ORGASMIC MEDITATION

Last year, an actress friend of mine asked if I wanted to join her at her meditation class. Sure. I'm onboard. I like classes in just about anything. Give me something to do. I once even took a cheese class when I was lactose intolerant.

She referred to it as her "OM" meditation class, which I presumed was the vibrational mantra one performs at the beginning and end of a yoga class.

Turns out I was wrong. "OM" in this case is O.M., an acronym for "Orgasmic Meditation".

She instructs me to meet her at 8:30 PM, but not to arrive any earlier. Had she just told me the time, I would have arrived as instructed. Actually, I'm never late and probably would've still arrived 10 or 15 minutes early.

The space on North Fairfax avenue was a storefront. The windows were blacked out with Duvetyne. I'm surveying the space and notice a small gap in the draperie. I peek in, and at first glance it appears to look like a yoga studio, which is what I was expecting.  On closer inspection, I saw there were two person teams, like what I would expect a Lamaze class to look like.

Squinting, I notice that all of the women are either not wearing pants or have their dresses hiked up. Their legs were splayed open. The soles of their feet touching and the men over them were wearing a single latex glove and touching their vaginas with a single outstretched index finger.

My phone rings. It's Sophia,  the actress that introduced me to this actress. She's Latin, Catholic and conservative.

SOPHIA: Hey. What're you up to?

ME: Hey. I'm about to walk into Salma's (No, not her) meditation class. Do you know anything about her... practice?

SOPHIA: She's a hippie. I'm sure it will be nice.

ME: Um, I'm looking through the window and these women are all naked from the waist down and appear to be getting fingerblasted by guys.

SOPHIA: Scott Nathan, what the hell are you talking about?

ME: I'm telling you. This is what I'm looking at with my own two eyes.

SOPHIA: That is DISGUSTING! What kind of sick, degenerate thing is this?

ME: I'll let you know...

The clock strikes 8:30. The door unlocks and a few people walk out to the sidewalk. Out walks Salma looking... dewy.

SALMA: I'm so glad you made it. Come in. I'll introduce you to everyone.

She makes some introductions and asks me to help her assemble some folding chairs into a circle.

The room smelled like a sex shop. Latex, water based lube and (sorry) pussy. 15 or so people form the circle. Most were there before I arrived. A few were newcomers like me.  The women were mostly 40's & 50's. The men were awkward. 20's & 30's. A strange, rather horsey looking blonde woman was staring at me intensely. I looked up a couple of times and finally gave her a pleasant smile back.

I won't go into a lot of detail about the practice, but it's basically edge play. The men, collectively referred to as "The Strokers" are taught to, with the tip of their index finger, gently rub the upper left hand quadrant of the woman's clitoral hood. Only that spot. The women are known as "The Strokees". The explanation is through this high, sub orgasmic vibration benefit both parties and everyone else in the room. This organization has events globally. Sometimes with as many as a thousand people taking part. I try not to judge, but have little interest in further exploring this, nor touching (gloved or not) a sea of middle aged, divorced office manager vaginas. Still, I politely listen.

After the talk, the blonde equine woman with the disquieting stare approaches me. She's wearing a black, ill fitting dress with pet hair all over it. She's unkempt with messy hair and bad skin. She's late 30's.

EQUINE: I couldn't help notice that you were trying to get my attention.

If by trying to talk to get your attention, you mean avoiding eye contact, then yes. 

ME: Um. I thought you were trying to get MY attention, so... Anyway. I'm just here with my friend Salma.

EQUINE LADY: (aggressively) Would you like to sign for our mens introductory class or not? It's $375.00 for 3 hours and you'll get to stroke someone at the end.

I'm uncomfortable and at a loss for words. When people try to aggressively sell me anything, I  shut down.

ME: Um. No thank you.

EQUINE LADY: (Rolling her eyes) Ugh!

She storms off in a clippity cloppity clumsy canter and I can't wait to get the fuck out of this thing.

I didn't know what to say to Salma. My tendency is to joke about anything that makes me uncomfortable.

SALMA: So, what did you think?

ME: It's... interesting, but if you wanted a handjob, all you had to do was ask. Not sure if you know this, but Nathan means "Giver" in Hebrew.

SALMA: Funny, but it's not about sex or orgasms. It's about connecting with people and reaching a higher vibration.

I couldn't care less. I don't even like groups of people who are dressed. I'm just not a groups person.

ME: I'm gonna walk up to Canters and get some average soup. Talk to you soon.

And scene...

The French Fashion Photographer

So this French cat, who smells, not so faintly like unpasteurized Stilton, teenage boys feet and anchovy vagina walks up to me and says...

Him: Allo Scott. Do you know oo I am?

Me: I do not, but it's nice to meet you.

Him: I am a very famous photographer.

Me: I would think that the best thing about being famous is that you never have to tell anyone you're famous.

