If I Did It: Confessions Of A D.C. Womanizer

Image: Rock Creek Park of Washington, D.C., offers a number of body-dumping solutions for area psychopaths.

A surfeit of diversity as rich as our world: my chief complaint about our nation's capital one that I try, as a serial womanizer, to turn to my advantage.

The seat of federal government and center of the free world, "Rome" attracts droves of young women from across the country, as immortalized by Ray Liotta's character in Hannibal (2001): "…this town is full of cornpone country pussy." Moreover, the city, an African American homeland like no other, attracts also young women from all continents of earth, those permitted to work and those hoping simply to work it.

All of them: black, brown, red, yellow and white.

One late fall evening, I meet my new friend Ayn, a Moscow-born émigré from Israel who smokes Parliament Lights, one after another, in a never-ending chain of debauchery. Leaving my car behind, we take her Mercedes coupe uptown to Aroma in Cleveland Park, one of the only pubs to escape the District's smoking ban, enacted nearly three years ago.

"They try to bully me because I am small," she says, flicking an ash out the window as we race along Connecticut Avenue. "But wait 'til I get my Hummer, bitches."

Inside, we squeeze through the narrow bar area to a lounge in the back, smoke burning my eyes and singing the scillia of my lungs and I ask her whether she worries about her health.

"In Europe and the Middle East, we smoke constantly," she says. "You Americans have grown paranoid."

She looks at me as if I'm part of some larger problem.

"Cancer is for the poor and the weak-minded," she says. "I have no time for it!"

Later, I see her ducking out the front door as I try to get the barman's attention, to no avail, Aroma being no place for a respectable alcoholic such as myself. Like most of the blonde women here, she's going home with some random black guy. This one, she's smart. She lives to see another day. Probably.

A couple of weeks later, my odyssey here continues as I choose my next fixation: a pretty young Thai woman with limited English skills, as I am a man whose patience never ebbs with pretty young women and their limited English skills. Still, the woman knows a couple of key phrases, such as "What kind of car do you drive?" and "That's not my g-spot."

Against the advice of friends, I take her to a Thai restaurant, suppressing my giggles. She doesn't get the joke. She thinks we're going to a regular restaurant to eat regular food. As I stare at a couple of Thai girls at the bar, their legs folded beneath them, the young woman shatters my sense of superiority, suggesting we might ask the waiter to bring me a fork.

Oh, no she didn't!

Later, outside her house, our goodnight kiss turns into more and the windows steam, the hour late but her mother above. As we begin to "make love," she stops and furrows her brow, struggling to articulate her thought.

"When you put your finger in me," she says, "nothing happens. Your finger brings me no pleasure."

My renown throughout Asia as "He Whose Finger Brings No Pleasure" (他的手指帶來了不愉快), I imagine might also double as my Indian name.

Stunned, I turn the ignition and put the car into gear, wondering where I'll dump the body.

--M@