Honing The Talent
B Pascal
Chapter 32
There isn’t much more to report about the rest of the week. It was indolence surrounded by opulence. I’m not knocking it. In fact, I suppose I could get used to it. But I’d need something else in my life to keep my interest.
Larry gave me the local tour, we went to Philly once to a restaurant that was nowhere near as good as Mrs. Mahoney’s cooking, we played lasertag with a bunch of middle schoolers and high schoolers. We watched videos and played video games. Then it was Sunday, and time to leave.
I hadn’t seen Mr. Krugman again since that first dinner, but his mother kissed Larry goodbye and gave me a hug. I thinked her for having me.
“You’re welcome anytime, Tom. I mean that. Wonderful to meet you. Have a safe trip back, you two.”
We got ourselves packed and settled into the Krugmobile, and we were off. He drove a little too fast, and I kept expecting us to get pulled over, but he seemed to know just how fast he could go on any given stretch of road. We spent the time talking about Drew’s Place, my impressions, what I’d done, who I’d done, and so on, then he filled me in on his encounters. It struck me as a bit competitive, like recounting all the places you’d gone on vacation the past year.
But it killed the time. I thought I had a slightly better insight into what drove Larry and why he was so compulsive about parties and hooking up at college.
It was just under a three hour trip, with one stop for food, before we pulled into the school’s student parking lot. I got my bags back to the dorm in one trip, but Larry had to go back for a second load. I put stuff away while he was out and got settled. I wondered if Karen was back from her trip yet, and if she’d written, so I booted up the PC.
When it finally got done doing whatever mysterious things it did to make itself ready, I saw the email icon flashing. I double-clicked it with a smile.
I’m back, Tom! And exhausted. But I’d feel guilty if I didn’t write you a short note telling you about my trip. Martina’s house turned out to be in Beverly Hills. Beverly-freaking-Hills! She stood on her front steps after we arrived and said, “Well, this-famous-moviestar lives over there, and that-gorgeous-actress lives one house down, and you-know-the-famous-singer, he’s got the place across the street, plus a house in France.” I felt like I should go on one of those bus tours where they drive you around to all the movie star’s houses.
Anyway, her house wasn’t far off from what I’d imagined. Plenty of money, and they do have a cook. There’s someone who comes in every day to clean, but no live-in maids or such. A gorgeous house! I gathered her father does a lot of entertaining because he’s in the business.
So Martina kinda gets that the rest of us common people are a little intimidated by all the Hollywood glamor, so she drove me around to show me the sights, who lives where, who the up-and-coming stars are, which ones are over the hill. And each name had a little gossip attached to it. So all those scandals they hint at in the supermarket tabloids? There’s a lot of truth to them.
The studios spend a lot of time and money trying to stamp out the rumors, misdirect the press, and so on. I’ll tell you some of them when we’re together again.
I told you she took me to her hairdresser before Christmas, right? Well, she did it again, and the both of us got the full treatment. I mean, hair, nails, toenails, we even got a Swedish massage from a real Swedish masseuse. Then she took me to lunch at one of those very Hollywood restaurants where all the movie people eat. Honestly, I felt like a movie star myself. I didn’t want to act like a rube, but Martina kept pointing out these famous actors who are in the movies or on TV. I kept wanting to swivel my head around to look. But I didn’t.
We went to a party one night while we were there, some studio thing meant to kick off a new project. And her father—he had to attend, he’s part of it—hired a limousine to take us there!
Martina had a fancy dress that mostly fit me, it was a little tight, and honest-to-God, when we got there and the attendant opened the door and we stepped out, there were paparazzi there taking pictures, flashbulbs going off like we were famous! And we had to walk this gauntlet to get in to the restaurant, all these onlookers being held back by velvet ropes and calling out to us. They didn’t know who we were, but we were there, so we must be famous!
So for an evening I got to live the fantasy. I don’t think I could do it for much longer than that.
The constant scrutiny would be overwhelming, oppressive. But it was fun for a couple of hours.
We went to another party another night, but this one was just some of her school friends getting together to catch up. I liked most of them. One of her male friends kept hitting on me, maybe a little too much to drink and didn’t understand what ’already involved’ meant, and finally Martina had to take him aside and read him the riot act. He sulked the rest of the night.
