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Virgin Slut

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Virgin Slut

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“Virgin Slut” was a term I came up with whilst trying to describe what type of dress I wanted to buy in Napoli for the day I was going to spend on the Amalfi coast. I wanted to feel like a nun with big breasts under her habit as her cross bounces off her chest every step she took through the halls of the coven. I wanted it to evoke the same feeling as a woman’s dress clinging to her as she steps out of the pool, still in shock, after being pushed in at a party. Undeniably alluring with no intent to be. Of course, it had to be white. I didn’t find the ideal dress but did find one good enough, on the side of the street for 5 euros. But it wasn’t until I found myself scrambling to articulate the essence of the concept over dinner with the heir of one of the oldest Italian families on the coast, in the very hotel his familyowned, that I realised it carried a deeper meaning, one that came to define how I lived every summer. 

Lust and loneliness has taken me to places I’ve come to regret, nights spent in beds I wished I hadn’t stayed in, lying awake beside someone I no longer wanted to be with once the adrenaline faded and the thrill of the chase was over, the realisation that the void of feeling alone was not filled. I’d turn to look at the man next to me, let out a sigh of quiet disappointment, and feel a lingering ickiness for days, wondering why I did it in the first place. Or when it made me too eager, too hungry, so I dove in completely with a guy I actually ended up liking. But he got the cake right away and got too full too fast. 

I have tried to combat lust with celibacy, however as we know restriction makes everything more sexy. Ask a bulimic. I am also far too young to restrain myself from the pleasures of flirting, affection and sex. I always wanted to avoid the negatives of lust but still experience the beauty of romance.

But when the Summer Solstice hits and I’m spinning through the block parties at Fête de la Musique, the moment the clock strikes midnight, I transform. In comes: The Virgin Slut. 

She embraces her sexuality without surrendering to it. She walks freely among desire, inviting it, resisting it, never owned by it. In her, contradiction is not a flaw but a form of freedom.

Like every summer since I turned seventeen, I meet a few gentlemen I spend time with, when I’m not wrapped up in my friends or content in my own company. Some might call it “summer love,” but some of these connections don’t run deep enough to earn the title. I’ve had momentary lovers in different cities, men who showed me around, fed me, courted me. And when it felt right, made love to me. There’s always just enough tenderness a soft kiss on the forehead, an affectionate smile, to make it feel real, even though we both know it’s only play-pretend. I do grow attached, and I miss them for a little while, before they fade, leaving only flickers of memory I sometimes revisit in moments of boredom or daydreaming. In busy cities, I find my most tender encounters. I do adore romance by the ocean but summer in the city is far more romantic to me. Because love by the seaside is a given, of course you’d fall in love with anyone when they look like they’re dripped in gold as the sun sets. Of course your heart grows fonder when the kiss tasted like berries and wine, and how intense your love making can feel when your skin is touched by the salty breeze accompanied by a chorus of crickets. But city romance is in the subtleties. It’s the quiet intimacy of sitting together in a grimy metro station, discovering beauty in each other’s faces despite the harsh, flickering lights. It’s still being drawn to one another in the midst of huge, humid crowds. It’s rediscovering a city you thought you knew like the back of your hand, feeling excitement roaming the streets you’ve passed through everyday. 

Summer romance feels sweet and light. Unlike other times, I never feel pressured or obligated to do anything. I’m not worried about when to call back out of politeness, or why sometimes there’s no call at all. I follow my own rhythm — if my heart wants to see someone again, I don’t hesitate. I don’t stress over timing, whether it’s the right moment to have sex or if it’s okay not to kiss someone even after they’ve treated me to a meal. Everything happens on my terms, and usually, my confidence in those choices leaves no room for challenge.

I have come to realise that the Virgin Slut is what true sexual freedom is. For a long time, I misunderstood sexual freedom to mean shameless sex—anytime, with anyone. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that true freedom lies in mindfulness, not mindlessness. It doesn’t mean abstaining from pleasure, but rather being intentional about it. Also discerning that sex is for pleasure and not a way to combat some kind of malaise is key to true sexual freedom. The sexy aspect of dating isn’t always what happens in the sheets, but lies in the tension, the ambiguity, and the unspoken words. Sometimes leaving it all at the dinner table and going home alone is far more fulfilling than ending up in some man’s bed. There’s also beauty in waiting, in letting desire build slowly until it feels right. Maybe that old-school rule about not giving yourself away too quickly wasn’t prudish after all, maybe it was wisdom in disguise. Not a warning against society’s judgment, but a protection from the inner emptiness that can follow rushed intimacy.

