Boobs. There they are in all their glory. This is what men like to imagine when they think about the first contact with the Hawaiians. Somehow the fantasy still lingers around the streets of Waikiki. When the sun sets and the tourists pass out, there is this magic hour, around 11pm, when the hookers hit the strip and the men go searching for that mythical paradise of a woman's boobs.
Meanwhile, back at the New Otani hotel, the sailor and I are like retired war veterans who have aged into speaking terms. Why? Because I just sat on my anger's face and wiggled. Why? Because it's Sunday night and I didn't have the strength to circumcise. Why? Because I was still laughing from my great Royal Hawaiian dinner. Why? I don't fuggin know why... my brother would accuse me of eating retard sandwiches for every meal.
But I put on a long skirt and a light sweater, in other words, fully cover myself because I had the sunburn shivers. The sailor is so damn stoked from his tour around Oahu that he officially think's he's Peter Fonda. He shows me his motorcycle. I hop on and wiggle on that too, whilst making "brrrmmm brrrrrrrrm" sounds. We hit the streets and end up back at the Tiki Bar where the sailor buys me more drinks. He's talking, I'm smiling with puppy eyes again. My phone is still going crazy with 808'ers and I tell the sailor what I've done. I tell him with an air of detachment so that he knows I'm not deliriously waiting for him. Lolita waits for no man.
She does however, want to be treated with respect and protected from vampires. That's the whole point of this experience. I'm a cool girl, I have brothers, I get the whole thing. There are two schools of thought on this, 1) The Harry Met Sally version where women and men can't be friends because sex always gets in the way or, 2) Women and men need to be friends because we can be paired as equals. I don't really have time to argue it with anyone, I know how I feel and that's that. I love men. Too much. I've always been blessed with yummy man friends. I can sass them right back and enjoy every bit of their company, except for the farting, which is just plain awkward.
The sailor and I leave the Tiki Bar, because they're about to close. We ask for another place to go hang, one where the man can eat (yes, he's still wanting that damn spam.) So we're re-routed to some crack-whore dive bar with raver music. On the walk there, I start to notice that I'm the only woman in a five mile radius that is fully clothed. At least I'm the only woman on the street that looks like a soccer mom compared to these ladies. It is a fascinating study... who's got what block, who's picking up, who's actually got a penis, who is being hawk-eyed by her pimp. Honolulu nights are as dark as the day is bright. Ain't no joke, fur real.
But the sailor and I are just like peas n' carrots, me n' him. Except I fuckin' HATE peas... the worst taste in my mouth. Blech. So anyway, we're walking... we're walking.... we go into the bar. All I see are vampires and meth addicts, and a couple drunk college kids. I'm still wearing my pearly shells from church. The sailor asks me if that is what they are. I say "yeah," he says, "you're going to hell." Good times.
The Tea Boy orders a (drum roll) incredible hulk. A strange concoction that requires 2 oz of Hennesy and 3 oz of Hypnotiq. Shake. Drink. Da-na-naaaaaaa, you become an INCREDIBLE ASSHOLE, there's no "hulk" about it. I'm back on the Jameson, I'm not exempt here but at least I'm still a lady. I look around the room. I look back at him.
Me: Have you had sex with a hooker or a stripper?
Sailor: Yeah, both.
Me: Who is better?
Sailor: Um, Strippers. They just dance all night and then if they pick you, they just go nuts and release all the tension.
I'm thinking about the fact that I'm about as dangerous as a stripper Teddy Bear.
I feel that portion of my heart shrink while I'm staring at the incredible hulk-hole. I think about the fact that sex always gets in the way. That stripping is just a job and at the end of the night those girls want to be rescued just like everyone else. They aren't wired differently into fuck-bots, they're actually just makin' dirty cash. But strippers suffer too. I'm sure I'd have a lot of dates if I knew how to leg lock a metal pole and dive into the abyss of hairy balls crying in my face.
The sailor looks at me after he orders another one of those complete-waste-of-hennessy cocktails.
"You're totally innocent, aren't you."
I just smile.