Him: Go fuck yourself American asshole. (Storms off)

Me: OK. Good talk.

TINDER APP REVIEW

2012

My first tinder date was with a fine art painter by the name of Amy.  31, athletic, fun & talented. RISD grad. New York Times critics pick and a ginger.

We had a really fun slumber party on the first date. I like this app so far.

My 2nd Tinder date was a 1st Assistant Director named Sabrina. A cute, curvy, freckly brunette. She worked on some of my favorite films and was interesting to talk film making with.  We went out twice in 3 days & had sex on the 2nd date.

The day after my 2nd date with Sabrina, I get a midday text from Amy.

AMY: Have you ever had a threesome before?

ME: Yes.

A ONE minute later, I get the exact same text from Sabrina.

AMY: How many times?

ME: I'm not sure. More than 50. Less than 100? I had an ex was really into them and was constantly wrangling friends.

They both ask if I knew anyone who might be down to play.  Until that moment, I didn't. With nothing whatsoever to lose, I screenshot both of their profiles and send them to each other.  They're both interested. This can't be that easy.

Amy thinks it would be funny for the three of us to meet at a strip club, but deliberately not a nice one.

We all Uber separately to this place in North Hollywood called "The Starlight Lounge" (or something like that).  We order a plastic pitcher of draft beer and get to know each other between trips to the smoking patio.  We're having a great time. Tipping dancers & drinking beer.  This could actually work.

Spontaneously, the three of us start kissing at the table. Our table is just in front of the stage. Our faces are in a triangular configuration.  Suddenly, I feel what I think is water or something being poured over the top of my hat & I flinch backward.

There are two drunk guys "Making it rain" dollar bills over the top of us. The three of us start laughing.  The stripper on the stage is scowling and the cocktail waitresses was visibly pissed.  I order us an Uber black car.

ME: We should leave.

The girls are in agreement. We gather all of the dollars around us, lob them onto the stage and book it out of there.

We spent the next couple of days at my place.

Beginners luck I guess.

Think the app store will accept this as a review?

Kidnapped by Hunter Thompson

Aspen Summer '87-ish

I was a student at the University of Colorado at Boulder and had taken a liking to spending summers there. Colorado is just better than Chicago in the summertime.  My parents had come to visit for a few days and I met them in Aspen for a getaway.

We stayed at the Hotel Jerome. The Jerome is an historic Victorian Hotel  that sits on the corner of Main & Mill in the center of Aspen just below Red Mountain and across the way from Aspen Mountain collectively referred to as Ajax. Four stars, but in that Butch Cassidy kind of way.  It was the best hotel at the time before the luxury chains moved in.  The few times I stayed there, I had always requested a particular standard room just over the front door. It was the only room with a terrace I could smoke on with a great view of the mountain.

My parents and I were getting on each others nerves as is typical for an early 20-something going through a lot of change and experimentation.

We had gotten into it pretty good and I sought refuge at the hotel bar. It was nice and quiet in the afternoon as I sipped glass after glass of Macallan 12 on ice.

90 minutes or so in, the room changed. 2 high fiving fratboy dickheads in shorts and tank tops had taken notice of another patron at the other end of the bar. Hunter S. Thompson.  I recognized him an hour earlier as I'd seen him speak at a campus event at Chautauqua Park at the base of the Flatirons. I just didn't care.  His heyday was before my time, but he always struck me as a poser. A bullshit artist. I respected his hustle, but never his work. I know this will piss some people off and that's alright. As Henry Ford said "There's an ass for every seat".  What struck me as strange was that he wasn't bothered by these moron fans. He seemed to love the attention. Something that made me respect him even less. I mean, is there anything less cool than a fan?

The word fan itself was introduced into English around 1550 and means "marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion". Yep. I got more drunk and less patient. They got louder and more irritating as Thompson told barely coherent, drunken rambling stories.  Finally I had enough.

Me: (glaring) AY! Would you shut the fuck up??? You are so full of shit!

Everyone got quiet. I took another sip and realized Thompson was standing right next to me. Smiling. Signature long billed baseball cap, weird, not Hawaiian type of shirt. Nuthugger shorts.

HST: Yeah, but don't tell those knuckleheads.

I just looked at him dead in the eyes. Just taking him in.  He smelled like cigarettes, blended whiskey and day old sweat.

HST: Do you like guns?

Me: No. (long pause) I love guns.

HST: Do you play golf?

Me: Yeah.

HST: Let's get out of here.

I was 4 or 5 whisky's in & wanted to see where this went. Hunter settled his bill and the bartender placed a silver Tattainger champagne bucket full of ice on the bar. Hunter carried it outside like it was a normal thing to do. We walked to his car, an immense convertible land yacht. The ice bucket was between us and a bottle of Chivas Regal was unsheathed from a brown paper bag and jammed into the ice.

Hammered we headed at high speed out of town. Past McLean flats road and out toward the airport. We were leaving Aspen. Where were we going?

