Waxing and waning on sex tourism

'I see a lot of gringas in here, but you are like a yeti.’

I was in an awkward position to feign offense, given I had one leg over my head and nothing on but my alpaca socks and sweater. This is what happens when you wax in Peru – you get a frown and some sarcasm.

Jimena, my ‘technician’, was working in a very dimly-lit salon abutting a flute and fruit juice market where indigenous women chatted by the lucuma ‘eggfruits’. She furrowed her brow at me. Again. I suspected Jimena did not love her job.

She drew the thin white curtains, took a deep breath and went about her yeti work when a man walked in.

'He-hello?'

Hmm. He twanged strongly of North Carolina. I believed he was one of my people, getting out in the world! Yay my people!

'Sí señor, usted necesita un masaje?'

'Ohh, I uh... no speak Espan-yolo. English?'

'Marianela! Este hombre quiere hablar Inglés!'

A girl I suspected to be about 15 sped out of the back room at her auntie's order and said triumphantly, 'Yes, I speaking English.'

'Oh, wonderful!' The man wrung his hands together and through the curtains I could see he was short, grey and very nervous. 'I would like a massage please... but... um... do you do a... huh... happy ending?'

He whispered these last two words as if he were... ashamed.

His request was so inaudible that Jimena made him repeat it twice more before Marianela translated. Then the auntie and her niece began what I suspected to be very common conversation in Cusco: do we want to give this old white guy an orgasm for some extra soles?

After a very short discussion, Marianela said yes. Technically, Jimena did, and Marianela nodded in bewildered, uncomfortable agreement.

There are ladies all over the Plaza de Armas, the city’s main square, handing out cards for massages, pedicures, waxing and – wink – more. For a town swarmed with hike-happy Inca Trail-ers chewing coca leaves and popping altitude pills, a little pampering is actually a nice, uh, touch.

And an especially nice touch for the guy about to get touched. North Carolina was now disrobing and lumbering giddily onto the mensaje table. You know, the one only three feet away from mine.

As Jimena was only halfway done de-yeti-fying me, I realized I would be enduring not just the normal delights associated with hot wax and hair removal, but now I had to do it listening to an old man get rubbed down in every sense by an impoverished teenage girl at the behest of her own family?

This is the time to believe in the privacy and sound absorption capabilities of chiffon curtains, Jules. Do not vomit.

It would be easy to end the story here and write off this dude as a creep taking advantage of Peru's poor. But while one tourist made his intentions clear with heavy breathing and smarm, another sat wondering where the lascivious line gets drawn.

You see, amigos, I have a confession. The reason I was getting a wax that day was not because I love having hair ripped from my pores in sensitive areas. It was because I met a very charming and handsome local fellow who had taken me for hot chocolate at Jack's Cafe and told me over and over again how beautiful and intelligent I am, and what a fascinating life I'd been leading.

You guys, I am so fascinating.

Life lesson: when a cute boy asks you to make out on a park bench in South America, as per Latino tradition, you do it. Don't think, just beso.

My Hot Novio and I spent an amorous week together. We went for dinner, we went dancing, hiked to ruins, lots of fun things! And, as an unfortunately relevant aside, because he was rather poorly, I gladly paid. For everything. As in food, drinks, hotel, trips…

I mean, it was all very innocent.
I wondered if North Carolina thought his happy ending was innocent…

But my affair with Hot Novio wasn’t blatant! We were young lovers!
North Carolina’s affair was also very discreet – hello? There was a curtain! Okay, and a major age gap.

But Hot Novio was clearly willing, able and enthusiastic... obviously.
Marianela is also willing and able, though unenthusiastic... obviomente.

Oh my god, you guys. I'm a sex tourist.

But wait, I am not nefarious in my intentions. Is that a requirement?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the difference between a dirty old man from Raleigh and a dirty young woman from Seattle maybe wasn’t that great after all.

Very quickly, I wanted to leave. One man’s lechery was enough. My own was just freaking me out.

'Rapido!' I pleaded to Jimena, realizing the guy next to me was probably whispering the same thing.

Eww.

The Official Language of Lucifer

After three months of mopey, self-indulgent PTTD (Post Traumatic Travel Disorder) I decided I wasn’t making enough of an effort to fit in with my own people.

