Some things definitely get lost in translation. Especially when it comes to matters of politics, religion… and, of course, sex — at least when it comes to sex with a partner I don’t have to inflate.
In case you missed that, let me remind you that sex is like oxygen – you don’t miss it unless you ain’t getting any. And admittedly I’ve been missing it for so long that I forget who ties up who.
Hmm… And being lost in translation sort of reminds of something I once read about sex during the Allied invasion of Italy.
When the American GI’s were marching thru, some of the Italian ‘working girls’ would hold up all the fingers and thumb on one hand to signal to the GI’s what they charged. Naturally the soldier boys figured it was $5. And the girls would be insulted when the GI’s would flash back a smile behind only ‘two fingers.’ – meaning the ‘warriors’ only wanted to pay two-dollars.
However, it turned out that the girls were insulted because they were flashing the five digits to signify 5-cents! And they were offended by what they thought the just-off-the-farm boys only wanting to pay 2-cents!
Hmm… See what I mean about ‘translation’. Every language is a different world. Fortunately body language doesn’t require much conversation.
Which brings me to translating last weekend – at the seashore. In Atlantic City. Which used to be known as America’s Playground. But now, with several of the casinos faltering, and the city nearly bankrupt, the true object of human activity has returned to ‘playing around.’ In the devil’s sandbox.
And let me remind you that ‘horniness’ is the most powerful of human emotions.
And when you’re sitting in your beach chair gazing about at all the flesh and breasts — like a lone bull sniffing downwind over the cowherd in the pasture – the devil gets to playing with more than just your mind.
And it wasn’t just me. I mean, when I went into one of the public toilet facilities up on the boardwalk in the late morning, there was only one other guy in there. Big guy. He had apparently been standing at the urinal for some time – stroking an erection that could launch a jumbo jet.
Slowly. Seriously. Intent on enjoying the pleasure.
And after I finished my long urination and washing my hands he was still at it.
Indeed, life is much weirder than fiction. Actually it’s pretty funny when you realize how absurd it can be. You know, it’s like that ancient mariner had related to me on the beach earlier. He had teased when he caught me peering over my book at a saucy hunk of pulchritude strolling by with her hips waving hello.
“That’s the advantage to growing old,” he said. “We old guys get to the point where we seem to forget that wiping our butt is not the same thing as getting a piece of ass.”
“Uh-huh,” I concurred, wondering on what wave-length he was transmitting. “You don’t say…”
And then he added: “Sex is something that takes the least amount of time, but causes the most amount of problems. I am glad to be over it… Mostly. I mean, there are times…”
And with mock disgust he finally noted: “Ahhhh, life is a bitch.”
“Of course it’s a bitch,” I agreed. “Because if it were a slut it would be easy.”
He seemed to puzzle that one through for a moment or two of self translation. Sometimes it takes awhile. And sometimes way too long.
Anyway… I snorted to the guy stroking at the urinal: “Yo, buddy, you’re scaring the natives.” I added a forced laugh so he hopefully wouldn’t club me up long side my head with that thing. “Me… I’m so premature I can double park at a whore house. But you, what are you doing down there—the whole Nutcracker Suite?”
The big guy turned towards me, still fondling away and smiled ecstatically. “I takes my pleasure in long measures,” he exhaled with some emphasis on the word ‘long’. “I takes my time.”
Ahh-so… Time and again… again. Where is my elephant gun when I needs it? But I guess if you can’t laugh about sex you shouldn’t be doing it – even with yourself.
Does that translate?
Then on the way back to my beach chair strolling along the edge of the ocean, smoking my cigar, I espied some long, tall lean guys in their late 20s and early 30s playing football. One of them had a cast from his fingers to his elbow on his right arm. Yet he was throwing and catching with amazing agility with only his left hand.
“Are you left-handed? I wondered to him.
“No,” he replied, throwing me a perfect spiral pass from 20 yards. “I just do what I gotta do.”
Then a gaggle of well endowed, scantily-clad beauties, laughing from their nearby blanket, snapped his head about: “Now for them I need two good hands to do.”
Like I said, I wasn’t the only bull sniffing up and down the beach. But isn’t it delicious how often folks will be so frank and forthright to a perfect stranger.
Upon returning to my lounge chair I tried chatting up my recent plethora of ‘sexual’ experiences to my friend Adam. He’s a rare case – an honest lawyer. But at this moment, with his earplugs tuned into his I-Pad’s podcast on the Persian Empire, he couldn’t honestly give two shits about most anything interrupting his moment of listening ecstasy.
Hmm… Obviously an intellectual is a person who’s found one thing that’s more interesting than sex.
So I returned to pretending to read my book. But actually I was too distracted by the fulsome promenade of strolling future exes splashing in and out of the frigid, crashing waves.
And after a couple of hours, while madly gulping a couple of liters of water like it was Kentucky bourbon, I suddenly felt the call of nature, again. And it was becoming more than a tad urgent. So I hot-footed it over the sand and down the boardwalk to the same public commodes, all the while hoping that the erstwhile big guy would be finished his measure of pleasure by now.
But there was a line outside. And the entrance doors were locked to both the men’s and women’s facilities. After a bit of hopping from one foot to the other with impatience, a group of us – both men and women – pounded on the doors. Shortly, a little Hispanic guy peeked out and informed us in broken English that he was pressure washing the ‘facilities’.
And just before he slammed and re-locked the doors on us another Hispanic woman shouted at him: ‘But they just cleaned these room when I was here a couple hours ago!’
Hmm… Whatever he was doing in there in the middle of the busy afternoon was certainly taking quite a measure of time. Some passing policemen, who were laughing about our agony, related that there was another facility about three blocks away.
I wasn’t going to make it. So along the way I ducked under the boardwalk. And oh-what-a-relief it is. But then, coming back out into the sunshine this lovely lass in Yoga pants and barely a swim top, sashayed up to me.
She was too thin. Too tall. Too… too… tattoo-less… Too good for me. And she walked right up… reached way down and lightly touched me where a man’s heart and mind is likely to follow.
“You looking for some pleasure?”
Hmm… This certainly could be my day.
When I wondered how much, she flashed both hands twice.
At that I joked, in translation: “You mean 20 cents?”
She wrinkled that pretty forehead, put her hands on her luscious hips and said with a smirk of consternation: “No! You a foreigner or something? That’s 20-American dollars.”
Hmm… 20 bucks to give this chick a lick on the stick?
So we went back under the boardwalk. And just like The Drifters used to sing: ‘Under the boardwalk… we’ll be having some fun.’
And the last thing I remembered thinking was: Ahhhh-one… Ahhhh-two… Ahhhhhhhh… fellatio.
Hmm… Like a great man once advised: Never pass up the opportunity to have sex… or be on TV. After all, sex without love is merely healthy exercise.
And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…