Truth Undressed (Exposed Series, #3) (3 page)

Surely that sends a mixed message that they must choose between
being overtly public about their sexuality or being secretive about it. Is
there no middle ground? Do we really all have to choose between getting married
and having babies or making a sex tape and posing for playboy? Surely sex can
be a priority even if it’s not your career. 

My greatest hope is that more women learn to own their sexual
history instead of being ashamed of their pursuit and enjoyment of pleasure. Because
there is nothing more natural- and potentially transcendent- than sex.

Personally, I have had many great loves and several times as
many lovers. And as long as women are behaving responsibly and protecting
themselves, I think they ought to have all the unapologetic sex they want.
Because there’s nothing worse than missing an opportunity to get to know
someone… and I mean that broadly and indelicately.

I pity prudish women who don’t reach out and grab what they want
because they’re terrified of being thought a slut. Because no one can make you
feel like a slut without your consent. Of course, if you sleep around for no
good reason and always feel used afterwards, maybe you are one. And worse, you
probably feel empty a lot more than you should.

However, if you sleep around to feel liberated, to enjoy
yourself, to open your mind to others, or to gather material for your next
album, you’re not a slut. You’re just alive and healthy. And probably really
fun to be around.

It’s also worth mentioning that, as Aristotle said, “You are
what you repeatedly do.”

In other words, one slutty evening doesn’t make you a slut. Not
even close. You’re only a slut if you do slutty stuff all the time. Like if you
constantly sleep with guys who don’t care about you because you think it will
make them like you more. However, if you sleep with some guy and neither of you
really care about each other and you’re both fine with it, that’s just a meeting
of like minds.

A slut is someone who tries to use sex to get something other
than sex. A lot of women who enjoy sex for sex’s sake might be called sluts,
but they’re not. Enjoying sex doesn’t make you a slut. It makes you
enlightened. And as long as you don’t regret whoever or whatever you’ve done,
then you have no reason to be ashamed.

Lord knows I’m not.

However, if you ever do sleep with someone you shouldn’t have,
don’t beat yourself up. Everyone makes mistakes. Just put on your chastity belt
for a while, watch some chick flicks, remind yourself that you deserve better,
and sing until you feel whole again.

Then get back out there.

Because there are no prizes for being lonely.

So when you’re young and single, you might as well party it up
and have a good time. After all, the people who are most haunted by their past
are those that don’t have one.

On Becoming
a Woman

Becoming a woman is the single most traumatic thing that could
happen to somebody. I don’t mean bleeding in your panties either. Instead, I’m
referring to the confusion and torment of trying to figure out what kind of
woman you are and coming to terms with that.

For a long time, I thought everyone was making the transition a
lot more easily than I was, but I was kidding myself. Everyone struggles with
growing up. Anyone that tells you otherwise is a liar. Or painfully dull.

We all have our demons and insecurities. We all feel like
failures sometimes. And when we’ve been successful, we’re all always looking
over our shoulder like someone is going to find out we’re an imposter and take
our good fortune away.

Anyway, here’s how you know that not only are you a woman, but
you have what it takes to be a successful woman. It’s not when you give birth,
it’s not when you get your period, lose your virginity, or even get married.

You become a woman when you finally have the confidence to show
someone else how to give you an orgasm. It’s not enough to give yourself one.
Sure, you can get off that way, but you can’t become wildly successful that
way. Not in a bedroom and not in a boardroom.

Let me explain. A sexually liberated woman has a voice she isn’t
afraid to use. As a result, she is the master of getting what she wants. She
can talk to anyone, ask for anything, and get anything done. Why? Because as
soon as you have the guts to raise your voice when you are naked and vulnerable
in an intimate setting to ask for what you want, you’ll have the guts to do
anything.

Because compared to that, everything else is like asking a
stranger for the time.

And the truth is, the sooner you learn to ask for the love and
pleasure you deserve, the sooner you’ll get it. Which should help give you the
confidence to raise your standards and expectations in every aspect of your
life.

After all, the whole idea that women are self-less, maternal,
obliging do-gooders is horribly dated. That primitive ideology is why we’ve
been cutting, starving, shrinking, hiding, and taking abuse for so long.

To thrive in the modern world, we have to direct our innate
compassion towards ourselves for a change. In other words, we have to be more
selfish.  

I was a mess by the time I got home. Sober, but a mess. My
clothes were soaked and covered in mud and there was dirt under my finger nails
and grass stuck to my shins. Everything down to my socks was as soggy as my mood.

I took all my clothes off in the mud room and left them in an
empty laundry basket. Then I wrapped myself in a clean towel from the closet. I
could hear that we had company. Some nosy neighbors had arrived in the hope of
easing Carol’s pain with a pie and enough pasta salad to feed the neighborhood.
When I saw the food laying on the countertop, I swear I felt myself fall off
the wagon.  

“I was starting to get worried,” Carol said when she saw me,
pretending she was my Mom again.

The neighbors didn’t know where to look since I was in a towel.

“Just a bit of rain,” I said, matching her fake politeness. “But
I could really use snack and a shower.” I picked up a plate and stepped up to
the pasta salad. “May I?”

“Please,” the neighbor couple said in unison.

“Thanks,” I said, piling my plate high. “I’m just going to take
this up to my room if that’s okay.”

I didn’t make eye contact with Carol, but the neighbors looked
relieved as I walked past them towards the stairs.

