Why did the guy cross the road? He heard the chicken was a slut.

I was never a whore. I'm a very sexual person and have had a multitude of partners, male and female, but no one can call me a whore. Technically, I'm slutty.

Slutty, cheap, trampy, easy, loose.... Whatever you want to call it, I have always enjoyed sex and was never afraid to rack up as much experience as I could cram into me. But the one thing that has always rankled me has been the double standard about being a slut. A slutty guy is idolized. Slutty girls are pariahs. However, you must realize that the reason we bad girls are so good is 'cause we've been in the hands of a few professionals (or--OK--a million amateurs).

Recently I was having a few beers with my boyfriend and his old band mate. They were swapping stories of glorious youthful conquests. Backstage and on the road there were sluts a-plenty, god bless em' (you love a slut when you're IN her). Then a new term came up : Double-Dipping--fucking two girls without showering in between. The D-D stories ended with much guffawing and clinking of beer bottles in salute.

Inspired, I spoke of my own D-D adventure. I was sixteen years old at a punk rock party screwing this boy--we'll call him Matt. And I was thoroughly disappointed. I excused myself from his bed to go get some beer and ran into his roommate--we'll call him Cal. Cal and I had a beer, started making out and soon rolled out of the party and into my big blue Volaré where WE start goin' at it. The sex was much better and we were having a grand ol' time when we became aware of someone watching us through the back window. By the shape of the silhouette and its reaction, it was painfully obvious that it was my mount from thirty minutes earlier--Matt. We hid pitifully under our spiky leather jackets we had been lying on, but it was too late. We were stone cold busted. Matt took off and Cal and I felt bad so we hurried up and finished fucking. Cal took off to find his roommate to explain that I was just a slut and not to take it so hard. I slunk off into the night knowing that I'd done something awful, and that it would make a great story one day.

So I'm laughing while telling the story to the two rock'n'roll ex-Casanovas who are looking a little numb. A sickly half smile is stuck on my boyfriend's face.

"Turns out Matt was a virgin and didn't tell me about it. That's prob'ly why the sex was so bad. Now he's come cartwheeling out of the closet and manages an Urban Outfitters in Massachusetts someplace."

I chuckle and swig the last of my beer. The guys are silent.

"Whore," my honey finally says, in the nicest way possible.

"You're such a DUDE," offers the other, appalled and avoiding my eyes.

The energy shifted. What had been a spirited conversation of conquest and teenage lust moments earlier was all of a sudden a little uncomfortable.... and quiet. My boyfriend broke the silence with some machine-y thing he saw on eBay and they were off again, happy men talking about happy man stuff.

Should I put the wooden bindings back on my big whore feet, shut my fat whore hole and sew up my whoring cunt and get me to a nunnery? Are we still there? Are we still where girls who do are bad, boys who do are rad? Come on now. Science has finally given us plenty of tools to keep sex strictly recreational for everyone, thank heavens. Could we please catch up socially?

I know you want the Good Girl, the one who says NO to everyone except you, her sweet little Lip Smacker mouth spiked with Dentine Ice as she asks, "Am I doing it right?" But when she says no to you, too (and she will, honey), guess who you'll come lookin' for? Me, that's who.