(Part 1 here.)
I might’ve hurt her, the Mom. Not anything heartbreaking, but maybe just a little bit, an annoying sting, a shin-splint, a mild headache. She’s a divorced mother after all, and has felt more pain than I could ever incur on her. I’m a gnat, a fly in her kimchi chigae.
(I just remembered that she has absolutely no tolerance for spicy foods. Even black pepper was too spicy for her. Fucking black pepper.)
So I might’ve hurt her and then I flew from Los Angeles to Asia for eight months to write and design and have sex the minimal amount of times that a single man could have sex and still be classified as a man. The few times I did – maybe four times in a six month period – I didn’t come, or came into my own hand after telling the girl, “Just let me do it,” as the girl nuzzled her nose into my collarbone.
In June, I flew from Saigon to Taipei and then back to Los Angeles, where I messaged The Mother And Her Magical Vagina to come out because I wanted to – needed to – have sex with a person who could so swiftly bring me to orgasm.
We met for lunch at a Hawaiian joint, which was obviously my choice – fried eggs, hamburger patty and gravy on rice – and not hers – plain white rice, half eaten. She wore a t-shirt and a short gray skirt, her toned, slim legs crossed under the table.
“You know what, do you mind if we not? I just don’t feel like going through that.” I didn’t straight-up ask her for sex, but I must have implied it for her to respond in this way, while looking onto her plate and pushing a clump of rice around with her fork.
I was making her feel terrible! God, what have I become, I thought. I was never the kind of person to make a girl feel so terrible. I was never so outwardly demanding of sex. She heard, “Let’s meet up for lunch and then go back to your place and fuck,” and I don’t think she was incorrect. I forgot how to be a human being and was ashamed of myself for it.
I just didn’t think that I had that kind of power. I thought she was this strong, experienced 45-year old woman who could devour me alive or shoo me away, mechanically. I thought that after years of marriage and raising kids, she was invincible, that her emotions were impenetrable, that she could not be fooled or convinced or manipulated into doing anything except exactly what she wanted to do. But no matter how old or experienced a woman is, underneath it all they will always be girls. And I’ll never forget this again.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I said. “I want to see some beaches.” We both loved beaches and lived near them, her in Southern California and me in Southeast Asia.
We took an Uber to Manhattan Beach where The Mother ate an acai bowl to make up for the nutrition-less lunch (I still have no idea what an acai bowl is – fruit? Yogurt?). Then we walked to Hermosa where she went to use the washroom, but emerged too quickly to have gone. “I don’t have any tissues,” she said. I pulled some out of my black faux-leather sidebag next to Advil, band-aids and hand sanitizer. I out-mothered a mother, what the fuck?
From Hermosa Beach we walked to Redondo, ate at the outdoor food court where she knew the proprietor, someone from her high school days where she was (probably) the cool girl, the homecoming queen, the head cheerleader. The Mother regaled me stories of days gone by of Koreatown gangs and wealthy parachute kids and the women who fell for them. We ate shitty fish and chips as she told me about her friends who started art galleries and celebrity parents at her kids’ school (David Schwimmer?) and the microcosm of our mutual friends in Los Angeles.
The sun set into the ocean, so we left, walked along Harbor Drive while trying – and failing – to call an Uber. We walked into the Crowne Plaza and she asked for assistance, and where any other person would be told, “Sorry, that service is only for registered hotel guests,” The Mother And Her Magical Vagina was immediately tended to, because she looks exactly like the type of person to be staying at the Redondo Beach Crowne Plaza.
We Ubered back to her place. It was dark, now. I walked her to her front door and we hugged. Her head approached mine at an angle and velocity that made me think, Is she trying to kiss me? but I was in Let’s-Be-Friends mode so dodged it. Didn’t even think to do it. I drove home in my cherry red Mustang convertible, satisfied that we were now friends, that the burning desire for sexual intercourse whenever I saw her had dissipated.
The next time I saw her, she brought me to orgasm in 1.52 minutes.