Like many people – perhaps even most people – I grew up thinking of myself as fundamentally unattractive. Our culture is built to make us feel this way, so it can sell us face masks and skinny jeans and curling irons. You know this. But what’s less obvious is the way this sad truth can affect interpersonal dynamics in sexual relationships.
Good, ethical sex is predicated on informed, ongoing consent. Consent is predicated on the assumption of an egalitarian power structure between partners (even if they are playacting a power imbalance, as I often do). And it’s difficult to feel empowered or on equal footing with someone if you believe that they are beautiful and that you are ugly.
I’m not retroactively marking large swathes of my sex life as nonconsensual; I knew what was happening and I said yes anyway, often enthusiastically. But now, with the wisdom of (comparative) age, I often wonder how things would’ve been different for me during my “slutty phase” if I had believed – truly believed, in the core of my brainstem – that I am hot.
I would not have sat through the self-involved tirades of Tinder libertarians over bad bar food I was ridiculed for eating. I would not have swiped through dating apps with increasing desperation at 3 a.m., fruitlessly chasing proof of my loveability. I would not have laughed at jokes that weren’t funny or sucked dicks that weren’t washed. The sexually closed-minded often argue that sluts are sluts because they have low self-esteem; while this flat-out isn’t true (I know tons of happy, confident, self-adoring sluts), I don’t think I could’ve become a slut if my self-esteem had been higher, simply because my standards would have gotten higher too and thus my dating pool would have narrowed. I would have still wanted the same amount of sex with the same number of people, but fewer people would pass muster. What’s a slut to do?