You crazy slut.

I’ve always known I was different. My earliest memories of playing outside as a child didn’t have me on the playground but running barefoot through the woods on the property behind our house or jumping recklessly into the ocean off of the long pier at our local beach. I never wanted to come inside and felt truly alive when the street lights would come on and I was pushing the envelope of my curfew; you know back in the day when street lights where the gold standard for telling time.

I howled like a wolf at the moon and was convinced that the wind whispered to me. It seemed that when everyone else was eager to get home in time for dinner, I was the dirty footed little girl who would wait just on the edge of our property until that last moment of twilight, soaking it all in and finally return home.

I imagined the walls of my bedroom as a prison and my time away from them, my freedom. It also seemed that the only other girls I connected with were the ones who weren’t afraid to run with the boys and get dirty, the ones would had scraped up knees and knotted hair, those were my type of people.

Everyone said I would grow out of it, that I would want to eventually wear dresses and the dirt under my nails would be no more, but that never happened. If anything as I grew I found more ways to exercise my wild spirit. As I got older any time that my creativity felt stifled I would rebel with my sexuality. Then I was labeled a slut. It was only later that I would understand that slut was used as a way to try to control who I was, to put me in my place, to negatively associate my freedom with something that was intended to shame me into submission.

I developed a reputation because I was sexually expressive. To me sex felt no different than expressing myself through dance or writing or art. It was a natural outlet and I gave it no more thought than that. Sex was like air, something I had to have, something as natural as breathing.

Apparently though that was unacceptable to the masses and the term slut became derogatory. I accepted the label and the negative connotation and in my younger years assumed that I would always be the “bad girl”.

From my teens to young adulthood I explored the parts of myself that I was told needed to be reigned in. I had sex with men my own age and men much older. I experimented with women, with threesomes and foursomes. I tested every boundary I had and never regretted a second of it. I came across some opportunists but for the most part my couplings were a wonderful part of exploring exactly who I was…and I was wild.

I found my sexuality empowering and invigorating. And I learned that that was not the norm. Other women I would talk to described sex as a chore or as an obligation, something they wanted to just “get it over with already”

I couldn’t fathom thinking about sex in that way….sex was something I always wanted to get right down to. I loved every single thing about it, loved the way the weight of someone’s body felt pressing into mine, loved the smell of skin and sweat, loved the taste of salt, loved how my fingertips traced the outline of muscles. People would say I was acting out, but it didn’t feel like acting at all, if anything it felt very natural. It was only after I started paying attention to the way others perceived me that I began to have difficulty. I stopped running barefoot through the woods. I stopped howling at the moon and listening to the wind and I became what everyone wanted me to be. I assumed the role of convention and I was miserable, for years.

I became the woman that I was supposed to become. I took a practical path and assumed a practical career and had a practical marriage and lived in a practical house. And the people around me that once looked so disapproving went on about their lives happy that I wasn’t disrupting the bubble. I lost touch with my inner wild and lost myself in the process.

And one day, I was driving over the same bridge that I drove everyday on my way to my practical, safe and boring life and I decided I couldn’t live for everyone else…I was wild. The ocean did speak to me, the wind did whisper my name and the moon, well the moon was the loudest voice I could hear.

So I ditched all pretense and decided to embrace just exactly how wild I truly was and although the title SLUT was dropped, it was replaced by another word whose intent was exactly the same. I was labeled CRAZY. I learned as an adult when you buck the system and you rebel against convention, well then you are just “crazy”.

I left my career, my marriage ended and I walked away from the so called friends who would look at me as though I were less than because I refused to go along with their ideas of what I should be. I became crazy.

And crazy is more dangerous than slut.

And I am dangerous. I am more dangerous now than I ever was, because I am finally free.

I am free to embrace my inner wild in a way that makes me feel alive. I am no longer the dirty-footed little girl sitting on the edge of the woods…I am the full grown woman who howls at the full moon at the top of her lungs standing on the edge of the ocean challenging everything I am supposed to be and replacing her with everything that I AM.

I am beautiful and challenging. I am dirty feet and ball gowns. I am combat boots and yoga pants. I am a dancer, an artist, a writer, a nymph, a lioness, a goddess. I am every fantasy I ever dreamed up and every reality I ever suppressed.

I no longer live a practical life and I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks of my existence. I am powerful in my freedom.

I am a crazy slut and I fucking love it.

 

 

***author’s note***

I often use google images to add interesting pictures to my work. I googled Crazy Slut and not one picture of a man appeared in the search. I think that speaks volumes.

 

Christie Page