She could be a bit loud. Worse when she was drunk. I loved her, anyway. She had saved my life, literally. I'd do anything for her. She was a tattooed, pierced, opinionated, vegan dynamo. Skinny, busty, foul-mouthed, with a limitless heart and hair that changed colors on a weekly basis. Today it was pink-ish, to match the cosmos. Beautiful and loud, she attracted plenty of attention from the group of frat boys sitting at the next table.
I proceeded to catch up to her, alcohol-wise, and grilled her about her recent activities. By the time I had downed cosmo number three and had ordered cosmo number four, I had told her everything about Ryan. Everything.
I thought that her shriek could be heard on the moon.
"YOU SLUT!" she screamed. The closest frat boys leaned in to listen.
My heart stopped. Ohmigod. She was right. I was a slut. I didn't know anything about him, and I had slept with him.
Wait. A misnomer. There was no sleeping involved.
No bed either, for that matter.
Correction: I had sex with him, standing up, and I'd barely spoken three sentences to him. Total slut.
Fuck.
Still.
Lawyer instincts kicked in, and I defended myself.
"I am the farthest thing away from a slut."
"I KNOW!" she yelled.
"And there's nothing wrong with being a slut."
"I KNOW!" she yelled.
"So why are you yelling?" I yelled back at her.
"I DON'T KNOW!" she yelled.
I was getting nowhere but drunker and drunker. The frat boys looked at each other, and at us, like they were going to speak, but instead they just grinned identically. Shit.
But then it dawned on me: I was banging the pool guy, so to speak. He just happened to be a surf bum/coffee shop manager, instead of the pool guy/gardener/plumber/repair guy/fireman, but I still belonged in bad eighties porn. Professional woman gets all her bedroom fantasies fulfilled by laborer. Now I know that's not a very nice thing to think. I've already admitted that I'm a snob. But this made me feel like I was using Ryan just to get over my depression. And if he was the pool guy, then I'm just using him.
Here's the good part about being a lawyer: I know how to argue.
Here's the bad part about being a lawyer: I know how to argue. Even with myself.
The "I'm a slut, I'm not a slut, it's not wrong to be a slut anyway" tug-of-war continued, for a while, in my brain, and then I resolved it, definitively. Well, definitively, for now. As definitive as I could be after four cosmos and while ordering a fifth.
"Marie, he's a gorgeous guy and I’m attracted to him. He's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I want to see him again."
"Then do it," she said drunkenly, in a slightly lower decibel level than before.
I was so glad that we got that settled. The waitress delivered our drinks.
"I love you," I told her drunkenly and mushily.
"I love you too," she slurred back at me. The guys at the next table leaned closer to see what was going to happen next.
A few hours later, the bar called a taxi for me and I went to bed.
HOSPITAL SMELLS.
Bright lights.
A needle injecting me.
I can't feel anything.
The bright lights again.
I'm crying out.
I woke up in a sweat, frantic, looking around, but I was in my bed and there was no one else there.
The next day, I decided to call in sick, nurse my hangover, and meet with my therapist. While I waited for the time to leave for my appointment, I fired up my e-reader and started reading one of the erotic novels that Christian Gray had recommended for me. I realized something as I read the incredibly hot book: I’d never known that it was okay to get my panties wet. It happened to the heroine four times in the book. I’d never known that was normal. My mother used to tell me to bathe myself with a washcloth so I wouldn't ever touch myself. I thought that feeling turned on was a bad thing.
I was wrong.
I’d just been hearing my mom's voice in my head all these years. I could think for myself now. I was an adult. I loved getting nailed by Ryan
I proceeded to catch up to her, alcohol-wise, and grilled her about her recent activities. By the time I had downed cosmo number three and had ordered cosmo number four, I had told her everything about Ryan. Everything.
I thought that her shriek could be heard on the moon.
"YOU SLUT!" she screamed. The closest frat boys leaned in to listen.
My heart stopped. Ohmigod. She was right. I was a slut. I didn't know anything about him, and I had slept with him.
Wait. A misnomer. There was no sleeping involved.
No bed either, for that matter.
Correction: I had sex with him, standing up, and I'd barely spoken three sentences to him. Total slut.
Fuck.
Still.
Lawyer instincts kicked in, and I defended myself.
"I am the farthest thing away from a slut."
"I KNOW!" she yelled.
"And there's nothing wrong with being a slut."
"I KNOW!" she yelled.
"So why are you yelling?" I yelled back at her.
"I DON'T KNOW!" she yelled.
I was getting nowhere but drunker and drunker. The frat boys looked at each other, and at us, like they were going to speak, but instead they just grinned identically. Shit.
But then it dawned on me: I was banging the pool guy, so to speak. He just happened to be a surf bum/coffee shop manager, instead of the pool guy/gardener/plumber/repair guy/fireman, but I still belonged in bad eighties porn. Professional woman gets all her bedroom fantasies fulfilled by laborer. Now I know that's not a very nice thing to think. I've already admitted that I'm a snob. But this made me feel like I was using Ryan just to get over my depression. And if he was the pool guy, then I'm just using him.
Here's the good part about being a lawyer: I know how to argue.
Here's the bad part about being a lawyer: I know how to argue. Even with myself.
The "I'm a slut, I'm not a slut, it's not wrong to be a slut anyway" tug-of-war continued, for a while, in my brain, and then I resolved it, definitively. Well, definitively, for now. As definitive as I could be after four cosmos and while ordering a fifth.
"Marie, he's a gorgeous guy and I’m attracted to him. He's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I want to see him again."
"Then do it," she said drunkenly, in a slightly lower decibel level than before.
I was so glad that we got that settled. The waitress delivered our drinks.
"I love you," I told her drunkenly and mushily.
"I love you too," she slurred back at me. The guys at the next table leaned closer to see what was going to happen next.
A few hours later, the bar called a taxi for me and I went to bed.
HOSPITAL SMELLS.
Bright lights.
A needle injecting me.
I can't feel anything.
The bright lights again.
I'm crying out.
I woke up in a sweat, frantic, looking around, but I was in my bed and there was no one else there.
The next day, I decided to call in sick, nurse my hangover, and meet with my therapist. While I waited for the time to leave for my appointment, I fired up my e-reader and started reading one of the erotic novels that Christian Gray had recommended for me. I realized something as I read the incredibly hot book: I’d never known that it was okay to get my panties wet. It happened to the heroine four times in the book. I’d never known that was normal. My mother used to tell me to bathe myself with a washcloth so I wouldn't ever touch myself. I thought that feeling turned on was a bad thing.
I was wrong.
I’d just been hearing my mom's voice in my head all these years. I could think for myself now. I was an adult. I loved getting nailed by Ryan
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