[by email]

Dear Monica,

I know you are a slut and this is okay; it’s modern life. Maybe more than that, just life. It’s okay, I understand. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to be your fuckbuddy. I want to be your boyfriend. I know that the times have so swiftly outrun me since George Bush and then Obama and their buddies raped and murdered America, but part of me still has some hope that the term retains some meaning. What boyfriend means is that we’re lovers, which means that when we’re not fucking, we talk about stuff, and occasionally do things together, like eat, or go somewhere. We return each other’s calls. We don’t fuck other people. We get to know one another.

I know this is difficult. Modern life is still capitalist; you’re young and want to remain on the open market, waiting for the highest bidder. There’s still many chances for you to become the designated #4 mistress of one millionaire or another, and you should consider those options.

I suppose what I mean when I say that you are a slut is that you are fucking that rich asshole and not me. The term has very little to do with your promiscuity, but rather your choice of partner. I know that picking the sexy artist with no money over the boring millionaire is a difficult decision; you have your children to think of, or something. But you don’t have any children. And if you spawn with that man, you will only produce assholes. The world already has enough of those.

I fear for the world; for this generation. But I suppose my fears are irrelevant; you can only hear it as me whining. The thing is, you see, I’ve lost respect for you. I thought your interest in me stemmed from some political vantage point wherein you could see how far we’ve fallen as a society, you were willing to risk material rewards for rewards of a more intangible variety; mutual understanding, frisson, adventure. But I was mistaken. You are interested more in money than in personality, just like every other woman who ever existed.

So I can see that what besets me is not a modern dilemma but rather an ancient one. The class structure, product of ancient wars and revolutions and sexual politicking, has in me and you merely two more victims in an endless series. You can see only status and so can I, we are determined by it, condemned to die modern people in this vise older than history.

Your children with him will be ugly; I can sense this. With my Spidey Sense. You will be a boring person. I won’t want to talk to you any more. You will be included in my mental list of failures and horrid evil twerps.

I know that your desire for adventure was not disingenuous, you simply did not understand that true adventure is predicated on an abandonment of the safety line. You just wanted some travel and sex with the distant millionaire’s string attached. I see that now. That is okay.

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About Robin Wyatt Dunn


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Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. He's online at robindunn.com
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