The Art of Making Love

I met an Asian woman that was studying English as a second language at our local college. We dated a few times and our different cultures always gave us lots to talk about. In her language she said there was no term for “fuck” the way we in North America use it when we are angry. The word they used for “fuck”, which I have now forgotten, could be translated to mean “the art of making love”.

She was short and sweet and fit so nicely into my arms, our kisses were soft and gentle and delicious. She said she loved my gentle ways. I was so looking forward to making art with her. We got along so well.

She said I was different from all the North American men that she had met. She said her friends called North American men either “coke” or “fuck”. I suggested they could also call them “beer”. She laughed. I think I came up with a few other names for them. 

I told her that she could call me “fuck” but to never call me “coke”. I was trying to make a joke and point out that I do not drink coke or beer but I would love to be called “the art of making love”. I told her that buying a coke was against my religion. Just like shopping at Walmart. 

She said that she had dishonoured me and that she could never see me again. 

And that was the last I ever saw of her.