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It's what they all say.
They say it because I get what I want, from who I want, when I fucking want.
And honestly? They're semi right.
I prefer to use the term "sexually promiscuous" because nowadays, slut has been twisted and bent, spouted with hate and acid. But the silver spooners at St. George Academy and the regular folks here at Montclair North find that it's the most suitable word for me.
I guess it started with Colin Peltz in ninth grade. He was pale, skinny, almost a twig with the bluest eyes I've ever seen before. He had whisky brown hair inlaid with streaks of red I think he got from his mom's side. She was a redhead, overbearing as hell too—that I can recall distinctly. He smelt like Morning Sun, the fabric softener fragrance made by Suavitel and he frequently bit his nails down to barely there stubs. Colin also had a habit of cracking nearly every bone in his body he could crack. Fingers, neck, back, ankles.
It was during seven minutes in heaven at Parker Ziegler's overrated, unsupervised, shitty house party that I discovered I liked kissing, being kissed.
At that moment, there was nothing like it. The things you can do with lips.
Colin's lips were soft, warm, delicate. His nail biting habit was quite repulsive, so by default—and I apologize if this doesn't make any sense—I expected us kissing to be somewhat of a repulsive experience, something I wouldn't enjoy. But it wasn't, in fact it left me thoroughly surprised.
I don't know if he had prior knowledge on the art of making out but it sure seemed like it. And I remember, as his tongue brushed mine and the taste of whatever fruity alcohol that had him wincing every time he lifted the red solo cup to his mouth danced on my tastebuds, I wondered who he had kissed before. Did he like it?
I liked it, and I liked kissing his friends too.
Towards the end of tenth grade, I hit second base. Sage Keyser has bragging rights to that. He was nice, and he still is by debt of course. I've been sworn to secrecy about the occasion that gifted him his first orgasm.
Twenty three seconds.
You can imagine where I'm going with that, needless to say, his respect towards me is constant. Without fault or fail, regardless of whether or not he thinks I'm slut.
Because that's power, the sluts have it. I have it.
Then there's Tyler Stark.
I broke his heart.
There's a plethora of things that I've done that I don't regret, some of those happenings cold and cruel. But I regret being selfish with Tyler Stark. I regret being his perilous love, the cataclysmic supernova that blew his universe to smithereens. I know the stardust that touches his skin burns because it's a remanent of me, and he hates me for it. And I let him, for his sake, because it's easier that way.
I hope the next person Tyler gives his heart to will handle it with the utmost care and help him to see the beauty in love, real love. I hope he lets them. I hope they erase me, everything I was, am. I'd do anything to give him that.
Sluts break hearts.
But we'll get to all of that later, after I tell you about the stars of this cataclysmic clusterfuck.
Everything everyone says, I can tell you too. Except I can tell it better because it'll be the truth. And there's nothing, absolutely nothing more compellingly raw than a slut's truth.
Sincerely yours, Kirsten Shaffer.
A/N: I'm so excited to write this you guys have absolutely no idea!!! I've been wanting to write something like this for a while now so I'm finally putting it into motion. I hope you liked this little intro...There's more to come:)
