Sorry in advance to all you red lovers, but apparently, you’re a whore. Yup. Probably a dirty one too.
When I was around twelve, I distinctly remember my mother telling me, after I eyed a bottle of her red nail polish, that “Red is a whore color”. At that time, I wasn’t educated in whore studies, but the way my mother said whore let me know that it wasn’t something I should aspire to be, let alone imitate, even through my fingernails.
For ages, even now, I can’t stand the color red. The only red things I own currently, were given to me (by my mom, coincidentally–no, I’m not a whore, how dare you!), or was something I had to buy in that hue because there was no other alternative at the time. My distaste for the color red runs deep, and I find myself ashamed when I see a woman wearing red lipstick, because my mother’s words keep replaying in my mind, like a dysfunctional tape recording.
I’m surprised I eat red foods, and buy red things for my children. I surely don’t think they’re whores.
It’s not all shades of red I’m against, exactly. I can accept burgundy, crimson, brick and maroon…but cherry red, scarlet, fire engine red…gives me nausea. And just RED, plain old red, gives me emotional hives.
At this point, you probably want to know if I think red is a whore color. No, I don’t. That’s ridiculous. Most whores I’ve ever known seem to take to black. I guess whoring requires an incognito persona.
Looking back on that situation, I was in the pre-stages of puberty, and my mother probably felt the best way to keep me from dancing on the city line of skank town was to say something that would deter me from ever imagining it. She meant well, in her own way, so I don’t hold it against her, but I do wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have such a stance of discrimination against one of the three primary colors.
I’ll never know.