“Have you ever met a slut?” my companion asked over dinner last night.
The restaurant had two outdoor tables and we got one of them.
An American in his fifties was filming the owner of the restaurant who was busy explaining the wine to the American.
“Well,” I said, “sometimes I think of myself as a slut and of course I know promiscuous people, but a real slut, a person who engages in casual sex with different people on a daily or weekly basis, no, perhaps not.”
“And your friend X?” my companion asked.
“X, no way,” I said. “A sex worker is not a slut. For a slut sex is a hobby. She is not my friend anymore by the way. But how about your friend Y?”
“No,” my companion said, “probably she was a slut, but since she is together with Z she stopped being a slut. And being a slut didn’t make her happy. Don’t fool yourself. It was pure despair.”
“So a slut is never happy?” I asked.
“And we don’t know any sluts personally?”
“Apparently not,” my companion said.
Then we finished our meal.