Confessions of a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories

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Overview

The next "screamingly hilarious"(Miami Herald) installment in the wild ride that is the life of Hollis Gillespie.

Confessions of a Recovering Slut is the hilarious and often heartrending sequel to Bleachy–Haired Honky Bitch, which concludes with Hollis Gillespie, the daughter of a missile scientist and an alcoholic traveling trailer salesman, at last finding a home of her own. Unfortunately that home just happens to be in one of Atlanta's most ...

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Confessions of a Recovering Slut: And Other Love Stories

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Overview

The next "screamingly hilarious"(Miami Herald) installment in the wild ride that is the life of Hollis Gillespie.

Confessions of a Recovering Slut is the hilarious and often heartrending sequel to Bleachy–Haired Honky Bitch, which concludes with Hollis Gillespie, the daughter of a missile scientist and an alcoholic traveling trailer salesman, at last finding a home of her own. Unfortunately that home just happens to be in one of Atlanta's most dangerous crack neighborhoods–but the place is bound to improve, right?

Wrong. In Confessions, Gillespie is plagued by missing human torsos, murdered policeman, and a drug dealer who keeps setting fire to her neighbor's house–and all this after Hollis discovers that she is inexplicably (except, maybe, for all that acrobatic sex) pregnant. While the neighborhood might have been fine when she was a child–free urban pioneer, it's a nightmare for a mother with nothing but cake pans to bulletproof the baby's room. Gillespie must depend on her three best friends, Daniel, Grant, and Lary, to help her–although Lary makes it no secret that he hopes the paint fumes she inhaled early in her pregnancy will cause the baby to be born inside out–"that way it'll be easier to sell for parts."

Will Gillespie ever feel safe? No matter, she's still Hollis at heart–and, as Lary points out, if not safe, at least "safe from ever being normal."

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Editorial Reviews

Bust
“Gillespie masterfully mines her eccentric childhood, work travails, and misadventure for laugh-out-loud humor and eye-moistening pathos.”
Vanity Fair
“Riotous . . . rib-crackingly funny.”
Entertainment Weekly
“Raucous.”
Writer's Digest
“Gillespie’s irreverent wit and hilarious observations are reverberating far beyond the trailer park.”
Booklist
Praise for Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch:“Irreverent and earthy.”
Entertainment Weekly
“Raucous.”
Writer's Digest
“Gillespie’s irreverent wit and hilarious observations are reverberating far beyond the trailer park.”
Booklist
Praise for Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch:“Irreverent and earthy.”
Vanity Fair
“Riotous . . . rib-crackingly funny.”
Bust
“Gillespie masterfully mines her eccentric childhood, work travails, and misadventure for laugh-out-loud humor and eye-moistening pathos.”
Publishers Weekly
NPR commentator Gillespie follows her debut collection of autobiographical essays (Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch) with more tales from Atlanta's dark side. This latest installment of entertaining but uneven pieces uses as fodder Gillespie's friends, family, work as a flight attendant and neighborhood of "drug addicts, whores, and crack dealers." The author's straightforward writing style does not limit her subject matter, and she finds humor in the bleakest subjects, like her mother's death from liver cancer or her neighbor's house being set on fire. The pieces range from lighthearted to downright depressing, and as a collection can feel repetitive, as Gillespie retells her family's history whenever she writes about them. Her strongest writing appears when she's talking about her young daughter, Milly (e.g., in "The Dead Guy," she relates trying to distract Milly as they drive by a dead person on the side of the road-which is evidently not an uncommon occurrence in her neighborhood). Gillespie's work may appeal to readers in the Atlanta area and fans of her NPR commentaries and previous book, but might be too grim for a wider audience. (July) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780060834388
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 5/30/2006
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 1,015,864
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.25 (h) x 0.68 (d)

Meet the Author

Hollis Gillespie, a Writer's Digest Breakout Author of the Year, is a regular commentator on NPR's All Things Considered, the award-winning writer of "Mood Swing," a humor column published in Creative Loafing, Atlanta's major alternative weekly, and author of "The Ugly American," a travel column for Paste magazine. Also the author of Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch, which Vanity Fair called "rib-crackingly funny," she lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with two cats, an incontinent pit bull, and her six-year-old daughter.

