Wives and Horses

Michel and I are swerving through the streets again.  Tonight is his last night in town.  Tomorrow is mine. 

We met on the balcony this evening, drank whiskey offered by my departing Israeli dorm-mate, and waited for a poker game that never materialized.  As the bottles emptied the conversation wandered into the dangerous territory of our respective romantic failures.  He told a painful story of an alcoholic lover in Mexico who tried, at his request, to give up drinking mescal, at least in the morning.  I shared a history of my own guilt and sadness, tracing the old scars of young love, disillusionment, and divorce.   We opened another bottle and the discussion slipped from the safety of ancient history into the dizzying uncertainty of our current entanglements.   Michel stopped us just before we crashed into unmitigated nostalgia and proposed a toast, an old French saying that he translated as, “To our wives, to our horses, and to the health of the ones who ride them.”  We both took another drink and laughed.

Now it’s hours later and we’re wandering, looking for food and an ATM.  Michel is intrigued by one of the many billboards advertising dancing girls and this being his last night in town, he decides it can’t hurt us to take a look.  Soon we’re sitting in a dark club watching fully clothed Nepali men and women take turns performing on a stage.  Girls join us at our table and ask us to buy them expensive drinks.  I opt out, content with my ridiculously overpriced beer, but Michel buys his girl a glass of champagne which causes her to get more affectionate, whispering in his ear, caressing his thigh.  My girl leaves after it becomes clear that I’m not interested in paying for her company so Michel explains to his confused companion that I’m gay.  A minute later we’re joined by a flirtatious, tight-shirted Nepali boy, but he doesn’t stay long.

 

Michel tells me he that he’s of two minds.  On one hand he’s opposed to paying for sex.  He never has before and he feels that this is a good thing.  On the other hand, he feels that one can never truly decide a thing like that until one has tried it and, well, this evening has left him with a longing for the warmth of female companionship.   I tell him I can’t condone it in this case and that while I respect a woman’s right to become a professional sex worker in The West and do not have a problem with the men who engage their services, it is unlikely that the girls in question here have much of a choice.  He lets the question rest for the moment and we leave the club, grab a rickshaw and tell the man to take us somewhere that sells whiskey.   As we negotiate for a few bottles the question arises again, this time prompted by a pimp who joins us at the counter.  Michel plays along but he’s not really trying, bargaining the man from 50 USD down to 12 USD, then saying he’ll only do it if the girl stays for eight hours.  The pimp tells him this is impossible so we jump back in the rickshaw and open our bottles, practicing our Nepali phrases as an old man pedals us around the empty streets.   Michel asks the rickshaw driver if he can bring us each four women who will stay for eight hours.  The driver seems unsure if he’s joking, but laughs anyway.  We laugh along, toasting the wives and horses again, and tell the driver to take us back to Silver Home.