I’m trying to reappropriate the word “Slag”.
There’s such a visceral association to that word. Maybe it’s the hard G or maybe its because it’s used as an insult so often. Maybe it’s because of Gavin and Stacey’s “you schlaaaag”. Damn you James Corden.
There’s something deep within most of us that doesn’t want to be seen as easy or “used”. We don’t know why: it’s as if we were a box who’s seal was broken and so instantly goes down in price.
My vagina isn’t an eBay bargain.
But it definitely is as satisfying as an eBay bargain.
I always ask people from all genders whether they feel the same way. If they felt that their genitals were like a car, depreciating in value with each shag, or like a wine, getting richer in taste as the body count increases. I don’t think most had ever thought about it really, which may be because they aren’t chronic overthinkers like me or maybe because they wear a new shag like a badge of honour for as long as they can.
Someone recently asked me why I’m so open about sex and how I can be so intimate so quickly. To be honest, it’s not intimate at all for me. I’m satisfying an itch; ticking a pleasure box like having a nice bath. There isn’t any difference to me. I’m having my doughnut filled with jam and then i move along from the shop. No strings attached.
But somehow that makes me different. Not wanting a relationship and not wanting to be emotionally attached to someone doesn’t make me womanly. It doesn’t make me a “good girl”
It makes me a slag.
Because I want sex, not a relationship.
I know who I am and what I want. I know what I need and what needs to be done to make me happy. Does that make me young, immature, or bad? No. It makes me in touch with my body. I know my vagina so much more intimately than most. I recognise when things are working well and when they’re not. I recognise signs when my vagina is unhealthy and am totally open to taking care of it best I can.
And why should anyone have to stop having sex because it looks like they’re damaged goods. If breathing was equated as being the reduced section pasta pot in Sainsbury’s, people wouldn’t stop breathing.
I love sex. Genuinely. I think it’s an absolute high and nothing will make me have a better night’s sleep. Dick is my Nytol. I can’t imagine not having fun and taking care of myself like that. It’s self care as much as eating properly and washing. If knowing myself, loving myself and taking care of myself is being a slag then fuck it. Fuck me. I’m a slag.
It comes round to the question of why do men see women’s value according to whether or not she has sex. The respect that is given to women that have a lot of sex is purely “fair play”, but they’d never want to get into a relationship with them whereas women who don’t shag at all are seen much more as “wifey material”. There’s an analogy that goes around that says a key is seen as magic if it can open all the locks but a lock is a bit shitty if it can open for all keys. That’s all well and good but a pussy isn’t some Yale lock, it’s a part of anatomy.
People need to stop viewing women as Pandora’s Box; once it’s open that’s it, it’s over. We are not a one trick wonder, or an opened crisp packet left to get stale. We regenerate and only get better.
I’m a slag because i know that my worth is not saving myself to retain dignity. My worth is my mind, not my vagina.
Call me a slag, I dare you. I’ll agree and show you why.