Bisexual Experience

What a line. Sparky clearly has a way with women. Bored and annoyed, I wrote my review of her off-handed seduction techniques in the form of bar snacks (çerez) thrown at her head.

She ignored me and the flying pistachios admirably and kept on luring the wide-eyed little thing into her experienced bisexual lech. With that knowing smirk, she may as well have been asking, “Would you like to have your first lesbian experience, little girl?” To me at the time, it was disgusting. What could possibly be interesting to Sparky about this Girl Scout cookie? She was the kind of person who’s name I would forget before she even finished introducing herself, and the way she was dressed, it was as if she was trying to force me to underestimate her. She had her mousy blond hair back in a ponytail and was sporting a light pink sweatshirt paired with baby blue sneakers. She looked like a twenty-year-old infant. There were many things wrong with the scenario, but I got stuck on the sneakers.

“Sneakers? SNEAKERS?”
“Yeah, whatever, lots of people wear sneakers.”
“Yeah, athletes and children. She didn’t look like an athlete, so that makes YOU a fuckin’ perv.”

I was being needlessly critical, I admit. Sparky sighed into a reminiscent smile.

“Didn’t you just fall into those big, doe-like eyes?”
“I wanted to hit her with a car.”

That’s how we came to name her, and others of her kind, Bambi.

Expat parties are an excellent hunting ground for Bambi’s — those cute, fresh off the boat girls who just graduated college and came abroad to do the first interesting thing in their lives, which after getting their hearts broken once or twice by the charming locals, usually devolves into teaching English and hanging out exclusively with other expats. Lets get one thing straight: I am a traveler, not an expat.

What is an expatriate? And expatriate is a person who temporarily or permanently leaves their country and culture of upbringing to terrorize a foriegn one. As a function of their emigration, expats define themselves by their dissatisfaction. Most of them make a living teaching English and they seem to hang out mostly with each other, inventing incestuous little fuck circles in whatever country they infest. For further entertainment, they come up with other annoying amusements such as theater groups reeking of mediocrity and pub quiz trivia nights in all too expensive bars. They congratulate themselves on their internationality while never bothering to learn much of the local language or culture. Their adopted country is an organism off which they simply feed, all the while doing their best to recreate their homeland and inherently representing it, usually in an unflattering light with their bad cocktail of entitlement and cultural insensitivity. These embarrassing ambassadors come from all over the world, but when I find myself stuck at a loud and obnoxious pub quiz with drunk people spilling beer and arguing about George Lucas factoids while blank faced Turks look on with that same bored and slightly insulted lack of expression that I recognize from also having to serve people I despise, I can’t help but sigh and think: “This is why the world hates Americans.”

When in a sea of expats, hunting Bambi’s provides an excellent distraction from my fiery disdain. Besides, it’s good for me to maintain a certain level of sociability, even in “enemy” territory. Sparky has since illustrated to me that the pleasure in corrupting the innocent is like pissing on a freshly fallen and undisturbed bed of snow.

Several nights later, I stumbled into a bar to meet Sparky. I was two hours late and dragging in a girl by her tits.

Wavering in my seat, I looked over my prey. I had already soul-slaughtered her and moved on to the victory parade wherein I offered her up to the scavengers as leftover kill. She was a hot mess with eyeliner was streaming down her face. I followed these black trails up puffy cheeks to two big wild eyes that expressed mixed emotions of humiliation and gratitude for the attention.

Most of the time, I work hard to be considerate of others, thoughtful, aware, and well spoken. But sometimes despite my efforts, I prove myself to be the most fucked-up asshole I know. On these occasions, I abandon my better, more articulate self and get in bed with a stranger to my standards who acts with wild selfishness. I don’t always get away with the crap I pull, but when I do, I wonder how. Amazingly, friends like Sparky have a high tolerance for my bullshit and chauvinism, even a certain revelry in it.