Martina went to do some shopping on Rodeo Drive, and I went along. You know Rodeo Drive, right? Like the most expensive shopping district in the States? I thought I’d choke when I saw what a handbag cost. After she finished we did some window shopping. That’s as close as I’ll get to buying something from one of those stores.
Another day she drove me to Santa Monica Pier, and we did a couple of rides and some games.
We walked down to Muscle Beach just to ogle the bodybuilders. That kind of self-obsession feels a little weird to me, but you have to admire the dedication that makes them look like that.
On the last full day before we came back, she drove me to Venice Beach for the day and we got to swim in the Pacific. And it was hot enough that we had to use sun block to keep from getting sunburned! In February!
So, anyway, those are the highlights. There’s lots more details I left out, but another time.
Write and tell me about your trip to sunny Pennsylvania. I will be expecting particulars, so I hope you took notes.
—XXXK
I had half-expected that some agent would see her at one of those parties and try to sign her up. She would have no trouble breaking into films given what she looked like, but I believed her when she said that the life would be oppressive. Anyway she was too smart and introspective for that life, and Hollywood seemed to flaunt the exact opposite qualities.
I was going to have to do some serious creative writing to construct an acceptable story about my stay at Larry’s that wouldn’t shock her. And then maybe have her tell me that we were done, if she found out the truth. I’m not sure that she had those particular extracurricular activities in mind when she told me to ’experiment’.
I glanced at her email again and had a flash. All these past four years I’d been learning about my various talents and coming up with names for the different types of orgasms or responses to stimulation, I’d never been able to find a decent name for what I had awkwardly been calling the ejaculation filter. She had just inadvertently given me an adequate name for it: Cum Block. I liked it. Short and to the point.
Larry came back from the car with his second load. Probably his dirty clothes, now cleaned and pressed, that he’d been saving up since the start of the semester.
I reviewed what was on the docket for tomorrow and whether I was caught up, and decided that I was, mostly, so I got ready for bed while I thought about how much of the trip to Krugman-land I was going to tell Karen about. I fell asleep thinking about it.
I woke late, because I had no Monday morning classes. I read while I ate breakfast, reviewing the things we’d covered before the break. Back in the dorm, I composed a careful email to Karen, spending most of it describing his house, his parents, the shopping trip and lasertag excursion. I raved about Mrs. Mahoney’s cooking, and the domestic excess that seemed to have defined Larry’s teenage years.
I told her that one night he’d dragged me off to a party with some of his former high school classmates. I was careful to describe it as a mixed gathering. In the end I decided to just pretend that the visit to Drew’s Place never happened at all, and replaced it with a dinner excursion to Philly.
I felt a little guilty misleading her in that way, but I thought she would think much less of me if she learned the truth.
I went off to classes and the familiar rhythm of the week returned. I knew which classes were coming up, what was due, when the quizzes were, and I felt like I had a handle on my life. At least on this part of my life.
The following day I had my first post-break European History class, and our research papers were returned. You recall that I mentioned that I had cheated on several of these, in the sense that I “read” the instructors’ epicenters to determine what they considered a proper approach and which elements of the topic were most important.
I was basically feeding back to them what they considered the “correct” interpretation of a topic, something that a canny student could do by reading the things that an instructor emphasized during their lectures. I just did it in a less time-consuming fashion.
So I was pleased when our papers were handed back and mine had received an A—, with some flattering marginal comments, like “Good observation” and “Yes! Exactly!” It helps to explain what happened next.
Professor D started his lecture as he always did, with a glance back at what we’d discussed in the last class, so that we maintained the continuity of the historical thread. Sometimes he’d throw in a lame historical joke, and we’d all chuckle dutifully.
In high school, I’d found that I got an internal alarm bell when a teacher was thinking of me and about to call on me in class. Here in college, instructors didn’t do that so much, as they were lecture oriented, with little give and take from the students. But the alarm bell went off nonetheless, meaning that he was thinking of me.
In addition, I was getting that vague sense that he was, I don’t know, perhaps speculating about me. It didn’t seem to have a sexual component to it, as I’d thought last semester. This seemed like some other kind of speculation, more like an assessment, I thought. His focus was indirect, so I would have to wait until I had his full focus in order to get in to his epicenter to attempt to get more detail.
