Hunting Bambi

“So, you come to these things often?”

What a line. Sparky clearly has a way with women. Bored and annoyed, I wrote my review of her off-handed seduction techniques in the form of bar snacks (çerez) thrown at her head.

“Ow. Ow! So... you’re a pianist?”

She ignored me and the flying pistachios admirably and kept on luring the wide-eyed little thing into her experienced bisexual lech. With that knowing smirk, she may as well have been asking, “Would you like to have your first lesbian experience, little girl?” To me at the time, it was disgusting. What could possibly be interesting to Sparky about this Girl Scout cookie? She was the kind of person who’s name I would forget before she even finished introducing herself, and the way she was dressed, it was as if she was trying to force me to underestimate her. She had her mousy blond hair back in a ponytail and was sporting a light pink sweatshirt paired with baby blue sneakers. She looked like a twenty-year-old infant. There were many things wrong with the scenario, but I got stuck on the sneakers.

“Sneakers? SNEAKERS?”
“Yeah, whatever, lots of people wear sneakers."
“Yeah, athletes and children. She didn’t look like an athlete, so that makes YOU a fuckin’ perv.”

I was being needlessly critical, I admit. Sparky sighed into a reminiscent smile.

“Didn’t you just fall into those big, doe-like eyes?”
“I wanted to hit her with a car.”

That’s how we came to name her, and others of her kind, Bambi.

________

Expat parties are an excellent hunting ground for Bambi’s -- those cute, fresh off the boat girls who just graduated college and came abroad to do the first interesting thing in their lives, which after getting their hearts broken once or twice by the charming locals, usually devolves into teaching English and hanging out exclusively with other expats. Lets get one thing straight: I am a traveler, not an expat.

What is an expatriate? And expatriate is a person who temporarily or permanently leaves their country and culture of upbringing to terrorize a foriegn one. As a function of their emigration, expats define themselves by their dissatisfaction. Most of them make a living teaching English and they seem to hang out mostly with each other, inventing incestuous little fuck circles in whatever country they infest. For further entertainment, they come up with other annoying amusements such as theater groups reeking of mediocrity and pub quiz trivia nights in all too expensive bars. They congratulate themselves on their internationality while never bothering to learn much of the local language or culture. Their adopted country is an organism off which they simply feed, all the while doing their best to recreate their homeland and inherently representing it, usually in an unflattering light with their bad cocktail of entitlement and cultural insensitivity. These embarrassing ambassadors come from all over the world, but when I find myself stuck at a loud and obnoxious pub quiz with drunk people spilling beer and arguing about George Lucas factoids while blank faced Turks look on with that same bored and slightly insulted lack of expression that I recognize from also having to serve people I despise, I can't help but sigh and think: "This is why the world hates Americans."

When in a sea of expats, hunting Bambi’s provides an excellent distraction from my fiery disdain. Besides, it’s good for me to maintain a certain level of sociability, even in “enemy” territory. Sparky has since illustrated to me that the pleasure in corrupting the innocent is like pissing on a freshly fallen and undisturbed bed of snow.

________

Several nights later, I stumbled into a bar to meet Sparky. I was two hours late and dragging in a girl by her tits.

“Whattya think of this Bambi I brought ya? I bet she’d fuck us both, the little slut.”

I slurred, not trying to flatter myself in the least.

“I dunno man. She’s not wearing sneakers. Sneakers kind of do it for me, Bambi-wise, remember?”

Wavering in my seat, I looked over my prey. I had already soul-slaughtered her and moved on to the victory parade wherein I offered her up to the scavengers as leftover kill. She was a hot mess with eyeliner was streaming down her face. I followed these black trails up puffy cheeks to two big wild eyes that expressed mixed emotions of humiliation and gratitude for the attention.