True sexual freedom, I’m learning, isn’t about doing everything, it’s about knowing why you’re doing it, and honoring your own pace.

I’ve come to wonder why is it that I do not apply this same philosophy throughout the year and still couldn’t find the answer. It may be how free I feel when in the sun. I may feel more beautiful when my skin is golden brown, no longer relying on anyone else for validation. Maybe it is simply the joy I feel seeing other people so much more relaxed when simply no longer fighting the cold. Having never had a corporate job, maybe I still feel associate summer holidays to the times I was still in school where those were the moments I felt complete freedom and independence. Having had this realisation, things will hopefully change from now on. 

Wishing you all a wonderful Virgin Slut summer! 

Yours,

V.B 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, July 2025

Love Me, Love Me Not.

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Love Me, Love Me Not.

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I’m smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table ashing into a used glass of wine with dried up residue.  In front of me, beautiful Naples. My brother’s apartment is on the top floor, overlooking old uneven buildings in different shades of yellow. Occasional flocks of birds fly past yet the chirping sounds are constant. The bright blue sky with big cloud chunks, that I once thought was the kingdom of God as a little girl. It’s relatively quiet with the subtle brouhaha of the chaos below. Sometimes, the aggravating sound of airplanes takes over. I hate it. 

I can’t see her, but constantly feel her— Vesuvius is on my right. If I just popped my head out the window, there she would sit quietly. Her presence felt no matter where I am in the city. I wish the weather was always this pleasant everywhere I went, at any time. But upon further thought, I know I’d miss the rain. The morning breeze caresses my skin, bringing my attention back to my body. Its soft touch reminds me how dry my skin is in Europe. As much as I try to moisturise, it is always parched. 

I haven’t felt in tune with my body in a long time. Dare I say, I’ve actually been repulsed by it — also repulsed by the idea that I could be so vain and shallow as to worry about such a thing when I’ve come all this way, gifted myself a trip I’ve dreamed about ever since I was just a small girl. I am 24, turning 25 in a month and a bit, yet I still feel the same awkwardness I’ve always felt since I was an adolescent. I’ve found it hard to accept that I’ve got no control over it, and yet am deeply convinced that I do at the same time. It drives me silently insane that no matter what I do, and how many products I lather onto my face and body, I still bloat and am met with pimples, hyperpigmentation, hair, scars that heal weirdly, dried lips, and cuticles. I view my body like a field covered in invasive species that I am constantly needing to tame. I feel less than when I am not perfectly “groomed”. I almost feel dirty. I do not feel like I can move freely in the world without my nails done and my legs and armpits shaved. Sometimes, the feminist in me finds the courage to just “not give a fuck” and raise my arms despite having a little stubble under there. However, the other patriarchal voice quickly reminds me how disgusting I am, leading me to keep my arms down, my hands hidden unless needed, and to wear only closed shoes until my next pedicure appointment. He always wins.

My first memory of feeling uneasy in my body was just after I turned 13, while on vacation with my family in a small beach town near Biarritz in the South West of France. I was sitting under an umbrella in a lavender lace dress I’d picked out for my birthday trip to Disneyland a few weeks earlier. The sun was relentless, and I was sweating, restless, watching other kids splash and play freely in the sea.

My mum kept asking why I wouldn’t change and go swim. I finally told her, flatly: “I’m too fat.” I saw the shock in her eyes before she quickly masked it with frustration. “You’re wasting your time worrying about such dumb things,” she said. Then, trying to make her point, she discreetly nodded toward a very heavyset woman nearby. “Do you think she cares how you look?” she asked. Then she pointed to a group of teenagers. “Do you think they care? No one cares. Go change and go swimming—you look ridiculous wearing that to the beach.” So I did. I got changed and spent the rest of the day in the water. I only wish I could hear her say those words every time I have to undress to swim.

