The Whore Flu

“Good morning, ” he sang, picking up the phone.

“I feel like hell,” said the croaking voice on the other end.

“Aches?”

“Yep.”

“Stuffy head?”

“Yep”

“Dry throat?”

“How did you know?”

“You have whore flu.”

“Pardon me?” he coughed.

“Think back to when our table was a receiving line of men at the bar. It was a marvelous thing to see you in action, people would walk by, see you and return to hang out with you, and smooch. It was amazing to watch. No judgment here love, but see the normal fag on a Friday night maybe kisses two or three friends hello at happy hour, then kisses their husband or husbands goodnight, limiting their exposure to fall colds or other smoochtransmitted pathogen. But the whore kisses everything in sight. Add all the bears that are in town Velcro Fur Weekend, and well, much to the anthropological delight of me and other bystanders, he raises the exposure much higher, thus the risk of the whore flu. You’re a walking petri dish, sweets. ”

“I hate it when you are right.”

“I know. Herbal tea, darling, herbal tea.”