We end up at his house in Woody Creek. It was dated, rustic but cool. Stone fireplace. A taxidermied owl. Bric a brac everywhere. We chatted for awhile. It didn't take long, but I liked the guy. He was funny. Much of our banter felt like well rehearsed, time tested one liners.  I didn't hold it against him. It's kind of my move too.  One moment of note was our mutual love of English Motorcycles. Him BSA. Me Norton. I hadn't yet owned a Norton, but my father had a couple of them new and it wouldn't be long before I had my first.  Dad called his Commandos "The one ways", meaning he could ride it as far and as hard as he wanted. The moment he turned around to come home, it would die and mom would have to pick him up.

Somewhere along the way he handed me a drink of some sort. A concoction that tasted like bitter Hawaiian Punch.

Me: You said something about guns. What have you got?

He waves to follow him. We're outside. There's an old barn and a cliff.

He comes out with an old shotgun. Nothing fancy. A working man's pump gun. A farm gun. An old Winchester with a corncob forend like the police used to have mounted in their front seats. I expected him to have something cooler. Maybe an old Parker side by side with Damascus barrels. In his other hand, he had an old copper Ping 9 iron. I told him I was left handed and couldn't use it. He shook me off. I decided to swing lefty, toe down. Worked fine.

This game had a name, but it's name escapes me. I wasn't feeling well at all. Dizzy & nauseuous. I can't remember if I'd had anything to eat. Whatever the case, I powered through and we took turns hitting the ball while the other person shot it with the shotgun. One of the best games ever. Respect. Now I really didn't feel well. I turned and threw up in the scrub.

Me: Hey Hunter. I'm not feeling well. Can you run me back to the hotel? I drank too much and am really dizzy.

HST: Eh, no big deal. Just a little mescaline. No big deal.

Me: What?!!! You dosed me with Mescaline?

HST: Uh yeah. You're welcome.

Me: Mother. Fucker. Fuck.You! No! I have an 8PM dinner with my parents!

HST: Yeah, you're not going to make that or anything else for at least the next 8-12 hours. He continued to hit balls off the cliff.

There were no cell phones or pagers in those days and I thought it best to call my parents before the sky caught fire or wolves began circling me.

Me: Hey mom. Listen, I ran into a friend and I think I'm going to stay here tonight.

Mom: (Furious in shrill, nasal Chicago dialect) What the hell are you talking about? Get back here! We're only here for a few days!

Not knowing what to do, I hung up.

The rest of the evening is a bit hazy. People came and went. His girlfriend was nice. I stared at that owl on the shelf a lot. Someone gave me a ride back before sunrise.

And scene...

x

Jobs

A couple years ago, I dated this hedge fund manager. It seemed too good to be true. She ticked all of my boxes, or so it seemed. Smart, funny, beautiful Ivy Leaguer & had an aircraft that could fly nonstop from L.A. to western Europe. No bath tub, but we all have to make sacrifices in this life. She kept a room year round at Claridges, one of my favorite hotels.

She'd say things like "Baby, I don't ever want you to work. You make the funny. I'll make the money."

In fairly short order, I realized that while she had no problem spending millions of Euros on horses, she'd never ever pick up a single
dinner check (or anything else for that matter). She also always ordered like it was her last night on Death Row. I was getting grumpy & broke with this false advertising.

I should mention that I asked her to delay sex, thinking, we should get to know each other first. "What's the rush?" sex is always great and has never been a problem in the past. This was a mistake. Don't ever do that. 

The day finally came,  and while sex wasn't awful, but it wasn't particularly memorable either. I just wasn't sensing much enthusiasm. That said, there's always room for improvement. We continued to try over the next few weeks.

For those of you who don't know, Nathan in Hebrew means "Giver" and give I did.

In a vain attempt to defibrulate our soggy, Wonder Bread sex life, I serviced her so long & so masterfully (her words), she was practically stuck to the ceiling when I finished. Exhausted, I rolled over onto my back hoping for a little reciprocity (which hadn't yet happened in a dozen sleepovers), when she said...

Olivia: Uh, sweetheart. Just so you know. I don't do anything with the word "Job" in it.

Outraged, I looked at my watch & said...

Me: Time of Death 11:39PM

Olivia: Do you mean to tell me, you wouldn't date someone who doesn't give head?

Me: I mean to tell you I wouldn't be FRIENDS with someone who doesn't give head.

And scene...

Kidnapped in Kiev

KIDNAPPED IN KIEV

A few years back, a friend of mine I went to college in Boulder with called me.
He'd call me every few months from his UES penthouse and kvetch how bored he was since getting forced out of Goldman Sachs with a $72 million dollar severance package. Poor bastard.

ALEXEI: Scotty, I want to show you where I grew up.

Me: Kiev? Yeah. Let's go sometime.

ALEXEI: Fuck sometime. Let's go Thursday.