Most of the time, I work hard to be considerate of others, thoughtful, aware, and well spoken. But sometimes despite my efforts, I prove myself to be the most fucked-up asshole I know. On these occasions, I abandon my better, more articulate self and get in bed with a stranger to my standards who acts with wild selfishness. I don’t always get away with the crap I pull, but when I do, I wonder how. Amazingly, friends like Sparky have a high tolerance for my bullshit and chauvinism, even a certain revelry in it.

“You wan ‘er in sneakers? I’ll put ‘er in some fuckin’ sneakers. Let’s go, sugar tits. Daddy’s gonna get you some new shoes.”

For hot girl-on-girl action, check out the post Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish.
The latest from Seduce and Confuse, here.

Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish

Istanbul: the stench of sizzling rotisserie intestine called kokoreç forces its way up my nostrils just as I lock eyes with a prostitute. She's draped herself on a wall by a dumpster, bored and smoking a cigarette to pass the time -- I'm grateful for the smoke's pollution as it does its best to mask the overwhelming scents coming from the buffet of hot flesh on offer in Tarlabaşi. Home.

Sparky and I power athletically down the street as she smokes her last and rants impassioned about the government's taxation of cigarettes:

"Those fucking bureaucratic assholes... how can those fuckers look themselves in the mirror? Their dicks are covered in prostitutes and their wives are covered in veils."

I rented her apartment for the first month I was in Istanbul, that's how we had met. Foucault, writings about sex and addiction, and Indie-Art House DVDs were on the selves, art with a disturbing rawness graced the walls, the kitchen was stocked, I immediately felt at home in her space. When she came back from her annual hibernation / artistic pilgrimage in Canada (not unlike my time in Turkey), we met in person and discovered we were kindred spirits. We've been close since. She hooked me up with a room next door with Hot Chip, making us both friends and neighbors.

"I had never taken a shit that smelled so good, and so I had to ask myself: why?! Why did it smell so good? Tropical, even."

The thing about Sparky is that she is fascinating. I think most people are interesting, but she is fascinating. She has a power about her and a way of story telling that is all-engrossing, her energy is intoxicating.

"It turns out that we had been using coconut butter as lube. That explained everything."

She captivates a room with her hijink-riddled stories of misbehavior -- best that they should hear it. Let them live vicariously.

"So on Christmas I took it up the ass with greasy, chunky, coconut cream. Which brings me to my point: no one, I mean no one, can tell me that I am not a giving lover."

The first time I heard the story of surprise coconut lube, we were somewhere on the Asian continent. She was very excited about its telling and she often rested her head on my shoulder. Still, despite her marked increase of affection and enthusiasm, I didn't realize she was rolling. The second time, we were at a cafe club that looked like Barbie's psyche and we were both rolling. It looked as though teenagers had barfed pink glitter on the walls. We laughed a lot.

Sparky identifies as being bisexual, an artist, Turkish, but also very North American, having spent of her adolescent and young adult life in Canada. She has Pan-esque short, asymmetrical, magenta hair, a plethora of piercings, and a shaved pussy. She tastes amazing. When she's intimately aroused, a single exhale from her lips is enough to send shivers emanating from my root up my spine. She wears green eyeliner and celebrates in her distinctively deep, gruff voice. When she speaks in Turkish, the sound is rough like shark's skin -- like The Swiss Family Robinson, I want to climb a tree with her language on my thighs.

"So this Sultan, Osman... I can't remember which, Osman Whatever II, had his vizier bring him women as his lokum, yani, his little treat, whatever, that part is normal, but he made him bring fat women, the fatter the better, then after fucking them he would have them killed as he watched. Fucked up, eh? He wanted his women to be like cattle, so fat they looked like cattle, then killed like cattle, he insisted on it." 

"That's some fucked up snuff shit right there." 

"Cattle fetish, man!" 

Loud rants like these in public places are an example of many reminders that Istanbul is not Cairo. Thank God, il humdulilah. In this city, Sparky and I can go to LGBT events and get wasted without fearing for our lives. We dance together, gyrating closely to industrial electro music, and it happens to not be the most dramatic thing in the room. We end up in drunken strip tease induced group sex, and it feels natural. We don't have to stress ourselves out about it. But that last part, the ease of interaction, maybe has less to do with the environment and more to do with the individuals.

