For 4 months I had 4 lovers.
They weren’t harbingers of my apocalypse, I was already mid chaos and doom when they rode in.
They were trying to save me from it.
Apparently I needed an entire cavalry, but a girl has to sleep.
That chapter of my life was bookended by a severely abusive relationship, which is to say I managed to claw my way out of it, and then fell back into it. He beat me, stole from me, stalked me and the apex culminated in my being held hostage for 7 hours in my own home raped and threatened with death. I escaped, we call him ‘the rapist’.
But for 4 months I had 4 lovers. Never on the same day, not at the same time, not that it matters.
In the eye of a terrible storm, there was peace and calm. They were my friends, knew what I had been through and willingly put themselves between me and him. One still has a scar from it.
They all chivalrously held my hand walking down the street, pulled me close or put me into cars and cabs when we would see my ex and I was scared.
Was I a slut? Sure, that is one word for it.
Safe, there is a better word. In the fortress of my bedroom tangled up in one of them and sex stained sheets, I was safe as houses. I built myself 4 walls out of the bricks and mortar of 4 strong, caring men. Happy, lucky, sated, all of those words fit too.
Ashamed? Not one bit. We all had our parts to play and did so gracefully. You see dear reader, there was no juggling, no lying, no deception. They all knew about each other, because I TOLD them. None of them had designs on pinning me down.
I had a sweet apartment, two floors, all hardwood and arched doorways with huge windows everywhere. I had with 2 roommates, one pretty little blond thing who was never home, and a gorgeous Adonis of a gay man. My room was small and white and tucked in the back. I had pushed my bed up against the window because a woman had told me sleeping in the moonlight could drive you mad, and mad is where I wanted to be. On the nights the moon failed to show her face, the streetlights flooded in and made us glow.
I rarely feel as beautiful as I did in that bed.
One treated me and my body like a temple, a place of worship. Sex with him was slow and sweet and lovely. He made me feel revered and wrote me poems. We still talk, and I adore him.
One made me feel shy and new, was a born tease and drove me insane, and then made up for it. We see each other from time to time and I melt when he smiles at me like that, he is a good man.
Jesus and I didn’t talk much, neither of us really wanted to hear what the other had to say. He was the only one who ever seemed to feel jilted, but he was cheating, so really who was jilting whom. Oh God, the sex with him, he had something to prove, like he had been poisoned and in my pussy there was the antidote. He could rarely stay, but he made up for it.
Oh, the one I lost looked like Colossus from the X-men. We had the closest thing to a relationship. He began by being in love with my roommate, and she had me let him down softly on her behalf. He would show up, she would be gone, he would be sad and I would sit him down at the kitchen table, feed him and listen to him be sad.
After a week or two of this he looked up at me, smiled and said “do you know what I just realized…you are sweet, smart, funny, a great cook and beautiful, I think I might be over her all of a sudden” to which I replied “took you long enough” and we broke the table before he carried me upstairs and fucked me some more . He came over the next day and fixed the table.
So let’s examine this shall we. Of the 5 men mentioned, which one hurt me, used me, took from me without giving back? Ah yes, the boyfriend turned rapist. Who made me feel cherished, protected, adored, content, loved, precious…that’s correct, the other 4, the ones to whom I was not beholden in any way, not even obligated to pick up the phone when they called.
All of whom (save the lost boy) are still part of my life as the friends they started as.
So why spit out the word slut to define me like it’s a bad thing? I was brave, I was honest and dignified, treated like gold.
Idle hands are the devil’s playground, I kept mine busy and I don’t feel bad about one second of those 4 months, except the one when it ended and I slipped back into the cycle of abuse.
If experiencing that bliss makes me a slut, I accept, and I wish from the bottom of my slutty little heart that you get to be a like me one day.