I’ve had sex with a lot of people.
Sometimes I catch myself questioning whether it’s too many people. This usually occurs the morning after, slugging my way home, panties dangling out my back pocket, feeling sticky and slightly confused.
“Really, Diana?” I ask myself, “Was it that necessary?”
The truth is, at the time, it’s always necessary. When I start slipping into the predator state, eyes narrowed and locked onto victim, shuffling over casually in the form of a hip-thrusting dance, there’s nothing else in mind. I need raw, vulgar penetration the way a zombie needs brains, the way a fly needs shit. The way Jeremiah the Bullfrog needed a song. One of the perks for banging lots of people is it’s always, and I mean always, interesting. The victim never ceases to be different or strange in his/her own way; whether it’s a girl or guy, a rocker, a romantic, a pottery maker, or just extremely foreign, these lovely beings are constantly tickling me.
This summer I came across a group of humans called ‘treeplanters’ who reign from deep within the Northern forests of Canada. They complete full sentences which solely contain the word ‘fuck’ and ‘eat my asshole’ is used as a way of forcing others to play another round of cards or to hurry a planter out from the port-a-potty.Since half the clan is French, this form of communicating was an easy way for all to understand each other effectively. While some still struggled to translate conversations into proper and more widely- used English, the others excelled in socializing at an impressive rate.
One member of the group adopted the language in a way that was particularly interesting. Greg Hovassian, a football player at Queen’s University is pumped with masculinity, but isn’t afraid to dress in pink spandex and call himself a ‘party girl.’ He writes songs and break-dances, acts in school plays and builds cars – a man of many talents – but his most intriguing characteristic is the way he uses tree planting language while working.
It first caught my attention when we were planting together one day, both fighting off ruthless gangs of horse flies and bearing the scorching hot sun, when Greg went off on a rant, impersonating a black man speaking savagely dirty to a woman in bed. The improvised monologue went on for about 15 minutes until he screamed, “SPIT ON MY ASS,” and a nearby planter responded, “SPIT ON MY TITS.”
Evidentially, this saying caught on like maggots on rot and everyone took “spit on my ass” into their own vocabulary as a way of powerful self-expression. On the last night of tree planting, I invited one of the French boys to my tent for a late night naked tea party, luring him in with a beer and sweet, exotic words of spoken English.
After a very successful and non-conversational party, I laid naked on the grass and was thinking about life and French baguettes when I realized all we need is one universal language to co-exist.
Although different languages are amusing and set us apart from one another in a unique way, there’s no denying we would be lost without the organic and liberating art of body language.
And as I took a moment for deep reflection and reminiscence, I heard a little voice from a nearby tent singing, “Joy to the world. All the boys and girls. Joy to the fishies in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me.”
