Sarah Stewart Taylor, friend of the Tarts and author of the critically acclaimed mystery series featuring art history professor Sweeney St. George, returns with the harrowing conclusion to her story of youthful misadventure.

by Sarah Stewart Taylor    

Out on the street, I stood for a minute and tried not to freak out. I didn’t have enough money left for a hotel.  A group of young men standing outside the train station had started watching me.

So I did what anyone would do (right?) — I walked into the nearest bar and ordered a bottle of wine, paying for it with my last couple of coins.  I was sitting down with my bottle, preparing to polish it off, when a young guy wearing a black turtleneck came over and said, "Are you American?"  He spoke almost perfect English, but with a little bit of a slavic roll to his words.  I nodded.  "I am very sorry to bother you, but I must ask, do you know the work of the director Martin Scorsese and also of the director Francis Ford Coppola?  I like very much these directors and always want to tallk to an American about them."  As it happened, I also liked very much Scorsese and Coppola.  And, I was lonely and scared.

His name was Milan.  He was cute and he was with two huge guys wearing leather jackets and sporting severe crew cuts.  I joined them at their table.  Milan told me they were all students at the University of Belgrade and they were going on a vacation together because, he said in a nonchalant way, "Soon we go to fight in army."  This was the winter of 1992.  The war in Croatia had already started and Bosnia was just about to declare independence.  He was Serbian, from Belgrade.  He said one of his friends was from Bosnia.  I never sorted out who was fighting for what army against whom.  As the bar prepared to close, I told them I was going to wait outside the train station all night and hope I didn’t get mugged.

That was when they said they could drive me, right now, right to the bus station where I was meeting our Belgian exchange student.  They had a car outside.  I think I hesitated, but eventually the four days without sleep and the bottle of wine conspired to make me reckless and it didn’t take me long to wave off the voices in my head telling me that you never, ever get in a car with a man you don’t know, not to mention three men you don’t know, in a strange country, knowing you’re going into remote mountains.

I still can’t believe I did it, but we piled into the car and we had a great time, talking about film and drinking champagne out of big bottles they pulled out of a cardboard box in the trunk.  As the sun rose, we stopped for coffee and I took a picture of them standing in front of their car.  When they dropped me at the bus station, they told me to have fun skiing and Milan gave me a chaste kiss.

Everyone I’ve told that story to says the same thing:  "Were you crazy?  They could have killed you.  No one knew where you were."

They’re right.  It was really, really stupid.  As a mystery writer, I’ve thought about the "what if?" over and over, pictured my body lying on the side of the road.  And if a young woman I care about ever told me she’d done the same thing, I would be horrified.  Over the next few years, reading the headlines out of Bosnia, I often looked at the picture I’d taken of them and wondered whether they were alive and what they’d been through.  I wondered about the horrible things that may have happened to them, that they may have done, may have been asked or forced to do, or may have done of their own accord.

But it’s one of my absolute favorite memories — watching the sun rise as we drove up into the Alps, all of us young and reckless and in our own way, scared of what was ahead.

Thanks to the Book Tarts for hosting me.  What about you?  What dangerous things have you done? And given the choice, would you do them again?

Sluts

By Rebecca the Bookseller, who isn’t one (I even took the test, so I know)

Everybody’s a critic. So I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that a critic once labeled one of our very own Book Tart’s female characters as Sluts. Are you kidding me?

Look, I think we all know a slut or two, maybe even in the biblical sense. Maybe even - dare I speak it? Some of us, during certain times of our lives, could’ve been labeled as a slut. Hmmm. Before you can answer that question, you need to know what a slut is.

According to Wikipedia, source of information on all things, a Slut is a pejorative term for a person (usually female) who is more sexually promiscuous than is deemed socially acceptable. The term has traditionally been applied to women and is generally used as an insult or offensive term of disparagement. Slut has also been reclaimed as a slang term in the BDSM, polyamorous and gay and bisexual communities. The term is not interchangeable with whore or prostitute as those terms denote a person who engages in sex for money.

Well, as long as they weren’t calling them whores. OK - now why is it usually female? Well, the term is from the Middle English ’slutte’ which referrred to a dirty or slovenly woman. Our man Chaucer, however, used it to refer to men, which is nice. But it did, and does, normally refer to women. Why? You know why. Because men who sleep around are ‘The Man’ or ‘The Dawg’ or ‘The Big Dog’. It’s a badge of honor. Women, not so much, even though the Big Dawg is certainly not in it alone, if one believes his CV.

