Big People Everywhere
THE WOMAN IS BIG but she is not beautiful. I am somebody that likes beautiful women, regardless of size, in fact, for a long time I thought the bigger the better, but not like this. She is big like the sun is big, like the sky is big, like the mountains out in Colorado are big. I am facedown and naked on the table except for a towel draped across my middle, afraid of how big she is and disappointed that she is not beautiful.
I should probably make a few things clear before we go any further, but I have no idea what. Perhaps it is enough to say that I am a good person, that I hold the door open for total strangers. Also, I don’t think anyone is afraid of meeting me in a dark alley.
Beyond that, I’ll say there comes a time in every man’s life.
The woman is over me. I have my eyes closed and my head nestled into that headspace at the head of the table. I can hear that she’s rubbing her hands together. Sometimes they ask if you want oil, but sometimes they don’t. I suppose some are considerate that way, thinking maybe you don’t want to walk around smelling like you have recently visited the rub and tug, or worse, go home that way to the wife or what have you. I don’t have a wife or what have you, so maybe the big woman has guessed this about me, maybe it’s a judgment call. She has an accent, though she tries to bury it. I think maybe she comes from Australia or New Zealand or someplace like that. I only know this because I have a neighbor who comes from that part of the world and tries to bury the accent, so I recognize it. I’ve asked my neighbor why she tries to bury the accent and she says it’s out of shame. I’ve asked her what’s shameful about it and she says it’s too shameful to talk about.
I think maybe everything is too shameful to talk about.
I have never been there, to Australia or New Zealand, have never been anywhere, not even Colorado. I know about the mountains because I went to school and I watch television like everyone else. Human beings have no business being up in the air, which is why I haven’t been places. Another reason I haven’t been anywhere is I haven’t been invited. The rest of the world seems fine with me staying put, holding down the fort. Perhaps they don’t think I’d make for a good guest, but they’re probably mistaken about this. I’d probably stay for only a night or two because I get restless. People love you when they know you’re leaving soon. I heard that in a song once and the singer sounded like he’d been a few places, had worn out a welcome or two.
This is why I make only half-hour appointments, even though the full hour is a better deal.
Maybe if someone invited me along someplace, I’d join them, but all of it depends on any number of variables, X factors. Everything depends upon red wheelbarrows and incomprehensible shit like that. Until I can figure this out, people know where they can find me. Until then, I remain grounded.
That’s what my neighbor said to me once, after I asked if she’d like to get a drink sometime. She said, It depends, and I said, On what? And she said, So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow. I disagreed with her, said I can understand things depending on weather or health or how much sleep you didn’t get the night before, but not farm implements. She said I was funny and that she was busy, that she had family in town visiting and then she was going out of town herself for a few weekends but maybe when she got back and things settled down.
I told her I’d ask again if I could remember, said I was only talking about a drink, not painting a house together.
I wanted to make it seem as if I hadn’t given this much thought. The truth is I hadn’t given it much thought, so it was important that I make this clear.
The advertisement said the masseuse was beautiful, said she was stunning and strong. Most claim to be in their late thirties, but you overlook the lie because you don’t want to visit a younger girl. There’s so much they don’t know about the business and you cannot teach them, it’s not what you pay for. Also, they haven’t filled out yet, haven’t let themselves go. So I am always on the lookout for the ones claiming to be in their late thirties, big and beautiful. I have seen these kinds of women, the big beautiful ones, have been inside their apartments, have forked over fifty dollars for a half hour’s worth of time and effort and have been happy to do so. Pretty works on anyone and I am fine with this. My neighbor is pretty but not at all big. In fact, if you lined up these two women side by side, you’d have a hard time believing they were the same species. What I’m saying is, I harbor no prejudices when it comes to pretty, but I do like it when they’re pretty, whether they be neighbors I might have a drink with, perhaps leading to house painting, or a massive woman who should be able to provide a little relief and comfort in this time of perpetual need.
When they’re not pretty, it makes me want to test them, ask if they’ll do some crazy shit, figuring they have to compensate somehow. But I never do this. I always wind up walking away, in my pocket three or four requests that would make a seasoned provider blush.
Also, I say please and thank you and am always polite with everyone. I talk to my mother on the telephone once a week. I never tell off-color jokes and sometimes I give a dollar to street musicians.
Now they all say they’re beautiful in the ads. These are the ones you find in the back of the alternative newspapers. There are always too many to go through, which is why when you find a good one you hold on to her, but then you get bored after four or five visits and think maybe someone else can do a better job. The someone else is never any better, though, only someone else, something different, and sometimes it’s enough, at least on the way there it is. It’s always about the way there, that’s the best part of it.
Some have elaborate instructions for security purposes. They want you to describe what you’re wearing, stand in front of a particular building across the street from them so they can get a look at you, see if you’re an ax murderer. I’m not sure what that would look like from across a city street, I’ve never seen anyone on the street with an ax, can’t see how they can ever turn someone away without one. Maybe they take pictures of you when you’re across the street like this. Maybe they have some kind of system in place that alerts the authorities and says, yes, this is the maniac who butchered me.
Once I did a little dance while being visually patted down, something between a salsa and the hokey pokey.
I didn’t actually do this. I thought about doing it, thought it would be funny, but I don’t dance. I’m not insane.
I can’t remember who the last one that checked me out like this was. I think she said I was good-looking. Not all of them say this, though you’d think otherwise. The truth is, I am good-looking, which surprises some people. Most people don’t recognize this about me. I don’t mind, as I’m not good-looking enough to care one way or another.