I couldn’t understand this feeling. I don’t believe I’d sensed anything like it from my other teachers, and this guy had a reputation of being somewhat aloof, insulated, from the undergrad students, so I didn’t know why he was thinking about me.
I resolved to put it out of my mind for the moment and focus on the subject. I’d figure it out sooner or later.
And so the weeks went by. February turned into March, still cold but with the occasional brief appearance of the sun and the hint of warmer weather, just before another snowstorm came around the corner.
There was a kind of mindless repetition to our days—classes, reading, assignments, research papers, cramming for tests, eat, sleep. Some, like Larry, worked hard during the week but lived for the weekends, when the real goal of college reared its head: party hearty, blow off steam, try to get laid, and then try to recover on Sunday.
I couldn’t do it, just couldn’t maintain the debilitating pace of parties that sometimes started on Thursday so you could get a head start on the weekend. I don’t know how Larry did it. Every time I broached the subject, he just told me to practice more.
One Friday toward the end of March, after a particularly tedious week I was about ready to punch holes in the wall just to relieve the frustration. Even Larry could see it.
“You look like a man who needs to drink too much and then show everyone how well you can dance. You need to get drunk and make a fool out of yourself. There’s a party at Alpha Pi tonight. Come with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
I started to argue with him. I had no interest in those kinds of drinking contests, I told him. Everybody’s too drunk to talk sense. That’s precisely the point, he replied.
Back and forth we went at it, and at some point I decided that I really needed to get out of here, even if it were to a place I didn’t particularly want to be, because I had no other options I could think of. So I agreed and he was so surprised that he shut up.
“Okay, a little after nine, then. We’ll go over together.”
And the appointed time found us, wrapped in our winter coats, walking through yet another snow flurry to the off-campus frat house. Larry had become something of a connoisseur of parties, knowing which groups or which frats threw the best parties, had the best liquor selection, the most snack food assortments, the cutest girls, and so on. He felt that Alpha Pi was safely ensconced in the top ten.
I had no reason to doubt him as we stepped in the front door. It was crowded and loud, and people seemed already half in the bag. There was a little room off to the side as we entered, maybe some kind of butler’s office in the house’s previous life before frats, where there was a pile of coats, hats and scarves. We threw ours on top.
“Okay, let’s get a drink, see who’s around, right?”
I’d be unlikely to know any of the party animals, but I had no doubt that Larry would be on a first-name basis with most of them. Beer in hand, I followed him around as he glad-handed almost everyone. The man knew how to make connections, I’ll give him that.
I moved on in search of some snacks while he was engaged with some friends in a detailed review of some previous party. Aha! Chips and salsa! Score!
I stuffed my face until I found my salsa saturation level, then looked around to see if there was anyone I knew. Not so far, so I went in search of a replacement for my empty beer. I had to wait in line at the nearest keg.
Someone behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “That is you, isn’t it, Carter?“
I turned around. It took me a second to place him. It was Ron McCarthy, the Chemistry TA who ran the Chem recitation section I was in. I’d “borrowed” his knowledge about stoichiometry, and had been impressed by how organized he was and how much he loved chemistry.
“Mr. McCarthy, living dangerously, aren’t you, associating with us lower classes? It might be catching.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Grad school is too high pressure sometimes, and I need to cut loose.”
He filled his cup and a second one, too.
“If you have two beers in hand, that must be some serious pressure you’re looking to relieve.”
“Huh? Oh, this. No, only one’s for me, the other one’s for a new grad student. We’re introducing her to the dissolute life of graduate school in the States. She’s not from here and has a lot to catch up on, from a social standpoint. Speak of the devil! Here she is.”
I turned, as she had apparently come up from behind me.
“Grazie, Ron. Ero davvero assetato. Sorry, have to remember to say in English. I... I was very thirsty.” She beamed at having found the right English words, and took the cup from him.
I hadn’t spoken Italian since last year when I’d practiced with the Italian-speaking bowling league back home, so I had to rummage down deep. ”Scusi, Signorina, sei Italiano?”
Her face lit up. ”Si, io sono! Sono di Milano, qui per frequentare la scuola di specializzazione.” She was from Milan, here to attend grad school.
