I am in Delaware for the weekend, at an artists’ retreat, being hosted by these two lesbians named Y. and H. Y. is 60 and large and round; H. is 56 and small and thin. They have three little dogs and they run a photo gallery full of beautiful, beautiful photos of (at the moment) naked gymnasts. They have been together for ten years (the lesbians, not the gymnasts) and when I arrived, they said, “The only two rules are, one, don’t let the dogs out, and two, no matter what you do, don’t look out the window between 7 and 8 in the morning, because that’s when we go skinny dipping in the pool.”
Sometimes I think it would be so much better to be a lesbian.
But then I remember that I wouldn’t be able to be a whorish slut fag and then I feel okay being just the way I am.
Apparently, by the way, not all of my scruples have disappeared. I’ve been flirting with this gorgeous actor all day; we’ve been talking about going swimming together but clearly meaning something else. I just realized, however, that I am simply incapable of having sex with somebody in a home where I am an unfamiliar guest. I just can’t do that to my hosts.
You can take the boy out of the south. . . .
And the actor is staying at a motel, and that’s just too gross.
I thought I could become a totally unprincipled harlot, but I guess that dream has been crushed.