Lost in Translation

I’m an average American white girl, vanilla-flavored with a fairly-mutt ethnic background. Thank God I live in LA, with its diverse population and numerous opportunities to get beautiful Latino boys in my bed who’ll whisper Spanish in my ear upon request. We have everything here: Haitian, Jamaican, Thai, Korean, Hawaiian, Persian…I’m working my way through a Benetton ad as we speak. I have no problem dating beyond my age, race, creed, etc. But here’s my confession: I do have difficulty with the language barrier.

When my UN delegate for the evening is enrolled in ESL, it’s hard for me to connect. Maybe it’s because I think I’m so damn witty. Well, honestly, my gift of gab and clever tongue is usually the only thing that gets me laid. But what if he doesn’t get my jokes, my snarky jabs, my obscure pop-culture references? What if my go-to line, “What will it take to get you into a brand-new pussy tonight” falls flat? What the hell do I have going for me?

I met a lovely bi-linguist from France whose command of English was pretty damn good – especially compared to my French, which consisted of Frère Jacques and Grey Poupon. But still, by the confused look on his face, I could tell some of my best material was missing its mark. And it was killing me. My friends, who are much more sensible, kept telling me to shut the fuck up, that when the lights are off we all speak the same language (L’Amour, L’AMOUR!) But I couldn’t seem to shake it. It made me realize how much I rely on banter as my foreplay, priming my mind as well as my body for eventual consumption. And how my big mouth is a real crutch.

No voulez-vous coucher avec moi came to pass that night. But still, who knows? I may visit France one of these days, Google Translate in hand. Or maybe France will come and check out my fruited plains.


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