Ron said, “Well, two paisans, I feel like a third wheel. Giulia Ricci, this is... what was your first name? Tom? This is Tom Carter.”
“Signorina, è un piacere incontrarti. Io sono Tom Carter.”
“Per favore, chiamami Giulia. È bello sentire la mia lingua parlata.” She said to call her Giulia, and that it was nice to hear someone speak her language.
Ron, trying to stay involved in the conversation, said to me, “She did her undergrad work in Milan, took one or two grad courses, then decided she wanted to study here for her doctorate.”
While he gave me her background, I looked at her. Even if she hadn’t opened her mouth, I might have guessed she was Italian. She had a kind of Mediterranean look to her, long black hair, a kind of olive cast to her skin, poised, comfortable in her body, eyes that took in everything. She was dressed informally, jeans and a short sleeve pullover shirt. Nice legs, from what I could see, and I thought there might be a nice chest under that loose top, which seemed to protrude in all the correct places.
I told her, ”Non ho l’opportunità di parlare spesso italiano. Mi scuso per aver parlato male.” I didn’t get to speak it much anymore and was sorry for abusing it so badly.
She laughed out loud, a very nice laugh. ”Tu lo parli... No, in English, I must force myself. You speak it very well.“
“You are very kind, but sometimes I feel like I am beating the sentence with a hammer to make it say what I want it to say.”
She laughed again. “I like that. That is how I feel about speaking American... I mean, English. With a hammer.”
Someone called to her and she stepped away. To McCarthy I said, “Cute girl, and smart, if she got admitted here for grad school. Have you made your move?”
He looked at me, horrified. “Christ, no. My girlfriend would toast my nuts over an open fire if she got even a hint that I was paying attention to someone else. Nope, hands off, that’s my mantra.”
“Well, she’ll probably have her hands full with work anyway. Still, she’ll improve the glamour level of the department anyway. I’d been meaning to bring that to your attention, but it seems to be a moot point now.”
“It’s the common goal of everyone in the Chem department to make undergrad lives more pleasant. Glad to help. Not. Look, I gotta get back to my crew. We’ve got qualifying exams coming up and we’re trying to come up with a time for a study group that we all agree on. See you in class, Carter.”
He took off, leaving me with an almost empty cup, so I filled it again and wandered off. I saw Larry in the middle of a crowd of frat-looking guys, telling a story. He looked happy.
The party, as they always seemed to do, got louder and rowdier, one of the reasons I never cared much for these kinds of parties. But it was Larry’s hope that the noise and forced hilarity would get me out of my funk. I doubted it, but I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
I stood by the wall, holding my beer and waiting for the funk to lift, feeling a bit sorry for myself.
“Sembra che tu sia caduto dalle nuvole!” I turned my head and saw Giulia approaching. I was trying to understand the idiom. I only knew a few of them, the ones the bowling team used often, some of them not meant for polite company.
“I don’t know what it means, to ’fall from the clouds’.”
“I forget sometimes the English words do not always have the same...—second meaning? Is that the phrase?—that they do in Italian. It means to feel lost, or sad, like an angel falling from heaven. You look like you are lost.”
“Yes, perhaps that was true. A little sad. And I think what you meant by ’second meaning’ for a word is ’connotation’. What a word means in English is its denotation. What a word implies is its connotation.”
“Oh, I will never understand this funny language!” she said.
“Me neither.” That got a smile.
“Help me practice, please. It is not the same to speak to someone at a party as it is to recite for the teacher in English class. I need to practice.”
“Okay. Tell me about things you know. Tell me about your home, whether you have brothers or sisters, what your school was like, those things. Pretend that you are trying to impress me.”
She giggled and I think she even blushed a bit. But she did it. She stumbled, looking for the proper constructions, sometimes she forgot a word and had to ask. She reminded me of me, trying to learn Spanish or Italian, and having the same problems. But English was much harder to learn, full of exceptions and strange constructions. I admired her for being able to speak it as well as she could.
She had gone to public schools in Milan, where she had liked the sciences. Her father worked for the local government, and she had a younger brother who was finishing secondary school. She had attended the Polytechnic University of Milan, majored in chemistry and had done well enough that her teachers encouraged her to go further.
She’d loved American movies and thought she would like studying in the States, so she asked around, found out where the best chemistry departments were, and sent applications there.
