Coco Mellors

“Anyway, in one of the essays he talks about being able to tell how giving a person is as a lover by how curious they are. You’re meant to actually count in your head how many questions they ask you in a minute. If they ask four or more, then they like to please.”
“And if they ask none?”
“Then you can pretty much assume they don’t eat pussy. Or, you know, dick, if that’s your bag.”
“Pussy,” said Frank quickly. “Is my bag.”
She gave him another of her amused looks.
“I sort of figured.”
“And you?”
“My bag? Dick.” She laughed, then tilted her head to consider this further. “Maybe with a side bag of pussy. But just a small one. Like one of those little clutches you wear to the opera.”
Frank nodded. “An evening purse of pussy.”
“Exactly. As opposed to, like, a duffel bag of dick.”
“A portmanteau of penis.”
“A carry-all of cock.”
“A backpack of boners.”

Reality was sweaty and ugly. It was deodorant stains on black clothing and cold sore cream and utility bills.

“When was the last time you were with a straight man, I’m talking any straight man, and he said something more interesting than what you were already thinking?”

Fun was fine when you were young, but as you got older it was kindness that counted, kindness that showed up.

Why did she feel the need to make everyone, even this waiter, like her? What a thing it must be to be indifferent to indifference.

Everyone I know is either more successful or more interesting than me.

Everyone I know is either more successful or more interesting than me. This realization is nothing new. In fact, it used to feel like everyone I didn’t know was more successful and interesting than me too.

I am dancing slowly, arms outstretched, to Wham’s “Last Christmas.” This is my favorite song of all time. It is full of pathos and insight. Perhaps the real tragedy here is not that George Michael’s heart was given away, but that this beautiful song is relegated to only one month of the year, when its message of unrequited love leading to a deepening resolve to choose more deserving partners is undeniably relevant year-round.

That was the real inheritance from her mother, she thought, more defining than any facial feature or mannerism. They both wanted to disappear.

“What do you do not to feel sad?” I ask.

“I let myself feel sad.”