MY PHALLIC FOUNTAIN

Culture shock, second-language fatigue, and bank bureaucracy may await, but for now, as I sit in the shelter of my porch, all is well. I sip my coffee with a view of banana trees, green mountains, and clay-roofed cabanas, with the gurgling sound of a fountain in the back of my thoughts. Lucky for me, a previous resident installed said fountain in the backyard.

Every time I look at it, all I can think is penis. Ejaculating penis.

I wish I could tell you that I have the constitution of Cattral’s Samantha, or that I think about sex every seven seconds, or that this image is an indication of some vivid inner fantasy. I’m sure I would have a much more lucrative career. My husband would want me to interject here that I am a thoroughly satisfied woman, and am not projecting on a fountain due to any shortcoming of the marital bed.

But if I’m thinking it, that’s got to mean other people are thinking it too, right? I consider this, as we entertain in our new home. Not that I feel I can turn to the student intern, who until two weeks ago had never left Georgia, and say, ‘so, does your boss’s fountain say penis to you?’ Neither can I joke with my sporadically bilingual house help, as I’m sure I would say something at best embarassing, and at worst, offensive. As I was recently reminded when I said to the security guard the other day, “Hace calor”, intending to comment in the hot day, but really indicating my relative horniness. So, I am left to wonder.

I wonder about the person who decided the backyard needed a fountain. I know very little. Middle-aged, single man. Professionally successful, a love of single-malt Scotch, if the dusty liquor cabinet speaks the truth. I envision him inviting spry Ticas back to his porch, to show off his fountain. But this is of course all conjecture, the musings of a stay-at-home mom as she watches her toddler follow potentially poisoness insects around the tile.