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.
You still have nice legs and you still have pretty eyes, and your accent is sexy. But your conscience is non-existent. You are a mental midget, at least in terms of moral reasoning. You are unimaginative. You will be lonely.
Abandon the millionaire. Ask yourself if material comforts and jet-setting are really the key to your long-term happiness or whether there is something more intangible at work; that William Burroughs was right and that happiness depends not on success but on failure, not on achievement, but on the struggle, and that with me your struggle would be greater, and that you would therefore be happier. In his terms, then, you see, your material success with him would lead ipso facto, to your unhappiness, and, with me, your lack of wealth would make you happy. God bless William S. Burroughs.
Call me when you’ve broken up with him.
I am writing this response to your offensive letter because I feel the need to disabuse you from some fantasies you seem to carry around in your head.
You are an interesting man and I respect you and I respect your art; but we are not lovers. We do not have a sexual relationship; probably we will never have one. If you cannot understand that women are attracted to power and that I as a woman am powerless over that fact then I cannot help you. This is how the world is; I did not invent it.
I do wish that you were rich. And I know this a common wish; that I could find the perfect man. I know He does not exist. I know we all have our flaws.
I thought that you were interesting, that’s why we talked for so long, why I let whatever our intimacy was, and there was some, I admit that, that’s why it came into being, because you interested me. But precisely because you’ve become so possessive and so sniveling about it all I see that your appeal is limited; you’re not mature enough for me, you lack an experience with the world that any man needs, whatever his background or wealth.
I hope you can understand this. I did hope that with you I might discover a companion I could trust, but I can see that you are a man of limited imagination; of limited intellect. I can see that this would have been a bad idea all along.
I don’t care at all whether you think I’m a slut or not; those terms are irrelevant to me. Also I think you know that they’re irrelevant to me and that you’re only trying to get a rise out of me. Well, that won’t work. I’m a modern woman and can sleep with who I please and you should see that it is precisely this my freedom that you find enticing; it is my modernity that you find enticing; without it, I should be less interesting. I hope you are able to see past this short-sightedness and try to preserve our friendship.
I am glad that you like my legs.
Likely there is no purpose to my reply at this point; likely it can only serve to widen the gulf between us and to deepen the grave I dig for myself, but either because of some ineradicable masochism in my character or because I still harbor some hope, I am writing it anyway. Obviously both are true. I am a glutton for punishment and I still hope.
Tell me I have some reason to!
[ by text message]
Why do you expect me to be your salvation? i am a woman; I do not save.
So you’re in favor of harems then, is what you’re saying. You want to be in the harem.
I’m a practical girl.
Quite impractical, really. You’ll give him your youth, and if you’re “lucky” you’ll have his kid, and you’ll have his child support, but you’ll be miserable beyond belief. You might even kill yourself. At the very least, your kid will be totally fucked up.
Come see me if you want. Just to talk. I’m not going to to reply to another text.
2 days later.
Despite everything I still have some respect for you. That is why I am writing this email to you. It’s a free country and we all get to find out what the consequences of our actions are. I know you’re not Adolf Hitler and you’re not a murderer; you’re just a stupid fucking harem girl.
But the funny part is you’re a harem girl with a brain; I guess you turned it off. In fact I know you did, like he had a switch installed or something, but it’s a switch only you can use, and you choose to use it. But I know you know you can only blame yourself. Probably you were the variety, weren’t you? The intellectual whore amidst the stupid ones.
It’s funny too he has you in his pyramid scheme now. Besides the fact that it’s basically his amusing and evil method for recovering the child support from you by selling you health drinks you’ll never be able to re-sell, they’ll just rot in your garage—besides that, it’s just you using that switch again. I guess I should be glad he didn’t hook you on heroin or something.
As you know, I’m getting married next month. And no, I don’t want you to meet my fiancee.
I’ll always love you too Monica. More when you’re dead. I promise I’ll take care of your kid, okay. Just write a little message saying that you leave your kid to me. Stephanie and I will take care of him. Better than in the Sun King’s clutches.
Not as temporary as you. Your “religious customs” seem to have struck the locals as unsavory. Not the only unsavory thing about you. But here’s the thing, Louis. It is gonna be Bastile Day after all. And it’s gonna be a whole lot of niggers this time, climbing over your gates. But there’s gonna be one white face among them, see? That’s the face you’re gonna want to fire at. Because that’s gonna be me.
[The Sun King]
You do have an active imagination.
My friend in the State Department keeps more accurate records than the LAPD. The LAPD is real forgetful. I guess you knew that.
[The Sun King]
Why not forget me too, Roger? You have a wife. Have a son of your own.
We can’t. Maybe I should just watch on satellite, hmm? Maybe Google will give me a live feed to watch the raid on your compound.
[The Sun King]
Each division of humanity has its purpose, Roger. Yours is to be nanny.