Soap and Sex

Measuring detergent always reminds me of casual sex with a woman named Paula. 

“Paula seems nice,” I said to Dave. 

He said, “She’s a whore.” 

“Don’t call a woman that.” 

“Before I met her, she slept with all my friends. After I met her, my friends told me that she’d slept with everybody. And she knew they told me. And then she slept with me. Wouldn't you call her a whore?” 

“I'd say she likes to screw,” I said. “There's nothing wrong with that. Women should be able to do whatever they want. We can. You can screw lots of women and no one will ever call you a whore.”

Not long after that I ran into Paula at the Cosmopolitan Club and said, “Hi, Paula!” I was glad to see her.

She glared at me. It made me mad then, but looking back on it I think she was probably mad at Dave and was rude to me because she thought I was Dave’s friend. He'd probably been rude to her, he’d probably treated her like a whore.

A month later I walked into the Regent Street Laundromat and there she was, waiting for her clothes to dry. And she smiled at me.

I wonder now what would have happened if I had smiled back.

But I didn't — I ignored her. I was still mad at her for being rude to me in the Cosmo. I guess her being there unnerved me though because I put way too much soap in the washer. Back then, I didn't measure the soap, I just poured it out of the box and guessed how much I needed. It usually worked fine. But not this time. When I went back to the laundromat an hour later, my clothes were coated in suds from being washed in way too much soap.

And Paula was gone.

I ran my clothes through again and they were fine.

And now, 35 years later, every time I measure soap for the washing machine, I think of casual sex with Paula.