#slutcore

When I was growing up

There were Slut Walks all around

The nipple was on the cusp of being freed

And slowly, I thought, it was becoming that the worst thing you could call a woman was a slut

Because in doing so one, usually a man, revealed the extent of his in-enlightenment

For when I was growing up, it was the preeminent feminist issue that women not be shamed for doing with their bodies what men did without regard

There are no slut walks anymore

Not because the issue has gone away

But because the word need not be uttered now

There are simply harsher weapons than words to shame the womenfolk

And thus the unsheathing of such a cutting knife need not be done in the polite front rooms of London and Washington

Traditional Wives assert the essential feminine power of washing their husband’s socks while wearing frocks so grossly inappropriate for laundry it’s a wonder their cleaning ladies don’t over dry-clean them

And the curtains get drawn on the matter of the breast and it’s capacity to go unsexualised, because even an ice skatress pulling a silly face in jubilant celebration of her gold medal victory cannot go without comparison to porn

So the matter of the slut is closed

And our grandmothers, those still with the ill fortune of living, must watch their granddaughters stiflingly survive what they bravely marched against

Not because the feminist is dead

But because the intersectionalist has a more fundamental battle to wage

Like a small reptile fleeing from a desert predator, this particular appendage is sacrificed for the good of the host body’s survival

But when the dust resettles from the scurry, will the unbalance prove an unrecoverable kilter?

Why is the matter of shame, its presence and absence, always reserved for peacetime?

I almost crave the shame of those days, that was so fiercely fought against.

A cultural background radiation of shame, and a campaign reared up against it,

would at least imply the existence

of a womanhood seeded

with a little rebellion

a little proactivity to the fight for our freedom.

Now, it seems all we can offer is tired resilience

Resistance, we forget, is ultimately passive

It fights, not to change but to endure

And that which must make do with endurance holds no true power to make change

In far too many ways the fight to survive

Has dulled the female teeth in her own mouth

What I would give to bite again,

To join once more in the chorus of:

“Call me a slut,

I dare you!”

-M

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Made a new mask for my pfp and figured you all might want it ~ .ᐟ

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