Me: Dude, I can't just buy a last minute plane ticket to Ukraine.

ALEXEI: Shut up. Take down my credit card # & I'll see you there.

I arrive to our hotel, fucked from Jetlag in the middle of the night and walk to the front desk and hand the attendant my passport. I can never sleep on planes. Not even in a lie flat lit up on Scotch & Ambien

Welcome to Kyiv! I am Nikolai.

ME: Hey Nikolai

NIKOLAI: Amerikanski yes?

ME: Yeah.

NIKOLAI: What you want do while in Kyiv?

ME: Nikolai. Everything.

NIKOLAI: You want shoot cow with Soviet Bazooka?

ME: (laughing. I love this guy already) That's your opener?

NIKOLAI: Shtua?

ME: Nothing. While it would make an amazing YouTube video, I'm going to have to say nyet to that one.

NIKOLAI: You want shoot real Kalashnikov AK-47?

Is this guy my soulmate?

ME: Nikolai. I'm American. I have more guns personally than you have in this entire city.

NIKOLAI: Hokay. You want go to nice club tonight? VIP?

ME: Yeah. Sounds good. We'll be down at 9:30

NIKOLAI: Hokay. I will hyeav car ready. Do NOT take Taxi in Kyiv.

I tell Alexei when he arrives. We have the Presidential suite. It's so big, I couldn't throw a football across the living room. That'll do pig.

Waiting for us outside is the most gangster car the world has ever seen. It's a pearl white Maybach with gold rims, grille & door handles. Heavy bulletproof doors, limo tint and privacy curtains.

It's a short ride to the club behind the Opera House. The requisite suited thugs with the velvet rope are out front.

We walk in and it's an immediate letdown. A styrofoamy looking fake Etruscan statue spitting water under greenish fluorescent lighting. That and a sushi bar that seats 3. It looks more like a Warsaw Post Office than a cool club.

ME: (still grumpy from travel) Nikolai. What the fuck is this place?

NIKOLAI: Hokay. First floor Sushi. 2nd floor streep club. 3rd floor Casino. 4th floor streep club. 5 floor streep club. And comrade. Everything on table on 5th floor.

ME: Everything on table?

NIKOLAI: EVERYTHING on table.

It took me a couple of beats to process that one.

ME: Oh.. OK.

The rest of the place was actually pretty nice. We proceed to the 5th floor. Our personal goon seats us at center booth and we order a bottle of vodka and a caviar presentation. Y'know... when in Rome.

They bring out a lineup of girls, maybe 15 of them. I've spent half of my professional adult life looking at beautiful women in a casting room and on set. These were among the most arrestingly beautiful women I've ever seen. There were 2 basic types there. The classic Siberian. Porcelain skin. Ice blue eyes. White blonde hair & full, bee stung lips.

The other type was the classic Ukrainian brunette. Think Milla Jovovich on her 18th birthday. Asian features, few curves. Obvious fingerprints of Gengis Kahn's 37 year rapefest.

Anyway, we are just hammered and slogging through a kilo of likely counterfeit Beluga Caviar.

Finally my friend says to me...

ALEXEI: Hey. Would you judge me if ONE time in my life, I wanted to be with a woman other than my wife?

They had been together since they were teenagers.

ME: I am free of judgement. Do whatever you like, but if you're going to cheat, I implore you to make it memorable. In fact, I won't support it otherwise.

ALEXEI: Memorable how?

ME: 3 of them at a time. Minimum. Live like a Czar.

ALEXEI: What could I possibly do with 3 girls at once?

Without skipping a beat, I start rattling off a half dozen generic porn scenarios. He's incredulous.

ALEXEI: I’ve never thought of any of those things. I'll do two. You're good at talking to women. Will you set it up?

ME: Dude. I don't speak Russian or Ukrainian. You do.

ALEXEI: Cmon. Please?

I look down at his wallet on the table and ask...

ME: I'll try. May I?

ALEXEI: Take whatever you need.

I open his wallet to discover a very thick stack of 500 Euro notes.

ME: They make 500 Euro notes?

He laughs.

ME: OK. In your opinion, who are the two most beautiful women in this entire place?

Without pause... He points.

ALEXEI: Easy. Those two.

One green eyed brunette. Hair just past her shoulders. Good curling iron work. One ice blonde. The former curvy and petite. The latter, like a runway model. Tall, slim, small breasted. Ripped abs. Small hips. Greyhound.

Barely able to walk I approach them.

ME: Hello ladies!

Girls: Hyeloo!

ME: (Flashing 2 500 notes.) Um, would the two of you be willing to have sex with each other and my friend over there if I gave you each one of these?

Their eyes widen and then enthusiastically nod yes.

