My parents were leftists who taught me the rich are wicked.

Not always.

I'm in a mansion owned by a woman who cheerfully says "I'm a rich bitch." She even has a T-shirt saying RICH BITCH spelled out in golden stars. And she really is one: she can change into a huge dog! A beautiful, blonde/red bitch. I want to pet her--in both her shapes.

But I'm always unsure, when I meet a big blonde bitch in the neighborhood, if it's really her. If I were sure, I'd change into a dog myself (I know how) and play with her, climb on her, fuck her.

But I don't want to with an ordinary bitch. Just her. My were-bitch. My sweet, smart, rich bitch. So I'd better learn to recognize her without her shirt on. Or her skin.

My parents were leftists who taught me the rich are wicked.

Not always.

Not her.

NOTE IN THE MORNING

As a kid, I once saw a Playboy photo of a grinning girl wearing only a purple T-shirt with golden stars spelling out

"What!?" I thought. "Sex and wealth can be joked about?"

Suddenly my leftist Puritanism about money felt as silly as America's puritanism about sex.

And I, too, shed my old skin.

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