Porn On the Hibachi (And 29 Other Very True Stories of Freaks I've Dated)
an excerpt

I knew from the very moment a mime flashed me that I was one of those women who would always be unlucky with men.
Romantic things don't happen to people like me. Weird things do.
I'm not the type who gets the red roses, carriage ride through Central Park, dashing prince astride a white horse kind of thing. I don't get champagne by the fireplace, weekend flights to Paris, the fairytale ending. I don't even find Mr. Halfway Right.
No, I get buck-naked mime parts.
It happened at WinterBall 1994, a big holiday festival at an amusement park. I was just a sophomore in high school, visiting the place with a bunch of kids from French Club. It was supposed to be one of those Norman Rockwell-esque experiences.
This was a day filled with ice skating, hot cocoa and snowflakes. There were people wearing thick-knit Irish fisherman sweaters, choirs singing angelic Christmas carols, and -- I swear -- chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Even the blackest lump of coal would have found the experience completely warm and fuzzy.
My friends and I wandered around the gift stores, which were chock full of overpriced souvenir holiday items designed to remind you of your precious winter wonderland experience. Somehow, either at the candlemaker or the glassblower, I became separated from the group.
I was standing in a darkened corner when I felt a light tap on my shoulder from behind.
In one startled move, I jumped and turned around, just like a frightened alley cat.
Behind me was a mime.
"My goodness, you frightened me," I said with a nervous laugh, then pulled my gray peacoat tight around my body.
The mime didn't say anything, only blinked a response. The rest of him was motionless.
Not knowing what to do, I giggled.
He was wearing a long black coat. A mime coat, I guess. His face was painted white and black in typical mime fashion, though there were some thick ridges and bumps where the makeup caked around his acne. He had drawn black eyeliner diamonds above his eyes, which made him look perpetually surprised, and his lips were coated in black lipstick and formed into an O shape. His beret hung over his forehead like a limp piece of lettuce.
Then the mime made hand motions to show that he loved me. He was pierced through the heart with pretend arrows, swooned and fell toward me.
"Oh, how cute!" I said.
He made an imaginary phone, pointed at me and made some scribble motions. I was pretty sure he was asking for my number.
I shook my head and laughed. "No, no, no. I don't give strange mimes my phone number."
He pretended he was inside of a box. The box was shrinking. Somehow he jumped onto an elevator. Then stairs. Now he was in a really big box.
The whole mime thing was beginning to be less adorable and more annoying. Besides, I wanted to find my friends before they got too far away.
I turned to walk away. He grabbed my shoulder.
When I looked back at the mime, he curved one gloved finger around to meet the thumb, forming a circle. With his other gloved hand, he inserted his index finger inside the hole and rubbed it back and forth, like the universal hand symbol for penetration.
I grimaced. But before I could move, his trench coat was open and flapping in the brisk winter wind. Underneath, he was naked.
There he was, in all his mime glory.
And he -- er, it -- wasn't painted either.