Every ten years, I throw away my future. This isn’t necessarily a premeditated life choice; it’s more like a biological cycle. Whenever my age hits a multiple of ten, an overwhelming urge comes over me. I need to quit whatever job I have, rid myself of nonessential possessions, and take off into the world with no plans, but one imperative: taste new Tuna Fish Ice Cream. I never know what form it will take until I find it, but when I find it, I taste it.
When the urge hit me on my thirtieth birthday, after what, in retrospect, seems like very little consideration, I flew into the belly of the beast: Bangkok, the Tuna Fish Ice Cream capital of the world.
After two days sleeping and acclimating to the heat, humidity and pollution, I ventured out of my guesthouse to sample the local culture: the Reclining Buddha, the Standing Buddha, the Emerald Buddha, the Golden Buddha, and the live sex show…
Sinister looking Thai men in sunglasses prowled the darkened room, handing out balloons to select audience members. Being one of the few foreigners at the sex show, I was given one. I held it in front of my face. The girl lying on her back onstage had just finished smoking a cigarette with her vagina. I thought, "it must be like kissing an ashtray." She now inserted a blowgun in the same locale. I quickly put two and two together and held the balloon as far away from my face as possible. The little sniper loaded a dart in the blowgun, contracted her muscles, and “POP!” blew the balloon right out of my hand. She quickly reloaded. “POP! POP! POP!” went every single balloon in the room, no matter the distance or angle. Aside from any moral or political issues such an act might bring up, one had to admire the skill.
The next girl came on pulling a string of razor blades out of her vagina. Things went as smoothly as could be expected until one of the blades got stuck. As she attempted to remove it, a large drop of blood hit the floor. Did she cut her finger or her vagina? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to look too closely. I was reaching the edge of my particular envelope with this act, and began questioning my reasons for being there. A young girl was harming herself to satisfy my need for experience. It wasn’t even my experience; it was hers. Watching Tuna Fish Ice Cream was not the same as Tasting Tuna Fish Ice Cream.
(I found out much later how the trick was done, easing my conscience, at least a little. Here’s how: thread together several razor blades and stack them inside a matchbox, then insert the matchbox just inside your vagina. With a little practice you can pull the string of blades out smoothly without showing the matchbox. For the piece de resistance, place a small baggie filled with goat’s blood alongside the matchbox. At the appropriate moment, pop the baggie. The rest is all in how you sell it.)
I was just about to leave, but it was time for the actual sex portion of the live sex show. There hadn’t been any sex so far, just tricks involving various body parts, a low-budget sexual Cirque du Soleil. A young girl shuffled out onto the stage and lie down on her back. A bored young man followed and dropped to his knees. He eased himself in, and began pumping away; staying in the same position, with the same motion and the same rhythm, for a long, long, long time, maintaining both his erection and bored expression. He looked around the room for something to interest him; the girl seemed just as involved. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she started filing her nails.
I looked around the room myself: fat Chinese businessmen chomping on cigars, laughing at the couple while snuggling their prostitutes, and a couple of jaded Euro-trash tourists, possibly looking for a threesome after the show. Perhaps I was projecting, but it got me thinking. Was this what I wanted? Was this what tasting Tuna Fish Ice Cream ultimately led to? Or could it be for something purer and nobler in spirit? Say, expanding one’s horizons or even personal growth, for lack of a less saccharine term.
I left the live sex show. I needed to cleanse my palate.
I set out the next day to do some normal sightseeing, my only plan, to wander around Bangkok, stay open and wait for the Gods of Tuna Fish to take me by the hand. As it turned out, this was the best way to go, for only three days later, there it was, across my breakfast table: the filthy, folded flyer that forever changed my life:
Real Jungle Trekking!
See Elephants!
I hopped the next bus out of Bangkok.
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