Tortoise and the Whore

Alaina Symanovich

That title sucks, huh?  But I was thinking, dear ex-friend, that if in this scenario I have to be the whore, then I’d like for you to be a languid, slimy tortoise.  After all, in the Aesop’s fable the tortoise beats the hare, and in real life your tortoise ass beating my whoring one.  Except I only sorta-kinda whored, and I didn’t do so in any ways that affected you, so I’m thinking you should take my extended olive branch or whatever and forgive me, by which I mean you should accept my Facebook (re-)friend request.  If you’re reticent to take such a drastic step, here’s why you, Queen Tortoise, should capitulate:

1. I didn’t fuck your boyfriend.
2. In fact, I only barely flirted with the idea of fucking your boyfriend, and he wasn’t even your boyfriend then, and it wasn’t as if either of us was sober.
3. I was also, I must add, heartbroken at the time of the almost-fucking, which is worth at least three get-out-of-friend-jail-free cards, all three of which I’m redeeming now.
4. Plus: I may have initiated the kissing, but you’d better believe your blameless boyfriend initiated the bra-unhooking, pants-unzipping part of the evening.
5. Except it probably wasn’t evening; I didn’t get home until well past midnight.
6. Are these facts not comforting? Well, then, lend me your ears for some soothing words: he wasn’t your boyfriend then.
7. You know what he was? A friend.  A mutual friend.  Mutual as in mutual to you and me, two friends who lunched at Panera and compared heartbreaks and recommended books to one another.  I wonder where you lunch now, and with whom.  Probably with the boyfriend.  You two probably buy twin copies of the same book so you can have some nauseatingly sweet couple’s book club.
8. By the way, how is the sex with him? If you’ll recall, I wouldn’t know.
9. And, if you’ll also recall, you’re the tortoise here! You’re the one who got the guy, slow and steady, and I’m just the one who lolled around with him in a twin bed one night when we were bored and wasted.  I’m the whore/hare, the fast-in-more-ways-than-one firecracker who flares out before the night’s end.  You won, O Tortoise.
10. Plus you’re, like, a solid nine on the babe scale, and I’m a six (?) on a good day, which is a tragically rare occasion anyhow, so you probably shouldn’t be so bent out of shape about my existence.
11. Although, to my credit, I did learn how to French from a gay man who called himself Hurricane Tongue, so maybe that bumps me up to a six-point-five. But that’s still light-years behind your nine, gal.
12. And, for the love of all that’s holy, it’s just Facebook! I just want to see what you ordered at Au Bon Pain and what bands you like!  I’m not asking for an invite to the wedding or anything.
13. Speaking of weddings, my girlfriend (!) proposed and I said yes. So, really, I’m a safe Facebook-friend-inviter, not some harlot gunning for your man, and you should make haste to click that confirm button that’s been smiling at you for, like, a year and counting.
14. Unless you already clicked deny, in which case you are definitely not invited to my lesbian wedding, and your boyfriend definitely

 

Alaina Symanovich studies creative nonfiction in the MFA program at Florida State University. Her work has appeared in Sonora Review, Quarter After Eight, Superstition Review, Santa Ana River Review, and other journals.  Her essay “The M Word,” first published in Fourth River, was awarded Best of the Net in 2016.