Why Can't I Use a Smiley Face Page 3

  When her drink was halfway gone, and she was no longer starting new lines of conversation, I decided to tighten the vice and get closer to her lips to feel out where I stood. The first time I got close, she looked at my lips for a second, smiled, then looked away. I was close. Ten minutes later, I came in again and she didn’t turn. We kissed in front of her crew. Thankfully, she didn’t give any commentary on what was happening. My boner stayed engorged for much of the remaining time with her.

  “Now I’m just going to put this out there,” I said, “but my friends are at a bar down the street and I’d feel like a bad friend if I didn’t go there before the night is over, since I’m only in town for a month. You don’t have to tell me now if you want to go, but just keep it in mind.”

  I planted the seed and then watered it with some passionate kisses that I always pulled away from first. I wanted her to get hooked on the kisses so that when I announced my intention to leave, she would decide to come in order to continue receiving the pleasure.

  I finished my drink five minutes later and said, “Okay, why don’t we head down there? We’ll have one drink and if it sucks, we’ll come back.”

  “I just need to say goodbye to my friends,” she replied.

  A small procession formed and she had to give parting words to a number of female friends, followed by hugs and kisses, as if she was never going to see them again. It took me less time to say goodbye to my friends when I had last left the country.

  We went to the basement bar where I gave knowing nods to Virgle and Rookie. I ordered a round of drinks and we kissed for a while until about twenty minutes later when I felt she was ready for sex. I said, “Let’s go outside. ” She nodded.

  Before I could ask her where she lived, she said “I’m two blocks away” and started walking in the direction of her apartment. I chatted nonstop to distract her from having to make a conscious decision about sex but it didn’t work, because she asked me if I had condoms.

  “Yes, I have one.”

  “Okay, good, because there’s a pharmacy a little farther and we could go,” she said.

  “I’m straight.”

  We walked into a basement apartment she shared with a roommate. Two black cats emerged from the living room to greet their master and she made baby sounds to express her love for them. We settled into her room and she put on The Weeknd, a singer I had played for some two dozen women after bringing them back to my pad. His songs are primarily about sex and drugs, so I knew I was definitely going to tear her pussy up in a moment or two, as if there was any doubt.

  I used a condom the first go-round and gave it to her good, but was unable to cum and had to roll off her. Her body was perfection and I wanted to get there, so I told her that I wouldn’t blast inside her (she had mentioned earlier that she wasn’t on the pill). She let me put it in raw and a short time later I came all over her chest.

  After cleaning up, before my heartbeat had even a chance to settle, she said, “You don’t have to stay.”

  “Wait, you want me to leave?” I said.

  “I didn’t say that. I just said that you don’t have to stay.”

  “Look, I’m not stupid,” I said. “‘You don’t have to stay’ really means ‘If you want to leave now, then leave.’”

  “Well, yeah.”

  At a time when I thought she’d want to hold me tight to soak in the moment, she was ready to kick me out like a dog. I don’t remember that in any of The Weeknd’s songs.

  I said, “Okay. The metro opens at 7:00 in the morning. I’ll leave then.”

  “It’s just that in the morning I don’t want to do stuff. I’m not a morning person.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not like I was going to take you out to brunch. You won’t even hear me leave.” I really didn’t want to pay for another taxi to the suburbs.

  She softened a bit and we talked. I told her how things were in Europe, where some girls fell in love after sex. “I don’t want a relationship,” she said, abruptly.

  She was twenty-four, in the prime of her beauty, and was going to delay a relationship until she reached an age where she would have no choice but to settle for a lesser man, all so she could become an expert at making advertising banners on a computer.

  She didn’t ask me any questions. She gave me no compliments, either about my look, personality, conversation, or sex technique. I was just a disposable cock for her Saturday night amusement, and the next day I’d be worth maybe a ten minute recap for her friends at the Starbucks down the street. She’d discuss my flaws and her friends would laugh. She’d go to work the day after that and read articles on the Internet about how men need to man up, how women make less than men for the same work, and how you can still be healthy if you’re fifty pounds overweight.

  Before she went to sleep, there was so much I could’ve said to challenge her beliefs, but it was no use. I wasn’t going to change her mind. She had made her bed, and as long as I was lying in it, I wanted to fuck her pussy one more time. She let me. She made a lot of noises as if it was the best sex for her in the world, but her pussy was getting dry, enough that I regularly had to spit on it. Her screams didn’t match the feedback from her sex organ. I knew she was acting, but I definitely wasn’t as I grunted my way to a second orgasm. We both fell asleep.

  I woke up a little after 7:00 and got dressed. I decided not to ask her out, since I was sure she didn’t want to see me again, but that felt like such a cold way to leave things. We kissed, we had some interesting conversation, and fucked three times—it didn’t feel right not to extend a bridge.

