(seventh in a series of ten)
I asked the proprietress, “Please teach me Indonesian. I want to say, “Excuse me, I would like to ravish a fisherman.”
“You’d better be joking,” she said.
“I am 100% joking,” I said.
Moslem nations are what the imagination is for. So many men, so little permission.
I had to remind myself of this repeatedly—generally moment to moment—as strangers smiled and held my eye or whistled at me and put their strong work-hardened hands around my arm.
The men were especially beautiful here, I decided, as I’ve decided every place I’ve ever been, every day of my life since birth. Men go on being beautiful!
No surprise then that I stagger a little when I walk. It’s a wonder I can think at all and most of all I think of them, the beautiful men. My mind belongs to them; every now and then I try to take it back and think a little.
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