She: Oh thank god. I finally found the only other lesbian in Cambodia besides me.
Me: I’m not a lesbian.
She: Well, you fucken’ look like one.
Me: …
She: And don’t think I’m trying to chat you up or anything!
Right you are, sister. And while you’re out, single and staggering – stillies in hand – down life’s walk of shame, I’m the one snug as a bug in the arms of my doting, top-hot rootrat better half. So go fuck yourself. Said no one ever – and especially not me.
Instead, later on that evening, I found myself hunched over my handbag in a tuk tuk, parked inexplicably in the Caltex Bokor forecourt, mewling pitifully into a moist towelette and scaring the poor driver into smoking 300 cigarettes well out of sobshot.
For long after my happy hand-dancing half hour (Dusk till Dawn), well past the apocalyptic shot-quaffing phase (Nova), and languishing deep in the repetitive but inevitable post 3am shambaholic mawk (on the footpath outside Pontoon), I had foolishly remembered this encounter. My enfeebled self esteem, perpetually sickly since the time my sister got a pony and I didn’t, had now collapsed in a moribund heap and was shallow-breathing its terminal gasps. It wasn’t the sapphic taunt that bothered me. I’m as heteroflexible as the next person. I accept that with my half-arsed home cut mullhawk and penchant for tasteful sneakers I could just pass for Ellen in the right light. It wasn’t even that my crapulous rejectress wine-burped in my face a little bit as she said it. It was that she wasn’t even trying to hit on me. Nothing says you’re a hideous, unbonkworthy crone, straight and/or LGBT, like a blousy, shit-faced, middle-aged dyke who wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.
Or does it? My current hot, youthful husband accepts my ample silhouette, my kumbayah-meets-Harry-Styles wardrobe and my self-inflicted Howard Jonesian hair with admirable forbearance. And classic, candid Khmerness. ‘You were fat when I met you. Still fat now. Love you all the time.’ Bless. He’s never drawn into the old: ‘Is my arse bigger than Nikki Minaj’s?’ or ‘Do you think I should go to Bangkok to get my fat sucked out from my <insert body part here>?’ He may not know who Nikki Minaj is, but he’s not fucking stupid. I’m heartened by his forthright vote of confidence. But Cambodian straight talk works both ways.
I was rummaging deep inside Psar Chas the other week when a tiny, wisened prune with betel-inked lips and two random teethpegs grabbed my admittedly stupendous tits harder than strictly necessary and cackled: ‘Thom! Thom!’ The fortune teller next to us nearly pissed her pants. Hilaire. I felt like a couple of mangoes at Lucky or a Nat Geo special on a lost Papuan tribe.
I laughed anyway, as one must. It’s The Way of The Bodes. Everyone I know gets the: ‘Are you pregnant?/Wow so hairy/ Very, very fat!’ and sometimes all in the same sentence. Khmers aren’t spared, either. A young monk in my colleague’s history lecture told her she looked like a monkey. He wasn’t being mean. She really does.
As the StarMart fluoros illuminated my tears and the tiny fairy of my fading self-worth squeezed my hand and fell back into a swoon, I started coming round. Like, it took me a few goes, but I have a small, loving group of sexy, funny and smart friends who make me feel sexy, funny and smart. I have a husband. Ditto. I considered that my loudmouth nemesis probably left the house sober and hoping for fun, flirtation and an Earth-moving bang. Don’t we all? If she’d been a bit more of a gentleman we could have had a laugh and a quick cottage out the back. But manners, dear. I don’t give a shit how many chardonnays you’ve had. Unminced words or not, everyone in our Charming Ville is just trying to get along, discover a new friend and maybe even snag a mate. It’s never easy. So darlings, please play nice.
This column originally appeared in Advisor Issue 104. Mrs. Smith is currently disappointing lesbians abroad.