I wish I could say that day was a turning point—that after that moment, I stopped thinking negatively about my body. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Things only got worse from there, especially as I got older and boys started entering the picture. Suddenly, it felt like they had the right to judge how we looked, as if their opinions were the ultimate authority on our worth. As I grew older, I am starting to not care about their opinions on me but I will not lie and say that I fully couldn’t care at all. As a young woman, I too want to be desired. I’m somewhat relieved that I’m far from being in a relationship, because it eases the shame I feel when I don’t look my “cleanest.” I know it’s a sick and twisted thought—to believe I’m unworthy of love just because I don’t always look “up to par.” But I was taught this ever since I was a little girl by my stepfather, who simply reminded me that if I was not perfect, I would never be loved. This idea was also confirmed by my past partners, who would subtly remind me to keep up with my looks — tiptoeing around comments like “I love when you wear that to bed” or “I just thought you’d get your nails done before our vacation.” It almost felt like a threat, as if, if I decided not to upkeep as much as I usually do, they might stop desiring me. So, sex isn’t enjoyed as much if I haven’t spent 45 minutes on my back trying to not to scream out of pain as a lady I do not know yanks strips of hot wax off my pussy. Because if not, all I’d think about how disgusting they might think I am and there is nothing arousing about that. 

The constant internal tug-of-war between self-love and metamophosis is always playing out in my mind. Let me explain: I’ve always bounced between two beliefs—either I’ll find peace by learning to love myself as I am, or by changing everything about myself.

So, I start with acceptance. I tell myself this is how I look, and it has to be enough. I try not to say anything negative about my appearance. I force kind words out loud in front of the mirror. I avoid body checking. I even try “mirror rehab”(not looking in mirrors for stretches of time). I focus on external things that make me feel “fulfilled and happy”, hoping they’ll anchor me.

But when the self-loathing creeps back in—and it always does—I shift into makeover mode. I start making mental plans: lose the weight, get the injections, change the makeup, change the hair. In those moments, I’m convinced that once I hit a certain size, perfect a certain style, or achieve a specific look, I’ll finally be able to enjoy life. That my appearance will stop being the barrier between me and everything else.

It is a never ending cycle.

Before arriving in Naples, I had spent seven months in Bali with daily trips to the gym and religiously going to the sauna before freezing my clit off in the ice bath. I tried the Keto diet before having to stop because of severe constipation, then tried to heal my relationship with food through intuitive eating but was also intermittent fasting—which literally goes against the whole concept of intuitive eating. I was convinced that I would be able to metamorphose into this svelte woman and would finally be able to wear a bikini top and shorts during Fête de la Musique. My newly revealed abs would glisten with sweat as I danced in the midst of other bodies; the definition of my back and legs would show how physically strong I am. My thin arms wouldn’t be in the way of my double-D breasts from the side profile, making my surgery scars charming now. I fantasised and tried my best. I imagined what it would be like to be so in tune with this new body of mine that I could finally be solely in the moment and feel the music, unbothered by whether my top was covering all the right places and not distracted by my thick thighs rubbing up against each other. Unfortunately, my fitness goals were not met due to the fact that, as hard as I tried, my consistency was not enough and my diet was not monitored correctly.

I will not say it was a fully bad experience—I quite enjoyed it. I learned many things about nutrition and the positive effects of exercising. I also tried to focus on how I felt instead of only focusing on how I looked, but this is something extremely challenging for someone who has had a hyper-fixation on their looks and has also made a living from it. I could say that, generally, I felt good and had a clear mind; it helped my mental health a lot. But it made me look inward too much, and in some sense, it made me egotistical. Because whether you want it or not, a fitness journey requires you to deeply focus on yourself: keeping yourself in check to follow the routine, holding yourself accountable, taking progress photos of your body all the time, really making sure that your muscles work correctly when lifting, paying attention to what comes in and out of your body, tracking your weight and muscle mass—you watch your every move and your body so closely. It almost made me feel a little claustrophobic. I was too aware.

Once I stepped foot on the land of dolce far niente, all routines were left behind. I wanted to indulge in the culture and the food. I have three weeks to discover Italy and meet the people I have always been so curious about. How could I possibly worry about my looks when admiring what’s around me, dodging motorbikes flying past on the hot and narrow stone roads, and trying to find the right words to speak to the grandpa who sells wine down the street?

