Once upon a time a slut perched her tight ass upon a bar stool. She nodded to the bartender. He knew. The usual. Vodka martini. She wondered if the books on mass incarceration she had ordered from amazon would be waiting on her doorstep tonight. She placed her full red lips around the green olive and seductively slid it off her toothpick. Upon swallowing, a man sat down on the stool to her left. His height gave him an unobstructed view of her tongue as it circled the outer rim of her lips and of her white round breasts and cleavage line, which he followed with his eyes until it disappeared into darkness.
“You wanna fuck?” the slut asked.
“Excuse me?” said the man.
“You heard me.”
“You’re a slut!” the man declared and with beer in hand, stood and walked away.
A prude hoisted herself up on the vacant bar stool. Her feet dangled and scrambled in search for something to hold herself steady. She waived a hand in the air, but the bartender, like most bartenders, didn’t see her. She wagged her bone-dry tongue. Trudging through the summer heat around the U.C.L.A. campus had induced the first symptoms of heat stroke. She undid the topmost button of her white collared blouse. Her hands on her forehead, she let out a sigh. Would she throw up all over this mahogany bar? Perhaps.
The slut whistled to the bartender.
“Hey, we need a water and a Coke.” The bartender nodded.
“Thank you,” the prude blurted out.
“No problem,” said the slut.
The prude gulped down the water. She felt somewhat revived. A man waved his empty beer bottle above his head and another beer slid into his hand. He smirked at the prude’s sweaty forehead and her untamed frizz curling up along the edge of her temples.
“What’s got you so hot and bothered?” he asked the prude.
She turned her gaze toward the stacked glasses at the end of the bar.
“Do you speak English? Or are you a mute?”
She looked down at her one remaining ice cube.
“Oh. I get it. You’re a prude,” he said. He took a swig of his beer and walked away.
The slut slid the Coke over to the prude. “This was for you too. Helps with nausea. It’s…”
“Medicinal,” the prude finished.
“Yeah, medicinal, exactly,” said the slut.
The prude’s fingers wrapped around the Coke bottle, wet with condensation, and touched the slut’s fingers. There they met each other with their whole body. They knew every wound because they were the same wounds. Their ears screamed in the silent sound waves of pressure felt before the blast. Their charred skin was speckled with shrapnel. They felt their burden as two warriors carrying their packs, moving forward on their mission.
“You wanna fuck?” the slut asked.
“Excuse me?” said the man.
“You heard me.”
“You’re a slut!” the man declared and with beer in hand, stood and walked away.
A prude hoisted herself up on the vacant bar stool. Her feet dangled and scrambled in search for something to hold herself steady. She waived a hand in the air, but the bartender, like most bartenders, didn’t see her. She wagged her bone-dry tongue. Trudging through the summer heat around the U.C.L.A. campus had induced the first symptoms of heat stroke. She undid the topmost button of her white collared blouse. Her hands on her forehead, she let out a sigh. Would she throw up all over this mahogany bar? Perhaps.
The slut whistled to the bartender.
“Hey, we need a water and a Coke.” The bartender nodded.
“Thank you,” the prude blurted out.
“No problem,” said the slut.
The prude gulped down the water. She felt somewhat revived. A man waved his empty beer bottle above his head and another beer slid into his hand. He smirked at the prude’s sweaty forehead and her untamed frizz curling up along the edge of her temples.
“What’s got you so hot and bothered?” he asked the prude.
She turned her gaze toward the stacked glasses at the end of the bar.
“Do you speak English? Or are you a mute?”
She looked down at her one remaining ice cube.
“Oh. I get it. You’re a prude,” he said. He took a swig of his beer and walked away.
The slut slid the Coke over to the prude. “This was for you too. Helps with nausea. It’s…”
“Medicinal,” the prude finished.
“Yeah, medicinal, exactly,” said the slut.
The prude’s fingers wrapped around the Coke bottle, wet with condensation, and touched the slut’s fingers. There they met each other with their whole body. They knew every wound because they were the same wounds. Their ears screamed in the silent sound waves of pressure felt before the blast. Their charred skin was speckled with shrapnel. They felt their burden as two warriors carrying their packs, moving forward on their mission.
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