People who believe that men and women should be subject to the same standards of sexual behavior even have different terms for men - Pig, for example. I liked Mimbo, but it never caught on. How about Mutt - a combination of Man and slut? No offense to the actual canines, of course.

Still not sure whether someone is a slut? Check out the Slut Test at OKCupid.com. And no, I’m not putting the link in here, you lazy tramp. Kidding.

Now, for those of you waiting, patiently or not, for the bits about the other sexual communities, chill and learn. Good news for Sluts everywhere. And it came to pass that two angels from San Francisco appeared before the sluts and said - “Fear not! We bring you glad tidings that:

a slut is a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.” (Easton, Dossie & Catherine A. Liszt, The Ethical Slut, San Francisco 1997, p. 4, emphasis in original). A slut is a person who has taken control of their sexuality and has sex with whomever they choose, regardless of religious or social pressures or conventions to conform to a straight-laced monogamous lifestyle committed to one partner for life. The term has been taken back to express the rejection of the concept that government, society, or religion may judge or control one’s personal liberties, and the right to control one’s own sexuality. This modern application for the term has given it a less derogatory and a more experienced tone.

Amen. There’s a good bumper sticker: Sex is nice and pleasure is good for you. And a great choice for your next book club folks: “The Ethical Slut”. Who says we don’t talk about books around here?

They do have a point - one partner for life? Fugeddaboudit! In many schools, these kids have more than one partner before the end of the Junior Prom, for heaven’s sake.

So to the critics who think that one of our favorite heroines is a Slut - Wake Up! Last time I checked, and believe me, I had Margie do the due diligence on this one, not one of our Book Tart’s protagonists were even remotely slutty, let alone polyamorous or even bisexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

What do you think?

By Sarah

Shortly after we were married and, worse, following  a round of marital lovemaking, I was slipping  out of bed when my new husband casually observed that I could afford to lose a few. Pounds that is. Looking back, I forgive him for being a newlywed unaccustomed to the powerful punch sex, body image and weight can pack for women. If he wasn’t aware of his folly then, he certainly was aware of it after my tears and questions, the cries and recriminations that I unleashed.

Hell hath no fury like a woman called fat.

With the privilege of seventeen years of hindsight (not to pun), I understand where he was coming from. Charlie’s fit. Always has been, always will be. For him weight loss is a simple game he learned to play as a championship wrestler sweating out pounds in the sauna, starving for two days before hopping on the scale and qualifying for a lower weight class. I can distinctly recall his confusion at my outrage. So, I needed to drop a few pounds. What was the big deal?

Men deal with their weight without emotion, why can’t women? Why was I so upset?

For that answer, one need look no further than yesterday’s New York Times and the article on BMI (body mass index) "report cards" dozens of schools across the country are sending home to parents. Go. Read the piece. I’ll wait until you come back.

Back yet? Okay. Here’s the question: What is the notable thread that runs through this article on how kids and their parents have reacted to the BMI report cards?

Answer: The only students interviewed or profiled are - girls.

That’s right. Not one boy in the article. So striking was the absence of how boys felt about being labeled overweight that I had to reread the clip to see if only all girls schools were sending home BMI report cards. Nope. Public schools. Boys and girls. Ha, ha. I guess there were no overweight boys. Right? Right?

Of course there were overweight boys. Probably tons of them. I know because I am embarrassed to  say that when I’m burnt out on writing, I like to hang out at EB Games trying the latest version of Guitar Hero. There I’ve met my share of fluffy adolescent males (and their fathers). Trust me, we do not have a shortage of pudgy boys.

Now, I happen to be from Pennsylvania where most of the reporting for this article was done. Yes, parts of Pennsylvania have lousy, and I mean lousy, eating habits. Funnel cake (as mentioned in the article), smorgasbords, fries, pretzels with cheese - this is the food I grew up with. So when the reporter Jodi Kantor noted that 60 percent of the 8th grade class in a Central Pennsylvania town scored in the 85th percentile or higher for weight (including a fully quarter in the 95th) I know she wasn’t talking only girls.