I shouldn’t be worried about how my body looks as I float in the cold water, volcanic sand between my toes, after lunch at Da Adolfo on the Amalfi Coast — embracing the belly I’ve gained from the six courses at Lulu’s. I am far too focused on not moaning too loudly at the table from the ricottini served with tomato and peach jam, sprinkled with peanut crumbs; the Roman tripe served in a fresh tomato ragù; and of course, my childhood favourite: spaghetti vongole, finally tasted in its homeland — every bite a perfect mix of ocean flavours, tanginess from the wine, and a splash of freshness from the parsley.

I was taken aback by Peppe Guida’s Villa Rosa, nestled in the heart of Montechiaro in Vico Equense — a place where the sea and Vesuvius stretch out on one side, the mountains rise on the other, and a typical Italian family meal is prepared with ingredients straight from their own garden.

How could I be worried about the way my skin looks when I’m sitting in front of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa — an orgasming nun, touched by God, carved out of marble, seated in a tiny church in the middle of Rome, glistening under ethereal yellow light piercing through stained glass? How could I possibly be worried about how my hair looks in the humid weather when I’m lulled every night by the summer breeze drifting in and out of my room?

I still worry, despite it all. When I’m alone in the bathroom, faced with my own reflection, the kind words I try to say to myself do not come, and I am overwhelmed by the need to fix it all — pondering how I could make it happen. How will I ever be freed from this body, this prison that causes me so much shame and pain? I almost cry at how cruel I am to myself, how I want to beat myself up for being so mean to the very vessel that has allowed me to experience the world. How can I be so ungrateful for the health I was blessed with? When did I become so vain?
Will I ever find peace of mind and finally let go of all of this pressure?

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy self-care and pampering myself — honouring the body I was given by adorning it and tending to it. I think it’s a beautiful process and a powerful way to ground myself.
However, when it stems from fear or disgust, what was meant to be a sacred ritual becomes a soulless routine — done only because it simply doesn’t feel right when it’s not.
Something that was meant to connect you with your body and help you cherish it turns into the very reason you see it as a burden.

I fear that I am wasting precious time worrying about these silly, small things, causing me to ruin beautiful memories. I fear that I will never find the balance I crave so badly, and that I’ll never let go of these old and tired expectations that have been instilled in me from a very young age. I know I am more than my looks — I have so much to offer the world — but why is it that I fear I won’t be seen or loved if I’m not pleasing to the eye?

My only solace, for now, is watching Vesuvius lie silent beneath the kingdom of God, a still giant wrapped in light, reminding me of how small I am, and how weightless my troubles truly are.

V.B, Napoli, July 2025

“Do you have guest list?”

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“Do you have guest list?”

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It was 2019 and my first year as a fashion marketing student. I had waited 40 minutes in front of Le Rouge with my friends in the cold. A club in the red-light district of Pigalle. They eventually all gave up and went home. I still don’t know why I stayed. The crowd around the entrance was huge and growing, with people shoving each other and waving their hands to get the attention of someone they barely knew, who was already inside, pleading for help to get in. Girls stood at the front, their almost naked bodies pressed against the cold metal bars that separated them from the rigid, stern bouncers, who didn’t even look at them when they tried to speak. It all made me uncomfortable. I hated looking at the anxious eyes, so eager, ready to leave anyone behind just to get in. I didn’t like how it felt like their lives depended on these nights. Yet, they were all so well-dressed, in elaborate outfits. Something I had always deeply appreciated about the youth in Paris. They looked beautiful and desperate, like those Renaissance paintings of women staring into the divine light.  

But what did I expect? It was the Casablanca party, after all, the coolest brand at the time. And not just that, every fashion girl could attest that they also had the most beautiful casting. Gorgeous boys draped in silky fabrics with a tasteful touch of femininity that made them look like wealthy angel boys on a summer vacation. As a newcomer in Paris, experiencing sexual freedom for the first time, I had already had flings with at least four of them, (unintentionally, I promise). I even ended up dating one and quickly learned they were all just beautiful stoners and drug addicts with a weird fixation on new-age spirituality. They loooved that I came from a place like Bali. It was as if I were a deity to them, just because I was born on the Island of Gods. But that didn’t mean I was treated like one all the time, I was still just one of the many girls they seduced and used. They eagerly spoke to me about the meaning of life, sharing thoughts I’d had since I was eleven and then proceed to give me the most mediocre sex of my life. I’ve noticed that male models despite having one of the most superficial jobs are often the ones searching for deeper truths. Maybe it’s because they have more time to look for answers.   

