” Hey meat, you like Asian women?”
My son, who just brought up a load of clothes from the car to his new apartment, looked at me in a puzzled way.
” Why do you ask?” he said.
“Well if you do like them, you are living in effing heaven.”
Prior to this exchange, I had been sitting in the car in Mike’s new Lower East Side neighborhood. Mike continuously brought loads of clothes from the car to his new apartment, and I stayed with the car to avoid towing.
And as I sat there, dozens of gorgeous Asian women sauntered past. Observing their marvelous buns and gorgeous legs caused me to get a severe case of the sweats, coupled with serious twitching.
I actually wanted Mike to get back to the car and drive away so as to relieve me of my anguish.
I decided just then that I had to visit the son I loved very, very, often.
Do I have a history for my love of Asian women? Yes, shamefully I do.
Several years ago, as previously documented on this blog, I lived in a mental health halfway house for a year and a half. I was assigned to an apartment to live with a beautiful Japanese woman with all the benefits of living with me except for ONE.
After several nights of watching TV with her as she was dressed in the skimpiest of night wear, I resigned myself to evenings of very cold showers and early retirement.
Since she, like me, had serious mental health issues, she was anything but unicorns and rainbows. But the part of my brain that was the Department of naughtiness overlooked that.
Do I feel ashamed of myself for writing this? Yes, I guess I do. But it ain’t like I’m a serial, stalkery, psycho killer beserkowitz kind of guy. I actually just have great admiration.
Well okay, it’s a tad bit more than admiration.