By Al'nycea Blackwell

“…I called him and he just ignored me. That asshole!” She begins to giggle.

Her giggle is soon accompanied by my laughter. The sounds of our laughter fill her dorm room. It overshadows the voices on her television and breaks the rules of quiet hours in the dormitory.

“I can’t believe that happened,” I utter in between giggles.

“Yeah, I know.” She giggles some more herself.  In an attempt to see myself in the dimly lit room, I get up from the chair and go toward her mirror.

 I study my reflection and my appearance makes me happy…my hair, my smile and my clothes. Especially my shirt.

Feeling consumed with glee, in a moment without thinking I said the worse thing I could have said: “I LOVE this shirt!!!” Beaming cheek to cheek, I turn around to my friend. She tilts her head sideways and squints her eyes, perhaps to see through her dim room. 

Her quiet face tells me her thoughts, before I can change the subject. Her voice erupts. “Whose shirt is that?”

“Mine,” I tell her.

“No, it isn’t,” her tone changes from light and funny to serious and assertive “it’s his!”

“No, it isn’t,” I try to convince her, with no luck. She could see through my bullshit; after all she was my friend. “Why are you wearing his shirt?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” 

 “Because it’s his!” she accuses me.

“I don’t want to talk about it!”  I run to her door to leave.

 “OK, fine,” she apologizes. I turn around to her. Face to face, eyes to eyes. “Just tell me one thing,” she said.  “Why do you want someone who doesn’t want you?”

Her words stung. I couldn’t believe she said that to me. I ran out her room, down the stairs with tears in my eyes. He does want me. He does want me. He does!  I kept saying to myself. But truth be told…I'm not sure. 

And how could I sleep with someone, if I didn’t know they wanted me? After all, girls who do that are sluts, hoes, tramps. But I was me. How could I fall into that category? I wasn’t in that category. I’m just a quiet girl from N.J. I’m not one of them.

But I found out people considered me to be one of “them.” My friend later tells me that she heard people calling me “easy.”

“Easy.” That word makes me cringe.

The fact that my peers thought that any guy could have me made me sick. It made me question myself, the things I do, the guy I risked my name for.

Was I a slut? I only had sex with one guy my whole entire life. Since, I continually slept with him without having the title of “girlfriend,” the people around me started to judge me.  My friends told me to stop. That the guy wasn’t worth it.

But he was to me. He shouldn’t have meant so much. But he did. And I couldn’t let him go. 

 So I found myself being perceived in a certain way. I told myself not to care. Guys don’t care and they sleep with twice as many girls. They are not called hoes. So why are girls?

Why are we put into these “Betty” and “Veronica” categories? If you are a “Betty,” you are nice and wholesome. If you are “Veronica,” then you’re sensual, exotic and more sexual.

I never considered myself a “Veronica.” But perhaps I am. I don’t go on sexual escapades or anything and I certainly don’t have multiple partners. However, the fact that I had the confidence to sleep with a man whose feelings I wasn’t sure of has changed how I look to others.

 Looks can be deceiving though…and what I call confidence, others call desperate.

 Maybe they’re right. Maybe there is a hint of desperation in girls who “sleep around,” even with only one guy. After all, everybody wants to be loved.