The Art of Dylan

A prostitute and a socialite widow were best friends. They grew up best friends. Although they took separate paths, they remained good friends. They wrote to each other often and visited each other as time allowed. 

Once the prostitute heard of the socialite losing her husband, she horse and buggied over to her as soon as possible. She brought with her a very peculiar object left behind by one of her loyal patrons. He was a pirate, a world traveler, some would say a treasure hunter. He would visit the prostitute every so often bringing her a multitude of gifts that made her feel like a worldly gal. She had a shelf in her room that left these on display, as she so told me.

This object, as legend goes, can travel a person into time on four occasions. Four travels meant that one person could see two places in time that were not their own yet have two return tickets to their home time.  The object is said to dissolve in the traveler’s hands after their fourth and final return in time. The legend warns travelers that the past is not as romantic as it may seem, and the future may not hold up to all we have hoped.

So the two, after the funeral finished and the stuffy in-laws had gone, got so drunk off rum they thought they’d try it.

They landed in my living room at 5 am on a Friday morning just as I was doing yoga.  

Since it took two phases of the object to jump two people forward, the two left would be what would send them back. The Prostitute sacrificed her opportunity to travel twice, so she could enjoy a nice futuristic vacation with her best friend in need.

They have been living with me for a few weeks now.

Some Random Summer Saturday

Prostitute: Waits in the living room sprawled out naked, ready for Brunch. She proudly and gallantly displays on the folded-up futon, admiring Blanch in the Golden Girls. Her posture is immaculate, her laugh is pure, and her confidence is strong. A coffee mug shaped like a woman’s figure has red lipstick stains etched into the top ring, and the cigar fumes from her right hand swirl into the air. She is soaking up the freedom of sexuality in this era and is absolutely enamored with hairless trends in women. She keeps up with this, ever since living here. Her skin is always silky smooth, especially due to the coconut butter she lathers it up with. 

Socialite: Sits on the edge of the reclining chair, un-reclined. Flipping through a fashion magazine I purchased for them. She has been obsessed with the clothes and shoes of my time. The multitude of trends are endless, and she has become a true fashion connoisseur. Her posture is tight, her ankles are crossed, yet somehow, she looks effortlessly comfortable. A bandeau dress flirts with her body and meets her gladiator sandals mid-calf. She loves not having to wear long sleeves.

I enter, ready in my extremely colorful and floral summer jumpsuit and dark green booted heels. 

Prostitute: Oh, don’t you look darling. Are you ready to get on?

Me: Yes, but what are you going to wear?

Prostitute, feeling playful:  But what ever do you mean? It’s the 21st Century, yes? Shouldn’t we be able to walk around naked like this by now?

Me: Well, no and yes. Depends. Some places allow it.

Socialite: Podsnappery!! What ever do you mean, ALLOW it?

Me: Well, for instance there are some nude beaches in California and some in foreign countries that allow people to freely enter without anything on. There is also a law in Boulder that allows any person to be naked in public if they left their home naked in the first place. However, you cannot leave your home fully clothed then take off your clothes in public.

Socialite: Well isn’t that just as confusing as ever! Frankly, I feel quite naked showing my ankles and shoulders in fact. However, dear, you look way more naked with that dress up to your quim whiskers and all.

Me, with a smirk and a flare of my hand through my hair: It’s called fashion.

We all  giggle.

Prostitute: Blows out a puff of her cigar, waves it in the air and puckers her cheeks

So, what is acceptable anyway?

As I take a deep breathe and remember there is a lot to go over still.

Me: Well, I will exclude any can and cannots about fashion and just talk about what is acceptable first. You can wear a short skirt or a long skirt. You can wear a top that only covers your boobs, or a long sleeve. You can wear whatever kind of dress you want. You can wear tennis shoes or any variation of heels. You can wear baggy pants and tight pants.

Prostitute: Oh my, how I still ever love the idea of slacks for women!

Me: You  do not have to wear a corset but can if you want to. You can wear a head scarf, or not. You can wear underwear or not, but it’s not that socially acceptable to talk about no underwear or wearing thongs. Which I find weird because thongs are the only underwear that do not give me a huge wedgie. The only pair I find comfortable, yet I can’t talk about it without society stating I am “trying to sound sexy.” Or even no underwear for that matter. With yeast infections and all for women, no underwear is a godsend for decreasing that occurrence. Yet, if anyone finds out we aren’t wearing any.. GASP.  Anyway, It’s also okay not to wear a bra, but it’s socially unacceptable to have your nipples showing. Well, I mean, your nipples can poke out if you’re out with friends or on a date or whatever. However, professionally a man’s nipple can show but a woman’s cannot.

Prostitute: Chuckaboo, are you being honest? Even when not wearing a bra is healthier for us, like you have stated? Or the idea that no bra would make my tits stronger, more lifted, and can withstand more materials: I am still not allowed to show my nipple?

Socialite: Child, you haven’t worn a bra in three years. How do you manage to not show your nipples, in a professional speaking manner?

I pull out my nipple covers. Me: These…

Socialite gasps:  Bubble Around! What in the heaven are those?!

Prostitute: Make a stuffed bird laugh! How does that stay on?!

  I pull my jumper down and show them how the silicone rubber pad sits around my nipples.

Me: The only problem is, it’s kind of gross. I mean they aren’t breathable, so they grow very stinky very fast. I have to wash them after every use, which takes time. I used to coverup with Band-Aids before using these pads. The Band-Aids were more breathable but hurt so bad when peeling them off.

Socialite: Don’t sell me a dog!  Men do not have to bear the burden of these? Yet we both can still wear trousers, and work side by side in the same jobs now? Figures.

Me: Exactly.

Prostitute: If I may, I would have thought we’d be way more accepting of something so minute 200 years later. Humans were supposed to be superior in inventions and thought. Yet somehow we have dragged the same stubborn ways all the way with us 200 years later. I’m still thankful for the progress women have made, but I just thought by now it would be milestones further than what it is. The Nipple (she scoffs). The Nipple (she guffaws).

She grabs her nipple with thumb and forefinger, points it at us, scrunches up her face, takes a puff of the cigar, and as she blows it out, laughs. 

Prostitute: The Nipple. The Nipple has stopped men in their tracks since the beginning of time.  Damfino! What bags O mystery, this, right here, stopping a huge gal-sneaker 160 to 200lb man in his tracks.

She looks at the nipple, wags it a bit: As the 21st century bricky would say, ‘You go girl. You strong beast, you!’

We all crack up in a roar of laughter.