Rating: NNNNNI'm going big. I'm going slut. It wasn't all my idea. If you've seen the latest, a 1980s.
I’m going big. I’m going slut. It wasn’t all my idea. If you’ve seen the latest, a 1980s wet dream, you may have noticed reasonable people donning things like snakeskin. Everything is leather, slinky and tight. “I think it looks slutty,” opines one lad.
But that, doll, is the point. I think it’s supposed to be ironic slutty – maybe-I-do-and-maybe-I-don’t slutty – but in any case, in this era of Sex And The City and in honour of the current clothing season, I decide to lose the running shoes and go back to the fashion successes of my youth – big goddam fucking ho.
It’s all Liza’s fault.
My local salesgirl turned me into a harpy. Before Liza, I would wander through the aisles, fingering turtlenecks and chastity belts, until the first time she thrust a tube top at me
“Oh no, oh gee – I don’t know,” I stammer. “Oh, I can’t….”
I try it on and emerge. Look one way. Look other way.
“Does this look OK?” I demand of an unsuspecting 17-year-old guy sitting nearby. He gulps and nods.
“I’ll take it,” I snap.
Liza has since talked me into the you’re-the-classiest-girl-I-ever-bent-over–a-2-4 pants and started me on the troubled path to The Booty Skirt.
The Booty Skirt does some good booty showing, but it also causes the downfall of relationships. When I show a friend The Booty Skirt, we get into a vicious argument over the authenticity of my ass.
“You don’t got booty,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What kind of thing is that to say to a woman?!” I reply, enraged, “Watch this! Uh uh uh (booty shaking sounds).”
“That’s not a booty.”
We haven’t spoken since.
One day, early in The Change, I find myself wandering around the apartment nervously smoothing my new shirt down.
“Do I look like a slut?” I ask my roommate.
“Yeah,” she says, “but it works for you.”
It’s hard work being a full-time Slut Plate. You can’t let it drop for a second – no sweat pants, no “I am Canadian” T-shirts, no tatty bras. However, the classy-sluts-only-wear-foxy-bras rule does give you leverage when, for example, people call and say, “I found your grey bra,” to which you can respond icily, “I don’t have a grey bra.”
Like I would wear grey. Please.
“Are you really a slut?” people will ask in awe when I tell them about my new philosophy.
“No,” I’ll sigh, hanging my head. But dammit, I got tight pants now. There ain’t nobody who can take them away from me. Unless I were a big slut.