Strawberry Candy Shaft

25 Sep

This was a while ago now, so set your thinking goggles back about two weeks, about the time when Ian and I were still your friends and not some “fucking euro trash ass holes”[1] that write mockingly about how you’re still slaving away at that same old job in Denver.

We’d just arrived in Berlin and had spent the day staving off a crippling, jet lag induced fatigue and pulling our fat American feet over miles of German sidewalk. Despite our sleepiness we just couldn’t turn down an invitation to have some homemade enchiladas at our new friends’ house. Surely a Mexican dinner party in Germany could open up some fold of the verboten yet unknown to us.

A group of these German folks had just returned from Las Vegas and brought back with them a stack of hooker calling cards. The stack was so thick it looked like they’d probably bought them in packs of 20 at a supermarket.

Like baseball cards.

The baseball players being naked prostitutes that you call for sex. Plastered across the bottom of the card is a name that reflects a great tradition of naming yourself after both a type of food and a body part. “Strawberry Candy Shaft” is portrayed from behind, her legs straddling a horse saddle, the saddle straddling a faux polar bear pelt. A gold star shines out of her rectum. This star is somehow a form of censorship. It’s supposed to represent the efficiency of an impartial regulation. But to me it only says, “job well done!”

While we’re waiting for dinner to be served the cards get passed around the table. As far as a talking point goes, the cards are almost ignored. Yet throughout our pre-meal table talk, everyone takes a moment to look over several cards, marveling at the bizarreness of it. And thank God Himself for censorship because one of the guests brought her three-year-old boy.He picks up the card of a woman who earned three gold stars, his chocolate fingerprints staining the cheap gloss. The adult next to him leans over and says, “Sticky Vicky Chestnut, you like her? She’s got great tits doesn’t she?” The gold star glowing up at them. The little boy giggles up a smile and throws Vicky across the room.

“Gender issues,” the boy’s mother says, asserting herself into each one of the three conversations that have been crisscrossing the table, “I don’t want to confuse him with gender issues at his age.” Some of us caught off guard start to lower whatever hooker card we’re inspecting. A twinge of regret, maybe we should’ve been more thoughtful? But then, we’re off the hook. She says, “if you want to talk about relationships and marriage with a man and woman you can do it not around a three-year-old.”

So the discussion about someone’s relationship dilemma is put on hold. We resume passing around the hooker cards while talking about how the only way to ripen an avocado in Germany is to mail it to Mexico and then have it sent back to Germany, and only then is it edible. Then the soup is served–a steaming hot bowl of avocado and corn soup sweetened with apple juice, mint, and cinnamon. The only word to describe the taste is “verboten.”

Nelson, Benjamin. “comment on ‘’ posting.” 2010:


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