginity” was actually a good thing.  I started to see it as something to protect, rather than something to throw away at my first chance.  My body was worth too much to just give away to a horny drunk frat boy in exchange for momentary ecstasy.  I decided I was going to continue to protect my heart and my virginity until I met someone who legitimately earned it by marrying me.  You might wonder if this wasn’t a crazy decision, given that worthy men are so hard to come by.  Didn’t the possibility of never finding my prince and dying alone with 70 cats scare me?  Absolutely, I was terrified.  However, the idea of being used and dumped cyclically (as so many of my female friends were) terrified me even more.  

While nightmarish visions of becoming a cat lady occasionally still haunt me, I’ve been incredibly blessed to have had some awesome men in my life who have proved to me that not every guy is a pig.  There are amazing men with real character out there and there is hope for finding a Mr. Right.  Or if all else fails, there is always eHarmony!          

So that is my explanation  of why I could still win every game of “Never have I ever,” if played against middle-schoolers.  The only difference now is that it’s not nearly as mortifying.

I’m not 100% sure what this blog will end up being, but my current plan is to fill it with random virginal stories and thoughts from my life that (I’m told, at least) are interesting.  Or it could slowly evolve into a collection of my favorite youtube cat videos, I don’t know yet.  If you’re here because you’re a super virgin looking for reassurance that you’re not the only one, I hope I prove that, yes, there are at least 2 of us in the world.  Or if you’re here because you think my empty sexual resume is hilariously outdated, I hope to provide you with many more laughs.  Whoever you are, thanks so much for reading my first post!  xoxo