Yet, one paragraph later and the reference is to the "size 20" homecoming queen. Skip down some more to a nearby town and:  "On a recent school trip to New York, the girls felt like visitors from a different, chubbier planet, they said."

Really? How did the boys feel? Did anyone even think to ask?

They were fine, I assume. I imagine that after their New York trip they returned home to their PS2s, helped themselves to another fistful of Doritos giving nary a thought to their hipper, thinner more urban counterparts.

This reminds me of television shows and movies where the dorky fat guy with LOTS of personality (Jack Black, Jim Belushi, John Belushi, John Candy) somehow ends up with the lithe gorgeous girl. Yet play it in reverse? Nope. Not gonna happen.

I see this male I’m-fat-so-what mindset everywhere, especially the mall. Overweight guy adopts the uniform - loose T-shirt, baggy shorts - shaves his head, grows a goatee or a soul patch, slips on some shades and suddenly he’s supposed to be —- hot?

When is this going to end? When are we going to stop assuming that overweight = overweight girls, that it’s more of an attractiveness issue than a health issue?

If we could subtract the emotionally laden subtext embedded in our culture that overweight women are unattractive, unsexy, unstylish possibly under educated and just plain stupid, we might be able to get a handle on this obesity epidemic without bringing women to tears.

When I wrote The Cinderella Pact, my best selling book to date, about women coming to terms with weight loss, the letters I received by the truckload were mostly variations of the same point - thanks  for pointing out that weight is just that, weight. Extra pounds. Unburned stored fuel. It has nothing to do with who we are as people. We women need to accept this simple mathematical fact and move on to our goals.

Not so easy to do when the New York Times implies to millions of readers that, really, it’s just a girl thing.

Sarah - trying to cool off!

By Elaine Viets

“I had to cut my hair for a new job,” a gentleman told me. “I’ve always had long hair and a neat, well-trimmed beard. To get this job, it all had to go – the hair and the face fur.

“When the barber finished shearing me, I could hardly look in the mirror,” he said. “I looked like a boiled egg. But it was a good job, with more money than I’d made in a long time. Besides, the boss told me I could wear my hair longer in a couple of months.”

“‘It’s just hair,’ I told myself. ‘It will grow back.’

“Here’s what surprised me. Ever since that haircut, I’m getting women telling me how good I look. It’s not true. I don’t look good and I know it. My face was more in proportion with long hair. The beard gave me a stronger chin.”

The man was not exaggerating. I saw the before and after versions. He looked better with long hair. He appeared to be about fifty. In his hairy days, he didn’t wear his blond hair down to his shoulders, but sort of early Beatles long. It gave him an artistic look. The neatly trimmed beard made his face seem thinner and emphasized his cheekbones. His long nose was elegant and distinguished. Put him in velvet and a white ruff, and he could pose as a portrait of an English lord. With short hair and tie, he was attractive enough, but round-faced and ordinary, like a CPA or a high-level government employee.

“What’s going on?” he said. “I’ve never been hit on so much in my life. I’m not complaining. I’m just curious. I thought women had a better idea of what looks good.”

Hair is a fashion statement for many women. Short hair can be stylish for younger men. But in the business world, short hair is a sign of submission – especially for men. Remember Samson and Delilah? Samson’s power was in his long hair. Cut it, and he was nobody special. Monks shave themselves a tonsure – a self-made bald spot. And modern men cut off their long hair to climb the corporate ladder.

Women rarely hear a boss say, “If you want a job, Jennifer, you have to cut your hair.” Men get it all the time.

“I understand that,” the gentleman said. “But I don’t understand why I’m suddenly attractive.”

It depends on how women like their men: conventional or with a wild streak. I like mine with long hair. It’s romantic to run my fingers through a man’s hair. I like to see his locks blowing in the breeze – and spread out on my pillow. If you check out the covers of romance novels, you’ll see very few men with buzz cuts embracing the heroines.

But for many women, long-haired lovers are strictly the stuff of fantasies. When it comes to serious long-term relationships, these women don’t want an unpredictable man. They’re afraid some day he’ll walk out the door, hop on his Harley and disappear for no reason. They’ll be stuck with the mortgage, the kids and the bills.

For the long haul, they like their men safe, shorn and sitting at a desk. And that, sir, is you.

Congratulations. You have become the ultimate sex object: A good provider.