The Freedom of Being a Whore
Growing up I was taught that putting my sexuality on display would make me a whore. Red lipstick? Whore. Kiss a boy? Whore. Short skirt? Whore. Go to a party? Whore. So rather than being a whore, I was a good girl. I did what my mother told me to.
At some point, after being told these things repeatedly, the intellectual battles began. Because I was a nerd, and a “good girl”, most of my close friends were as well. In my wider circle though, were girls my mother would no doubt have called whores. When I interacted with them, I had that thought in my mind, but I also knew these girls. And while some of them were no doubt freer in their sexuality, the word ‘whore’ wasn’t one I would label them as. So who was correct? My mother, who I’d thought of as correct for the previous fourteen years of my life, or myself?
Obviously, I came to the conclusion that my mother was wrong about those girls. It took me much longer to accept that if she was wrong about them, she would also be wrong about me, if I choose to become a woman who embraces her sexuality.
Even thirty years later, my mother’s opinions and attitudes still dwell in a corner of my mind, only to be revealed in certain moments. It’s funny, because they stay quiet when I’m being flogged or whipped. They stay quiet when I kneel at my Owner’s feet. They stay quiet as I call a man ‘Sir’, or even ‘Master’. But when I wear a dress perhaps a bit shorter than necessary... when I choose to paint my nails and lips red... when I post an illicit photo... when I’m on my knees with his cock in my mouth... when I’m begging him to let me release. My mother’s voice is there:
“Whore.”
My mother ensured that being open in my sexuality would always come with a price. What she did not foresee was how much more enticing, how much better, having that stigma in my mind would make my sexual escapades. Because she made my desires verboten, every time I let them loose it’s my own personal version of degradation play. And god does that make me hot. There’s nothing that gets me wetter than an Owner ordering me to do something that makes me feel like a whore inside my head.
Thanks, Mom.
About the Author: sensuallysublime is an s-type who lives for the unexpected moments and loves protocol, rituals, and serving as a Sadist’s target.
