My name is Opal.  Yes, as in Opal Mehta.  Yes, as in the inspirational low caste goddaughter-in-law of Zubin.  As in the disgraced concertmaster of the Boston Pops.

 

I did not faithfully attend Harvard, though I have been known to dabble in its cell pool of useless knowledge and self-important pomposity.

 

My name is Opal, as in Opal Mehta.  I am either a young adult, or an overgrown little girl, depending on how promiscuous I happen to feel.  Which is very.

 

I grew up, more or less, in a Tijuana orphanage and house of ill repute, where I learned early on the priceless value of sexual favours.  For example, my beloved caretaker used to lovingly refer to me as her little cocktease.  She taught me how to accentuate my latent womanhood, and generously showed me what I would eventually become, sooner or later:  who needs Harvard when you have a body like mine?

 

I was certainly an overachiever, with a chip on each shoulder, a wonderbra, and a pair of matching high-gloss pumps.  Complacent and schoolgirl demure by day, I was an overeducated well-bosomed callgirl by night.  Perhaps you have heard of Heidi Fleiss or Sydney Biddle Barrows or Florence Nightingale.  As caterers or the flesh, they offered mere appetizers compared to my smorgasboard.  You could smell the waft of my crotch from miles away!  Hungry johns came out of the woodwork just to greet me and kiss my hand.   Paris Hilton has nothing on me.

 

Yeah, I sleep around!  I love sleep!  But am I going to go around gossiping about all of my sexual conquests?  What for?  So you can get on my waiting list?

 

Yeah, I like perverts.  They turn me on.  Perverts are cool.  Its cool to be perverted.  I wish I were more of a cool pervert.  But I’m not.  I’m just your average big breasted plus-size 13 year old child prodigy genius girl next door.  Who wouldn’t be jealous.? I would be jealous of me if I weren’t me!

 

Phone sex is so hot, I can barely keep my crotch inside my pants.  I wish my crotch could talk and say hello.  That would be so cool.   Instead its like I have to keep it muzzled.  I wish I could walk around nude so my crotch could soak in all of the sights and sounds.  I wish I were a flasher.  Flashers and perverts are cool.  They’re so hot they make me blush.

 

I dream about being swept off my feet by a pervert.  I want to be followed and stalked and wooed and charmed and secretly worshipped by perverts.  I love perverts.  They are so hot.

 

One time I had this dream about a pervert sweeping me off my feet: a cherry-popping pervert who popped my cherry in my dream.  Pop!  It was so hot.  I was so lucky.  That’s how I got so turned on to perverts and dweebs and librarians.

 

Especially perverts who don’t quite know how to please a woman.  Their naivete is a huge turn on, talking like they do about this and that and size and pleasing a woman and whatnot.  Just thinking about it is making me horny.

 

Dweebs are hot, too.  Probably because they’re so much like perverts.  I love dweebs.  And nerds.  I once had sex with a self-described “propeller head,” and he sent me to cloud nine.  We met at a raver convention, they kind where dweebs and nerds and perverts and librarian-types all mingle about, deciding who they want to have sex with, though its really little more than a pretextual excuse for having a great big orgy.  God I love dweebs.

 

People often wrongly assume that just because I’m part Mexican that I automatically must like rice and beans and salsa and chalupas.  Yes, of course, I love all of those things, not to mention Cuervo, Captain Morgan and Reggaeton, as I love all things Mexican, including Walter Mercado and Charo.  But admiring them is different than being one.  And I do admire them.  They are admirable people, for the most part.  I love maracas.  And nachos.  And bloomin’ onions.

 

I also love steak, preferably heavily marbled.  Gristle for the tummy is like grist for the mill or par for the course – a beloved necessity.  I love chewing and chewing.  I love the chewy feel of rubbery greasy gamey rancid tube steak, fresh from the wilds of Puerto Rico.  I love it when a lover smells like a thick juicy steak.

 

For awhile, I had some regrets about getting a partial birth abortion.  The decision to terminate one’s pregnancy is never easy, and that was especially so for yours truly.  In my haste to make amends, I even wrote a public eulogy and posted it on beliefnet.com.  It said:

 

Dearest child.  My tummy aches for your return.  Please forgive my discourteous thoughtlessness in having your precious parasitical fetal corpse gently dislodged from my heartless stone cold uterus with a forceps, toothpick, tweezers and glue gun.  I shall never forget those precious moments when you silently yelped whilst being drawn and quartered and yanked out.  You died so that I could live.  Thank you, precious fetus.  Humbly yours, Opal Mehta.

 

But upon further reflection, my regrets (if any) were misplaced.  The baby was a reject.  It was defective.  It would have never grown up to be a dweeb or a pervert, no matter how much I tried.  So it had to be sacrificed.  I still have a youtube video of the dismembered corpse as a keepsake, preserved for eternity in a tequila bottle.  Sometimes whenever I get sleepy, it even winks and smiles at me, reminding me that I did the right thing.

 

Sleep is a luxury that I can ill afford, particularly in these glory days of nonstop lethargy.  The closest toward slumber I dare get is spending my cramped weekdays, resting my weary head against a sloppy stack of well-worn bibles, staring at a picture of my deceased ex-lover and untrustworthy hurtful confidante.  Why can’t I too rest in peace?  I ask myself.  But the mere fleeting sexy thought of brief recreational roleplaying and foreplay with a dour dweeb or noxious nerd or smelly librarian wakes me up like a head-first plunge into the warm sludge of a sewage treatment plant.

 

I managed to take that plunge many times without actually ingesting any excrement.  But then that day came and my life has not been the same since.  It was like swimming in well-tempered Belgian chocolate, perfectly creamy and very unsweetened and macrobiotic.  I was in the zone.  I swallowed and swallowed, swimming though human history, always and ever light years ahead of the bell curve.  It is difficult to at once be both humble and incredibly intelligent and excruciatingly beautiful. 

 

But if I cannot shed even a single lachrymose tear for myself, how I can I possibly expect others to do so?  In my mind’s blind eye, I am indeed a victim.  I am a victim of relentless marketing and messages that I am inferior because someone else’s bible tells me so.  By conventional standards, I am no next top supermodel.  But neither am I a two-timing, unfaithful, rakish jezebel.  I prefer to follow in the Christlike forgotten footsteps of my fellow Paki streetwalkers, martyring myself nightly, ten minutes at a time, each well-earned rupee just one more step away from having might just as well have been spayed, and one half-step closer to my coronation as the insatiable queen whore of the heavens.