MY VIDEO "SLUT" REACHES 5,000 VIEWS ON YOUTUBE!

My video "SLUT," a digital performance art piece based on a poem I wrote, has reached 5,000 views on YouTube over the past two months. Thank you all who have watched and shared the piece. Please continue to like, subscribe and share this important work which challenges our views on women and sexuality.

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"SLUT" written and performed by Candice Holdorf

I was a Virgin for a long time.

Perhaps you think
I mean
I took 21 years
To let a man Penetrate me

Measuring
My Worthiness
By the diminishing inches
Of his Cock?

No.

I mean a Virgin
In a language long forgotten:
Lost in the ashes
Of burned witches

And in the silenced vows
Of Brides of Christ,
Whose names were erased
In canonical Genocide. 

I was a Virgin.

A woman unto herself;
Whole; Unshackled; Owned by No One;
And in this way
We’ve always been Virgins--

Our women's wisdom,
Written in our Mothers' bosom,
Survived the translation migration
From page to pyre.

Observe your Holy Rights.

Do I deserve to be attacked,
Unwritten from history,
Because I fucked my way
Through the Zodiac?

Keep your righteous indignation.
Your taunts and jeers
Only urge my Vestal Reclamation
And the resurrection of my Erotic Innocence.

We. Are. Coming.

So here I stand:
Palms stretched, legs spread,
Re-Virginized once more,
While making love to the Sacred Whore.

Why Consciously Awake Women are Virgins AND Sluts

I remember the first time someone called me a slut.

I was 12 years old. It was 7th grade. And I had just completed my usual 7:30am routine in the bathroom mirror.

Partial ponytail affixed to head via fuchsia scrunchie? Check.

Strawberry ChapStick plus Lisa Frank lip gloss? Double Check.

And that day…a fresh coat of Wet ‘N Wild blue eye shadow and mascara from a recent trip to Drug Emporium.

I stepped out of the girl’s bathroom, ready to take on Algebra, when these two guys (one of whom I had the HUGEST crush on) started giggling.

“What?” I asked, attempting display my best “I-don’t-really-care-what-you-think-of-me” attitude.

“You look like a prostitute,” said one of the boys.

I’d never heard that word before, but it didn’t sound very good.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, again with my signature teenage faux nonchalance.

“You know…a slut. A whore.”

I wanted my face to melt off right there. I was shocked that anyone would think of me that way. I’d never even kissed a guy. Hell, I hadn’t even started my period yet (though if you had asked me back then, I would have pretended otherwise).

I rolled my eyes and walked off in a dismissive huff.

But his words stuck with me.

There I was, the epitome of society’s definition of virgin, yet already bearing the cultural shame of being a woman who engaged in a lot of sex. To add even more confusion to the mix, part of me liked being thought of as someone who was sexually precocious. I yearned to doff the “little girl” image, but I also knew I wasn’t quite ready to “go all the way.” All of this because I decided to experiment with a little makeup.

And so the began the split between my innocent self and the one who felt desire.

Fast forward several years later, I still sometimes feel myself yo-yoing between the poles of virgin and the slut. Breaking the bondage of shame is a slow process requiring a lot of compassion. However, freedom is found when we embrace the whole of who we are as women.  We can do this by stepping out of the current cultural definitions of these words, and rediscovering the roots of their true meanings.

First let’s look at the word virgin. Most of us think of a virgin as a woman who has never had vaginal intercourse. However, the original Latin meaning of virgin was a woman who was not betrothed, married or bound to any man. Essentially, she was a whole being and sexually autonomous. It was later, when the patriarchal creators of history, religion and culture tried to strip women of their autonomy, that the term came to mean “a woman who was undefiled by sex.” Virgin then became (and still is) a social requirement for a woman to be marriageable and it is up to her father to protect this “virtue” before passing her on, like chattel, to a husband, who then carries the burden of guarding her virtue. At no point within this exchange is a virginal woman erotically free, but must engage with her sex only in relationship to the men around her.

To deter women from losing their patriarchally-defined virgin status, society then created an image of the “dirty” woman with loose morals known as slut. However, the first known use of the word slut was not in reference to women, but to men. In 1386 Geoffrey Chaucer used the word sluttish to describe a slovenly man. It didn’t take patriarchy long to refer to women with “slovenly” reputations as sluts but the term’s definition did vacillate for several centuries. Even in the 17th century when Samuel Pepys used slut to describe a young servant girl, it was with affection, not rancor. These days though, slut is used almost exclusively to describe a woman who enjoys sex at her leisure—and if the term does refer to a man, it is almost always accompanied with the descriptive qualifier “male” in front of the word slut.

