Whore.

I used that word liberally until people starting calling me that. And they’ve used it on me a lot.

I was able to train myself to treat it like any other word, like it wasn’t dripping with spite. Now it no longer affects me, though there was a point in time during which I could have named every single person who had ever used that word on me.

Only women have called me a whore.

Whores aren’t raised. There was nothing that my mother, who was unwavering in her aspiration that my hymen would remain intact until my wedding night, did that made me approach sex so callously. When I was a child, I hated being needlessly touched – poking, tickling, even hugs – and I know that my mother found some solace in that, hoping that it would hold over into my adolescence and adulthood.

It did; I still hate to be needlessly touched, except that my definition has grown from tickling and hugs to include cuddling, be it pre-, post- or non-coital.

Sex has a purpose, so the only touching that I could tolerate was in order to obtain sex. You could say that it was the only poking that I’d deal with. Read More »