It seems that no matter what time I leave work my bus is full of teenagers. No matter if it’s girls or boys, they’re always talking about girls: who’s a slut, who’s a priss, who’s not even worth mentioning. On and on and on. I feel like I know about the sexual lives of every teenager in Dalston at the moment. No matter how hard I bury my nose in a book I hear them, “She slept with him yesterday is it?” “Oh, my, god! What a slut!!!” Nice girls, nice.

This is something that I guess I keep going over on this blog: what the fuck is a slut? What does that word even mean? As I’m too much of a nerd to ask the teenagers themselves I turned to the next best thing: Urban Dictionary.

This is by far the most popular answer. A slightly confusing backhanded compliment, but hey, it’s not terrible just sort of shitty.

Things get worse however…

Leaving aside the idea that someone could disassociate from their body quite at will (can someone teach me that?) this is a textbook definition and raises so many questions. Why does engaging in sex frequently and sharing your body with more than a handful of people make sex less special? What makes someone’s sexual preferences discriminatory? What about all those girls who make their boyfriends wait and wait and wait and then get cheated on, treated badly, and dumped? Should they have worked harder beforehand? Probably not. If you give it up on the first date or after the wedding it doesn’t make a shit of difference. Some people are douchebags, some people will be horrible to you. Sometimes you can sniff them out in seconds and sometimes it takes years. The amount of time you wait between meeting them and getting acquainted with their genitals makes no damned difference.

Now for ‘meaning and significance’. I think that often sex can be likened to food. Some meals you wolf down, on the run, barely tasting them or appreciating them, others, like Christmas dinner, leave lasting memories each time it’s consumed.

Sex is the same. Sometimes yes, it has meaning and significance, the first time you have sex after you fall really truly in love with someone is magic. For me in that moment the whole world seems to stop and there’s a lightbulb over head feeling: this is it, this is me and the person I love being totally, utterly together. It’s one of the most precious moments you’ll ever have, I think. I don’t know what having a baby is like, but I guess it’s like a non sexual version of that. With added pain.

But yes, sex can have meaning it can have significance, it can be an exploration of trust, an episode of mutual discovery, and a fun filled rollercoaster ride, sometimes all of the above at once. And other times it can be like scratching an itch. An itch you just can’t let alone. Do you have to scratch that itch with someone who understands you? Who likes you? Who thinks you’re hot? One out of 3 generally isn’t bad, but no, not really. Sex is sex, a strange, heady concoction that  can be tied up with emotions and meaningfulness, but mostly is about being in the moment and something going on around your genitals.

Firstly: chill the fuck out! That guy was being nice to you, and you just pissed on his dreams!

Secondly… what people say about sluts, and by extension sex, says so much more about themselves than ‘sluts’. Here we have someone equating sex with personal validation. The intricate way that her self-view is built into her idea of sex makes me think that for her having sex is a minefield: she at once wants to be accepted and loved and sees sex as a way of expressing this, but is also caught up in the idea that to give it away means that she doesn’t respect herself. She’s trying to withhold sex in order to get sex. Confusing? You bet.

FYI ‘man’ next time you see that lady give her a hug, she needs it.

SHIT! WE’RE ALL SLUTS!!!! Not you men. Don’t worry, you’re safe.

Amen. Read it, memorise it, and if neccessary tell people it, but in a more condensed manner because it’s kind of long, and leave out the bit about nipples showing, because sometimes we just can’t help it ok?

Stop calling other girls sluts, stop judging people by how many people they’ve slept with, and stop using it as a catch all insult. If you must call someone something nasty, and sometimes you must, then get creative! Call them a slinky eyed bottom feeding mouth breather, a higgedy piled rust bucket of pity, or a banana split on a cupcake, whatever feels right!

Or just move to Sweden and start confusing people.

When I was a kid I told my mum that when I grew up I wanted ‘a red car, red dress, and red stilettos’ much like, it turns out, Cassandra in Wayne’s World. Though she looks totally sweet in a hair metal groupie sort of way, and I have always admired the work of Bebe Buelle and Sable Starr, I’ve found over the years that I’ve gravitated towards clothes with much less stretch lace, and a lot of bows and ruffles. Gradually the older I become the more childish my clothing choices. Only the other day I was thinking about getting my hair cut and the only photo I could find that in any way related to what I wanted was the youngest girl from The Chronicles of Narnia. Looking at that photo I would actually kill to own that cardi and dress too. Phwoar. Amazing.

