What’s So Wrong with Being a Hoe?
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Growing up, I didn't believe in sex before marriage. It was taught to me that this wasn't something that "good girls" do, and I considered myself a good girl.
Once I reached high school, my opinions on sex started to change.
My teen girl hormones made me curious about sex. I suddenly wanted the world to see me as sexy and desirable. I also suddenly found it frustrating whenever anyone considered me a "good girl".
That's not something I wanted to be anymore.The identity didn't seem as "good" as it once did.
This all had me questioning the idea of waiting until marriage.
It seemed like an impossible thought that only "prudes" or "religious freaks" go through with - neither of which I saw myself as. Still, I wanted it to mean something when I had sex. I wanted the boys I decided to have sex with to mean something.
So, I concluded, I don't need to be married to lose my virginity. But, I must be in love. Only problem was, I was scared of relationships (but that's a whole other topic).
A fear of falling in love + Wanting to be in love before having sex =
a conclusion as impossible as waiting until marriage.
At least this was better than being one of those girls who let boys break their hearts so easily. Maybe some will say I'm a prude, but at least that's better than being seen as "loose" or "easy".
Right?
These were the questions that ran through my teen girl brain.
Going into college, I only knew one thing: I don't know what my requirements for sex are, but I just want to be sure when I do it.
Sure of what, I wasn't sure.
But, I had to be sure that I was sure that this was the moment to lose my virginity, that I was sure of.
Losing My Virginity
When I finally did lose my V-card, I wasn't married.
Or in love.
Or even in a relationship with the guy.
I was a college freshman hooking up with another college freshman.
A couple weeks later I gained my second body. And by the time I actually did get into my first relationship, I was on my fourth.
It was weird to have waited for so long just to have it end up being so.... unmonumental.
Truth of the matter was, by the time I finally did have sex, I just wanted to get losing my virginity over with already. I wanted to be able to explore my sexuality without my actions saying something about my entire identity.
It felt like I was stuck until I got rid of this stupid, invisible "card" that society seemed to value so highly.
So, as soon as I found a guy that respected me and provided me with a comfortable and safe experience, I went for it. And you know what? I never regretted it.
Although I didn't love him or ever fantasize about us getting married, this man provided me with everything I needed from him; a safe space to lose my virginity.
That's all.
It was only after the fact that I realized that everything else I'd been stressing about when it came to losing my virginity, were just the things society led me to believe were needed in order to provide me with that safe space.
Love and marriage once served as a warm blanket that laid over everything confusing and messy about sex.
Thinking of my own experience, however, were I to be in love or married, our time spent in bed together would've meant something completely different. It would have taken away my chance to just experience sex for sex before it became a sacred symbol of love and devotion to another person.
I'm grateful my first time didn't have such a deep meaning. I'm also grateful that I did wait that long. It allowed me to be mature enough when the moment came to accept the experience for what it was: me figuring out my relationship with sex - not my relationship with the guy I had sex with.
Navigating My Sexuality
When I finally did get into my first relationship (only a few months after I lost my virginity), not being a virgin anymore gave me confidence with my now-boyfriend.
Our relationship was all about our emotional compatibility, not our sexual one. This took away the pressure for what the sex was supposed to be. As such, it made the sex phenomenal, because neither of us were stuck in our heads about whether or not the sex was good enough for the other person.
For three years, I explored my sexuality with this same person.
While this provided me with the comfort and consistency to open doors that I wouldn't with a stranger, it also restricted both of us to only explore within the limits that the other person allowed.
Additionally, I was no longer just having sex. I was making love. Which is but one way we show up in our sexual lives.
After My Relationship
When I ended things, sex took on a whole new meaning for me: Where the hell was I going to get it from?
Being in a relationship with a guy that I lived with meant sex was always on the table. I never had to think about putting work in to get it. Once that relationship ended, being shown constant physical affection was no longer in my cards.
The thought of that scared me.
This all happened around the same time that I was moving to a new city and meeting new people from all over the country. So, although I may not have had the option of consistent and comfortable sex anymore, I was surrounded by opportunities of new and exciting sex instead.
This is where I think every girl's post-breakup "hoe phase" is rooted.
Once that promise of constant affection is taken away, you start to look for it elsewhere, where there aren't strings as deeply attached.
You enter the world of casual dating - a world I entered only 12 hours after I ended things.
Talking to a guy (the rebound) who essentially knew nothing about me reminded me of how simple and exciting it was to meet someone new. It was refreshing to get back to that after building something with someone for three long years.
My “Hoe Phase”
Now, obviously, there are a lot of emotions that come into play. Starting something with someone new brings you back to that middle school mentality of:
Do they like me?
Am I impressing them?
Are they interested in anyone else?
Will I end up getting hurt?
Except now, as adults, you both have romantic and sexual past experiences that have shaped your views on love, dating, and how you approach anyone going forward. To make matters more confusing, you don't know what point in this Love & Dating Experience Spectrum anyone else is at.
