Why Let the Truth Get in the Way of a Good Story?

Guess what?


I'm a slut.

Wahey!

I'd like to thank the academy for this prestigious honor, my friends for actively encouraging my wantonness, and, of course, my many, many sexual conquests, a majority of whom I didn't know even existed but without whom this accolade would not be mine...

Oh, and in case you haven't guessed, I'm being sarcastic.

I'm not a slut.  Nor am I a whore, a floozy, a hussy, or - my personal favourite - a trollop.  I'm not saying I'm as pure as the driven snow, but I won't be buried in a Y-shaped coffin either.  No, the whole "slut" thing is nothing more than a rumour.

And what did I do to earn this dubious reputation?  Well, this may shock you, so brace yourself...

I had the audacity... the cheek... hell, even the goddamn nerve... to have friends of the opposite sex!

Oh, the humanity!

Before Boyf became Boyf (so I guess he was just Boy, not that he'd thank me for saying that), we used to drink in the same pub.  We'd hang out and have a chat, and we became friends.  I'll freely admit that I was attracted to him - very attracted - but it was well known that he had a girlfriend and I'm not the kind of person who plays with other peoples toys (if you get my meaning).  So we were just friends.  Good friends, but it was innocent.

But you try telling that to the evil hags of Gossiptown.  I was a single female, and he.. well... he was a man, so there must have been more to it than that, right?  Right?  Wrong!  But why let the facts get in the way of an interesting rumour.  Somehow meeting a male friend (along with our other friends I hasten to add) in a local pub and having a few drinks and a giggle was soon translated into us having a hot and heavy affair, resulting in us doing the do in the middle of the pub.

Think I'm exaggerating?  Not entirely...

One night the pub had a D.J.  We both had a few to drink, and he got up and started throwing out some mental moves (translation: dancing like a complete lunatic who is convinced he's the king of disco when in truth it looked like he'd been electrocuted).  I just stood on the sidelines and laughed at him, as everyone who knows me will testify I don't dance unless I have to on account that I have two left feet.  Anyway, it was a fun night.

Within a week, the more imaginative version was circulating.  Me watching drunk Boy dance like a fool soon became me whipping my top off and joining drunk man for some very dirty dancing and dirtier snogging for all the world to see.  I'm sorry, but... WHAT??

In a twisted logic sort of way, I almost wish it were true.  I'd have to have a helluver lot of nerve to do something like that, and maybe if I had that amount of nerve, the aftermath wouldn't have effected me.  I don't mean the random tattletale talk from people who don't even know me.  I'm talking about the evil looks, the intimidation and verbal abuse.  Having a complete bitch-troll-from-hell stranger screaming "slut", "psycho", and "I'm gonna get you" in your face while you stare at them, terrified like a rabbit trapped in the headlights isn't fun, let me tell you.

This wasn't the first rumour circulated about me, and I know it won't be the last.  The earliest rumour I can remember was the one that claimed I had an iron rod instead of a spine and that's the reason why I did so badly at school sports.  Well, it's creative, I have to give them that.

And rumours have romantically linked me to so many different men in the past that I've lost count.  It's not because I'm a complete goddess who has men falling at her feet (Ha!  If only!  Then they could clean my flat for me).  It's because a lot of my friends are male and I am a very touchy/feely person (in a friendly way, not in a I'm-going-to-ravish-you way).  I don't care if you're young or old, gay or straight, male or female, if you're my friend and I want to hug you, I'm going to hug you! (The chloroform is optional.)

For the most part these rumours have been laughable and that's exactly how I handled them.  But when the muck spreaders imply that you're responsible for a divorce, or that you were once actually romantically involved with your own Godfather, you have to wonder what the hell these people were smoking drinking thinking.

Now, I don't want to come across holier than thou.  I've heard rumours, believed them, and possibly, maybe told someone else.  We hear something juicy that's much more interesting than the mundane stuff we hear everyday, and we can't help but speculate.  It's human nature.  But these days, I either give people the benefit of the doubt before I jump to conclusions, or pay no attention to it whatsoever. After all, it's none of my business.

I truly believe that the world be a slightly nicer, happier, shinier place if everybody did that.

Still, at least my story has a happy ending.

If it weren't for all the rumours being spread about myself and Boy, there's a chance he may never have become Boyf.  His girlfriend was now his ex and we started seeing each other a bit more.  It was while we were discussing the nonsense that was said about us that we became closer, developed feelings for each other and fell in love.  So in a weird kind of way, I actually owe the s**t-stirrers a "Thank you".

Oh, and by the way, the stranger who chose to scream abuse in my face?  Her next victim wasn't quite so timid.  She ended up spending the night in a prison cell for taking her verbal abuse too far.

Don't you just love karma...