I’ve always had an affinity for foreigners. When it comes to men, I’m the poster girl for cultural diversity. (After all, John Wayne had three Latino wives!)
Probably, because I know everything there is to know about Southern WASP culture, and much of it is not very pretty.
[music: Chopin’s Heroic Polonaise]
We met on Bayswater Road.
“Hello, are you English?” the handsome Greek young man asked with a seductive accent.
“I like your hairs.” (Yes, he cutely said hairs.)
He looked exactly like Omar Sharif in Dr. Zhivago, and I instantly wanted to be his Lara.
(The people I grew up with in Memphis, Tennessee, would choke on their Corky’s barbecue if they knew how many men I dated who had picked me up on the street, at an airport, on a bus, or beside a swimming pool. But never ever in a bar; standards must be maintained!)
“No, American,” I answered.