The Other S Word

Q: [She] and some of her low-life pals are sorry excuses for what goes on with most of today’s
teenagers. She was [a] Rosie Roundheels sleep-around slut, with the dirty underpants to prove
it.

Even if she wrangles money for bull she’s caused, you can bet dollars to donuts it’ll go up
her nose or down her gullet in a New York minute. Then let her blow that out the other end as she bends
over to flash her tattoo.

Lynn

A: Jimminy Cricket, grandma, you sure got your knickers in a twist! (For those of you born after
1928, “roundheel” is a euphemism for harlot or strumpet, i.e., a whoooooore.) Tattoos! Nose candy!
Underpants! Guess you gave me what-for!

Of course what Lynn is yammering on about in her own, inimitable 1940s-clichiddled
way is a column I wrote about the importance of that most underrated of utterances: the apology (“The
‘S’ Word,” 9/14). The event that inspired this piece was the half-assed I’m-sorry Kobe Bryant delivered
to the woman he was accused of raping. Now, I don’t know whether Bryant forced himself on this broad;
nor do I know if his accuser is an innocent victim, a malevolent force with an all-consuming, pathological
vendetta against professional basketball players, or just a confused, fucked-up girl who wanted
some attention.

Innocence or guilt wasn’t my point. The point I was attempting to make was that if you’re
going to bother apologizing, do it correctly and do it with style.

Judging by the flurry of berserk emails I received, some readers didn’t fully comprehend what
it was I was trying to communicate. Perhaps I wasn’t explicit enough. Then again, maybe the only
people who wrote in were mental cases (which, if you were ever to look through my mailbag, you’d see
is a very viable scenario).

For the most part, hate mail causes me to cackle with glee. Far from riddling me with doubt about
my talents or lack thereof, castigating letters generally serve to feed my ego. I like to picture
the hater sitting alone in their mother’s basement (which they’ve valiantly tried to fool themselves
into thinking is a separate apartment), trembling with rage as their salami-greased fingers clutch
at their paper and pen, all the while cursing my name to the heavens (or parents) above.

But this particular batch of mail was a wee bit disturbing. Why? Because of the insane amount
of venom directed at Kobe’s accuser.

Nobody but the two parties involved really knows what happened, yet still, I got all these letters
accusing the alleged victim of being an unrepentant tramp, thus someone who deserves to be shot
and peed upon. Oddly enough, the nastiest of the bunch were written by women.

So much for the sisterhood.

What I want to know is if indeed (and that’s a big if!) Bryant’s accuser is/was a slutwhat
in the hell is wrong with that? I’ve certainly gone through promiscuous decadesI
mean, periods. Some of my best friends (of both genders) are slutty, and I wouldn’t have it any other
way. Who wants to sit around and point fingers with an uptight prude when you could be enjoying refreshing
cocktails with a loose-lipped fun-haver? Say you were sentenced to live inside your tv setwould
you rather hang out with the champagne-quaffing, drug-snorting, underage-boy-defiling ladies
of Ab Fab? Or the pious, dreary Touched by an Angel bunch? Don’t know about you, but
I’ll take Patsy over Tess any day, thanks.

Sex statistics are notoriously inaccurate (like drug-users, sex-havers fib about numbersespecially
women), but I just read a survey that estimates the average number of sex partners for single New
Yorkers between the ages of 21 and 40 was five. Yep. And that’s not per hour, week or even per
monthno siree. We’re talking five partners over a lifetime! Gulp.

(Note to selfyou’re sluttier than you thought.)

And, hellospeaking of Lucy Goosieswe’re talking about a professional athlete
here. Not to indulge in stereotypes, but adult men who make approximately a kagillion dollars a
year for chasing a ball around are not generally known for their moral restraint. They’re right
up there with rockstars in the male-whore hall of shame or fame, depending on your P.O.V. You can
be certain that your average NBA/NFL/PGA star gets more tail than the ASPCA on free-spay day. So
let’s watch the name-calling, shall we?

I suppose I was under the impression that because one in six women has been the victim of a sexual
assault during her lifetime, a woman would be more inclined to believe another lady’s story. I supposed
wrong. If anything, the women who wrote were more virulent in their condemnation of his accuser
than any of the men. Does anyone else find that depressing? Makes me wonder what would be said about
me if I ever got raped (again) and decided to press charges.

Because here’s the thingslutty girls can still get raped. Just because we’re casual
about spreading our love around, doesn’t mean some jackass is free to take it without asking. o