So when my good friend Carolina suggested we go to church so that I might stop obsessively baking molasses cookies and instead find a purpose in life, I said, ‘Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, are you shitting me?’

I’m an agnostic. That means I don’t know, and I don’t know if you know. You know?

It’s the most commitment-phobic belief system out there and I enjoy all the ways it allows me to be wishy-washy, flippy-floppy, and as detached as possible to any depth of thought related to the spiritual meaning of life.

It’s how I like to live my life in general. Being agnostic also allows me to make fun of every organized religion in equal measure, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Christian evangelicals.

‘It’s not an ordinary church,’ said Carolina, who has in fact has accepted Jesus into her heart. ‘My friend invited me - he worships in Tongues.’

Ooh. What?

‘You know, the kind of service where people are possessed by the power of God and start speaking His language. Tongues.'

Wait a minute. If God is American (and - obviously - he is), he speaks English. Anyone who grew up in our education system knows other languages don't matter because other countries don't matter.

We are his favorite. He is ours! He is monotheistic. We are monolingual! We are so meant to be...

So, what's with the foreign chitchat, Ubiquitary Master of the Universe?

'God doesn't actually speak a language, he speaks through people in different ways. Didn't you go to Bible camp? Anyway, if we’re lucky, you might get to see an exorcism. I know how much you like underworldly projectile vomit... tempted?’

How could I possibly say no to this? I have only seen such novelty on the Holy Trinity, Sky Angel and GOD1, GOD2, GOD3 and GOD4 channels. To see the omnipresent power speaking in Tongues through real-life Auburners?

I probably should have seen the following as a sign from the King of Kings (or whomever):

1. The Tongues church is located in a shopping center called The Great Wall Mall.

2. It is located adjacent to an acrylic nail salon with Hello Kitty clocks in the window and abuts the Saigon Musics & Video store.

3. I’m pretty sure this church used to be a Korean kimchee joint, because I was smelling spicy boiled cabbage and vinegar all through the homily.

Okay, so it wasn’t the classiest temple of worship I’ve ever seen, with mirror-lined walls and an industrial kitchen in the corner. But there was a lot going on when we walked in. The Live Tongues Band was belting out some gospel jams while three preachers skulked around the haphazard pulpit, one with arms outstretched to heaven, one sitting down looking sort of bewildered, and the third on his knees, petting the carpet and chanting.

Chanting… in Tongues?!

No, I could understand him saying something about sacrifice and forgiveness. In English.

Sigh. False alarm!

The Tongue-gregation was in various stages of musical rapture, with lots of people periodically hollering Hallelujah!, singing off-key and just moving with the spirit, man.

The spirit moved me to sit down right away and try to blend, wondering if people could sense I was a fraud. I clapped a little to help with the acculturation and smiled encouragingly at the little girl in the front row who knew every lyric and projected like she was auditioning for American Idol.

But why was she not singing in Tongues, the Official Language of Lucifer?

I did the mature, rational thing I always do when trapped in an Asian shopping mall full of earnest evangelicals with overstimulated hippocampi: I started giggling. A lot.

‘Oh my heavens, Julie, what are you doing!’ Carolina was annoyed with me.

‘Dude, I’m really sorry, but this is hilarious… and did you really just say ‘oh my heavens’?’

‘I feel so guilty right now. It’s like we’re making fun of their faith! It’s so wrong.’

‘Yeah… so, so wrong. Hey, do you think we’re going to burn in the eternal flames of the abyss?’

Conveniently, I don’t believe in hell and I think people would be less stressed if they didn’t either.

‘You might. I’m a safe bet. Here, learn something.’ She handed me a Bible.

Ugh.

This was getting so boring. I felt duped. Like Carolina had brought me to a real church with real freaky fundamentalists, not speaking in real Tongues.

‘If I don’t see an exorcism in five minutes, I’m out of here!’

'The demonic extraction and Tongue convos happen later in the afternoon,' Carolina's friend whispered to us.

Riiight. That's what they all say.

After an hour and a half of sitting politely through an elementary lecture on setting priorities, dressing appropriately, and the difference between good (Christians) and bad (me), we slipped out and went for dim sum.