Although wearing childish clothes could imply I’m some sort of infantilised, sexless, girl-child, forever trying to recapture a youth I never really had, it couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t want to start deconstructing my outfit choices because I dread turning this post into Pseuds Corner, but it seems that both men and women are obsessed with judging people on the way they dress. It is apparently imperative that we all have a distinguishable look, one that is solid, unchangeable, and instantly recognisable. There is not scope for moods, changes of attitude, or concessions to comfort. If you want to look sexy, and attract men for one night stands (it appears) you need to wear something short, tight, or low-cut, and preferably all three. If you wear glasses you could maybe be a ‘sexy secretary‘ (extremely NSFW link!!! hint: it features a video of Sasha Grey) but if you fail that test you’re relegated to quirky, cutesy, or worse: interesting. Wait, you can only be one of these things by the way! If you were both things surely that would mean you were not only sentient and possibly interesting but also a sexual creature. Madness. We all know these things can’t go hand in hand.

I’m not saying men get off much better than women in this ridiculous charade, however the manners in which men have to dress to be considered sexy, seem to be a lot less time consuming than they are for women. Really everyone gets a bum deal, forcing us all to either feel dour and neutered or constantly on and aware of our sexuality. What we need to do is recognise that much like with sex itself different things can make different people’s heads turn. Whether its a ruffle along a neckline, or an pea-coat hitting a hipbone at a certain angle there’s something to float everyone’s sartorial boat.

For the last week and a half I have been looking for a lipstick. Not any old lipstick, I found 100s of those, but the lipstick. One that will make me look like a lady, and that will not rub off all over cups, cigarettes, and boys’ faces.

Back in this post I mentioned a party so terrible that I forgot sleeping with someone at it. While I erased most of it from my mind I have never forgotten a lipstick related mishap that nearly stopped that entire sorry blog post unfolding (why didn’t it?? why??).

At the start of the evening I bumped into someone I thought was my ONE TRUE LOVE. We’ll call him Chet. My primary reason for thinking this was because I’d met Chet while blissed out on some Es. The moment I met him was amazing: I looked up from my scrabbling hands and in a split second the world slipped away. For a few hours I followed him around, hands in his pockets staring at him like there was no-one else in the room. It was probably pretty creepy. A few days later Chet invited me to this now apocryphal party and most of the sheen had worn off him I was still fairly smitten. When I arrived he’d necked half a bottle of Ritalin and was gabbling at me about everything under the sun. I was horrible disappointed but followed him into an empty room anyway to put my coat down. Inside Chet grabbed me by the arm: “Nadia just kissed me.” My heart sank as he was smiling broadly. “She kissed so badly; let me show you.” and before I could say anything he was lapping at my face like a St Bernard. I seized the opportunity as he broke away: “How would you prefer it was?” and so we kissed. We kissed for some time stood in the dingy light of Nadia’s bedroom surrounded by coats and shoes and someone sleeping under a curtain. In my head I was going “Yes! Yes! Yes!” because I am an idiot and do things like that.

Then someone stepped in to drop a bag off and we stood about awkardly talking about how this was a terrible idea and that we should just be friends. Well Chet said that and I said “Oh yes I suppose so.” Mortified that I could have misread a situation so badly I had been staring at the floor, and when I finally had the courage to look up I realised my lurid red lipstick was all over his face. He was telling me, all serious like, that this was just something that we’d done in the moment, and that it would be best if we didn’t think about it again, blah blah blah. I gave him a tissue, told him to clean himself and left the room. It wasn’t until days later that I realised I too must have looked like Robert Smith when I walked back into the party. Subtle.

And so to avoid this ever happening again I have been looking for a matte lipstick that doesn’t smell like crayons, isn’t neon red, won’t dry my lips, and yet won’t leave a trail of smears everywhere I go. Any ideas? It’s rather important you know.

Photo from Le Smoking.