Oliver Benjamin
Hugo was planning to join me on that recipe and up the ante with a
half-hit of acid and perhaps a little opium. With us were Helena,
Helen, the two American guys we had met the last time, Noi from the
restaurant, and a really nice hippie from Scotland named Belinda.
She had acquired the nickname “Belly” because despite the fact
that she had a noticeable layer of fat on her stomach, she would
always wear cut-off shirts that displayed her mid-section. She wasn’t
unattractive, but together with her long, light blonde hair and pink
face she ended up looking like an very large infant. Belly had one of
those ways of moving and touching you affectionately in passing that
made her extremely desirable. Nevertheless, Belly was a practicing
celibate. Ever since she discovered that carbon dioxide was
poisonous, she decided that such intimate contact with an exhaling
human would be harmful to one’s health. Still, she had many things
to say on the subject.
“Do you know the best way to tell if a man is a good lover?” She
announced for our benefit while we were waiting for our mushroom
teas. We shook our heads and shrugged. Helena interjected:
“If he can touch his tongue to his nose?”
“No, but that’s a good start. The best way to tell if a man is a
good lover is by watching him clean his contact lenses.”
“What?” a few of us blurted.
“Sure,” Belly continued, “A contact lens is a very delicate,
sensitive, important thing—like a woman.”
“They’re expensive too,” added Hugo. He insisted on a high-five
and Noi slapped his meat hook.
“Thank you Hugo. Anyway, you can tell how gentle, supportive
and caring a man is by the care he gives his lenses when he rubs them
with cleaning solution. If he is too rough, he will tear the lens and
destroy it. If he’s too soft he won’t do the job, and the lens will treat
him badly and probably have to go. But if his hands are careful, and
he takes good, sensitive care of his lenses they will make his life
immeasurably better and allow him to see things he couldn’t have
seen before. It’s a perfect metaphor for a woman.” She added, “It’s a
shame all men don’t wear contact lenses.”
“Where did you get that from?” said the blonde American.
“New Age Optometrist.” Belly shifted in her seat.
“So, what you’re saying,” Hugo chuckled, “is that you can tell
how well a man will finger you by how well he fingers his contact
lenses. Sure, I’ll buy that.” He laughed louder and put his hand up for
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