Going one step further into our inquiry, we can look at the etymology of whore, a term often used as an interchangeable epithet for slut, and find its roots in the Proto-Germanic word “horaz” meaning “one who desires.” But again, in keeping with the ideals of modern patriarchy, to display even the slightest inkling of passion or desire, is to betray the revered ideal of virginal womanhood and thus be branded the pejorative interpretation of slut or whore.

All these words, virgin, slut and whore, in their modern day iterations, present a starkly different range of femininity based in shame. They are not who we are, but shadow aspects born out of oppressive dogma meant to dominate—not to liberate.  In freeing the roots of our language, we too, as women, find ourselves freed from the internal split created between these archetypal aspects of ourselves. The virgin and the slut teach us that both our sexual autonomy and desire are not just acceptable, but noble guides on the heroine’s journey. In embracing them not as foils, but as partners, we embrace the totality of all that is “woman” and discover that our erotic feminine essence is not born of original sin, but original wisdom.

SLUT

I was a Virgin for a long time.

Perhaps you think

I mean

I took 21 years

To let a man Penetrate me

Measuring

My Worthiness

By the diminishing inches

Of his Cock?

No.

I mean a Virgin

In a language long forgotten:

Lost in the ashes

Of burned witches

Or lost in the silenced vows

Of Brides of Christ,

Whose names were erased

In canonical Genocide.

I was a Virgin.

A woman unto herself;

Whole; Unshackled; Owned by No One;

And in this way

We’ve always been Virgins.

Our Women’s wisdom,

Written in our Mother’s bosom,

Survived the translation migration

From Page to Pyre.

Observe your Holy Rights.

Do I deserve to be attacked,

Unwritten from history,

Because I fucked my way

Through the Zodiac?

Keep your righteous indignation.

Your taunts and jeers

Only urge my Vestal Reclamation

And the resurrection of my Erotic Innocence.

We. Are. Coming.

So here I stand:

Palms stretched, legs spread,

Re-Virginized once more,

While making love to the Sacred Whore.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Follow Slut Positive on Twitter: https://twitter.com/slutpositive

References:

Willful Virgin by Marilyn Frye (The Crossing Press, 1992)

“An Informal History of the Word ‘Slut,’” by Donald D’Haene, http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/donald-dhaene/slut-walk_b_1771218.html

SLUT: The Video

Last month I wrote a poem called SLUT (which you can read here). I felt inspired to create a video based on the poem. It's one of the most vulnerable pieces of art I have created. Watch and enjoy!

Magdalene: A Haiku

Mary Magdalene in the Cave, Hugues Merle (1868)

Mom, who would we be

If they had not shamed us all

Out of History?

Relationship Game for the Month of October

Autumn Leaves, Millais

It's now autumn in the Northern Hemisphere and spring in the Southern Hemisphere (and Happy Jewish New Year!). With the equinox upon us, we often find ourselves asking the questions "What am I harvesting from my work this past year?" or "What seeds am I planting for the year to come?"

Orgasm grows where attention goes, so if we are yearning to cultivate more feeling and connection in our intimate relationships, then there is no better time than now to put our attention on our sexual/romantic relationships and long-term partnerships.

So I propose a game for the month of October. It's a simple game with only rule:

Everyday (preferably multiple times a day) ask yourself the question "How Can I Be More Generous with my Partner(s)?"

Now keep in mind that generosity does NOT mean doing whatever your partner(s) wants at the expense of your own desires. That is called acquiescence and is a breeding ground for resentment. In fact, generosity often entails giving your partner(s) an unobstructed peek into the window of your desire, i.e. "This is how to win with me."

If you are single or not sexually/romantically active, you can still play by asking this question in reference to the important people in your life: family, friends, co-workers, etc. Or you can even ask how can you be more generous with yourself! 

When you learn to approach your life from a generous place (abundance) rather than from withholding love (scarcity), you begin to cultivate honesty and gratitude, which are the secret weapons for expanding your capacity for more sensation and pleasure.

I hope you have a fruitful equinox and look forward to hearing from you soon.

Happy Harvest!

SLUT: A Poem

Penitent Magdalene by Titian

I was a Virgin for a long time.

Perhaps you think

I mean

I took 21 years

To let a man Penetrate me

Measuring

My Worthiness

By the diminishing inches

Of his Cock?

No.

I mean a Virgin

In a language long forgotten:

Lost in the ashes

Of burned witches

Or in the silenced vows

Of Brides of Christ,

Whose names were erased

In canonical Genocide.

I was a Virgin.

