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The managing editor at Fast Company, an old pal to whom I used to give – God help me – career advice, just asked me to pitch him a story on an Internet trend that no one seems to have covered yet. I’m the perfect person to write it too.
A return to legitimate journalism?
Stay tuned.
The secret to my success as an English As a Second Language instructor is board games. We started out with Candyland, and have now moved on to Monopoly. Candyland was something of a dud because Tibetans don’t actually like sweets very much. But they’re getting quite a kick out of real estate speculation.
“I am brought Boardwalk,” Tenzing announces. “That is right?”
I shake my head. “Remember ‘brought’ means ‘bring’ yesterday. I bring momos today, I brought momos yesterday, I will bring momos tomorrow. ‘Bought’ means buy. I buy Boardwalk today, I bought Boardwalk yesterday, I will buy Boardwalk tomorrow.”
“I will bought Boardwalk,” Tenzing says.
I shake my head again. “I will buy Boardwalk tomorrow. Let’s get out our pads and write that down.”
“English is hard,” sighs Tenzing.
In the spirit of the holiday, I gave them small gifts. Flowering plants. A pot of white narcissus for Tenzing, a red amaryllis for the warrior princess, Baalorma. Maybe I shouldn’t have. They stared at the little green plastic pots with some distress.
“It is flower inside house?” Baalorma asked.
“Well, you can put it anywhere you like,” I laughed. “I think in winter, though, it will die outside the house.”
“Flower inside house,” Baalorma repeated balefully.
Lobsang has a lot of plants inside her house, I’ve noticed. Trailing ivies, aspidistras, spider plants. But all of them green without a hint of color. Had I violated some basic Buddhist or Tibetan taboo without realizing it? Stooooopid me.
“Well, you know, you can plant the bulb outside in the spring!” I burbled cheerfully.
We also ran afoul of the Christian basics once again recently. I’m trying to sneak in reading skills as well as conversation, so I took a Barack Obama bio out of the children’s section for the Tibetans to trade off reading aloud. Barack Obama is very popular in the immigrant community, for obvious reasons, however this particular bio was so loaded with fulsome hagiography that I couldn’t bear to let them read more than a few pages. Barry, born to be mankind’s bridge. Growing towards manhood and the great destiny that waited, in heavenly Hawaii, paradise on earth –
“What means ‘Heaven?’” Baalorma asked. “We learn this before but I cannot remember.”
“In the Christian religion, ’Heaven’ is the place where people go after they die if they’ve lived good lives,” I said.
“Where is Heaven?” Tenzing asked.
“Heaven is somewhere high up in sky,” I said.
“But there is no land high up in the sky,” Tenzing pointed out politely. “Also no air to breathe.”
I shrugged. “Well. Presumably when you’re dead, you don’t have to breathe. Or walk around, I guess.”
“Paradise means Heaven too?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Paradise is where Adam and Eve, the first man and woman, used to live before they screwed up and got kicked out. It’s a garden. Heaven is more a gated community.”
Having a plan has been immensely good for my state of mind. Seeing a blurry white spot way at the end of the darkness I’m tripping, falling, feeling my way through – let’s not call it the light at the end of the tunnel quit yet – has made me more optimistic, reactivated some of my old charisma.
I had a very pleasant time yakking with the Garrison Keilor lookalike who was so charmed, he followed me to the gas station and insisted on buying me a full tank of gas. “Since I probably won’t see you again till after Christmas,” he bubbled.
I make him feel rakish. I guess that’s worth something.
And I’m seriously thinking of having sex with the cop. No, I’m not attracted to him in the slightest. But at this point, I’m not sure I’m capable of feeling sexual attraction as a standalone.
It’s been 21 months since I’ve had sex.
Last time was with the Feckless X. Sex was not one of our many, many problems. As I recall, there was a mirror involved: I liked watching him touch me. Liked watching the elongated fingers of his tanned, capable hands search for, and find, the pearl in the oyster; liked the way my mons was such a cheerful little mound against my abdomen; liked how my arousal made my labia swell and flush a deep carmen red. That’s always been my problem with porn, by the way. I like watching women when they’re sexually aroused, there are clear visual changes, and you almost never see that in porn, not even in Lesbian porn. That’s why the amateur stuff is so much better.
I got off. We fucked. He got off.
We usually had sex once a day. The difference between having sex with him when I was pissed off and resentful and having sex with him when I was kindly disposed, was that in the latter circumstances I preferred vaginal orgasms while in the former, I preferred to have my orgasm during foreplay.
Despite temptation, I remained faithful to B throughout 17 years of togetherness. So it’s been close to 20 years since I’ve had sex with someone who’s not really, really familiar to me, and I must say in a way it’s like being a virgin. I don’t know what to expect or what’s expected.
I think I’m going to insist on a hotel room.