Still fried from Jetlag, I decide I'll hang back and keep drinking until I get tired. I send them back and ask them to send the hotel car back to wait for me. 45 minutes later, I’m bored & leave. Alex had booked a regular room in case one of us needed the big suite to themselves. Not wanting to interrupt their party, I went back to the regular room. Another 30 minutes had gone by and I started getting worried. Did he get kidnapped? Robbed? Do I knock on the door? Do I text him?

Just then, my phone rings and it's a FaceTime call from Alexei. I answer immediately.

He's on his back and he's holding the phone straight up in the air from bed smiling so broadly, he looks Chinese. On either side of him are the girls wearing fluffy white hotel robes and smoking the Cuban cigars I bought at Duty Free.

ME: Dude. Are you ok???

ALEXEI: Scotty!!!

ME: Dude. Are you ok?

ALEXEI: OK? Scotty! This is the single greatest moment of my entire LIFE!

ME: (laughing & sarcastically) What about the birth of your first child?

ALEXEI: That was pretty amazing. This is SO much better!!!

ME: Glad I could help.

ALEXEI: Come to the room.

ME: Eh. I don't want to rain on your parade.,

ALEXEI: I already fucked them twice. Come over!

I return to the big suite. It looks like a band trashed it. It stunk of spilled liquor and cigar smoke. Pretty much the whole room service menu had been ordered. A half eaten cheeseburger, a deceased shrimp cocktail, half an omelette and an empty bottle of Cristal upside down in the bucket.

They come out of the bedroom and we hung out & partied for a couple of hours. The sun is beginning to rise, I'm getting both sober and hungry.

ME: I'm going downstairs to hit the Sunday Brunch. Anyone?

ALEXEI: Should we ask the girls?

ME: Sure. Bring em.

They chat in Russian, get dressed and we head for the elevator.

As we enter the restaurant. It looks like any western high end hotel brunch.
A guy carving a roast beef, the penguin ice sculpture with peeled shrimp and oysters. The sushi guy... The usual.

I look at the girls. They look stunned. Frozen. Freaked out.

ME: Hey. Yulia. You ok?

Yulia: (Strong Russka accent) Soooo. How does thees work?

ME: I don't understand. How does what work?

Yulia: We take food and you pay for what we eat?

ME: Oh. No no. It's all you can eat.

YULIA: No. It ees impossible.

ME: What's impossible?

YULIA: I can eat as much sushi as I like? Have as many shrimp as I like?. Drink as much champagne as I like?

ME: Baby. Eat a fishing boat.

We sit down, then grab plates and head to the buffet. They are stacking their plates to an embarrassing height.

ME: (gesturing) You know. You can come back as many times as you like.

They looked embarrassed. I feel like a dick, but I'm trying to help.

JENYA: Oh. Hokay. Sank you.

We're eating, drinking and having a good time. As we're nearing the end of the meal, Jenya asks.

JENYA: Sooo You want historical tour of City? We are students at University.

ME: Oh yes! I would love that. I love history. Alexei?

They take us all over town. Explain the history of the city. The era when it was called Kievan rus. The Capitol of all of Russia. The war. Stalinist architecture, History of the Churches. Fascinating stuff. Smartest sex workers ever?

ALEXEI: Scotty. Let's take them shopping at the mall.

ME: Yeah. Sure. Your money.

We go to the mall and Alexei hooks them up. He buys them both iPads. Then buys Yulia a Louis Vuitton dog carrier (She's blonde, has a Chihuahua and is a huge Paris Hilton fan. We call her Paris for the rest of the day). Jenya goes for a classic Navy Chanel quilted bag. Timeless, solid choices. We part ways.

DAY 2.

We're sightseeing & covering a lot of ground. We hired an actual tour guide to take us around. It was a hot sunny day. We walked and took a lot of Taxis. I told Alexei what Nikolai said about never taking Taxis. He scoffed and said "YOU DON"T TAKE TAXIS. I DO".

A friend of mine who is an advertising executive saw my Facebook and where I am and offers to tee up a meeting at their local outpost in Kiev. It was nice of him, but it turned out to be kind of a bust. The vast majority of this offices work was taking art work from the states or Western Europe and slapping Ukrainian translations of slogans. They offered me a job, but it would have been a month out and break even at best. Kind of like shooting celebrities.

I'm walking back to the hotel. Uphill. Hot day.

Kiev from what I could tell was all about altitude. All the good shit was on their Mulholland Drive. As you descended down the hill, it looked less desirable. At the bottom of the hill was the Dnieper River and that area looked like shit. Kind of like Hollywood Boulevard, but a different, more desolate kind of shit.

The ad agency was a bit downhill from the hotel, but not so much so. Either way, I was hot, hungover and tired and decided to take a Taxi. It was less than a 10 minute drive.

I get in the car and tell him the hotel. He turns around, sizes me up and the first words out of his mouth were...

CAB DRIVER: Real Rolex?

ME: Oh. This? No! Fake. Canal Street. New York City.

This guy is not buying it. At all. Like he even knows what the fuck Canal Street is.

