The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, If "Pants" was the Name of a Boy we all Fucked

by Enry Iggins & Anais Thin

I’m fascinated by my boyfriend’s exes. It’s not jealousy, or some misplaced ambisexual lust; I just like to think about them. Like, one of them was this total punk goddess who was addicted to like everything and is married now. One was a blonde surfer girl in high school who turned into a desert-bound sparrow in college. She tried to kill herself because she was named after a song about a woman who tries to kill herself. One had red hair like me, but she was a cunt, and you never had very good sex. A lot were just for one night or one week – lesbians who found your sensitive unique in the male gender, sad strippers who were lonely (like you) in Austin and on Craigslist, Europeans finding themselves in French bars while you got drunk on schnapps. Sometimes, I want to gather all of these women together, and take us all out to brunch. I’m the youngest, but I think I probably siphon the most money from my dad’s bank account, so I won’t mind paying. Besides, it’d be my idea. We’d all sit around at a big round table and order English muffins with Hollandaise sauce, but no bacon, because I think we’re all either vegetarian or Jewish or both, and we’d have a few rounds of mimosas and small talk and point out the waiter’s cute ass. We’d subtly judge each other’s outfits for being out-of-date or too slutty, and we’d compare our bodies with each other. I’d bring measuring tape and scales and fashion magazines just so we’d all be able to compare ourselves properly. We’d all have to know exactly were we’d stand. Maybe I’d bring a gynecologist along too, to tell us who had the prettiest vaginas, and who had herpes. And then, we’d probably all start to bond, sing “I Will Survive” with each other or “We Are Family” or “Natural Woman” or some other song by a black artist that white girls like to sing in groups, and it’d be really beautiful for a while, us in our pantsuits. Well, only one of us would be in a pantsuit. I just imagine one of us in an ecru pantsuit. Maybe we’d all be in ecru though. And then we’d start painting our ecru clothes with the Hollandaise sauce and the various little packets of jellies and jams, so that we’d be more beautiful than each other. And then, when all the points of conversation were finally exhausted, we’d all go off to our cars and go home and try not to think about the hour we spent with the women we swore ourselves to hate.

Anais and Enry share an award for superiority in fictional nonfiction and were nominated for an award for acrostics. Enry trains miniature Audrey Hepburns and Anais is currently editing a collection of short stories The Son of Crazy Cock. It's quite erocative.

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