Then I went home. And pulled out the molasses.

Keep Calm and Carry Sheets

Because I disallowed photographic evidence of my disfigurement during those two weeks in the UK, let me describe it to you.

One morning I woke up with my left eye and crusted and puffed shut while buttery mucus oozed from the corner.

My lower lip was swollen like my feet, and all along my face, neck, hands, arms, toes, feet and legs were trails of red, angry bulbs of itchiness that made me want to commit epidermal suicide. All the scratching infected my eye and I wept tears of English goo. Even my mucous membrane hurt.

This, amigos, is what my body did when I had a bed bug slumber party. Rather, I slumbered while bloodsucking parasites partied.

It was the very end of my year off and dude, I stayed in some shitty hostels around the world. There were warnings of a bed bug infestation in OZ, crawly creepy bitey things in Thai bungalows, mice in Malaysia and even a tarantula chillaxing overnight on my backpack in Ecuador.


But nothing turned me into the elephant woman like one night in Brighton.

It was my own fault. I hadn't booked a room and when I arrived, all the good places were full. An hour of walking around with my pack in the dark made me desperate and that's when I saw the Holy Grail of Holy Shit: The Churchill Inn Hostel.

'VACANCY.'

Two middle-aged ladies with graveled, Marge Simpson-style sonorousness sat in the stale foyer chain smoking with a bottle of whiskey and a re-run of East Enders. One tossed me the key without looking me in the eye, nor removing the cigarette from the corner of her mouth, though her velveteen tank top was covered in silvery ash and bits of spotted dick.

I trudged up the green shag to the second floor, blissfully unaware of my impending nocturnal blood draw. The room was nothing fancy: peeling paint, a shower with no curtain, a sink coming off its hinges, and a carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum since 1975. The strong, sanitary perfume of Lux hand soap loitered in the air like the rosy smog of grandma's house. Pink medallions of the stuff were scattered along the sink.

At least it smelled clean. Even if I was sleeping in a Fight Club factory.

Hey, you know? I've stayed in much worse.

'I'll take it.'

'You will?'

In hindsight, I should have given her incredulity more weight.

'Um... Yeah!'

'Suit yourself, sweetheart. That'll be 40 pounds. Cash only, of course.'

To be honest, I had a good night's sleep at the Churchill Hostel. I also had little red marks on my forehead and chest the next morning.

They weren't itchy. Just some random dots. Over the next few days I stayed with friends in Brighton, toured with locals in Liverpool and took a long train ride to one of my favorite magical places on earth: Scotland.

I noticed some new red dots on my hands and feet and wondered - like the idiot I am - where they came from.

'Hmm, I wonder where these came from?'

I went to sleep my first night in Edinburgh and woke up looking like Woogie. Cue the weeping goo.

'Yeah, it's the time of year for bed bugs,' the chemist told me. 'It takes about seven days for skin to react. Looks like your reaction is a bit violent, eh lassie?'

He prescribed Benadryl and some pasty pink sludge to smear over the bites. It looked like half my body was covered in dried strawberry yogurt, topped with a black eye. I've never felt sexier.

'How will I ever marry Prince Harry looking like this?!' I cried to Dr. Robbie, hard at work at the STI clinic in London. A professional appraiser of all conditions weird, he was begging for photos of my epidermic meltdown.

'Darling, did the sign on the door actually read YOUTH HOSTEL?'

'Well, no. It did say HOSTEL, so I figured it was just a crappy one.'

'Indeed... Jules, I should have warned you. HOSTEL in the UK also means halfway house. You likely spent the night with drug addicts and prostitutes. If you don't feel better by tomorrow, go to an NHS clinic - god knows what else you've caught.'

Ew.

The next morning I walked into a clinic of one of the most venerated, sought-after, free public healthcare systems in the world and was promptly kicked out for not having an appointment.

'We could see you next month. Or you can go to the private clinic in town, lassie, but it'll cost you.'

I guess you get what you pay for. $250 and 20 minutes later, I had heavy drugs and strict instructions to wash all my things, including my backpack. But it was too late.

I called my friend in Brighton to relay the saga:

'Marty slept in the guest bed after you, and it is so odd... He has these terribly itchy red spots...'