  I found a piece of paper on her desk and wrote, “If you want to say hi…” then added my email address. I wondered whether to leave a smiley face or not. My naked dick was inside her and I came all over her body, so why not? I had a vision she would show off that note in front of her friends and say, “What a loser! He drew, like, a smiley face. So when is happy hour this week?” After debating it for two minutes, I decided to draw the smiley face. I gave her a peck on the cheek and left.

  She never emailed me.

  The Argument

  On Sunday afternoon I went to my mom’s house. We sat at the kitchen table and she offered me all kinds of food and drink. It’s a habit I got from her. Whenever a girl comes to my apartment, I ask what she wants, eager to serve. A woman has cooked for me maybe seven times in my life, but I’ve cooked for women more times than I can remember.

  My sister joined us at the table, and then, suddenly, they tag-teamed me. My mom said, “You need to start respecting women more. You can’t hurt them like you do.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because you have to.”

  “Yes, but why should I respect women more?”

  “Because they’re women!”

  I looked outside the window and said, “So you’re saying that every woman out there on the street should be treated like a princess?”

  “No, but you can’t hurt them. You have to treat them better.”

  My sister chimed in, “How would you like it if a guy treated me or Mom like that?”

  “I’d be happy for both of you.”

  They looked at each other wide-eyed. I said, “When I date a girl, she rarely has to pay for anything. I tell her good stories about my travels. I teach her things I’ve learned in life. I take her to places she’s never been. I bring her to a comfortable apartment. I cook for her. I make her drinks. I give her good love in bed. I barely lie to them. I really hope both of you can meet a guy like me.”

  My mom said, “Yes, but…” though nothing came out.

  “And what do I get in return? Only their vagina. They don’t entertain me. They don’t buy me things. They don’t stimulate my mind. They rarely do anything for me, like cook a big meal or a nice cake. If anything, I respect them too much. I should ask for much more.”

  “No, son, you must respect them.”

  “Mom, you think that things are like how they were in the ‘60s or ‘70s. You have no
idea what it’s like now and how women sleep around and don’t want commitment. They don’t even want respect, they just want sex. Before they hit thirty, they’ve already been with a couple dozen guys.”

  “That’s not how it is in Turkey. There’s a tradition.”

  “This is not Turkey! Do you go out on Friday or Saturday night here in DC? Do you talk to men my age and ask what they have to go through? Do you know it only takes a couple hours to get a girl to open her legs? You want me to respect girls who do that every other weekend?”

  She backed down and softened her tone. She had disapproved when I quit my job, but I didn’t listen to her. She had disapproved when I started living abroad, but I made my trips longer. I give her points for still trying.

  Sometimes it takes a while for a person’s true feelings to come out. For the longest time they both seemed amused at my lifestyle and the writing that came out of it, but now I knew what they really thought. They objected enough to challenge me like an anonymous woman would on my blog. At the same time, I remembered why following my mom’s advice when I was younger led to no sex or intimacy with women.

  Things cooled down and we talked about Croatia and how the culture was in some ways similar to Turkey. My sister didn’t stay in the room because the Washington Redskins game was on. I didn’t remember her being such a fan, especially since she was hooting and hollering. I said, “You know, I forgot to tell you that I’m only here for a month. When I leave there will be ten more games. Then the playoffs. Then the Super Bowl.”

  “Ew, stop being an asshole,” she said. “Our lives don’t stop just because you’re in town.”

  I bit my lip, not wanting to escalate to war. I began to feel just as welcome in my mother’s house than in the girl’s apartment from the previous night.

  When you come back from a long trip, there are two things that can happen with your family and friends: you either get closer to them or get further away. I knew which road this was taking. Now that I knew my mom and sister didn’t agree with how I lived, how could I look forward to calling them and telling them about what I was up to in Poland or wherever?

  I thought back to all the stories about random girls I had told my sister from our Sunday calls. I realized that the happiness she had expressed was just acting. No way could I tell her those stories now. No way I’d tell her I finished yet another fuck guide. In that case there wouldn’t be much to talk about. To tell her and Mom that I was healthy and doing fine wouldn’t require a weekly call. Once a month would be sufficient.

  The following night I had a nightmare. I dreamed that my mom tried to kill me.

  The Visa

  Europe’s Schengen Zone is a collection of countries that operate under a unified border control agreement. A citizen of any Schengen country can move freely across an unguarded border into another Schengen country. If you take a flight from one to another, there are actually no border control agents to look at your passport. Legally, American citizens can stay in Schengen for 90 days then exit for 90 days before returning. They can’t exceed staying for 90 days in any 180-day period.

  I didn’t fully comprehend that rule and ended up overstaying by several months. When I realized my error, I was anxious that I might be fined or banned from returning. I left through Lithuania and was asked by an agent if I had worked local jobs during my time in Schengen. When I replied truthfully that I hadn’t, he made a call to his supervisor and I was let go with a normal exit stamp. From talking to other travelers, Americans get a lot of leniency when it comes to overstaying. If I had been a citizen of a third world country, the hammer would’ve been brought down on me.

