Michael = Dog?

Michael, Dog?

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine. Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved. Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest. Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?”

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me. I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair. I faired well in that department. The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand. When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point! I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers! Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic. Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts. Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas. Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs. If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry! Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind. But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie. Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now. At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin. My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing. In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

I was out walking through downtown Georgetown on Penang Island in Malaysia. I had spent part of the afternoon in Batu Ferringhi on the beach. I was ready for some dinner after a semi-clean shower that at least was successful in cooling me off from the almost ninety degree day on December 29th. I left Night and Day Guesthouse an turned right towards Penang Avenue where I could find something interesting to eat. What with so many choices of Indian, Thai, Malay, Chinese and combination of all of the above, how could I go wrong right?

Well, I am Michael and there is always the distinct possibility of me taking a simple task and finding away to turn it into something, clears throat, ‘interesting’. This night was not except to that rule that I seem to live by.

I turned right at the street just before Penang Avenue and started towards the huge Malaysian version if a food court. In Malaysia, they have these large sometimes covered, sometimes not areas with table and chairs outdoors where you just roam around the squared off section and choose different foods from around the world prepared fresh and VERY CHEAPLY of anything from satay chicken on a stick to nasi (rice) with anything you want on it to Mee (yellow noodles in a bowl with chicken broth) covered with your favorite sauces, gravy, meats or vegetables. All the vendors are privately owned and operated by real people who eat what they cook for you too. Yo can eat three main courses from equal the amount of cultures all for about $5.00. I was just about to reach the entrance to this particular food court taking in the combination of curry, garlic and fish when an attractive and normally dressed young woman walks over and says “Hi” to me. She seemed friendly so I stopped and said, “hello” back to her. She had brown hair, about 5’ 5” tall average weight and a pretty but not extremely noticeable face. I believe she was Malay. She would look normal on line at the bank, grocery store or the food court. She had no heavy make-up or jewelry, no tight pants or deep cleavage. Just a regular girl in her twenties who while we were exchanging “hellos” she casually reached over and gently started rubbing my penis! Just like that! It took my about a minute to collect myself and reel in my now ecstatic hormones to excuse myself and start walking away while she was following me. I escaped by walking through the cemetery across the street without her following me. It is amazing how the potential threat of a ghost haunting a person can be a source of safety in certain situations.

I ate a nice dinner at an inside Indian restaurant and found myself very attracted to everything that did not come into this world with a penis. My senses were on high alert. The Tandoori Chicken and garlic Naan were delicious. I left feeling satiated at least food-wise. Time for a nice walk around downtown at night before I meet up with my friend Happy.

As I walked with increased sensitivity, I noticed there were certain women ‘stationed’ along the way. Growing up outside NYC I do have that kind of perception, if not slowed by distance and lack of interaction with that world. There was this very interesting and attractive in a late night B mo vie kind of way dark skinned Indian woman who had dyed part of her hair with crimson streaks. I’d by lying if I did not admit to more than passing acknowledgment. She was wearing simple clothes but her eyes were wild, very wild. Like cover of a romance novel type wild. Then there was the Malay woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties wearing a nice red and yellow traditional Malay blouse with jeans. She was soft and gentle looking. She does not have any of that rough, beaten-down and beaten-up, used and abused look of NYC street women. I could see her passing the ‘mom test’ if I wanted to take her home for approval. She had these nice warm, caring eyes and her voice was equally as soft. The clue was her saying “Hi” to me three times and looking me up and down the third time. I flinched and scampered away.

I met up with my friend Happy later on and it turned out his car was parked directly in front of the dark-skinned Indian woman with the crimson striped hair. She approached us and then actually just opened the back door to the car and started to sit down, as if invited and welcome! Happy spoke to her in Malay and hew got out slowly. He turned the car on while telling me, “She is on drugs.” Little does he know how easily that part was for me to identify. She then opened the back door again and this time sat with confidence while he was forcefully telling her to get out. At this point she started shutting the door like she was here to stay. He became more forceful and louder; she hesitated but eventually stood half in and half out. I told him to pull away and he did and she got out without closing the door. Happy and I talked along the way about her, and street women.