More Than You Imagined

I was on Skype the other day with the Brazilian Princess and I couldn’t help but feel jealous.

‘Julie, I can’t really talk right now,’ she whispered, stifling a giggle. ‘I just got back to the dorm room and everyone’s sleeping.’

‘Hey, keep it down!’ somebody grumbled. There was a lot of rustling and it sounded like she ran into a bunk bed before the line died.

‘Oops! Sorry, I lost you there. It’s 5 a.m. here… but I’m still a little tipsy from last night – tee hee! – and I don’t know how it happened, but I’m standing here with my bra in my hand…’

See, that’s the kind of life I’ve grown accustomed to. For twelve consecutive months, my bra mysteriously undid itself in exotic locales around the globe. It’s unsettling, but hardly unusual. And I miss it.

While BP is still on her world tour, playing strip poker and beer pong with diplomats in Mozambique, I have been back in the United States for two months.

Playing house in a McMansion.

With my brother.

And his three cats.

I hate those cats. Not only do they make me sneezy, wheezy and teary, but every morning when I step out of my Pepto Bismol room – painted saccharine pink by the former tenants whose taste in décor clearly modeled a My Little Pony advert – I have to scan for barf.

The Pepto Room is a CFZ (Cat-Free Zone), but B’s ‘little buddies’ periodically leave me presents outside my door in the form of coagulated fish kibble, fur balls and green-blue bile that smells exactly like the contents of one’s innards should: bad.

I know they want in - I suspect the Pepto color eases acid reflux. I can’t prove it, but I swear they’re burrowing tunnels into the CFZ at night, planning an all-out projectile vomit party designed to gross me out of their territory.

While I avoid the cats, B worships them. He is an old cat lady in golf shoes, driving a Beemer and refusing to drink tap water.

‘Then what would be the point of having bottled water?’

Sometimes, we see things differently.

When he comes home, he says something chatty to me like, ‘Hey.’

When he sees the cats, it goes something more like this:

‘Ohh, hey Sam! Hey little buddy! Were you a good boy today? Ohhh, I bet you were my cool little man! Oh, yes, you are such a good little kitty, yes mister, yes yes yes you are!’

My 38-year-old brother then proceeds to rub the cat’s belly on his head, nuzzling its neck with his nose, kissing its feet and generally freaking me out because I just watched that cat upchuck congealed tunafish behind the couch 20 minutes earlier.

The neighborhood is a ‘planned community’ – planned so that the trailer park is concealed at the bottom of the hill while Stepford enjoys its own elementary school, Starbucks, tanning salon and bus line, not that anyone here takes public transportation.

It’s a conservative area. Republicans drive.

The local grocery store has an entire section of its news aisle devoted to gun glossies. Next to that is personal defense, which is above exotic game hunting.


(In case you’re wondering, American Handgunner has the most comprehensive glock reviews this month, while I enjoyed Personal & Home DEFENSE’s exposé on 9mm vs. .223 entitled ‘Got Enough Gun?’ The answer is always no.)

Frankly, I for one am reassured to know my neighbors are well educated on violent weaponry should an albino zebra happen to walk through the gates and stomp up the ornamental fountain grass.

My favorite part of B’s neighborhood is the rock lights. See, there are these yard lamps very cleverly disguised as rocks. And these rocks sit in various parts of the garden in to theatrically light important things like wrought-iron deer.

It is so sneaky – you’re just on your run through the woodsy path of concrete, enjoying the natural sounds of the freeway below when BAM! Those soft-serve twist topiaries have never looked more tantalizing at twilight.

These little gems of American authenticity come courtesy of the City of Auburn, a suburb of Seattle, whose motto is More than you imagined.

Frankly, I don’t think the marketing team anticipated what kind of imagination people living in McMansions are forced to have.

For a city that used to be called 'Slaughter', I feel Auburn needs a qualifier.

You know, for people to really get what living in the USA is about.

‘More foreclosures than you imagined.’

‘More recreational monster trucks without mufflers than you imagined.’

‘More Sir Mix-A-Lot sightings than you imagined.’

(What up, Mix!)

For now, this is what my life is about, too.

Some days I embrace the preoccupation with pump action shotguns of my fellow Auburners.