He continues driving. After a few minutes I notice we're going down the hill. Maybe he's taking a shortcut???

ME: Hey. Comrade go back up.

Cab Driver: Turns and points at me. SIT!

ME: Stop the fucking car!

He starts driving faster down the hill. Coasting through stop signs and lights.

Finally, we're on the banks of the Dniepr. Shithole, graffiti. Perfect place to dump a body.

Then he gets on the freeway headed out of town. We're in a Lada. A piece of shit Soviet tin can of a car. It was based on a Fiat 124, but wasn't half the car the Fiat was (which was a huge Italian pile of shit).

We're going faster & faster and the car feels like it's going to fall apart at speed. Now I'm panicking. Will he just take my watch & my phone and ditch me? Will it be ransom? Will he sell me to the mob? Kill me? I’m not a worrier, but I’m fucking worried.

I need a plan and I need it fast. I'm looking around to try and make eye contact with anyone. Then, out the windshield, I notice a police car ahead and immediately think "There's no way this guy is going to pass a police car speeding". But alas, he does. The moment we pass the cop car, I roll down my window. Throw the floor mats out the window, followed by the stack of magazines and books on the rear window ledge. The cop immediately pulls us over. Thank God!

I'm freaking out.

ME: Officer. This motherfucker tried to kidnap me!!!

Cop listens, but doesn't seem to care. He's examining the guys driver’s license who looks impatient. Cab driver won’t even look at me.

ME: To cop. Excuse me. Sir?

He walks away. Ignored again.

Finally, the driver's patience had run out and bizarrely, he snatches his license back from the cops hand and starts walking back to his car. Cop body slams him and cuffs him. Everything is in slow motion. The driver is sitting on the curb cuffed. Cop still talking on his radio.

I'm still boiling over with adrenaline.

ME: Um officer. This man tried to kidnap me.

Cop: Amerikanski?

ME: Da

Cop: Why you take Taxi in Kyiv?

ME: I know. My hotel told me not to, but..

Cop. You are stupid idiot.

ME: (taking it). I know. Can you please give me a ride back to the hotel?

Cop: Nyet. You are imbecile. You walk back. Learn lesson.

Is this guy for real?

ME: Can you please call my hotel and tell them where I am so they can pick me up?

Cop: Nyet. You walk back. You are stupid man.

The guy gets arrested and they leave me on the side of the highway. I didn't have a local sim card so I start taking the heel and toe express back down the highway and up the mountain. It’s 4 miles easy up a steep hill. Over 80 degrees and I’m hungover and dehydrated.

After 45 minutes. I need water and rest. I see a restaurant with a mural of Che Guevara on the side. It's a cigar bar. I buy a cigar in the hope of getting some help.

ME: (to waitress) Wifi? (pronounced weefee everywhere but here)

Her english is minimal. She logs me onto the wifi. I write a note in Google translate and explain what happened. She calls the hotel for me from the bar phone. It's Nikolai. I explain briefly what happened.

NICOLAI: Mr. Scott. I TELL you not take Taxi in Kyiv. You are stupid idiot!

If ONE more person calls me that today...

ME: I know! Can you please come pick me up?

NIKOLAI. Your friend very worried. I connect.

ME: Wait! No!

ALEXEI: Scotty, where the fuck have you been?

ME: I took a taxi and got briefly kidnapped. No big deal.

ALEXEI: Idiot. I told you not to...

ME: Dude. DON'T. I'll see you soon.

And scene..

MEETING MY EXES PARENTS

Some years back I dated this Chinese girl called Kim. We'd been together for over a year and it was time to meet her parents. Having always gotten along with parents, I was confident.

Her parents are gen 1 immigrants from Guangzhou who were the product of an arranged marriage. They emigrated through Vietnam and settled in Orange County.

Mom's name was "Cookie". Dad's name was "Ty". I haven't the vaguest idea of their Chinese names and never will.

KIM: (in car) Their English isn't great. Speak slowly white man.

ME: Copy.

We enter their impeccably maintained, split level Anaheim tract home. The landscaping was exquisite. I spot a baby banana tree bursting with fruit, roses, figs, avocadoes and all manner of citrus.

Both parents greet us at the door. Ty was effusive and friendly. He was doughy and bearded, like a Chinese Steve Wozniak. By the way he made blushing eye contact, my once over formed the conclusion that he's gay. Cool.

Cookie, on the other hand just squinted deeply and judgmentally into my eyes. Cookie stood 4'8". Maybe. As Kim once said "She may be small, but her bitch boots are tall".

COOKIE: You. Come with me.

ME: OK.

I follow her to a roomy kitchen. Again, O.C. tract. Pink granite island. Oak covered refrigerator/freezer. Shit, but better than my shit. She points to a bar stool.

COOKIE: You. Sit.

Trying not to laugh, I sit. Where is this going?

COOKIE: I don't. Like. White people.