I still have the impression that these women and their lack of outwardly distinctive presentation of self are so different than their American counterparts. I have to say; it made me cautious when interacting with women the rest of the trip. Not to the point where I felt inhibited, just mindful. This is such a stark contrast to living in Korea where I do not believe I have seen one prostitute in my about to be half year here.

In case I had somehow convinced myself that I have reached any level of higher knowledge or wisdom, my experiences observing and unintentionally interacting with these women has cleared up any false sense of spiritual development or enlightenment. The Teachings come in all shapes and forms. I am fortunate for the education in spite of myself.

Boobs, butts, bellies and thighs

The first time I walked through Ssang-yongdong on that Tuesday night while it was still light out, I was struck by the amount of thigh on display in conservative Korea. High-heeled silver sandals with straps around the ankles provide the platform for the exhibition. The exhibition includes the silky-soft skin that is natural to most Koreans. In fact, I have a friend in the states that the affectionate nickname that I use with her is Silky Pants, she calls me Jerk Face. As I try not to be obvious or rude, my gaze slowly follows her calves all the way up to the thighs and right to her butt, literally. Her shorts can’t be but an inch bigger than the skimpy bikini bottoms that American white girls wear to anywhere they can get away with. I get that funny tingle that only lust hormones can produce as I bashfully walk past her and her almost blue denim shorts, I say almost since they barely qualify as “shorts”. Images of hippie chicks in the sixties when I was growing up trying to piss off their parents come to mind. The next woman I am approaching down the hill on the sidewalk on this unbearable hot 92 degree humid evening, is wearing white sandals with the same four inch heals and straps around her ankles. Her silky smooth skin also is on display way up to her blue denim mini skirt that conjures up more images of sixties chicks pissing off their daddy’s. As I now have enough time to lift my head up after this startling visual treat, her t-shirt goes all the way up to her neck, down to the edges of the bottom of her blue denim mini-skirt and the shirt has semi-long sleeves on this hot day in Korea.

I reminisce about earlier this summer in several college towns on the east coast of the states and how much cleavage was bulging out of push-up bras and bikini tops. There are more breasts showing on the American female than the actual breasts of the Korean woman. They do not show boobs, shoulders or bellies here, like ever. The Korean female’s upper body is not on display in public but their legs and butts put the twenty dollar hookers outside Port Authority in NYC to shame, especially with the heals that bring me back to my younger years in bars with half and whole naked women with dollar bills tucked into their g-strings. The g-string is the predecessor to the thong for those of you too young to know there was once a world before thongs that underwear went over your butt instead of inside. With the exception of those who got paid to wear them or trying to spice up their personal life every now and then. Yes, Korean women like to show their legs and butts, but no upper body, and they will never leave their homes without a bra or undershirt on, nipples are outlawed here.

Besides the obvious reason of being a guy who really appreciates the female form, what has caught my attention about these social mores is that on late night TV, woman show their boos all the time and the TV stations blur out any butts or pubic hair. So in real life, boobs and bellies are a no-no, on TV, butts and pubic hair is a no-no. In both, Korean women rarely wear anything that fits snug, alters or lifts their boobs. It appears that Korean female celebrities are very comfortable with showing themselves topless in movies and TV, whereas American female celebrities have to be mindful of what they show and how it will effect future casting, while they walk around with their boobs on display to the legal limit whenever possible with underwear of any form a commodity.

Why is it that we have such curious contrasting and maybe even contradictory social programming about what and where it is OK and not OK to expose the naked body? There seems to be no rhyme or reason that I can see. I initially thought that it might be related to the fact that western women typically have larger breasts than Korean women. After seeing them topless on TV all the time but not bottomless, my theory gets thrown out the window. We certainly are an interesting species. The fact that we wear clothes at all is somewhat bizarre, but the peculiar patterns that determine how that justifies which and when we expose any or all parts of our bodies is absolutely a mystery to me. I doubt I will solve this mystery tonight, tomorrow, or the next night. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes on things that are not as stimulating to the those senses and focus on things that are stimulating some the other senses like trees, mountains, patterned sidewalks of green, red and yellow and all the incredible little places to eat that line every road I can find with sights, smells and tastes that thrill even an objectifying male like myself.