I provided her with the occasional word that she stumbled over, and she made sure to use it in her sentence so she’d remember it, and I could see her committing it to memory. Sometimes her sentence construction was convoluted, emulating the way Italians would place nouns and verbs in a sentence, and I would suggest that she try it another way, and she would repeat it to herself.
I liked her. She was smart, but she knew her failings and worked hard to get better, and she laughed at her mistakes. I thought that was a good attitude to have.
I haven’t mentioned it before, but maybe it’s worth bringing up now. All through high school, without consciously trying, I projected a sense of knowing who I was, that I understood things, that I was self-confident, even if I wasn’t. Mostly it was that I didn’t care what others thought of me. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. But others read it as ’appearing older than he seems’. So the upshot about not caring what others thought of me, was that they accepted me as one of their own! Who would have thought it?
So I got invited to the parties they threw, they talked to me as one of them, and even listened to my thoughts and opinions. None of my other friends my age had had this happen to them, nor would it have occurred to them to try to break into those circles. There were rigid social barriers set up to prevent that. I was the exception. That was why most of the women I hooked up with in high school were older than I was!
I was thinking about this while talking to Giulia, because that’s the way she was talking to me, as if I were a peer. She was old enough to be in grad school, so a minimum of four years older than me. Yet she didn’t talk to me that way. I would have to give this some more thought at another time. Her voice drew me back to the moment.
“You are a good teacher,” she said, “very patient. Also, a good listener. The other boys here, they do not seem to listen. They look like they are listening, to be polite, but their minds are elsewhere. Italians do not do that so much.”
“You’re right. They speak just to be polite, and they listen the same way. They do not listen to understand. They are trying to get drunk and perhaps convince some cute girl, also drunk, to go home with them. The empty words are just a means to that end.”
She snorted. “Maybe American men are not so different from Italian men after all.”
“I think it’s probably true anywhere, not just America. Young men get horny. So do young women.”
“Horny? What is this word?”
Oops. I’d just dug myself into an embarrassing hole. How do I explain this?
“Maybe this is not a conversation we should be having if we have just met.”
“No, please, I need to know this. It is not something that we learned in English class. How will I know if I do not ask? What does ’horny’ mean?”
“I... Giulia, you must promise me that you will not be offended. I do not want to embarrass you. Or me, for that matter. Okay, horny means aroused, desiring to have sex. It can be used to refer to either men or women, but mostly men are the ones who get horny.”
“Oh. So, like eccitato or arrapato?“
“I don’t know. I never learned those words. My education had been sadly lacking.”
She leered and wiggled an eyebrow. “So I can say dirty things and you will not know?”
“No. You will have to teach me. I am always looking to refine my knowledge of languages.”
“This knowledge does not... wait... Oh.” She furrowed her brow in concentration, then said, “This knowledge does not come cheaply,” with a satisfied grin. “I would expect to learn how to say the same things in English. To refine my knowledge of the language.”
“There is an English idiom, ’Turnabout is fair play.’ It means that whatever you do to me, I am allowed to do to you.”
She spoke the phrase silently. “I like it. Okay. Where do we start, Tom? Is that how you like to be called? Tom?”
“That’s fine. Some people call me ’Carter’ because Tom is a very common name in English. Either one is fine.”
“Carter has a nice sound. I will use that. So, where do we start, Carter?”
“Are you serious about this, Giulia? Because I feel a little awkward about teaching a woman I just met all the dirty words in English. Well, it won’t be all of them. There are a lot of dirty words in English. We won’t have time.“
“I am here for several years, unless I fail. How is it they say in English? Unless I flunk out?”
“You strike me as very smart. I doubt that you will flunk out.”
“Good! Then I have time to learn all the dirty words in English. You will be my teacher. How do we begin?”
Now I started to panic a bit. A very hot, sexy, foreign babe with a provocative accent and no obvious reluctance to acquire the salacious parts of her new language wants me to teach her. Was she playing with me, just to see how flustered she could get me?
Desperate times, desperate measures. I had her focus, so I found the link into her epicenter and followed it up. The surprising thing was that I immediately understood her thoughts. Her thoughts—and I suddenly realized this for the first time—were being expressed in the mind’s “machine language”, a very fundamental and concise way to express ideas, before they were translated into one’s native language. I hadn’t caught on before that this was how the mind did this, since all humans spoke this language to themselves when they were thinking and I understood it intuitively and never looked closely at the form in which it was expressed.
