Diary of a Slut

 

Dear Horny Rascals,

I’m going to die. Not because of you. It is a happy death. Because at last I’ve won. You might be worrying that this letter might get you some unwarranted frenzy since it’s going to be a dead woman’s last note. If you’re thinking so, you’re right. One of the only things that I want to do before I die is to make every man in this world experience hell. No, I’m not a psycho who has decided to kill everyone before killing herself.

Well, I’m a woman; a frustrated, tormented and exploited woman, by none other than the sluts of the highest order – men. That can be ‘you’, if you’re one of those who would read this letter just in hope to find more mentions of vagina, breasts and clitoris. Trust me, which you’ll.

I was born in brothels. That’s why they call me a slut today. I was first raped at the age of 6 and had been raped consistently by every man that crossed across my vision, till 15, when my whore mother married me to a broker. Does this excite you? Does this make your penis swell up in pride? Sit down quietly, because it’s not my story.

I’m 24. Educated. Indian. Taken thrice. Ditched twice, both kinds. Single now. I never had the chance to actually pay heed to my sexuality until the unknown dick-horns around my society, some of them who I’d once played cricket with, started giving me lecherous stares when I just crossed my puberty. My entire body used to cringe back in fear whenever those eyes seemed to see through my clothes, stripping me with those insolent eyes. In the city of sperms, my breasts seemed to be just another place for men to jack off.

For a 13 year old girl, whose parents were no more, the world was not too friendly. But she had gotten used to it, much like every other girl. At 17, she got her first kiss. She was delighted. At 17 and a half, her first dick. She was scared at its first sight. He did it until she barfed. She tried again, barfed again. Three times in a row, she was already accustomed. To love is to sacrifice, he told. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. She looked at his eyes. They were closed, as though experiencing heaven, while she was tasting hell. At 18, she caught him experiencing heaven once again. She didn’t have to barf this time. Tears were enough. She didn’t talk to the darker sex for one long year. Her desires died with the tears that went out. She clang to the four walls of her ancestral house, where her ailing grandmother couldn’t get her parents to come back to life and ultimately, she herself decided to go to heaven.

But it wasn’t what she went through when she was 18 that makes her crave to die now. She wasn’t even 21, when she met him. He was her uncle, who inherited the house from the late ailing grandma. He never visited the sprawling bungalow earlier, not even on Grandma’s death, but now when he managed to get a fortune worth a million, he couldn’t resist coming every weekend. He was sweet, flirtatious and charming. That’s what it looked to her. She didn’t see his reflection on the mirror, which was vile, venomous and knave. And married. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. She didn’t mind his real qualifications. She didn’t mind betrayal, as long as it was for her.

He always used to bring her ice-creams, never with a spoon though. His fingers were to be licked, which would go to explore all her body. She didn’t mind. It took him just a long sentimental conversation about her past to shed all her inhibitions, to shed all her clothes. To shed all her emotional burden, to a man she had started loving. She was a gullible girl, she loved him. When clothes were not around, bruises covered her body. He was rough. He was stronger. She liked it. She liked the pain. She felt safe with him. In an unsafe act on a mesmerizing Saturday night, she got a jar-full of tails inside her womb, one of which accidentally made her a woman from a girl.

She was carrying a life inside her. She didn’t tell him. She was a gullible woman, she loved him. She knew he was married and he would negate. The next time he came to do it, she wasn’t in a mood. He found out. He asked for an abortion. She didn’t comply. He forced her. She didn’t comply. He slapped her, puller her hair. She didn’t comply. He yelled that his wife would be devastated if she ever comes to know about an illegitimate child. She didn’t comply. She promised that she won’t bother him, if he could just let her have the child. He tried to burn her. She ran away. She wanted the child. She was a gullible woman, she still loved him.

Eight months later, she gave birth. Love had faded away a little, by now. She was a mother to a daughter, who could be a victim to another assault, another struggle and another betrayal. She had no money. She decided to let her child see his father. Tattered, she went to his place. She shouted at his gate. His wife came out. She yelled his name. His wife threw stones at her. She bled. She wanted to see him. She called his name again, asking him to come and see his child. He came out. Her face brightened at the sight of him. She was a gullible woman, she still loved him.

But he was bewildered. He went inside and came out with a wooden-stick and started to batter her, shouting ‘SLUT’ all the while. She carried her child close to her bosom, saving her from the fatal beating. Blood was dripping from her forehead. She was smiling. She liked the pain. She missed it all the while. Blood entered her mouth. She wanted more. She turned to him. The stick hit the two days old girl. A moment later, her little breath got tired of itself. She howled, moaned, until the entire neighborhood came out seeing what was happening. People called her a maniac and asked police to take her into custody. She had already fainted. They got rid of her, forever.

However, she couldn’t forget what had happened. Every little incident seemed to be a dark spot in her memory. When she got her senses back, she realized that her clothes had been ripped off. She was in a dark room, on a darker steel chair. Her lower half was senseless. She touched it. It was wet. She smelled the fluid. It seemed familiar. She tasted it. It tasted red. Rape. It took her forty minutes to drag herself to the nearest steel grill. Dark red stains followed on the floor behind her. She moaned. She engraved SLUT in her arm by rubbing it with the grill’s edges. It sparked a smile on her face. Smile for the realization that she was no more a gullible woman, she no more loved him.

The grill opened. Three policemen, laughing. Three hours later, amidst echoes of her tired groans, blood was her only companion, holding her tightly. She lay there for another day. The door creaked open. This time they were two. One from yesterday, another one new. She didn’t groan this time.

Three days later, she was allowed to go, in her tattered clothes. She didn’t know where to go. The lonely street became her home. Thoughts of her past clouded her mind. College going teenagers who used to cross her shouted ‘whore’ at her, young gentlemen intentionally used to pee alongside the wall, wagging their dirty penises at her, some of the older gentlemen tried to be decent by just peeping into her tattered top to get a glimpse of her contused nipples, while small children provoked by horny men aimed marbles in between her legs. She didn’t reciprocate. They never got tired. They had a lot of testosterone to run their lives with, forever.

School children on their way back to home, when they saw the word SLUT engraved on her hand, wrote ‘SLUT’ on papers and threw at her, giggling when she picked them. She picked them up, opened them and crushed them. She opened them again and again, saw the four lettered word every time and crushed them aside.

Two days later, she went missing. The crumpled papers went missing as well. She had a lot of anger inside her.  She had experienced so much pain that it hurt her no more. So much that it could have easily made her kill every single man who came into her life, who dared to grab her bosom, who had penetrated deep inside her without any feeling for her, who had ever dared to touch her. But she didn’t do that. She didn’t want to kill anyone. Blood was her companion, not somebody else’s. She wanted to die. But, before that she had a mission to fulfill.

I had a similar mission. And that’s how she met me. She came to me and asked me to fulfill her one last desire. The desire to change a definition. Definition of SLUT to ‘a promiscuous or disreputable MAN’. She awaits with me, to see this letter reach each and every woman present in this world, and this movement surpass the borders to make lexicographers succumb to her last wish, so that she dies a painless death.

Love.
Never.

 

P.S. The author of this letter is unknown.