The other day I met a Judger. I was at a house party where vodka flowed, music rocked, and hot guys kept on popping up like you-know-whats when Jennifer Lawrence walks into a room. Someone had the great idea to turn a bedroom into a nightclub, so that’s where the cool kids charged, me leading the brigade. As soon as the hipsters got removed from music controls, Rihanna’s sexy beats filled the space. After a while of intense dancing with that night’s love of my life — can anyone dance differently when ‘S&M’ is on? — I whispered an invitation. Naturally, it was accepted (and I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t because megalomania). And at that point she pulled me aside and delivered the blow.
“What are you doing? Isn’t that a bit slutty?” Now, as an openly promiscuous lady I’m not surprised by this stuff when it comes from narrow-minded people I don’t care about. Normally I would give her a superior look and get on with my fun. Or I would say something involving “independence”, “feminism”, and “I will beat you with a riding crop”. In my world view, people should have as much or as little sex as they want and it’s nobody’s damn business. If you have consent and condoms, do as you please. But I liked this girl, and she was someone whose good opinion I cared about.
Instantly, I started to re-evaluate the evening. Yes, he’s hot and smart and funny and oh boy doesn’t his ass look good in those jeans. Yes, he’s smiling at me in this sexy, sexy way and I want to see him naked right now and I want him to do things to me that I can’t talk about, even in a public sex column. But what about people? I suddenly realised that if we leave together, we’d be noticed by the entire party. What about reputation? Respect? Gossip? Oh god I hate gossip. No, I want no gossip. Better stay here, sip my wine and let Her see that I am a decent member of society who’s definitely not going to be orgasming tonight.
The existential crisis lasted a full five minutes. I began to doubt my entire life and started considering a convent. What saved me was his worried look and my reverence for my own libido. Do I want him? Yes. Will I lose all respect for myself if I listen to a judgemental bitch instead of my own instincts? Hell yes.
So I left with the man and didn’t regret a thing. Her good opinion no longer matters, because she’s lost mine.