Fucking joyous. She went there. Holding on for dear life trying not to explode with laughter. If this old Chinese dwarf-mom wasn't hilarious enough, she's also racist. This is the best.

I nod attentively and keep it together.

COOKIE: Ling say you Jewish. Is this true?

I fucking love her! She hates Jews too. She's like straight up Moo Shoo Mel Gibson.

ME: Um yes. 100%

COOKIE: Oh. Good. Jewish people only white people not lazy.

Base hit. 👌🏼

Kim enters & sits down next to me. Not sure how much she heard.

KIM: (Whispering in my ear excitedly) I think she likes you!

ME: (also whispering) Really? I don't think so at all.

KIM: No. this is really good for her. She hates white people.

ME: I know. She told me.

As predicted, we were fine. Turns out dad was totally gay. His strangest obsession was watching Justin Timberlake videos over and over again dubbed in Mandarin. He'd also flirt awkwardly with twentysomething waiters.

And scene...

PINK FLOYD, THE FERRARI & THE CLAP

How did you lose your Virginity? It’s a question I’ve always liked to ask people. Friends, women, men. Everyone. The stories are usually interesting & even if they aren’t, you learn a lot about the person just by watching the manner in which they tell it.

It makes for good whiskey talk & sometimes good pillow talk. 

For some it's beautiful. For others it's a horror show. For me, it was, as the saying goes "Tragedy + Time=Comedy." 

Like all teenage boys, my hormones were raging. The vast majority of the conversations between my friends and I were centered around sex. Getting porn back then was work. Hard work. One friends dad had a VHS of "Debbie Does Dallas". Another guys had "Deep Throat". We'd sometimes pay a homeless cat to buy us dirty magazines from the newsstand at the L train station. Millennials, be grateful for your internet porn. 

A couple of my friends had already had sex with their girlfriends and pressure was on the rest of us. There was no way the rest of us were graduating high school without doing some sex if we could help it. 

I was developmentally a late bloomer. 4'11" my Freshman year of high school and (thankfully) the 6'0" I am today at graduation. Suffice it to say that I was not rushing 1000 yards a game, nor banging the head cheerleader under the stands, (but I’m pretty sure the guy who was mowed my parents lawn in my hometown anyway). Generally speaking, it's best not to peak too early. 

How was I going to make this happen? I had a lot of female friends, but no prospects to speak of.  

One night, I'm out with a group of city friends. Downtowners. The cool kids with the lavish penthouses, brownstones & absentee parents that, depending on heritage were either descendants of slave traders or investment bankers/ commodity brokers. Out of nowhere, a girl we'll call Leslie says... 

Leslie: I hear you're a real sexual dynamo, Scott Nathan

Was she flirting? Was she fucking with me? She wasn't particularly thin, nor particularly attractive and definitely a strange bird,  but no matter. She’s had huge breasts and however remote, my only prospect. Let's see where this one goes. 

Me: (feigning confidence) Yeah... Well...you  know (polishing my fingernails on my chest)

Previous to that night, she was just a friend of friends. I got her number and we chatted on the phone for a week or so.  How we arrived at this booty call, I have no recollection. Probably because of the PTSD that came after it. 

17 years old. Chicago. A bitter cold, subzero snowy night.  The brown & cream striped cloth seats in my brown metallic '83 Toyota Land Cruiser wagon felt like cinder blocks. I used every bit of double clutching and manual gearbox skills to keep from becoming a fatality on the black ice covered roads that night.

 

I arrived at Leslie's fathers luxury high rise on Lake Shore Drive nervous as hell. Thirsty. Lump in throat, heart pounding. Not knowing what to do or say. They only breasts I'd touched up until this point  belonged to my babysitter Debbie in 5th grade as a plea bargain to not tell my parents about her boyfriend coming over to visit. Ever the businessman, it was a totally solid deal & a highpoint of my life at that point. 

The doorman takes my keys and rings up. I arrive to a very dark 4 bedroom apartment. The only light was a dimmed chrome Arco lamp hanging over a sectional sofa. She hands me a lukewarm bottle of Heineken & tells me her father is in Miami for the week. It tasted bitter and skunked. For some reason, I didn't ask her for water.  It seemed uncool. We chatted awkwardly for maybe 30 minutes before she realized I was too much of a pussy to make a move. I was. 

Leslie: Have you ever driven a Ferrari?

Me: Been in one once, but haven't driven one.   

Leslie: Do you want to drive my dads now?

Me: Are you crazy?  It's an ice rink out there and I barely made it here in 4 wheel drive. Let's do it another time. 

Leslie: Fine. I'll drive. Let's go. 

Me: OK. 

So Leslie the 15 year old and I head down to the garage level and get in the car. It was light metallic blue, Ferrari Mondial 8. Mid Engine. Tan waxy leather interior. No Ferrarista's wet dream, but pretty ace for 2 horny teenage kids.  