This fundamental language, which I didn’t think could be represented in any spoken or written form, was a more concise, compact form of expression. It was a language of symbols, colors, smells, emotions and sensations, a kind of machine language for the mind, independent of the language you wrote in and spoke aloud, independent of where you lived. I understood it because I was human and I spoke the same language to myself. It didn’t matter if she was Italian, or Russian, or Serb, or Hutu. Every human would have the same internal language.
So I looked around her epicenter and found, as far as I could figure out, she wasn’t playing with me. She really was curious about this new language and was trying to find how similar things were expressed in the two languages. Of course she knew these bawdy expressions. All teenagers learn them from their friends, from movies, from the streets. They refine them when they get to college.
She wanted to be able to express herself in English. That included the dirty words. She was also making an effort to learn the English expressions for her discipline’s scientific terminology. She spent some time watching television, sitcoms, to pick up idioms and accents.
I took a quick look at other things that were in her focus, but didn’t see anything that was specifically sexual. She was at a party, and trying to make a good impression on her fellow grad students, to be taken seriously, so she was avoiding anything that would suggest availability.
I could see that she was waiting for my reply to the question, ’How do we begin’. I took another swallow of my beer.
“I am thinking that this might not be the best place to conduct this class. People may overhear and get the wrong idea. I don’t want to interrupt your night out, so maybe we should set up an appointment for another time without all these people around.”
She made a dismissive sound with her lips and waved a hand. “I don’t really care about this party. I am here only because my fellow students made an effort to include me and I did not want to be rude to them. So I come and pretend to have a good time. To show them I am friendly, no? Now I have made an appearance, so they know. I do not have to be here any more. Let us go somewhere else, somewhere where there is less noise.”
So far she had avoided every attempt of mine to dissuade her from learning dirty English words. She was determined.
I shook my head. “I have to admire your dedication, Giulia. You are persistent. All right. Let’s see. The student union is open until midnight. We could go there and have coffee, while I try to remember all the dirty words I have ever learned.”
“Americans make terrible coffee, but they have tea. All right, let’s go there.”
We worked our way through the increasing crowd and spent some time digging through the now large pile of coats and hats near the front door. I found mine and after some more searching she found her coat and hat.
“Let’s go, then,” I said, resigning myself to what could become a very awkward tutorial. I’m not sure exactly why I was so hesitant. She had clearly expressed that this was something she wanted to do, and didn’t seem at all ill at ease about learning them. This was my problem to deal with.
We started walking toward the campus. “We might as well start now. Maybe I’ll begin with some phrases and idioms that are just rude, not dirty. You might as well learn those, too.”
“Oh, good! Okay, tell me.”
“Very well, but you have to teach me some Italian ones, too. Let’s see... Okay. Here’s a couple. ’Bastard’ and ’son of a bitch’. A bastard literally means a child born outside of marriage. But its connotation—you remember that word?—means a person who behaves very badly, in a vicious manner. So if someone does or says something undignified to you, you could say, ’You bastard!’ It shows contempt for that person. But it can also be used if you feel sorry for someone who has had something bad happen to them. If someone fell down a flight of stairs and broke their leg, you could say, ’That poor bastard’ to show sympathy.”
“So it can mean that you hate one person and that you feel sorry for someone else? English is very strange.“
“You think it’s strange now, just wait until you start to learn more about it! Anyway, the other one, ’son of a bitch’, means a really disagreeable person, a scoundrel. If someone does something to undercut you, or spreads a rumor about you, you might say about him, ’That son of a bitch’.”
“I have heard that one before, in the movies. I wasn’t quite sure what it meant.”
“Pay attention. There will be a quiz later. Next one. ’Motherfucker’. It’s usually used to describe a man who is mean, or despicable. It’s really impolite and you wouldn’t use it in polite company, only among good friends. You’d say, ’That motherfucker’, or ’What a rotten motherfucker’.”
I could see her saying the word silently, moving her lips, getting used to it.
“Another one. ’Piece of shit.’ You’d use it to refer to anyone, male or female, who shown themselves to be a detestable person, someone who deserves no respect. You’d say, ’That piece of shit’, or ’She’s a real piece of shit’.”
