Slut like you

“Damn baby, I wish I had a slut like you as my girl” the muscular one shouts from behind you.

The word hits me like a second drink, warm and loosening. My fingers curl around the beer bottle the quiet guy handed back to me. I don't flinch. I don't pretend to be offended. I let out a breathy laugh, the sound catching in my throat, and I feel my cheeks heat up in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

‘Slut’. I roll the word around in my head, tasting it. I've never been called that before. Not out loud, not by anyone who mattered. I've been the quiet girlfriend, the devoted one, the girl who folds his laundry and leaves little notes by the coffee maker. The one who asks if she's good enough.

But here I am. In nothing but pasties and boots. Crawling around on the floor in front of four drunk strangers while my boyfriend snores on the ground. And I'm not stopping.

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