When I reached my room, I put the plate of food down on my bed beside
the manila envelope that Carol or Tina must have put there after I left. Then I
sat cross legged on the bed and ate the food so fast it was a miracle I didn’t
swallow the plate. And it was delicious. Or more accurately, it did an adequate
job of filling me up.

But it had been weeks since I scarfed something like that, and my
shrunken stomach was so full it hurt. Which was weird because the amount of
food I’d consumed was barely a fraction of what I used to eat during a binge. Like
an eighth if I had to guess.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten so fast or felt so
bloated and disgusting. I couldn’t even remember the last time I overrate. With
Dawn it was all about “listening to my body” and eating enough “to feed my
muscles.”

I mean, nothing kills your appetite like living with someone who’s
suffering from cancer and loss of appetite. Dawn even joked about it once. She
said losing her appetite made her sad because it was the first time she really
felt like she had something in common with dead people.

It would probably also make her sad to see what I’d just done.
Maybe she had seen. Oh well.

I wanted to go down and get some ice cream or some milk. I
needed to drink something to lubricate my throat so I could bring up what I
just ate, especially since I’d barely chewed. But I’d have to make do. I didn’t
want to have to see the neighbors again.

Too much exposure might help them come up with a reason to
reject me. Like my own mother had. Like I was about to reject their pasta
salad. I stared at the manila envelope on the bed. It was thick with paper. Probably
some sort of long apology.

I didn’t want to read it though. Not yet. I wasn’t ready.  

But I was ready to throw up. Or at least, I had to be so I
wouldn’t absorb any calories and be a fat orphan on top of everything else. Plus,
as fucked up as it sounds, I thought it might make me feel better to throw up.
Because that was my normal, my old reliable. Because I recognized myself when I
was doing that. I was in control. Sort of.

I looked in the mirror. My eyes were red and my face was
splattered with dried mud. No wonder the neighbors acted weird. I turned on the
shower and waited for it to get so hot that steam was rising from the floor.

When I stepped inside, I let it scorch my skin until I was red as
the devil all over. After a few minutes, I bent over, removed the plug from the
drain, and stuck my finger down my throat.

And then the last thing I ever expected happened.

I gagged.

I hadn’t gagged in years. Not on my finger, not on a cock, not
on something I ate. I had no gag reflex. It was gone.

Or so I thought.

Then I felt the most terrifying mix of emotions. I was elated
because I must be better if I had a gag reflex again. Of course, that feeling
was followed by sheer panic because if I couldn’t throw up anymore, I’d have to
digest my food. Always. I wouldn’t be able to lean on my bulimia crutch anymore.

I leaned over and tried again, sticking two fingers so far down
my throat my teeth dragged on top of my knuckles.

This time I gagged so hard it forced my eyes closed. It was
horrible. Had it been that painful when I’d first started with a spoon all
those years ago?

Finally, I choked up a little bit of pasta, but it was a
pathetic amount, and it scratched my throat terribly.

I stood back up and considered my options.

If I wanted to take the time, I would eventually be able to
expel what I’d eaten. But when I was done, my face and neck would be all puffy,
my throat would be raw, and my voice would be hoarse.

The other option was to accept the fact that I’d overeaten, try not
to eat for the rest of the day, and hope I’d feel okay by tomorrow. After all,
I’d probably burnt a heck of a lot of calories on my long walk.

I sat down in the shower and let the water beat down on me while
I shampooed my hair. I just didn’t have it in me to stand anymore. But just before
I got out, I squatted over the drain and stuck my finger down my throat one
more time just to see if it had been a fluke before.

But I gagged again.

And it really felt like my body was trying to tell me something,
something like
I don’t want to do this anymore.
Which was good. Because
I didn’t want to be bulimic anymore either. But it was bad, too. Because I
still wished I’d gotten away with it just one more time.

I was at a crossroads. I could either learn to be bulimic again
which wouldn’t be too hard because I knew exactly what it took. Or I could stay
on the path to getting better which was difficult but far more rewarding.

But I knew better than to promise myself anything. Plus, I was
still hurting so bad from the day I’d had that I couldn’t think straight. For
the first time in a long time, my eating disorder wasn’t my biggest problem.
And I needed to find a way to cope with my shit that didn’t involve treating my
mouth like a toilet.

So I called Annie and asked if she had any weed.

6 People
You Should Sleep With

Whether you have many lovers or just a few, it seems that
certain types of lovers are almost inevitable. It is on those lovers that I
have based this list.

The list is not intended to be a map of where to go so much as a
rough guidebook of sorts. Because ultimately, it's only one woman’s opinion
about the consequences of stumbling into certain arms and beds over the course
of one’s life.

Unfortunately, when it comes to exploring our sexuality, women
don’t have all the time in the world. Mostly because of our biological clocks
and the pressure to get married. And as surprising as it may sound, the more
you like the idea of sleeping with one man for the rest of your life, the more
important it is for you to sleep around when you have the chance.

After all, there is nothing worse than a perfect marriage
getting ruined because one or both partners is curious about what else is out
there and who else they’re missing. This type of wanderlust spoils more relationships
than people realize.

That’s why it’s so important to figure out what you like and
loathe as a lover before you try to pick someone you’re supposed to be
compatible with forever. Because even though the sexual adventures waiting for
you after marriage may be varied and fulfilling, they won’t be any less
wonderful if you have a few points of comparison. Plus, you'll find that
different partners will bring different things out in you.