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Read an Excerpt

Confessions of a Recovering Slut

And Other Love Stories
By Hollis Gillespie

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2005 Hollis Gillespie
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060562072

Chapter One

Big Enough

I bet there are better ways to test your boyfriend's affections than to fake like you're considering breast implants, but I was winging it, people. For one, this guy technically didn't consider himself my boyfriend, so that right there might have been my problem.

"I'm considering breast implants, what do you think?" I asked him, knowing full well I have never, not even for a nanosecond, considered puffing myself up like a blowfish. I was just grasping for compliments, expecting him to fawn all over the place about how my stupid ass is already perfectly fine, especially my tits, which are big enough.

Not huge, mind you. Let's get that straight, though sometimes when I put on my special Robo Bra, the kind that magically grabs fat from my ass and pushes it all the way around so it sits up under my chin, I must say I can fake people into thinking I have cleavage as big as the butt crack of a college freshman, but that is fairly seldom. When I remove that bra there are always big red half moons embedded beneath each boob thanks to the underwires, and there are not many occasions when such a result is worth the effort, though passing through security at the Frankfurt airport certainly qualifies. That bra always sets off bells like a four-alarm fire, which means I'm set to get felt up like a drunk coed at a frat bash. It's wonderful.

Anyway, here I am sitting across from this guy over spaghetti, probably with pesto in my teeth, blobbering on like the pathetic idiot who is providing him oceans of commitment-free sex that I am, trying to cop some compliments on top of what will hopefully be a free meal, and thankfully he looks up at me with worry.

"I had a friend who got implants, and they took forever to heal," he begins, launching into this long story about the sufferings of this poor girl. I was thinking, Wow, isn't that nice? He's concerned about me. Sadly, even though you might be sleeping with someone, concern isn't always evident. I once worked a flight where two first-class passengers who just met got drunk and ended up humping each other like fuck-crazed hounds right there in their seats, which is not at all something I'd recommend. Anyway, the plane was making a stop in Lexington, Kentucky, before continuing on to some other city, and damn if that man didn't get up and leave that poor passed-out lady lying there spread out like a TV dinner for all the other people to gawk at as they disembarked. Christ, he could have covered her up, I thought to myself as I covered her up. So you see? Concern, I tell you, is not always a given when a lonely woman reaches out for affection.

So there I was, a lonely woman reaching out for affection to this man who could not possibly have been a worse match for me. He was Catholic, for one, and I was raised by an atheist and a trailer salesman who, even though he was not atheist, didn't want his daughter getting a God habit that would require him to drive her to church, thereby cutting into his Sunday morning beer time at the local tavern.

Oddly, I recently graduated from a Catholic college, though I'd managed to do so without ever having set foot in its cathedral, which I hear was really nice. I remember people were always getting married in there, and I'd be bustling off to the financial aid office to stock up on all my soon-to-be-defaulted student loans when all of a sudden I'd have to dodge a crowd of people who looked to me to be dressed for a funeral until I saw the goddam eighties parade float that passed for a bride.

"Yippee for her," I always thought, because I had a lot of Catholic girlfriends and I know what they go through with all that fake sex until the wedding day, all those Indian burns on their pubic bones from the endless dry humping. "Forget that," I'd laugh at them. "I'll be over here having real sex with a soccer player on top of a running washing machine."

So other than that thin connection to Catholicism, this guy and I did not have a thing in common. For one, he actually told me that I should feel good because, of all the girls he was sleeping with, I was the only one he actually allowed in his bedroom, and that is not even the most pathetic part. The most pathetic part is this: I did feel good when he said that.

To top it off, here he was being all concerned about me, too, telling me about the horrors his friend had to endure with her own breast-implant fiasco. "I swear, she was bedridden for weeks," he continued, "and then, to make matters even worse, the implants were the wrong size. They weren't big enough, so she had to go back to the hospital and get them redone and go through it all over again."

Gosh, I sighed as he took my hand in his, he really cares for me. "So, in a nutshell," he finished, "if you're going to get implants, just make sure they're big enough."

Continues...


Excerpted from Confessions of a Recovering Slut by Hollis Gillespie Copyright © 2005 by Hollis Gillespie. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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