conversation with a slut

last night i was talking to this slut who likes to read. she's a real slut. and she really likes to read. i asked her, "hey, slut, do you think about words and books and characters and stuff while you're out there slutting and stuff?" and she said, "hell no." i said, "why not? don't they all get mixed up in the same stinky bag?" and she said, "you need a life."

this is true.

i took another swallow and said, "did you ever have trouble with getting the worlds mixed up? do they ever, you know, enter each other?" and she said, "lookit. there's only one thing you gotta know about being a slut: never let em see you think."

this sounds true enough.

i gave it one last college try. "hey, um, so, do you care what people say about you?"

she cocked her head, closed her right eye, and zeroed in on me with her teleccoping blue-shadowed left, and said: "sister. sluts are magical people who can take you magical places. it's fear and snear that keeps the rest of em talking. they give me my name and keep it in business. we're all in it together."

really, i can't argue too much with the logic even if it makes me squirmy.

"aren't you tired of acting dumb? i asked. "don't you fear for your life sometimes? don't you hate that by acting dumb you ruin it for those nonsluts who don't? act dumb, i mean." i really couldn't believe i was being so honest. musta been the bourbon.

"sweetheart," she said, "sweetheart. i don't act dumb. i just don't let them see the wheels churn and the smoke pour out. besides, we all do it. some version of it. we just don't know. now hand me my book. you're boring me."