A woman unto herself;

Whole; Unshackled; Owned by No One;

And in this way

We’ve always been Virgins--

Our women's wisdom,

Written in our Mothers' bosom,

Survived the translation migration

From page to pyre.

Observe your Holy Rights.

Do I deserve to be attacked,

Unwritten from history,

Because I fucked my way

Through the Zodiac?

Keep your righteous indignation.

Your taunts and jeers

Only urge my Vestal Reclamation

And the resurrection of my Erotic Innocence.

We. Are. Coming.

So here I stand:

Palms stretched, legs spread,

Re-Virginized once more,

While making love to the Sacred Whore.

DeBora M. Ricks Interviews Me on She Struts Radio

I am honored to be featured on DeBora M. Ricks' podcast She Struts Radio, which focuses on feminine personal empowerment. You can learn more about the show and catch up on all the episodes here: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/shestrutsradio 

Click on the video below to listen to my interview on living an orgasmic life.

Radical Love: A Haiku

Fold the edge of "Yes"
Into the Origami
Of my paper heart.

Reflections on Orgasmic Living and "La Grande Mort"

St. Francis held by an Angel by Gentileschi

I am deeply touched by all the lovely messages I received last week for my 35th birthday. To be honest, I was feeling a little sad and scared about being in my (gasp) mid-30's. I had all this social programming telling me that I "should" have had my career success by now and that I "should" jump on motherhood ASAP (ya know, the infamous biological clock).

As I reflected on my life, one based on Orgasmic Living (i.e. surrendering to the unknown, living in the involuntary, faith in intuition, etc), part of me felt like a failure and...well...too old to do anything about it. I walked into the burn afraid of my impending death and paralyzed as I considered the eventual deaths of my beloveds. 

Then came the great dust storm of 2015. For 5+ hours I walked with a group of friends to the temple and back with nearly zero visibility much of the time. The ironic fact that I was literally walking "into the void" did not escape me. 

During my time at the temple, I discovered that I didn't feel the usual amount of pain and grief that typically comes when I see the thousands of memorials to those who've passed. I wondered if I had become hardened to sadness. I was waiting to be "cracked open" and when it didn't come, I felt guilty.

Then I needed to lie down. As the earth hugged me, I noticed an intense desire for comfort. My husband chose to skip this burn, so I shivered, cold in my loneliness.

Then I heard a voice. I couldn't see Her, but I felt Her presence. Death came and wrapped her merciful arms around me. And in that moment I began a new relationship with Death--one that was filled with such gratitude. I began to cry, so thankful that Death exists and that nothing lasts forever. It was surprising to discover not just grief within those wooden walls, but joy. My prayer for "more life" resonated even deeper because I found myself in the arms of Death.

The next day I attended a Shamanic Death and Rebirth Ceremony. I felt called to dig deeper into this new relationship with Death. Almost immediately, I began to cry again as the profound love that Death has for us all poured from my heart.

Finally, as I watched the temple burn on Sunday night, the power and depth that Death brings to every moment washed over me as the wood and copper structure quickly tumbled to the ground.

Of course, I am not ready to physically die just yet. Nor do I wish that upon my beloveds. This life is just too sweet right now. 

And this post isn't meant to gloss over the grief and tragedy that comes with facing mortality and the unbearable brutality that exists in this world.

For me, my experience simply expanded my perception of Death to include both the horror and the beauty. It gave me a little peace in my heart as I meditated upon this inevitable fact of being human. It presented the possibility that there is a miracle tucked inside the day of my death, just as we celebrate the miracle in the day of my birth.

As I return to my new home and my beloved partner (who drew me a rose-petal birthday bath, unloaded my playafied car and cooked me dinner) and my art and the world I've built around me, I feel a little more hopeful that life can get better with age. I see now that these current social fears on death and aging are just our culture's deep terror of facing the Mystery. And I am learning to trust (a little bit more) that there is exactly the right amount of life left in me to do everything I need during my time here.

It's the one who won't be taken who can not seem to give;
And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.
--The Rose by Bette Midler

Why I Avoid Sex: A Love Letter

Silence by Odilon Redon

Originally posted June 10, 2015

To all my lovers, from this life and the many previous…

Dear Lover,

Thank you for taking the time to read this message. I understand it’s been difficult between us. I know you are wanting more of me and believe me, there is nothing more I’d love than to be able to offer you (and me!) the incredible sex you want anytime you want.

But I simply can’t.

Believe me, I try. Every time you reach for me, all I can hear is:

“Why you can’t a be a goddamned normal human being who fucks when she wants, cums when she wants and goes about her merry way?”

