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Scanner by Emily Farris Today on Nerve's culture blog: We bring you more Dita Von Teese from the German Playboy.
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The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Michael Phelps indulges Anderson Cooper in some watersports and Dexter makes a 'bitch move.' Plus: the secret of Tina Fey's scar, revealed!
When we last left our hero, in the spring of 1997, he'd been recovering
from the end of a relationship that had gone on far too long. He'd suffered
the emotional confusion endemic to privileged urbanites in their late twenties,
and his sex life had withered. To revive himself, our hero decided that
he'd travel to Guatemala. There, he concluded, he'd have so much sex that
he'd
soon have to replace the box of thirty-six condoms that he'd packed in
his Dopp kit. It remains a mystery as to why our hero decided that he could
repair
his broken sex life in Guatemala, a country coming out of decades of bloody
civil war, where ninety percent of the population is indigenous Mayan.
In retrospect, escaping to a place with more of a reputation for available
sex, like,
say, France, Brazil, or Thailand, would have served him much better
than traveling to a country whose main industries are political repression
and unbearable sadness. He probably would have done okay in Australia or
New Zealand, too. But our hero, as always, was a massive tool.
As
we begin today's story, our hero, in Guatemala for ten days, has been virtually
held hostage by an insane old lady who fed him thin gruel, made him sleep
on a board and forced him to attend church with her every day. He's also
gotten feverishly drunk by consuming an entire bottle of homemade fruit
alcohol, after which he shattered the empty bottle on the side of a bus,
screamed madly at everyone on the bus (including the other students in
his language
institute)
and broke down in the office of the institute's director, sobbing and
saying that he had no friends and his girlfriend broke up with him. Our
hero needs some R&R.
Thank you, third-person narrative introduction. I'll take it from here. As you
can tell, I'd undertaken an exploitative self-guided "adventure vacation," for
which I'll never forgive myself. Armed with a too-large backpack, I sought the
best possible time for the cheapest possible price. To this end, after my nervous
breakdown, I signed up for a four-day boat cruise down the Rio Dulce, a lovely
tropical waterway eliding the north and south of the country, favored by downscale
yachtspeople and Christian missionaries. This would be my big treat for the vacation,
and also, I was certain, a sexual bonanza.
Sleeping aboard the boat under the stars! Dinners of fresh fish caught from the river and its associated lakes! Solitude and hot sun! Priapic memories are made of this!
When I arrived at the boat dock after a long and uncomfortable
bus ride that seemed glamorous at the time, I met the rest of my sailing party.
The captain possessed skin of leather, a grappling-hook scar that extended from
his belly button to above his nipples, a seemingly laid-back attitude and
an astonishing resemblance to a character in a Jimmy Buffett song. His wife,
an unbelievably stacked twenty-two-year-old law student from Guatemala
City,
came along to torture me. The captain hired two crew members: a chubby cook named
Miguel and a ropy-looking first mate whose name I can't recall. Then there was
my fellow passenger.
The following description may seem a bit derisive, but regular readers of this column know by now that I'm attracted to women, period. I don't really care about things such as complexion, weight, breast size, skin color, quality of breath, or the other usual factors that distinguish one person's taste from another. So
She and I, on
the boat, were heading for our own Blue Lagoon.
just
because I say that my fellow passenger had crooked teeth, a lousy haircut,
a mousy complexion, unshaven legs and hairy armpits doesn't mean I didn't
want to have sex with her. I did, from the first moment. She and I, on
the boat, were heading for our own Blue Lagoon.
That first night down the Rio Dulce we talked and talked and
decided we hated each other. The previous summer, she'd worked on an organic
farm in Northern California, while I'd worked as a reporter/researcher at The
New Republic. The gap seemed unbreachable. She insisted that we listen to
her Edie Brickell and New Bohemians album, which, sadly, was better than
anything I'd brought along. We lay on the deck and looked at the stars.
"They're so beautiful," I said.
My hand gently brushed her arm.
"No," she said.
"No?" I said. "Whaddya mean, no? Look where we are!"
"No," she said.
The next morning, Miguel made us a delicious meal of eggs,
fresh fish, tomatoes and avocado, which was actually what he made for us every
meal, but it was still good.
"I can't believe it's only you two," the captain said. "Last
week I had these four Danish girls who just wouldn't stop partying. They stayed
up all night dancing, and I had to keep docking to buy them more wine. During
the day, they just lay around with their tops off. Those girls would do anything."
To my left, my travel companion thumbed through her copy of
Alice Walker's Possessing the Secret of Joy.
I thought, God must hate me very much.
The next day, we docked at one of the many estancias — built,
I'm sure, by slave labor — that dot the shores of the Rio Dulce. Some of the more
exclusive
spots have their own hot springs. The captain dropped me and my travel companion
off at one such place and told us he'd be back in three hours. She and
I hiked
fifteen minutes into the forest and came upon a scene from myth. Great winged
tropical
birds soared above layers of dripping pre-Cambrian vine. Cragged cliffs
I
was faced with the opportunity for a private steaming mudbath
fuck.
surrounded us from three directions. The air
sang with insects and humidity. From two of the cliffs tumbled delicious,
cool, frothy waterfalls that emptied into two separate pools, connected
by a strip of sulfurous mud.
I developed a plan. After a few minutes, I would make my move,
and she and I would overcome our differences in a bout of private, soaking passion.
She charged into the water and up the bank and began smearing mud on her chest
and face. I knew this would happen.
Two hours later, as we each got drenched under separate falls,
we still hadn't touched. I waded over to her.
"This is like a dream," I said.
"Yes," she said. "Perfect."
"Perfect," I said.
"Perfect," she said.
I moved to kiss her.
"No," she said. Goddamn it, woman! I thought, but didn't say. What the hell?
Two possible answers came to mind then, and they come to mind
now. First, she was quite possibly gay. But in that situation, she could have
conceded
a point. If I'd been in the same situation with another young man, I probably
would have flipped for an afternoon.
Second, she wasn't attracted to me. Again, a strong possibility, but such concerns must be put aside when faced with the opportunity for a private steaming mudbath fuck. I walked many paces ahead of her on the way back to the boat.
That night, we sat up with Miguel and the first mate, chatting.
"Let's play 'I Never!'" she said. Fuck you, I thought.
When it came my turn, I said, "I never had lunch with Newt Gingrich," which, unfortunately, wasn't true.
The statement repulsed her and cast a cloud over the rest of the game. We spent two more days on the boat. I hated both days and the people on board, myself most of all. By the time the trip ended I'd added one more "I Never" to my repertoire.
I never had sex in Guatemala.
n°
Bad Sex With Neal Pollack appears monthly.
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR:
Neal Pollack is
the author of The
Neal Pollack Anthology Of American Literature, Beneath The Axis Of Evil,
and Never Mind the
Pollacks: A Rock and Roll Novel. For a daily
dose of his satirical brilliance,
visit his website, www.nealpollack.com.
He lives in Austin, Texas.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
