Dictionaries are filled with words used to insult women: whore, tart, and tramp, for starters. But no word equals slut for its power to degrade and wound one half of the population. Interestingly, there’s no male equivalent of the word slut. –Trish Bolton
It’s my firm belief that every party has two possible formations, but only one theme. The first is a gathering of friends who come together searching for answers to life’s mysteries. The downside is, this type of party can get pretentious fast. Not my favorite. The second grouping—the one haunted by people like you and me—is a mix of acquaintances and strangers trying to do the same thing while simultaneously working hard to forget all the pesky questions. Either way, everybody wants to be fixed by somebody else, and alcohol is always involved.
I discover you, in the latter group around 3 AM, occupying the dark-night-of-the-soul space that rests just between deep thought and numbness.
I am tangled up in sheet…and you. But too soon, the rude sun streams through the blinds. And the most pressing question returns:
What have I done?
Although I know they all come with their own sets of problems, I have a passion for confusing people with solutions.
Independent of these worries, my lips find your neck. I inhale your scent; remnants of cigarette smoke and cologne—a little sandalwood, some spice, a whiff of freshly mowed grass.
You sure do smell like answers.
Through walls thin as conscience, I hear the pop of my roommate’s toast. I open one eye to see your lids, closed, and just as her newly browned bread wants its butter, I crave you. Yes, I need to devour you, whoever you are.
I chew on your lobe, mumble drowsily, “What’s your name again?”
“Cal,” you say, “my name’s Cal.”
“Cal,” I repeat, “Hey, there. Hi.”
“Hey yourself,” you say. You open your eyes.
Greener side of hazel. Flecks of gold.
And although I know exactly how this ends, I am ready to begin.