Slut stigma

Everyone knows how much I love to talk about sex. Truth be told, I talk about it way more than I actually engage in it. Which sucks. Big time. 


But enough about my stagnant love life... One of my very dear bloggy friends, Holly over at Bitchin'... But Not A Bitch, has graced me with the pleasure of a guest post. Her post is about America's favorite past time. Baseball, you say? I think not. Today, we're talking about sex. More specifically, all the sex people assume you're having once the hymen is breached. Crude, I know, but let's remember whose blog you're on.


Holly's blog, I think, has accomplished something on one blog that I need two blogs to do: she has blended a mixture of warmth and wisdom with a little touch of bitch thrown in for good measure. Please stop by her blog and tell her the Bitch sent you. 


Now that all the niceties are out of the way, bloggers and blogettes, I give you Holly...



Post-baby and pre-marriage, a stigma follows you, telling people you're a slut. It might be true, or it might not; but the cat is out of the bag regarding your virginity. And not being a virgin is all it takes to become a slut.

Before the stitches had even dissolved, men were trying to have sex with me. But not really trying, because they didn't think they had to, so more just making lewd comments and inviting me into their bed or futon in their apartment or van, depending on their degree of creepy.

This is one such story.

I worked at the Olive Garden: a breeding ground for single people of all ages who like to fool around with their co-workers (I didn't know that when I took the job [or I would have offered to waitress for free]). One of the joys of working in a restaurant is never having a set schedule, but being at their beck and call for every lunch and every dinner. So it was one of these days when I was working a double (knowing Ms. Hyde's readers must be bright to keep up with her sharp wit, I will not explain the obviousness of this term) that a co-worker approached me about hanging out with me between meals. He had some innocuous one syllable name, like Ron or Rob - either of which he was too young for. He wasn't particularly attractive (balding but not quite bald - and still at that awkward length where he isn't sure if he's going to grow it into a comb-over or shave it off completely). These factors considered, I should have told him to fuck off. But I mistook his patheticness for harmlessness. 

So I drove him back to my place (he didn't have a car - see previous sentences). I had no intention of even saying his god-awful name, let alone fooling around with him. So I went about my daily chores - like feeding my puppy in an upside-down frisbee since I had spent all my money boozing. It was while I was putting the Kibbles back under the sink that Ro(b/n) called out from my bedroom. I turned around (it was a tiny one-bedroom apartment and you could see the entire place from the kitchen) to see his blue sailboat boxers around his ankles. And that's when he said it:

"Are we going to have sex or what?"

I went for the "or what" and drove him back to the OG in what has to have been the most awkward 3.1 miles of all time.

The next day, neither Rob nor Ron reported for his scheduled shift.

I have never seen him since. And in all these days since, I have never lost a moment of sleep about the one that got away.

But I'm sure he has. I have that affect on pathetic people.

Let this be a lesson to you men: if you want to wow a girl, get a car.
And more than that, wait to drop trou until she wants to see what you've got underneath.
Yeah, the second one is more important. Unless she's a gold-digger.