We turned into the campus entrance. “English can get pretty crude, especially for those who don’t have good vocabularies. You’ll hear a lot of poorly educated people use the word ’fuck’ or ’fucker’ as noun, verb, adjective, inserting it at random when they can’t think of the word they want. It makes it really hard to understand the point they’re trying to make.
“Sometimes you use it as an adjective to emphasize another word, make it stronger, more emphatic. You can call someone an idiot if you don’t think much of their intelligence, but you might call them a ’fucking idiot’ if they’ve done or said something truly stupid. Or you could refer to them as a ’stupid fucker’.”
“If they were really ignorant, could I call them a ’fucking stupid fucker’?”
“Now you’re picking it up! Yes! But, of course, you only say that among your friends, not in polite company. Okay, moving on. ’Bitch.’ It literally means a female dog. When used to refer to a person, it’s almost always used to describe a malicious or unpleasant woman. You’d say, ’That bitch,’ or ’That fucking bitch’.”
“I’ve already met a few of those. Very useful.”
“Here’s a common one. You might say ’Goddammit’ when you are angry or annoyed, or something bad happens to you. Some people are offended by it, but its a very common but crude phrase.”
“Goddammit, that fucking bitch,” she replied.
“You’re an expert already. Here we are.”
I held open the door to the cafeteria, which was sparsely populated at this time of night, but they stayed open late for people taking a break from the library or laboratory. I got coffee and pie, she got a cup of tea, and we found a table in the corner.
“Okay,” she said, “you’ve taught me the rude words, so...”
I interrupted her, “Wait. I’ve taught you a very few of the many, many rude, crude, offensive words and phrases in the English language. There are hundreds more. We don’t have time. Make a list of the ones you hear that you think are rude and which you don’t understand. We can go over them another time. You wanted to know the dirty words and phrases. are you certain that you want to do this?”
“Of course. I already told you why. That’s why we’re here, no? Begin. No, wait, first...”
She rummaged in her purse and found a pencil and a small notebook. She opened it and wrote quickly. I could see ’bitch’ and ’goddammit’ and ’piece of shit’ and a few more in her careful hand.
“All right, now I’m ready. Begin.”
I took a deep breath. “Giulia, if this gets to be too much, just stop me when you’re uncomfortable, okay? I don’t think you know just what you’re getting into.”
She waved a hand dismissively, telling me to get on with it.
“All right, then. We’ll start with common words for the male sex organ, since they’re so common in the language. I don’t know if the same is true in Italian, but it’s certainly common in English. You might want to write some of these down, because you’ll lose track quickly. ’Dick’ and ’cock’ are very common. Some of them have more than one meaning. ’Dick’, for example, is a crude word for a penis, but it can also mean a stupid, malicious, or contemptible man. Like, ’You’re a real dick, Carter’. Other words are ’pecker’, ’prick’, ’tool’, ’fuckstick’, ’schlong’—no, no, s-C-h-l—’knob’, ’dong’, ’meat’. There’s probably a hundred more.”
She was still writing studiously.
“Moving lower, other words for testicles. The most common is ’balls’. Also ’gonads’, sometimes shortened to ’nads’, and ’nuts’. and ’cojones’ from the Spanish. The scrotum is sometimes called a ’ballsack’ or ’nutsack’. Oh, and ’family jewels’. That’s kind of old-fashioned, but colorful.”
Still scrawling, but she paused for a sip of tea. She looked up expectantly.
“Okay, your funeral.”
“Funeral? Like when a person dies?”
“I told you English was strange. ’Your funeral’ means that it’s your decision, but I may not necessarily agree with it and it might not turn out the way you think.”
“Got it. Go on.”
“Okay. A common one you’ll hear all the time is ’shit’. Very crude, but very common, nonetheless. In French, they have the word ’merde’, which means the same thing. Very crude but very common.
“If something bad happens, you might say, in English, ’Oh, shit!’. Or if someone says something that is obviously wrong, you could say, ”That’s a lot of shit!’. If someone asks you to do something that is clearly wrong or dangerous, you could say, ’Fuck that shit!’” Again, only among your friends. Never in polite company.