  I figured I could overstay again and get away with it, but I wanted to keep it legal. I didn’t want to feel paranoid every time I came across a policeman or had to leave Schengen. I decided to get a visa for whichever country would have me. My first choice was Poland.

  I went to the Polish embassy in Washington DC, less than an hour’s subway ride away. The nice Polish lady mentioned a certain type of visa that would allow me to live in Poland. I went home, filled out the forms, and fulfilled all the requirements, like getting health insurance and showing three months bank statements. I went back and another lady said I didn’t qualify for that type of visa since I was self-employed and didn’t have work in Poland waiting for me. She said to come back the next morning to talk to the consul.

  I dressed up for the occasion as if I was going to a job interview. I was prepared to tell him the truth—that I loved Poland and I wanted to put down roots there. I also had three ideas of businesses that I could start (bar, real estate, or laundromat).

  After shaking his hand and exchanging pleasantries, I said, “I’d like to move to Poland.”

  “Yes, I was going through your application. You want to start a business?”

  “Right now I have an Internet business with income coming in every month. That has allowed me to travel to twenty countries in the past several years, but Poland is my favorite.” His eyebrows raised as if he was surprised. “Now I want to start a physical business and settle there.”

  “You actually don’t need a visa to do that. You can go right now and start a business. You have 90 days.”

  “But do I have to leave for 90 days after that?” I asked.

  “Since you’re American, you have an exception. You can stay for 90 days, then make a border run to another country, even one in Schengen. You can go to Czech, have lunch, and then come back after an hour and get another 90 days.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So I just need to visit another country for a day before going back?”

  “That’s a privilege Americans have. Just get a receipt or documentation that shows you left. We want Americans to visit and invest in Poland. And if you want a residency permit, you can apply for one in Poland that will last for two years.”

  We talked a few minutes more before I thanked him for his time. I had never felt so happy to have an American passport.

  That night I logged into my fake Facebook account to message Petra. She had contacted me two days earlier to say how much she missed me. I was thinking how to deliver the bad news that Poland would accept me with open arms. At the same time, I had another browser window open to my real Facebook account. There, to my horror, I saw that she had sent me a more recent message. It could only mean one thing: she had found out about my blog, my books, everything.

  The Casino

  I told my dad that I was itching to play some blackjack. We had been to Atlantic City a couple times before many years earlier. He doesn’t go often, but when he does he plays somewhat big, enabling him to get complimentary rooms and meals. He asked me on a Tuesday if I wanted to go for a night, and on Wednesday morning we were on our way.

  On the drive, I asked about his family in Iran. I was interested in knowing my roots and if the person I had become was mostly a product of being raised in America or mostly due to genetics. He told me about how his father was a wealthy landowner and one of the first to use mechanized farming methods. This increased yield and profits, enabling him to have four wives and twenty-four children, my dad being one of them.

  My grandfather had wanted him to be a clergyman, but my dad was a class clown. He got kicked out of religious school and received a secular education, eventually doing well on an exam for eligibility to study abroad. He had two choices: the University of Tehran, which was where his father urged him to go, or a university in America. He didn’t want to disappoint his father, but he told his dad, “I have to find my own life.” He left at the age of nineteen, and only visited Iran twice before his father died.

  He was the only one of twenty-four siblings to make it out of Iran. He was humble when I asked him if he was the “smartest” of the children, saying that others went on to become successful in their own right.

  My mom had told me the story of his early years in America. In her words, “He was a big player. He slept with all the girls in the school. We’d be in the su
permarket and he would want to avoid a line because a girl he knew was there. Even after we married, girls were still trying to stop by.”

  So my dad had taken the risk of leaving his country to, at least for the short term, have fun with women. That sounded familiar.

  The relationship with my dad changed after he suffered sudden hearing loss. It happened during my second trip to South America. Even with the most advanced hearing aid on the market, it’s tough for him to hear, so he depends a lot on reading lips. I have to talk loud and slow while making sure he can see me for him to understand. I’ve learned to give one-word answers when I would prefer to elaborate. The way I talk to him has become functional where I’m mostly exchanging information or facts instead of shooting the shit.

  I could have talked his ear off about Europe, but now I only gave a couple brief observations and left it at that. With his condition, I learned that most of what we say to people is insignificant, but it rounds out the substance and creates the mood. Sometimes I want to reject the change and talk to him like in the past, but I see the confusion on his face and I go back to short sentences and simple anecdotes.

  I didn’t know how much a relationship with someone could change due to hearing loss. It becomes something more rigid and labored. He doesn’t complain about it or lament for the days he could hear well, but I can imagine how hard it is for him. Just simple things like answering a phone call or ordering a coffee become ordeals, not unlike doing it in a language you don’t understand. Once, matter-of-factly, he told me that he expected this sort of thing in his seventies, not his fifties. “When you get old, you lose things,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Selfishly I’ve wondered if his condition will happen to me. How would I listen to music? How would I have marathon conversations with friends and women? But if my dad is strong enough to deal with it, I hope that I can be, too.