In California, my dear friend Texas had made somewhat of a habit of seducing me when she was intoxicated (and that she frequently was). I remember her Russian Hill apartment on the night of her birthday, an evening she had fiercely declared as LADIES NIGHT: she was prone on her couch and I was eating her, fingering her as she tried to silence her moans for the sake of her guests asleep in the next room. But it was her birthday, I had to do what she wanted. Though I had baked her a cake, I owed the pleasure to her, she said. She demanded an orgasm by my tongue, and she felt that due to it being the anniversary of her birth, she deserved it -- a reward for living as long as 24 years on this earth. That night a group of ten of us or so had gotten all dolled up in tight, short, glistening tubes of dresses, our unattainable bitch costumes, and we traveled in a pack. Now these slut suits were pushed up and pulled awry, she was begging for me to make her cum. Unlike my girl friend in high school, she clearly wasn't playing in an act to colloquially claim to experience or to arouse cocks inserting themselves in fantasy. This was her fantasy. She begged, and begged, until she came in my mouth.

She was always with some guy and she never considered herself to be bisexual. The only other sexual encounter with a woman that she had told me about was a steamy but abbreviated make-out session on a dance floor in Italy. Perhaps this gap in her self-perception and her inhibited desire, desire such as displayed on that moonlit couch and so many other grimy San Francisco street-side back drops, is what inspired her to push me away when she entered the corporate world of Silicon Valley, working at Google or YouTube or wherever. Perhaps, though we had been best friends for many years, perhaps I didn't fit in the portrait she held in her mind of her adulthood. Perhaps she suddenly needed to leave that phase of experimentation behind her, juvenile as it was, pissing in the face of her straight privilege and aspirations of "normalcy". I wasn't asking her to be with me, in fact I didn't want that, she is nothing close to polyamorous and we both love dick too much to give up. I was happy to please her physically and to be socially as we had always been, but now it is occurring to me for the first time that perhaps this was in itself the problem. Did she want more?

Whatever the problem, she created a seemingly insurmountable distance between us, characterized by an extremely frustrating absence of communication of any kind. Torturing as this silence seems, it's the best show of my love for her that I can offer by allowing the space for as long as she needs. If she feels like telling me about it one day, I'll gladly listen.

When I was in college, sexuality columnist Dan Savage from Seattle's publication The Stranger treated the student body to an interactive lecture. While it was mostly give-and-take, he stated at least one thing quite definitively that has since stuck with me: bisexuals don't exist. Men are either gay or straight -- if they say they are bi, they are simply doing their best to adjust to the truth -- and women's sexualities are so fluid that it's pointless to label their preferences at any given time as if they will be sustained for a lifetime. By the way, Dan Savage has since written columns revising his previously stated opinion on bisexuality, making a little more effort these days to tread lightly on the eggshell egos of the community and fight personal accusations of bi-phobia. Regardless of his current stance, at the time he brought to light for me the pressure to identify oneself with a sort of inferred judgement, even or especially within the LGBT community. Sometimes it seems to come down to the following questions:
"Do you qualify for straight privilege?"
Not quite.
"Do you qualify for homosexual acceptance?"
Not quite.
"Why are you so insistent on being so fucking difficult?"

I wonder if not quite being able to put a finger on the fluidity of female sexuality actually makes it easier for someone like me to accept, while this invisible pill is nearly impossible for someone like Texas to swallow.

Doesn't bother Sparky. And this isn't the first time I've been "with" a female in an Islamic country. Seems funny to me, somehow, but perhaps I shouldn't judge a country by its Qur'an.

For more antics with Sparky, check out the post Hunting Bambi. 
Curious about LGBT in Turkey? Read THIS. 
Find the latest from Seduce and Confuse HERE.