“Next one. ’Asshole’. It means, literally, the hole in your ass, the anus. When it refers to a person, it’s used for a stupid or mean person, male or female. You might say, referring to them, ’What an asshole!’, or ’She’s a real asshole.’”
I took some coffee and another bit of pie. I’d been avoiding this, but I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Giulia, now we get to the worst of it, the crude sexual words and phrases. It’s not really the kind of stuff that would normally come up in conversation even with your friends. It might get uncomfortable. Tell me again you want to do this.”
“I’ve already told you. I’m not a child, Carter. Tell me.”
“Okay, it’s your funeral.”
She held up a finger and nodded as if to say, “I understood that one.”
“All right. Parts of the female body. Breasts are ’tits’, ’boobs’, ’boobies’, ’knockers’, ’jugs’, ’bazooms’, ’titties’, or ’mammaries’. You could refer to a woman’s breasts as ’her rack’, ’her chest’, or maybe ’the twins’ or ’the girls’. I’ve heard them called ’funbags’ and ’chesticles’ and ’hooters’. By the way, there’s actually a restaurant with that last name, featuring well-endowed waitresses in tight tee-shirts. Are you sorry you asked yet?”
She shook her head, still writing.
“Going lower, a woman’s buttocks—her rear end. Often called a ’butt’ or an ’ass’. Also, your ’backside’, ’bum’, ’booty’, ’buns’, ’caboose’, ’cheeks’, ’tush’ or ’tushie’. There’s more, but those are the common ones.”
I swallowed the last of the coffee. I could see the cafeteria staff starting to do their closing chores.
“I am going to regret this,” I said mostly to myself. She looked up expectantly, pencil in hand.
“You asked for it. Vagina. This is where English gets really creative, but start with these and you can study the variations in the library. First one, ’cunt’. About as crude as you can get, never used in polite company. If you call a woman that, it is about the worst thing you can say to her, even stronger than ’bitch’. It means she is truly contemptible, cheap, low morals, the lowest class person possible. Saying to a woman, ’You cunt!’ is worse than a slap in the face.
“But here’s where English gets weird. If lovers use it, referring to the body part, it’s common love talk. A man might say, ’I love your sweet cunt’ because it is how he shares love with her. Other words for vagina. ’Pussy’, ’twat’—no, t-w-a-t—’gash’, ’vag’, ’cooch’ or ’coochie’, ’snatch’. I just thought of a very old-fashioned one, ’bearded clam’. I haven’t heard that one used in a long time. Let’s see, there’s ’cooter’ and ’slit’ and ’cooze’ and ’poon’—I think that last one isn’t used much anymore. There’s ’love tunnel’ and ’meat sleeve’, and ’honey pot’ and ’beaver’. I think those are the most common ones.
“The most common crude term for clitoris is ’clit’, which makes a certain kind of sense. It’s also sometimes called a ’love button’ or ’bliss button’ or just ’button’, or ’clitty’. There’s ’love nub’ and ’cunt lump’. I once heard someone refer to it as ’the little man in the boat’. I had to think about that one before I got it. Have you had enough?”
“There must be more.”
“I think there are many more, but I’m doing this from memory. You’ll have to do your own research. Anyway, we haven’t even begun to talk about the different sex acts and all the different names there are for those. We...”
I was interrupted by a loud chime, and a voice on the PA which told us the building was closing, please bring our plates to the wash station on our way out.
“Saved by the bell! Another idiom, it means to escape a bad end by the intervention of some other mechanism, like the sound of a bell indicating the end of a round in boxing.”
“You are not saved,” she said, closing her notebook and gathering her things. “We will just have to finish somewhere else.”
“It’s late. What else is open? We could go to the diner downtown, where we could entertain all the other late-night customers with a recitation of all the dirty English words and phrases. Followed by the same list in Italian. I think they still arrest people for doing that.”
“How about your room, in your dorm?”
“Maybe, but my roommate will be coming back soon, drunk and feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t find a woman who’d go home with him.”
“I think you are making excuses. Va bene, we will go to my flat. No, wait, my apartment. The woman who taught us English in school learned the language in England, so we learned all the proper British words. I had to relearn them when I came here and found that no one knew what a flat is. They think it’s a tire on your car that has lost air. We will go to my apartment. Come.“