We made it less than 3 blocks before she gunned the 2nd to 3rd gear change, 180'd this prancing stallion, wadding it up into bits against the North Lake Shore Drive street lamp showering me with passenger side window glass. The glass was in my hair and down my shirt. It rang my bell. No major injuries, but my elbow hurt. 

Me: You idiot. We are fucked!

Leslie: We are NOT fucked. Let's go. 

Me: We ARE fucked. You're 15. Where are we going? 

Leslie: Home to fuck. The car was stolen. That’s the story. That's what happened. 

It seemed so simple. 

Me: OK

We walk back across the tundra, up the elevator and back to the apartment. I can't feel my face, hands or feet. It was probably 20 below zero and 80 below with wind chill factor and we're on Lake Michigan. 

She puts on the most popular record of the era, PInk Floyd's “The Wall" (vinyl of course).  As we're awkwardly getting naked, I'm hearing the opening helicopters and terrifying schoolmaster shouting “YOU! YES YOU!" This was not helping my opening night jitters. At all. 

I'm fumbled about with her nude, scratchy, front opening, sensible bra, until she finally undid it. 

Leslie: You have a condom, yes?

Damn it. I knew I forgot something. Actually it never crossed my mind. Actually, I'd never bought one before. Tunnel vision. Panicking more than ever. 

Shakes her head

Leslie: Just be careful. 

Me: OK. 

I'm scared & visibly shaking, but I'm going to get through this. 

Leslie: Be gentle, ok? I'm a virgin. 

I'm thinking wait... what? You took lead on this one. You asked for the sex. I was too proud & I didn't want to divulge that I too was a virgin and nodded. 

We tried for a bit, and got it in. Barely. Nobody was really having any fun and we decided to call it quits. No orgasms. Not great. Fine. It was over. I wasn't a virgin anymore & I went home.  

A couple of days later, something was terribly wrong downstairs.  While walking down the hall at school, I felt something slippery down there. I hit the closest restroom to survey the situation. What the hell was this? It felt like sperm, but looked like pee. Pretty sure I hadn't invented anything new. I gave it another day. It got worse. 

Options were minimal.

1. If I told my parents, it would be unspeakably horrible and lead to conversations no one wants to have. Ever. 

2. If I told my friends, I would never hear the end of the jokes about the fat girl and the V.D. STD wasn't a term yet.  

I decided to go it alone to the local planned parenthood type place.

After a thorough examination which included getting a thin, painful metal wire with a tuft of cotton shoved into my urethra, I sat & I waited.

The nurse returned. She was a heavy set black woman with a thick southern dialect and a white, ribbed polyester zip up jacket and pants that made a scraaaatchy sound when she walked. 

Nurse: mmm so baby... You've got a case of the Gonococcus. 

Me: Wait? What? 

She's staring at me with a sad face, but says nothing more. 

Me: Is that like gonorrhea?

Nurse: Mmm It IS gonorrhea baby.  

Me: What? No no. That's impossible. Are you sure?

Nurse: Mmm yes baby. 

Me: Wait. But. No No No.  She told me she was a virgin...  Is it possible you mixed my test up with someone else's?

Nurse: (Making a sympathetic face) Mmm. Nooo baby. 

Me: Wait. She lied???

Nurse squints & nods yes with a pained look at my naivete on her face. Now it looks like she might cry.   

My lower lip quivered. My body convulsed. I feel like throwing up and shitting myself at the same time.

I melt down on the spot and start crying uncontrollably. She bear hugs me and lets me cry into the scratchy ribbed white polyester jacket for a good 3 minutes.

Me: Am I going to die? Will I have this forever? 

Nurse: You ain't gon' die baby. The Doctor gonna give you some antibiotics. You'll be right as rain in a week. 

She then picks up a large novelty glass brandy snifter filled with red, green, blue & yellow condoms. and hands me a prescription for Tetracycline

Me: No thank you. Not going near any women ever again. They're dirty liars. 

Nurse: Take a few baby.

I took them out of politeness, but threw them in the trash outside in the parking lot. 

Later that day, I filled the prescription. The pharmacists assistant is a girl in my car pool...

CIndy: Oh no way! I take tetracycline for zits too! But your skin is perfect. 

(She never noticed Planned Parenthood on the label thankfully.)

Had more than a few trust issues after that & never spoke to Leslie again. Not even to tell her she gave me the clap.  Maybe I would’ve texted or emailed, but we didn’t have such things. I was so furious and wasn't developmentally equipped to have that conversation anyway. 

I ran into 10 years later at the Mayor's black tie ball. We were walking toward each other, locked eyes and froze like two bucks in the wild. She was approximately 5'3" 300lbs. At the time, I was happy she looked like shit. 

She ultimately got busted for crashing the Ferrari. The doorman saw us steal the car on the security camera and told her father. An imperfect crime. She was sent away to boarding school the following year. 

And scene...