Who you callin’ ho?

skettell

Why the continued slut shaming?

It never ceases to amaze me how easily we dismiss one another as whores and sluts.

Sadly the disparaged are usually women. As for the stone casters, you’d be so wrong if you imagined the majority are men. Which is not to say we don’t derive indescribable pleasure from lashing women with our forked tongues. Too often we suddenly discover a particularly inviting female is really a tight-assed lesbian bitch—especially after she has dared to turn her nicely rounded derrière on our déclassé ass-pirations.

Often, however, I’ve wondered if the victimized ladies are not their own worst enemies, rendering themselves vulnerable, as they do, to vicious gossip. I recall a gym conversation with two buffed wonder women, one of whom was on the verge of tears while the other tried her best to console her.

It emerged that a girlfriend of the tearful one had told her another female whom she hardly knew had been speaking about her all night at a hotel bar, in terms altogether demeaning. In short, that never mind how prim and proper she tried to appear in public, when the lights were accommodatingly low she turned into “a skettell.”

The word was new to me. I later learned from acquaintances more familiar with the local vernacular that the label defined women who, well, sleep around. Loose screws, so to speak. Alas, no one was ready to say the precise number of men a woman had to sleep with before she turned from tight to loose and qualified for skettell status. Three? Eight? Half the male population?  Was there a time requirement attached, like, say, the total number of couplings per year, per month, per day!

How do we arrive at our figures, anyway? How do we determine the exact number of notches on a woman’s bedpost ? Does it show in their eyes? Their walk? Do we conduct clever interviews with potential candidates for the Skettell Award? Or do we simply take the word of guys bragging about the precious body fluids exchanged with a particular lady?

Speaking of which, what are guys called who make a point of letting the whole world know how much action they get every week, where, how and with whom? Is there a male equivalent of skettell?

If I may be permitted to borrow from Bob Dylan, why do so many ladies break just like little girls whenever they are referred to as jamettes and skettells but not when someone accuses them of being bad mothers? Shouldn’t that be the other way around?

If an unattached woman chooses discreetly to allow herself as much sexual activity as most single guys openly claim they do, why should she be disparaged? Why
are women in the United States and the UK free to cash in on the notoriety gained from the allegedly unsanctioned release of private sex tapes? Why are they able to make millions from selling to book publishers and the tabloids lurid details of their sexual adventures with scores of men and women?

Can you even imagine, dear reader, the wall-to-wall chaos should a sex tape turn up on YouTube that featured the 19-year-old daughter of some churchy-churchy Cap Estate couple? Would the lady be booted out of school and ostracized by her not-yet-unfrocked hoity-toity virginal friends? Would she be renamed Jezebel?

Something close to that happened to Kim Kardashian and several other American and English ladies now rich and famous for being, well, infamous. What do you suppose would be the attitude of the holy owners of HTS, Choice and DBS toward a local girl in similar circumstances, even if from certain angles in the semi-darkness of a Rodney Bay hotel room she reminded of Britney Spears or Paris Hilton?

And what if said local girl could sing and dance like Beyonce? Do you suppose that might make a difference? Would the obviously talented lady be invited to strut her stuff on a Jazz Festival main stage? Would she be called upon to sing the national anthem at, say, an event sponsored by the Ministry of Creative Geniuses? Might she be asked to accompany ministers of government and their similarly talented entourages on a
Good Friday boat ride to Anse Cochon (wonder why this popular beach was named in honor of pigs!)?

For crying out loud, Lindsey Lohan was invited to wine dine with Michelle and Barrack Obama at last year’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner—as if the whole world didn’t know what Li-Lo is most famous for has absolutely nothing to do with journalism. Is it any wonder more and more of our finest ladies are hotfooting it outta here to opportunity citadels like Toronto, New York, London and Paris?

And speaking of Gay Paree, where would he be today had Vincent McDoom not said boom-boom-bye-bye to this land that gave us birth? Would he have found himself sitting cross-legged in eight-inch Louboutin heels and see-through Versace silver frock an arm’s length away from Saint Lucia’s untouchable governor general?

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