Conversation with Slugs and Sarah

Up late watching slug porn, you confess you had a boyfriend who could spin you like that, slug grace and slug ballet—we don’t touch the topic of slime—and those eyes dangling from tentacle tips must be a kind of love or lust, sighting farther and nearer all at once. (But are those eyes?) Slug sublimity suggests love’s a drag, touch that lingers and leaves a wet trail of memory and... What did we do before YouTube? Boob tube. Boobs we have none; slugs, of course, don’t care, can’t tell girl from boy, (being, you know, hermaphrodites), and only want flesh to fly. Forget their infamous languor—here’s litheness in loving, buoyant miracles of want, one slug spiraling on the axis of another like a globe slapped by an insolent hand. Neither old nor young, we’re familiar with sluggishness, too tired to explain why nothing makes us spin like that: a-swirl, a pirouette, a gyre! It’s either fucking or marriage, I say, saying more than I mean. Why can’t lust be love and love be lust? you’re always asking, even now as the slugs begin their sluggish withdrawal—each complete in love and lust; each mother and father to what they’ve made together; each alone, content, and free.