Are You That Slut?

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
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I spent an evening with my friend PETA at my favorite local dive bar. When I say dive, I mean it. No heat, just a fireplace, plastic furniture, and free shots!
Having been overly busy with work I hadn’t had the chance to play with my friends. When PETA text me to see what I was doing, his timing couldn’t have been better. I had just stepped out of the train station when his text popped up; usually I hesitate when someone wants to go out for a late drink. I agreed to meet him back at the train station.
The bar was nearly empty when we arrived just before midnight. We grabbed a round, and sat on the only comfortable surface near the very back. The bar was freezing inside, but considering it was nearing zero outside, it felt mildly warm. We chatted about this and that, when I started getting texts from Biker Boy. This is my ex from more than a year ago. I fondly remember our break-up and him throwing a snowball at me. Memories.
Biker Boy was looking for relationship advice. Seriously? If you need relationship advice, you go to a therapist. If you need someone to instruct you on how to best hurt yourself, you come to me. Biker Boy said he was afraid his boyfriend was cheating on him, but seemed upset when I jokingly asked if he had caught the boyfriend with his mouth full. Come on, that’s funny. I told him I had no advice other than to back off. I dumped him for being too damn clingy and it sounds like this guy is about to do the same.
Then PETA’s boyfriend (I use the term boyfriend loosely. Very, very loosely) began texting. He was just checking in to see how things were going, and PETA told him that we were out for a drink. Then the thing happen that always happens when I’m out with a non-single friend. The boyfriend asked if I was the slut he was texting the other night. Yes, I was that slut. However, I am not PETA’s slut. We’re friends of the normal kind. The boyfriend flipped out before finally ignoring PETA’s texts completely.
As the night was coming to an end and my blood alcohol level was reaching its peak, I asked,
“What is it about me that makes people think slut?”
Is it the blonde? Is it the pretty, pretty, pretty? Or is it that I probably could get their boyfriends into bed if I were that type of person? PETA never really answered, but told me to work it and not worry about it. It doesn’t bother me; I’m just curious what the quality is. I’ll start figuring that mystery out as soon as I find out how you turn a wanted person into a loved person.