Other times I retreat to the Pepto Room, wondering if the house painters knew suburban America causes an upset stomach for snarky travelers.

And cats.

Big Pimpin'

So the other day I was sitting in The Cheesecake Factory at the mall, squeezed between the flower girl and the best man at my cousin's rehearsal dinner.

It had been two days since I flew home from The Adventure and I was looking at my super-sized plate of pasta and 32-ounce bottomless 7UP wondering how things could get more American when the Best Man leaned over to me and said, 'You know, my wife and I are kind of scandalous.'

Wink.

In my book, this is both an excellent and creepy way to start a conversation.

'Oh really? Do you have a young girl living in a backyard tomb that you've indoctrinated as part of your religious cult that worships brussel sprouts and cottage cheese?'

'Not exactly… but you're close.'

They weren't running from a Las Vegas bounty hunter. They hadn't ever been molested by aliens. They weren't trafficking orphans out of Lesotho to farm hydroponic rhubarb. Frankly, how interesting could a woodwind musician and a clinical psychologist be?

'I'm plum out of ideas, man. What's your scandal?'

He got real quiet and told me he'd have to whisper it in my ear, and nodded to the 9-year-old to my left.

'I'm dating my wife's girlfriend.'

Umm… what? I laughed it off, like I hear this sort of confession every time I order penne primavera, whatevs. Across the table his wife, also the Matron of Honor, gave me the same wink.

'What's with the winks you guys?'

'And I have another girlfriend, but she has another boyfriend, too. They are all my people. I care so much about my people.'

Okay, this was infinitely more interesting than my overdue parking tickets theory.

Confused, I asked to see a flow chart. Instead, he showed me photos of His People together in a Seattle park.

There are five members of His People: the Best Man, his wife, their mutual girlfriend, another girlfriend of the Best Man, and her boyfriend. They were posed couple by couple, with one girl sitting in the middle sort of looking up dejectedly at the others embracing, probably kicking herself for not signing up for a partner on family photo day.

That's how His People, um, swing it. Heh. You have to calendar which night you want a certain partner, and stick to it. Otherwise, there could be 'issues'.

'Well, sometimes there is jealousy, but it doesn't happen very often. Don't worry, you'll get to meet the girls tomorrow - Bob can't make it, unfortunately.' He nudged me in the arm. Then he gave me The Look.

You know The Look. It's the one that means, 'I want you to join my polyamorous world of fantasy fiction-loving theatre people, hope you have your Grendle's Modor costume in your backpack.'

Oh. My. God.

The Big Love crew was coming to the wedding? The one in my mother's backyard? Did she know? Once she did, what words would The Diplomat come up with to make everyone more okay with the medieval swingers club congregating by the hydrangeas?

This was going to be... awesome!

I sat with my brother, B, and pointed out all the players in His People during the ceremony.

'So that's Big Pimpin'?' he asked, pointing out the Best Man who was bedecked in a dapper Shakespearean suit, sweating in the 82-degree summer sun. He fit in fine with the ye olde theme to the bridal party - even the groom wore a top hat and black velveteen cape. It was fab.

'Wait, so that guy has three chicks here?' Brother B was trying to wrap his head around the implications.

'No, they aren't all lovers, like not all at once. I don't think. I don't really know, but can we talk about me? What am I supposed to say when they ask me to visit Poly-wood?'

'No offense, Jules, but you're not their type. You're not a Wiccan or whatever, and you don't even read Harry Potter.'

I followed His People around the reception, trying to suss out who had signed up for whom that day. Girlfriend One was a fair-skinned redhead who stole some snuggles from the Matron of Honor in the living room. Girlfriend Two had kinkier curls and the same morose sort of demeanor in person as she did posing solo in the family photo. Somebody needs a hug.

Dinner, cake, dancing, then pouf - the whole night had passed without any more winks or Looks. I won't lie and say I wasn't offended - don't I look like plural wife material? Maybe Girlfriend One and Two realized I was too mainstream for their alternative.

They all piled into their minivan and drove off. The Diplomat - blissfully ignorant - said, 'Doesn't your cousin just have the nicest friends? I'd like to be a part of that group.'

'Really mom? You'll want to rephrase that. They're pretty scandalous.'