The Handshake: Living a Private Life in the Public Sphere

I once had a cyber girlfriend. She was a cutie. She looked like a chunky version of one of the Mary Kate or Ashley Olson twins. I called her Joi and she called me Mr. ReadPorn. I thought that was a really classy moniker, one that not only revealed my proclivity, but my intellect. Mr ReadPorn. I imagined sitting down on a light blue velvet chair, wearing a chiffon robe, book perched between knees, going at it. Like Masterpiece Theatre with Ron Jeremy.

I don't read much anymore. No, the days are short and my work is long. I'm lucky to catch five thirty-second glimpses of some kinda Korean sorority backdoor lovefest come school days. Fortunately, during midterms, I found myself with some time on my hands, the time to gratify and edify.

During these exam weeks, I make sure to put away the time to indulge, and indulge I did. I dawdled, enjoying those reader submitted stories, I teased. This was no rushed double vaginal double anal shot from a cellphone in the back of a school bus; this was fantasy land. And I roamed. Imagination.

Four pages and three minutes later, (my hands are slowed by having to click "next page") I had finished. I stood up to go to the bathroom, wash my hands, and look at my sixpack, when instead I stumbled upon Ayaas and his girlfriend in the living room. I said hello and began to shift back toward the bathroom.

"Max, how have you been, man?" said Ayaas, fresh from work, and extended his hand to me.

I winced. I looked furtively at Phil. I shot his girlfriend a tragic glance and then looked down at my hand, then his. He has dark, thick, Paki skin. (He's from India.)

Yes, I thought, here's the solution: I turned my hand into the pound and went to pound Ayaas'.

He stood there bright-eyed and put his hand out further, fingers outstretched, wrist firm.

My fingers uncoiled. I clasped his hand and then quickly withdrew.

"How are you?" I asked Ayaas' girlfriend.

"Good, you?" she said.

"Herm, I'm okay." I said. I watched as she then squinted at my pants and then suddenly averted her eyes. I slowly turned away.

I stepped into the kitchen, shuddered from the experience, and then looked down. My fly hung open. Red boxers peaked from black jeans. A darker red poked through because my boxers were damp.

I stood there for a moment and then asked Phil if he wanted to play a game of thumbwars.