Iris Bahr - Dork Whore

Dork Whore

Dork Whore

My Travels Through Asia

as a Twenty-Year-Old Pseudo-Virgin

Iris Bahr

BLOOMSBURY

Copyright 2007 by Iris Bahr

Author's note: The names and identifying characteristics of some of the people in this story have been changed.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York

Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers

All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bahr, Iris.

Dork whore : my travels through Asia as a twenty-year-old pseudovirgin / Iris Bahr.1st U.S. ed.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-1-59691-960-0

1. Bahr, Iris. 2. Bahr, IrisTravelAsia. 3. AsiaDescription and travel. 4. ActorsUnited StatesBiography. I. Title.

PN2287.B138A3 2006

9i5.04'43092dc22

[B]

2006018506

First U.S. Edition 2007

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Typeset by Westchester Book Group

Printed in the United States by Quebecor World Fairfield

Contents

These are the true chronicles of my search for sex in Asia. Some things have been slightly skewed for both protective and comedic purposes, i.e., people's names have been changed, the dialogue is not verbatim, and there are several descriptions which have arisen from slightly fuzzy memory. I'll tell you what they are now, so you won't have to question them later: the Aeroflot mango bit, the second Phat Phong visit, the Nam and Poonhill smoking sessions, Freddie's rabbit nuggets, the last day in Dharamsalah, and the extent of Tomer's hand job. That's it. The rest happened pretty much as festively messed-up as described, sex-fruit and shul trauma included.

Iris Bahr

2007

"Kohmpehmentaree orchid!" she barks, thrusting it up my nose with unnecessary vigor. I turn to Boaz. His slumbering logbody seems unperturbed by the disturbance, his mushy face still glued to a yellow travel pillow. His complimentary orchid, however, is dangling precariously from his chin, hanging on for dear life on the power of drool alone.

Ew.

"We're here," I say, lightly tapping the edge of his pinky. He lets out a wet snort and jolts upright with sausagey might, sending the orchid flying as the salivary support-bridge retracts into his cavernous mouth. He smiles a smelly smile at me, and despite all the grossness of his visage, I can't help smiling back.

We've arrived.

Boaz and I met six months ago at the Tel-Aviv Backpacker Store, a known pick-up joint for sole souls in need of travel companions. Like me, most of them were recently discharged soldiers wanting emotio-physical release after three years of puke-green uniforms, AK-47S, and chains of command. (Personally, I didn't mind the uniform; it made my ass look good.)

From my initial conversation with Boaz, it quickly became apparent that he was both chubby and responsible. With much enthusiasm he described the special medicine bag he would provide for our journey, equipped with everything from antidiarrheals to emergency inhalers, lest we contract some sudden-onset respiratory disorder. And so we eagerly agreed to travel together and spent the next few months getting inoculated and buying film.

My mother was thrilled. She'd been in a concealed state of panic ever since she heard of my exotic travel plans and had been presenting various alternatives on a daily basis. Her suggestion to "Go to the Dead Sea for the weekend instead" had almost brought us to blows. I'd been forced to remind her that I'd sacrificed a coveted army post near Lebanon just so I could be stationed close to home and keep her company for two years. In short, we both knew this trip was mine. I also knew her concern was perfectly legitimate, and I was glad my particular choice of travel companion alleviated her anxiety. As far as she was concerned, Boaz was the perfect chaperone for her little girl about to roam Asia: a physically repulsive, medically well-stocked cockblocker.

Not that I need one. A cockblocker that is. Sex has scared the fuck out of meliterally. I have only had it once, and that was only kind of. He was a Moroccan paratrooper, oddly named Patrick. We had met on my base one cold night, two years ago. I had been on guard duty, Uzi slung over my shoulder, freezing my virginal ass off, when a form suddenly emerged from among the eucalyptus treesa masculine form donning a red paratrooper beret, full combat gear, and hot body to boot. I couldn't believe my eyes. Such a fine specimen was unheard of in these parts. After all, my base was comprised entirely of Intelligence units, meaning the only men stationed there were very brilliant and very ugly. A real soldier like Patrick was God.

Which is why I knew I had to snatch this fine paratroop-ing creature before that hot chick in Libya Division got wind of him.

And so with much alacrity, I frisbeed a flirty comment through the barbed-wire gate as Patrick walked past, stopping him in his tracks. By sunrise he was smitten, and three weeks of dating bliss later I knew I'd finally found my cherry popper. Thank God. By that point I was the only virgin left among my friends. Among my unit. Among the entire base for that matter.

I was still getting my sex ed from Judy Blume.

It had gotten to the point where even just hanging out with the other girls in my unit made me uncomfortable. I found it much safer to just watch them from afar, as they'd congregate on the grassy patch by the flagpole and talk about how horny they were after being away from their boyfriends for so long. How they sent their boyfriends care packages with cookies and sexy notes to ease their stressful patrols along the casbahs of Jenin and Ramallah. How lucky they were to have boyfriends that were so virile they managed to overcome their military exhaustion and fuck them forty-six times last Saturday.*

Once in a confident while, I'd join them on the grassy patch, determined to just observe and learn. But it never quite worked out that way.

"Hey, Iris, come join us!" Tamar would say. Tamar was a pretty, blue-eyed sweetheart with a remarkably feminine buzz cut.

"Okay," I'd reply, joining the group with apprehension and longing.

At this point, Dannah, the curly-haired vixen, would satanically light a cigarette. She was the one I was afraid of.

"You ever notice how these trees smell like cum?" she'd ask.

"What?" I'd reply, completely caught off guard.

"You mean you can't smell it?" Tamar would gasp, pointing to the seven eucalyptus trees looming over us. I'd take a deep breath.

All I smelled was artichoke.

But I wasn't about to miss out on this festive discussion. "Yeah... wow!" I'd say, still not sure whether cum smell was a good thing or not. "It does smell like cum, wow... yeah!"

"My boyfriend's cum doesn't smell like that," Sharon would chime in. Sharon was a rich girl from Jerusalem who had a nice house and great skin.

"Well, you're lucky!" the girls would retort with giggly sincerity.

"How about you, Iris, what do you think cum smells like?"

"Urn... I don't know what cum smells like... I'm always too busy swallowing it."

Hysterical laughter would then ensue among the estrogen unit, whereupon I'd quietly race back into the building, lest the conversation got more detail-oriented.

How I longed for the day I'd be able to speak with knowledge and grace about smelly fluids found in nature. My hope was that now, thanks to Patrick, that day would be coming soon. Preferably no later than next Tuesday.