On Being Alone (part 1 of what I’m sure will be many):

I’ve only been in Hangzhou for a little over five weeks, so I’m hardly what you could refer to as an “Old Hat” in this Hangzhou game. But I feel I’m acclimatizing quite well. Actually I’m having an incredible time and the other foreign playas here at ZUCC have proven to be invaluable assets to my mental and emotional health. Truth be known, they are the main reason I am having the time I am, and I doubt very little I’d be having as much fun anywhere else. I’m very thankful I’m here and proud to straight represent the Poison Tea Leaves (fo’ rizzle).

Lately however, at the end of the night, I find that I am alone. I don’t like being alone. I miss the warmth of physical contact that only came from my love (you know who) and by the innumerable number of prostitutes that took you know who’s place when you know who wasn’t there. But I miss human contact. The guys here are great but I hardly want to sleep with any of them. Well one, maybe, but it would take a lot of Bushmill’s and a wax job.

I’m not even talking about sex. Carnality aside, I’m only talking about the comfort that comes from having another person’s heartbeat near your own. That sense of security that comes from having someone in your bed that you can hold or snuggle up to when its cold (this is in danger of getting very Dr. Seussy). Perhaps I’m just needy or insecure, or both as well as a myriad of other neurosis inducing psychological shortcomings that have found refuge in my brain.

I’ve always searched for this sense of security in other people because I’ve never quite been comfortable with myself, and I think it largely explains my penchant for oral sex (”muff diving” to the layman). It has that “return to the cave/womb” feel to it (I remember that term from some Freudian book on the nature of man but I never really paid too much attention to or had that much interest in it so I can’t site the reference as accurately as I’d like but you get the picture) that I find very calming. Having your head affectionately nestled between the thighs of a groaning woman tends to have a soothing affect on me.

But lo, there are no thighs for me to burrow between in China, or at least none I am particularly interested in. Even if I were it would do little good. My Chinese is barf (please infer: of poor quality) which means I have no way of communicating with women outside of miming sexual positions and parading around bars with my cock out which I’m not going to do and I think is illegal. There is the off chance I could find someone who speaks some English but how do I ease into, “Listen, I don’t want a relatioship, in fact I don’t even care if you tell me your name. I just want to bury face in your crotch because I’m feeling very vulnerable and alone right now and that tends to help.” I’m not foreseeing a high likelihood of success with that method but it’s the best plan I got going for me at present (I’m not good with women).

So everynight as I prepare for sleep my bedroom feels a bit colder. Everynight’s a little more sterile and solitary than the night prior. Up until I finished my Oscar Wilde collection I could at least go to my slumber with dreams of being a 19th century British Dandy swooning about my melon but now I don’t even have that, and if I read Ex-Libris one more time (which I believe would make an even ten times though some of the essays I’ve read over thirty) I’m going to cross into that freaky realm of book enthusiast I’ve never been comfortable with. Regardless the book kicks supreme ass and is written by Anne Fadiman (you should read it) but I’m straying far from the point and you know this so I don’t know why I felt the need to draw attention to the obvious, but anywho. I guess at the heart of the matter is that it can get lonely in a foreign country (duh), so if you can’t get pussy you better have enough to read.

On the previous post my dear friend Constantin commented:

“And how about you answer the REAL question we’re all wanting to know… uh huh. You know the one.”

I, in fact, DO know the answer to “the one” in which Constantin is referring, and it was not easy to find out. It took several drunken treks to some of your more seedy “massage” parlors but I have definitive proof (my own eyes) that Chinese women do indeed have sideways vaginas.