Well Diary, I was right. No sex with Jenn and we’ve been here four days.
It’d be tricky but not impossible to sneak it in. After the evening meditation session they have begun to let us have an hour of free time. We have nothing to do in that hour but talk with each other or meditate more on our own. There are places in the courtyard and throughout the house suitable for solo meditation. Each of those places would be perfectly suitable for a quick fuck, blowjob, or handjob, too.
I find myself noting this without much emotion, though, like a man who isn’t hungry noticing a sandwich shop in a train station. Like it might matter later. But right now it doesn’t. It’s an odd sort of relief, this not being hungry–for sex. No one here needs me. No one here wants me. I’m not interested in any of them. There’s no need for any sexual connection of any kind and so there ISN’T ONE. Kind of amazing and, for me anyway, kind of an altered state of being all its own.
Speaking of food. It’s good. Not as fancy as what you get in an Indian restaurant in the States–this is more like home-cooking–but at least it has flavor. After a month of the institution food at BF maybe anything would taste great to me. But I think this stuff is pretty tasty. How can you go wrong with rice and beans? Okay, the beans are different ones, lentils and chick peas mostly, but seriously.
Jenn hates it. You’d think she was being forced to eat cat food from a can. I guess she’ll get used to it or starve? The only rice she’s ever eaten, apparently, is Uncle Ben’s. This blows my mind. Rice is the staple of the cooking from so many different countries! She insists she’s never even had fried rice take-out. Never had sushi. Never had rice and beans in a Cuban or Caribbean restaurant. Never had paella. Never had greek grape leaves stuffed with rice pilaf. Never had shwarma on rice. Never had a burrito stuffed with rice. And obviously she’s never had Indian food. The mind boggles. How could you live in Southern California and never have Mexican food? Well she’s had tacos. No rice in those.
I guess only poor folks eat rice and beans. Not that she grew up rich, no, then she’d probably be more worldly and have wider experience, too. No, she comes from that bland, blind, middle of America, middle class. i.e. the People who Eat Uncle Ben’s. I didn’t think of her as “sheltered” because she took charge of her sexuality so young. But I guess there are other ways you can be sheltered.
I begin to appreciate growing up in New York City and eating everything without caring what country it came from. If it’s sold from a cart or truck or from a restaurant with a window onto the street, I’ve eaten it. And that’s pretty much everything you can think of.
Yeah, no, the food isn’t what makes me feel like we’re a million miles from home. It’s the sanitary conditions, or lack thereof. Everyone says it’s worse in other places. At least we have a modicum of running water in the building here. They say don’t drink from it, but that it’s only a matter of time before the local gut bugs get into you and make you sick. I guess it’s like Montezuma’s Revenge only the Indian version. Kali’s revenge.
So far so good on me. But it seems to be making its way through the whole group. Only a few have actually puked–it mostly comes out the other end. When can I go to my cave?
I’m especially impressed that you are not needing attention and actually liking anonymity and solitude. Wow, Ziggy, you’re really becoming okay with yourself.