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❤️ The Shy Pervert Blog ❤️ [Entry Three] [Wholesome Sluts And Where to Find Them] [Oh Wait! We Are Them] [Trigger Warning: Sexual Abuse]

Added 2021-05-19 12:16:58 +0000 UTC

I’m of the firm belief that sexuality isn’t a battlefield. Sexuality is layered, diverse, colourful - but divided into extreme archetypes that directly oppose one another - not so much.

Contrary to what our well-intentioned starchy parents told us - the world isn’t divided into good girls and bad girls, innocents and she devils, virgins and whores. Nope! I’m sorry to say, we just had to be people. Complicated, multifaceted, horny, wholesome people. Wholesome sluts, if you will.

And as (an unelected) spokeswoman for the wholesome sluts, I’d just like to say that I am more than capable of being on my knees and in control. Sometimes, all I wanna do is spend the day with my mom, watch Peppa Pig with my niece, help my sister run errands, have dinner with my husband, and to finish it all off, have his tongue inside me for desert. I’m just that kind of greedy.

And if truth be told, I think most of us are.

To clarify, I’m not trying to suggest that progress hasn’t occurred in this area. Progression happens, whether intentionally, politically, or even through sheer necessity. Ideas are offered, opinions are expressed, mindsets shift, even if ever so slightly. So, yes, things are slowly, ever so slowly churning and it is a great relief.

So, if that’s the case, why does it feel like shame, division, and politics are still so intrinsic in our sex lives (or lack there of)? Well, honestly, I think there’s more than one answer. Whether it be religion, societal expectations, upbringing, shame culture, or even just low self-esteem - it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that many, many people feel judged by what they do or don’t do with their own bodies in the dark.

From my own personal experience, I was taught by my father that “good girls” don’t wear makeup, don’t invite attention, don’t speak unless spoken to (I shit you not), don’t sit with their legs open, don’t show their skin, and basically don’t do anything unless instructed to by the man who owns them. Yeah, all the while he was abusing his seven year old daughter.

To rephrase Billie Eilish: All the good girls don’t go to hell, they just hate their fathers.

Unfortunately, my kind of upbringing is so not the exception. So many kids are abused by their parents that they barely feel it noteworthy: trauma is normalised, shoved to the back of the brain, and labeled “experience”. And for a long time, I felt exactly the same way. It’s uncomfortable and painful and… yeah. I don’t want to think about it.

But then it followed me everywhere I went. Every boy who smiled at me, every playful talk with my friends, every bra strap that fell down, every situation where I could possibly be in the wrong. Every time the good girl wasn’t good.

And… after some Sylvia Plath, talking therapy, clumsy yet dedicated masturbation, I realised… I wasn’t a good girl at all. I never was. There are no good girls, no bad girls - there’s just girls, just women, just people who live their lives, make mistakes, and don’t let pedophiles sink them.

The above might make it sound like this all happened in a movie montage. It did not. If only progression was so linear, so cause and effect, so easy. And I had help every step of the way. I had love, and people who wanted to help me, and I honestly cannot imagine how I could’ve done any of it without them. I was, and continue to be so lucky in so many ways, and it breaks my heart that so many people don’t get anything near that.

And it’s for those people that I won’t shut the fuck up about sex and not being sunk by shame.

Don’t let the fuckers sink you. You can swim.

You can have trauma, wrestle complicated feelings, have a waning and rising libido, you can be all this and more and just be a person. Because that’s what you are - whether you like it vanilla, spicy, not at all, or even just plain weird - you’re just you.

Your sexuality is your business - not your parents, not your peers, and certainly not any stranger’s. Sex is what you make of it, and you can absolutely want wholesome days, followed by unwholesome nights. Heck, you can have it pretty much however you want.

You can swim, wade the waters, and come up for air. You are in control of you.

Please do not live the small, caged life others would have you lead. I dread to think what kind of small, simpering, ugly thing I’d be if I’d stayed with my dad. I remember having to massage him when he was stressed. It was one of our warped little rituals. I’d be wearing a small nightdress, sitting on top of his back, my thighs sticking to his skin, rubbing oils up and down, willing him to just sleep. Even then I thought it was weird… now, I can’t believe I can say I was a baby prostitute. Pacifying him, calming him, shushing him with sweetness: “Come on, dad. I’ll do that thing you like.”

I realise there are parallels from my childhood to my job. I pretend to be who people need me to be, I whisper sweet nothings, and maybe even help them cum. And in all unpolished honesty, sometimes that makes me uncomfortable and incredibly sad. However, that’s usually in my most self-destructive, traumatised, weakened state. As I said, progression is annoyingly nonlinear. There is no forgetting our lashes, no “I’m okay now”. The things that happen to us don’t really ever leave, you just have to put them into perspective. Was it fucked up? Yes. Does that make me fucked up? No more than everyone else.

We all have baggage, we all have parts of ourselves that make us uncomfortable, we all make choices out of necessity. I doubt nearly everything besides my family and my love for them. So, yes, sometimes I wonder if my job is the right thing for me. But, I did that when I was a teacher, shop girl, and most definitely baby prostitute. I am no less deserving of respect because strangers stroke themselves to my voice. I am no less deserving of decency because I prefer foreplay over penetrative sex. I am not a good girl. I was not made for anyone but me. I am a wholesome slut with daddy issues and a loving family. And no stranger, pedophile, or evil self-loathing thought can ever destroy that.

I am a wholesome slut and I can swim, and more importantly, so can you.

Please do not be afraid of what you want or don’t want. It’s okay to be who you want to be, to want who you want, to not be good or bad. I am no big tiddied, chaste, anime waifu who’s never had sex, but is somehow a master on the first try. I was sexually active from being seven. I am not chaste or pure or promiscuous or evil. I am a woman who makes up her own mind about who she is and what she’s worth. And I will always encourage others to do the same. Freedom does not equal happiness, but it stands a much better chance than captivity.

You are not an archetype pitted against anyone else. You are you.

So, take the wholesome with the horny and be a well-adjusted individual who makes up their own mind. Or not, that’s entirely your prerogative. Just don’t be miserable for the sake of pleasing people who don’t even fucking matter to you.

I’ve been called whore, slut, ice queen (my personal favourite), cocktease, and that was all before I ever turned on a mic and made coin from sex stories. Sex has been used against me my entire life. To make me small, to make me less than, to punish me for not returning someone else’s desires. And I have chosen to rewrite what I can. If I am a slut then I am a slut for me, my choices, my desires - my belief that no one can ever ruin us.

We’re all gonna be judged, people will always have an opinion, don’t let that stop you.

You are not simply what you do in the dark, in a car, on your own, or not at all. You are every part of you. You are complication and complexity and you are so deserving of being all of it. So, put on your gimp mask, get your pussy eaten, call your mom, ask your friend how they’re doing, donate to charities, and just generally be the complicated, well-intentioned fucker you were born to be.

We are the wholesome sluts and we’re here for freedom and orgasms and writing our own fucking stories.

Best wishes,

Tea

P.S. I have written this piece from a woman’s perspective, discussing mainly women’s trials in sex and sexuality. Though I do feel a lot of these ideas can and should be taken on board by men, I recognise that a lot of terms and ideas were in reference to women.

I recognise that men have many warped societal expectations placed upon them with regards to sex and sexuality. I am simply writing my perspective. I write what I know. That does not mean that men do not have their own story to tell. They absolutely do. It’s just not mine to explore. When I write like this, I do so sincerely - and there will be a man who talks about the trials of men far more sincerely than I ever could.

I just know what I know, and that’s what I write.

Best wishes,

Tea