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. Then again, I rarely do at fashion events. Surrounded by influencers dressed in designer, flawlessly glammed by professionals, not a hair out of place, I couldn’t help but compare. They looked so polished, almost plastic, like if I ran a finger across their skin, it would squeak. As if they weren’t real at all—just computer-generated, 3D-printed straight from some high-tech machine. 

And why is everyone so fucking skinny?  

Suddenly, the hairstyle I had worked so hard on felt off, making my forehead look even bigger. No setting spray was strong enough. My eyeliner had already started melting. My outfit? Mediocre at best. Meanwhile, they stepped out of their sleek black vans, parting the crowd like Moses, and vanished in seconds behind the doors.

What was waiting on the other side?

I waited for London Man—a friend and one of those people who effortlessly got in anywhere, no matter where or what the event was. A true socialite who always looked put together in intricate layers, Rick Owens shoes, and a distinct scent that filled my nostrils to the brim when he embraced me. He has soft voice that constantly made me have to ask him to speak up. A posh accent with an elevated vocabulary, sprinkled with just the right amount of London slang, making it a pleasant balance. And, of course, very successful with women—I, too, had once been a victim of his charm. I usually do not keep past lovers around but we really get along, so we’ve remained good friends. 

My anxiety was eating me alive. He was taking what felt like hours to meet me. I was used to feeling uneasy in big crowds, especially at fashion events, but this time felt different. I was physically shaking, like my body knew this wasn’t for me. I stepped back from the crowd and waited impatiently. The “me” now would have left, but I guess, at the time, this was something I needed to do—to experience.  

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted my crush, the one who would eventually become my first-ever boyfriend. But of course, I didn’t know that yet. He had just returned from four months in Tokyo, where he had been working as a model. We had started seeing each other a month or so before he found out he had to leave. I had taken a liking to him maybe a little faster than usual. We were sitting by the canal in the 19th arrondissement on a very sunny afternoon, after picking me up from class when he broke the news. I faked a smile and told him I was happy for him.

We had kept in contact until he ghosted me for a while, which hurt my feelings. He had left me in the dark after I had opened up to him. I was freshly 19 and far more sensitive back then, so it felt like my world was crumbling. But, of course, he came back—like they all do—and apologised for his lack of communication. Me, being young and naive, took him back. We got together almost a year later when he finally wanted to commit. We proceeded to start a relationship filled with grudges, resentment, and deep passion.

London Man finally arrived, accompanied by a posse of beautiful women. He took me by the hand—he, too, held the same power as the influencers and effortlessly made his way through the crowd. He spoke to the bouncers briefly, and as planned, they let us in. The club was soaked in a deep, blood-red hue. The floors shook from the heavy bass of trap music blaring from massive speakers, as if thousands of lost souls trapped underground were desperately trying to claw their way to the surface. Sweaty bodies bumped and ground against each other in every direction. A true depiction of Hell.

London Man ran off to greet everyone he knew, which was half the club. While I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. I saw a few familiar faces and tried to avoid them at all costs — people I recognised from Instagram, where we follow each other but somehow never acknowledge each other in real life. Yet, we know exactly where the other vacationed that summer from our stories. Or the boys who’ve been talking to a wall in my DMs for months, endlessly sliding up to my stories, only to avoid eye contact the moment we’re in the same room. My anxiety was getting worse, especially in the heat, and small talk with people I barely knew was the last thing I wanted to engage in. Although, for once, everyone looked like they were having a good time. Except for a few pouty girls sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones. Maybe it was because, this time, people were already intoxicated and had let loose. Because most fashion events are just people looking at each other, yet collectively trying to hide the fact that they are. A look I would come to recognise at every fashion week event. It was evasive yet subtly charged, as if they didn’t want to be caught looking but fully expected to be watched. Their expressions were unnatural, like the practiced poses models hold during a shoot. Calculated yet effortlessly detached. It forever unsettles me that we collectively choose to look cold and standoffish instead of warm and welcoming. Why is that?

