There comes a time in every one of my relationships when I have to explain that I don’t wear bikinis. I like my body, but I roll my eyes when my romantic interest protests that I’d look great in one. He’d know, after all; he’s seen me in my underwear. I explain that to me, wearing a bikini in public feels like going out in my underwear. I just don’t want to be that naked outdoors. It makes sense to those who know me well – I am often cold and always covered up, and I rarely even take my shoes off before it’s time to go to bed. I delight in the surprise every time a man removes my minimizer bra to discover that my breasts are two cup sizes larger than they appear beneath my clothing. To me, there is something wonderful about the experience of exposure, but when I do it, I like to do it all at once: heart, mind and body.

My choice not to wear revealing clothing is not a choice I make in judgment of women who do. It doesn’t come from a desire to receive less sexual attention, which is lucky, because in my experience, I actually receive more catcalls the less sexy I dress (like when I have the flu and walk one block to the drugstore in sweats for apple juice and medicine). Sure, strangers on the street (and hopefully my employers) probably see me as wholesome, and my friends call me “Grandpa” in homage to my collection of oversize sweaters and oxfords buttoned all the way up to the top. Rape apologists everywhere: I am a prime example of a woman whose sexual activity is no way related to or represented by her choice of clothing.

[TW: discussion of rape, sexual assault and slut-shaming.]

That’s right: I’m slutty. I am more sexually promiscuous than any of my friends. My recent transition into a monogamous relationship was a bit of a difficult adjustment, in the wake of more than a year of being single and not going more than two weeks without sex. I have slept with more than one person in the span of twelve hours, and that doesn’t count the threesome I had on Halloween (sober, by the way). I’m not saying this to brag, I’m saying this to own up to the reality of my behavior. While I feel completely at peace with my choices, I am all too aware of the fact that being honest about my sexual behavior limits the amount of people who will take me seriously, sleep with me, or date me.

It’s all too easy to be offended by slut-shaming when it’s in the form of a false accusation, but because I am sexually promiscuous, every time a woman anywhere is called a slut for any reason I become as offended and embarrassed as if I were attacked directly. Every time a woman gets called a slut, I am being made to feel like my choices regarding my body, no matter how safely and responsibly I make them, make me a dirty, disgusting person who is unworthy of respect.

Let’s backtrack to October of 2011. Fresh out of a long-term relationship, I began spending time with a foreigner who was subletting a room in a friend’s apartment. I had not quite cut ties with my ex, and for the first time in my life, found myself sleeping with two people at the same time. I felt so guilty about it, so slutty, that when that foreigner drunkenly held me down, despite my protests, and forced himself inside me, I not only neglected to report it – I continued to see him until he returned to his home country a few weeks later.

This is just another very real danger of slut-shaming. I had internalized it so much that I did not respect my own right to say no. I said “no” and “stop” and I tried to push him off of me, and when I failed I lay there, looked blankly at the wall and thought, “so this is what this feels like.”

I was not a virgin, but that was the day I felt like I lost my purity. For a time, I’d find myself in situations in which I felt I was expected to put out. Saying no felt pointless – after all, it was pointless when I said it to a man who claimed to love me. I found myself paralyzed, letting things happen to me, letting men touch me however they wanted. I was unable to move on from my long-term boyfriend because he was the only man I trusted not to objectify me, and when I ultimately lost him for good, there was no one left to trust.

That’s the thing about hitting rock bottom. When there’s no one left to trust, you have to learn to trust yourself. When I told my ex what had happened, he asked me why I didn’t scream. The truth is, I was ashamed, even in the moment, that I had let this happen. Eventually I realized that the longer I continued to take blame for what had been done to me, the more powerless I felt. Little by little, I began taking back the power I had lost that night. It started small, with declining to go back to a date’s apartment. I began to challenge myself, finding myself getting up in the middle of foreplay, zipping my pants and walking out with a proud smile on my face. I had to allow “no” to regain its meaning before I could feel the power in saying yes. Now, every time I decide to sleep with someone, regardless of the circumstances or whether or not I’ve slept with the person before, I feel stronger knowing that it’s my decision. Every time I say yes, I’m reminding myself that no one will ever have the right to make me feel dirty ever again.

Written by an anonymous reader