I, for example, was at the point of the spectrum where I believed I was too different to be loved, was nurturing a fresh heartbreak, and just moved to a brand new city where no one knew anything about me.
This meant that any guy at this point in my life was just meant to be fun and feed my ego as I figured my sh*t out.
As such, within a month of me talking to this new guy, I hooked up with his coworker.
While juggling the two, I lost interest in both, and moved on to their friends.
A couple of them.
In that time, I also met up with old college friends and sparked something I couldn't have back when I was still in school and still in a relationship.
All the while, I was stringing along my now-ex, trying to figure out if leaving him was the right decision.
Needless to say, I had my fun the year after my break-up.
Why We All Need a “Hoe Phase”
Having my "hoe phase", while messy, filled with drama, morally questionable, and all-too ego-driven, was much needed.
Through it, I was able to figure more of myself out. Not just sexually either. These experiences allowed me to piece together:
How I felt about love
What areas are left wounded and needed to be healed
What sex and romantic relationships meant to me
What I needed from my partner in order to be sexually present
What I liked in bed
What role I wanted the people I am physically attracted to to play in my life
What my moral compass is and how I used it to guide me
What kind of friend I wanted to be
How I wanted to be seen in my social circles
Who I could trust with what kind of information
and the list goes on.
Ultimately, my "hoe phase" allowed me to discover who I want to be in this world. Without it, I would not have been able to come to the same conclusions about myself.
When I think about if I had decided to wait until marriage, or even until falling in love, I think about what a disservice that would have been to myself. How could I have committed so deeply to someone without ever exploring this part of who I am - both in and before the relationship that didn't work out and in the "hoe phase" that resulted in the aftermath?
What Keeps Us from Entering Our “Hoe Phase”
The thing about it is, even while openly dating whoever I wanted (and then talking about it on the internet), I felt wrong for doing what I was doing.
Whether it was from the guys I dated, the friends that questioned me, or the family that raised me to behave differently, embracing my Inner Hoe caused me to lose some respect from the world.
It was like everyone around me just assumed that I could only be behaving this way to hurt others. It frustrated me that my male counterparts could explore their sexuality with compassion from their peers and free of ridicule, while me doing the same labeled me as a "hoe".
As a girl, I wasn't allowed to look for sexual satisfaction. I was only allowed to look for love - something I had no interest in finding at this point in my life.
Back when I embodied a "good girl" and thought love was all there was to it, society acted as if I shouldn't be so afraid to live. Now that I wasn't and wanted to explore sex for everything it was, they acted as if I was careless over my own actions.
I don't know if one was worse than the other, to be honest with you. Both just felt like the world was taking away the right to my own sexuality.
In an ideal world, what other people say about my actions wouldn't play a part in deciding what actions I take. Unfortunately, as a girl or woman in this society, taking that into consideration is a necessity for survival.
Deciding to go against the grain takes a toll on your relationships, your sense of self, and your health. However not doing so keeps you from ever getting to explore all parts of who you are.
Let’s Change What it Means to Be a Hoe
Back when I was going through my "hoe phase", I wore it on my chest loud and proud, like a Scarlett Letter. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was doing so as a slap in the face to society. I’ve now learned that’s a big part of who I want to be in this world (so much so that I’m building a whole brand off the idea).
My contribution to humanity is to challenge society into making more space for self-discovery.
When I later told the world how I spent my year in "The Philly Chapter", a part of it was my way of saying,
"Being a hoe changed my life. It changed the way I viewed myself. It was hard to go through, I won't deny it. But, I'm so proud of myself for being courageous enough to learn more about who I am. This is me giving you permission to be a hoe and learn more about yourself, too."
There's not enough people giving women and girls permission to explore themselves as sexual beings. As a person that resonates with my story, I hope you take it upon yourself to be that permission.
If men get dapped up by their friends for being "f*ckboys", then we should be celebrated for being hoes, too. Imagine how great the sex could be if we all weren't so damn scared of it.
PUSH THE CONVERSATION FORWARD
At the end of every article, I’ll pose some questions to help get the conversation going of what we need to do to change the narrative and build a better society. Whether you answer in the comments, on social media, to your friends and family, or just to yourself, these questions are meant to get you to think. Because your thoughts and your opinions matter. With them, you have the power to change the world, and I want to help you recognize that.
Questions for This Article
How should we navigate our conversations around sexuality? Do you feel that there are different standards in this realm for men and women (boys and girls)? Do my actions outlined in this article help or hurt the movement to better understand one another’s sexual needs?
Have you ever felt stuck in your sexual journey? If so, were there external or internal obstacles (or both)? What did you do in order to gain sexual liberation or are you searching for that liberation now?
What about our sexual experiences can be described as a “Hustle”? Is it the way people treat us based on our sexual actions? Or the internal shame or guilt that comes with it? How can we better show up for ourselves in the Hustle of our sexual journeys?
Comment your responses at the end of this blog to have them read in future episodes!