I pushed through the crowd toward the bathrooms. I don’t know why I thought I could be alone and catch a breath there, because once again, I found myself waiting in line.  

The timing couldn’t have been worse—my crush was leaving the bathroom at that exact moment. We locked eyes. I gave him a small smile, and he gave me a big one.  “Hey! It’s so nice seeing you here!” He was clearly intoxicated. Normally quiet and a little timid, he was nothing like that now. “Come near the speakers later!” he shouted before running off.  I felt uneasy about how he spoke to me, like we were just casual friends. Like we hadn’t shared something special. Like he hadn’t already made me cry. But I was happy to see him nonetheless, so I went and found him near the speakers. We tried to talk over the music, but it was nearly impossible to hear. I was nervous, I always was around him. Someone once told me that the intense butterflies in your stomach eventually fade after your teenage years. I believe he was probably the last person I ever felt them with.  

The conversation was awkward—stupid questions like, “How was Japan?” and “What have you been up to in Paris?” We were constantly interrupted by people congratulating him on the show. I felt like a burden. I thought he felt like he had to stay with me out of guilt because of how he treated me, and nothing made me feel more embarrassed than knowing that someone felt bad for me. We sat next to each other without saying anything. A massive elephant was in the room, but this was not the place and time to address it. Having nothing to say made me nervous, but he made me so anxious that I had nothing to say. Looking back, I didn’t know why I stayed around, why I thought the night was going to get better. I didn’t know what could’ve changed my state of mind, maybe my friends would miraculously show up and make it through the gates of hell, but those chances were so slim. And I had hoped he would suggest leaving the party together, going for a walk, catching up to talk about what had changed in Japan. Maybe we would kiss somewhere under the yellow streetlights. But he was enjoying his time and was too drunk to care. I told myself that perhaps I should get an overpriced drink at the bar to loosen up. It took me another 20 minutes to get a vodka cran. Not only was it packed, but I was also met with passive-aggressive bartenders, which didn’t help with the way I was already feeling. Of course, that one drink didn’t do much, and I was a student with a budget. I was miserable and finally admitted to myself that the night wasn’t going to get any better. So, I swiftly said goodbye to London Man while he was getting a lap dance from a drunk model, grabbed my coat, and went outside. The fresh air hit my face, and I felt like I could breathe again.

The more I attended parties, the more I yearned to be one of the effortlessly cool fashion kids. The ones you’re never quite sure what they do, yet they’re always there. They seem to know everyone in the industry, traveling to all the fashion capitals every season, staying in luxurious hotels, and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and important figures. They carry an air of belonging, exuding confidence in every space they step into.  

I was too fixated on the wrong aspects of fashion—the superficial rather than the art. I kept telling myself that in time, once I started working and made more friends in the industry, I’d feel more at ease in those spaces. That I’d master the art of dressing, of walking into any event with grace and confidence. But that wasn’t necessarily the case.  

I did eventually start working, and I did meet some of the most inspiring creatives. I traveled the world for work, interned, and wrote for brands I once admired from afar. My personal style evolved (thank God). I no longer had to sneak into parties, pretending to be a fashion buyer or someone I wasn’t. Yet, despite all of this, the feeling of being out of place never fully disappeared. There are still moments when I feel incredibly uncomfortable, battling major imposter syndrome. No matter how prominently my name appears on invitations or how much I’ve earned my place at the table, I rarely feel good enough. And doing my best to work on it. 

But with time and growth, I’ve come to realise that, in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. Don’t get me wrong, the heart of the industry is beautiful, built by creative geniuses who pour their souls into their craft, bringing breathtaking designs and visuals to life. But everything surrounding it? Mostly fluff, designed to create an illusion of importance. And understanding this has been liberating. I’ve slowly taken a step back from that world. I still work in it, but I’m not as deeply involved as I once was. As I transition toward new pursuits, I find myself looking back on those days—days that now feel like a lifetime ago. And I can’t help but feel for my younger self, who just wanted to belong.  

I wish I could tell her that she would find her people in fashion. The ones who would never make her feel out of place.

Bali, January 2025