Slut Judgment

They’re all standing there, and they’re staring. They know I’m a slut. They must know. I can tell by the judgment in their eyes, and as I stand here, serene and seemingly so innocent, I wonder what kind of God given rationale makes them feel compelled to pass judgment so harshly on me. I’m a slut, I’m a slut, I’m a slut. I’m a slut, and suddenly that’s all there is to me. My legs and the ease with which they open. So they stand there, and they stare, and they watch as my legs glide open easily for all the anything out there in the world, and they judge me for it. 

I try to breathe, and I try to be okay with it. I try to act like it doesn’t bother me. I try to act like I don’t care. Although, it’s not that I care too much about exactly what they’re thinking, but they’re sneering at me. If only they could judge me without sneering. If only they could look, and then they could blink, but, no, instead, there they all are. All together. All of them men. Staring and judging and sneering.

I look away. I walk away. I know that eventually they will disband. They will wonder off, one by one, into their individual lives. And, then, when I see them again, not huddled in the mob mentality of slut shaming and who the fuck is this whore. When I see him, standing alone on the sidewalk. And he will look at me, and suddenly all the judging will disappear, and there he’ll be. Desiring me. Wanting me. Fucking me in his mind. Because I may just be a little slut to him, but it took every man that said yes to me to make me into the slut I am today.

It wouldn’t be possible without you, baby.