This I lament as you watch me collapse into a puddle of tears and snot once again—our sex hijacked by the alien demon baby that lives in my vagina.

OK. Maybe I’m being a little overdramatic.

That could be part of the problem.

I know the answers lie wrapped up, charred up, scarred up beneath the calcified strata of my orgasm; but as I listen closer, each layer has its own story to tell…

LAYER ONE: CONFUSION

If you asked me what I wanted from sex, I wouldn’t know where to begin. My people-pleasing reflex leaves me disconnected from the hunger in my heart.

Because really, who am I if I’m not making you happy? I don’t even exist. Cosmo says so.

Clinging to an identity wrapped in the dogma of “good little girls who only eat one scoop of ice cream,” I suffer in silence as I yield my voice, again and again, until silence becomes the norm.

Lost in a barrage of choices, I abdicate my power to another in the hopes of escaping the freedom-binding fear of making a decision.

What is sex? What is desire? How does my body work? Is it OK to feel these things? To want so much?

Maybe porn can teach me something? I remember the magazines hidden under the sink when I was 12. Later came fervent moans through green and red squiggles on late night TV. Now I can’t even check my email without getting spammed by a site promising me “lonely, horny girls who are looking just for me.” The porn world has left me feeling incompetent in every way. I will never be a) novel, b) a fantasy and c) ready to be fucked at the drop of a hat.

Which brings me to…

LAYER TWO: ANGER

Fuck you.

Fuck you for not wanting ME, but some trumped up, dolled up, cummed up, fucked up version of an automated sexbot.

Stop trying to prove your worth by conquering my pussy.

When did sex become finding the “10 Ways to Light Him On Fire” or the “15 Moves That Will Turn Her Pussy Into Jizz Pudding”? (Gross)

I avoid sex because penetration is so goddammed boring. I need more. So much more. More than I could possibly understand and yet I need you to figure it out and take me there. To more. To the heights of my mind. Fuck my mind and we could fuck forever.

I have discovered (to my polite, feminine chagrin) that I’m angry. Fucking angry. At the way the erotic has been reduced to this two-minute, frictioned frenzy factory.

But because of my confusion (see Layer One), it’s easier to just stay angry at you for not remembering to do that thing that I asked you to do two weeks ago (you remember the one—I shouldn’t have to remind you).

So no. I won’t fuck you. I won’t give you the satisfaction of my pleasure.

If I give an inch, you take my pride.

You’ll see me crumble and break, my vanity at stake, as each thrust, twang, tickle and tuck strips me of my beautiful hide and renders me defenseless to the

weight

of

my

own

desire.

And in that vulnerability I find myself deepening into…

LAYER THREE: TERROR

I have a not-so-secret fear: I am afraid of being thought of as frigid.

Ironic for a woman who spends her days writing, thinking and exploring the edges of her sexuality.

Or not. After all, the best disguise for insecurity is to dress it up in the robes of expertise.

But I have an even greater terror—that of not being frigid.

Who is this fierce feminine beast?

A woman so ravenous for life that she knows not how to hold all the conflicting and socially unacceptable pieces that are her. The whore tearing through her master’s flesh while wearing the virgin’s smile.

So grab the noose and tie it to the rafters: I would rather be dead inside than unleash the potency of my orgasm—I dare not face this uncaged warrior.

Avoiding sex is the same as avoiding life. It’s why I avoid going onstage. It’s why I pack my feelings into a dark corner. It's why I starved myself for seven years. It’s why it took me three fucking months to write these 1000 words.

Sex requires that we are vulnerable. We cannot hide from ourselves anymore and we cannot shirk our responsibility to this life in a comfortable wash of feigned ignorance.

As I resensestize my pussy, all my receptors come online and to feel everything, the beauty and the pain, is enough to make you want to die.

And yet, here I am again. Terrified. Of death. Of life. Of who I am. Of never knowing who I am.

So it isn’t that the magic is gone, my love—it’s that the potency of our combined forces is too frightening to imagine. So we hide. We play pretend. We get tired. We fall asleep until we forget that we were even hungry in the first place.

And I feel your resistance as much as I feel mine. In fact, I welcome it. It gives me an excuse to stay sleepy under the covers.

But please, dear lover, for the sake of your life and mine, don’t ever stop trying. Fight for our surrender. Know that under my creeping and crawling and cat-cat-caterwauling there is a woman who so painfully wants to escape—who is scratching, layer after layer, for her freedom--

And for the chance to re-remember that she is…

LAYER FOUR: LOVE

Love,
c

PS: I think we're on the right track.

If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent human being in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all of the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. ~ Anaïs Nin