Sects And The City

By Lisa Mildred

In the first installment of this story Lisa visited an Amish couple we’re calling Eli and Ruth at their farm in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. As that story concluded Eli, a train enthusiast, asked Lisa if she would guide him around New York City so he could experience the thrill of the subway system. This fish out of water double feature picks up with Eli’s imminent arrival in NYC.

I firmed up plans with Eli for him to come visit New York and experience the wonder that is the MTA. The morning of his arrival, he called me from his flip phone.

“I’ll be standing under the big sign in Penn Station.” He told me. “I’m so glad to have such a beautiful tour guide for today.” I rolled my eyes.

Sure enough, under the big sign in Penn Station there was a tiny old Amish man, sticking out like a sore thumb. As we started walking toward Times Square, he shared a story with me.

“The last time I was in New York, it was summer. And women were wearing short skirts! We don’t have short skirts at home. The skirts are all down to the floor. But that means that when it’s hot out, you don’t have to wear underwear. Ruth doesn’t wear underwear in the summer, and she likes it.

This set the tone for what would be a day of oversharing from Eli. I suddenly had a flashback to Eli offering me a back rub while I was in Lancaster, and I wondered if perhaps I’d missed a red flag.

“So, we were in Bryant Park, Ruth and I, and there were all these women wearing short skirts. And I’m only human! And these two women went to sit in the grass, and as they sat down, you could see everything. It really made my day!” he told me, his eyes twinkling. Yep, there’s a flag, and it appears to be red.

He went on to reflect on his marriage:

“Ruth and I have been married nearly fifty years. That means we’ve made love between seven and eight thousand times.” (I can’t be bothered to do the math, but that’s A LOT of fucking.) “She’s very skinny. If she were here, she’d take the stairs everywhere, no escalators. When we were married, she weighed 125 pounds. Now she only weighs about 105 pounds.” There was no filter on this guy.

Eli then reminded me, once again, that Ruth never used birth control. But he divulged a detail of this that he hadn’t mentioned when I was at their house.

“If she came to bed with underwear on, I knew it meant no sex that night. If she came to bed without underwear on, we could have sex.”

I feel like the word “no” probably go a long way for Ruth, hence their wordless means of communicating about the time of the month. If I were Ruth I would have worn underwear all the time, in an effort to trim down that astronomical figure.

“I’m so glad that I’m getting this tour with you today. You’re such an open person. I know I can talk about anything with you!”  Eli said.

…DUN DUN DUN.

Thus marked the beginning of the day I spent leading an Amish man in his seventies around New York, seeing the sights, each overshare more shocking than the last.

As we passed the tree at Rockefeller center, Eli turned to me and said, “There’s one thing I don’t like about Ruth. I’ll tell you what it is later.”  I didn’t like the idea of him having anything critical to say about his 105-pound wife. I’d met her, I’d witnessed her working her ass off to keep their household running, I’d seen how soft-spoken she was. Also, anyone who’s had sex with Eli thousands of times is a champion of endurance above reproach.

Eli had specifically asked to see the Trump Tower, so we made our way up to 57th street past all the Christmas windows on Fifth Avenue. Along the way, we passed several of my coworkers, dressed as Rockettes, handing out fliers.

“That’s the place.” I told him. “Not as many machine guns as there used to be.” I observed. I began to tell him about Tiffany’s, which is right there, and realized it would mean nothing to him. Tiffany’s is famous if you watch movies, and if this guy didn’t know who Harry Potter was, he certainly wasn’t going to be familiar with Audrey Hepburn. I also skipped over the Plaza Hotel, as he wouldn’t have a reference point for Macaulay Culkin, either.

This continued to be a problem for me as a tour guide all day. So many of the landmarks that people visit in New York are worth visiting because they’ve seen it before on TV or in a movie. How do you explain the significance of the original Winnie the Pooh stuffed bear being housed in the library, if the person has no clue who Pooh is?

We took the subway downtown, which he thoroughly enjoyed. There were some Chasidic Jews in our train car, and he whispered, “Look! There’s some Amish people!” and chuckled. This guy is just a barrel of laughs. “I love seeing so many different people in the city.” He told me. “I’ll be on the lookout for Black ones. I know you like those.”

I could not even.

I showed him the 9/11 memorial, the new World Trade Center building, and the Wall Street Bull. He didn’t mention anything about the bull’s scrotum. In hindsight, this seems miraculous.

Next up was the Staten Island Ferry. I’ve reached a point in my life where if I never ride the Ferry ever again, it will be too soon. I’ve ridden it countless times with kids, with guests from out of town, and even had a photoshoot on the ferry back when I was young and attractive.  But it gives you a fabulous view of downtown, and the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Statue of Liberty, so with it being completely free, it’s a perfect thing to do for a tourist.

As we arrived in the terminal for the ferry, we had an inconveniently long period of time to sit and wait. Eli used this time to ask me if I ever wished I was a man.

“I mean, not in a like, transgendered way. But I’d welcome a break from the problems of being a woman, which I wouldn’t really recommend to anyone.” I told him.

We spoke about the trouble of being a woman for a bit. The pay gap, the not being believed, the imminent likelihood of being sexually assaulted. I threw in a bit of commentary about the uneven divide of household responsibilities, for the sake of my girl Ruth.

“God sure did make you pretty, though.” He said.

“Yes, that’s much of the problem.” I replied.

“I love to look at women. God made them so beautiful. I love the soft skiiiin, I love the cuuuurves…” He said in a sing-songy voice, gesturing with his hand in a curvy manner.

It’s worth mentioning that throughout the day, I would go “to the ladies’ room” as often as possible, so that I could not only get a break from this exhausting conversation that was equal parts hilarious and uncomfortable, but also so I could write down his statements without him noticing. I didn’t want to forget any of it.

Eli proceeded to tell me about growing up on a farm and seeing a lot of animals mating. “I saw it a lot, as a child. And it always turned me on.” He told me.

This ferry. Could not. Come fast. Enough.

Then he told me about the elderly neighbor that his family would help out around the house. “We would clean up his yard for him. One day when I was twelve, the old man was masturbating. That’s what got me started. I don’t do it nearly as often now that I’m married. And I know some people think it’s wrong. But the way I see it, it’s my body. It makes me feel good.”

My initial thought was of how all Amish clothes are handmade. To think of all those hand-knit socks being defiled in such a manner was exhausting. Also, to think of an old man masturbating in front of children. A celebrity masturbated in front of me, and I think about that shit every day of my life, freezing in the same way I froze when it was happening.  And I wasn’t twelve. And the guy wasn’t like, old and gross. And I cry about it and talk about it whenever I need to.

Men don’t generally get to cry, certainly not in a community as emotionally stunted as the Amish. And I seriously doubt that if Eli was traumatized he’d get the chance to talk about it. Not in his sex-shaming, guilt-ridden culture of prudery that likely has a ton of victim-blaming going on. And to compound that traumatic experience with feeling guilty about something as basic as masturbation, which is difficult to talk about under even the best of circumstances? Not a pretty picture.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to masturbate.” He said. “Ruth has two sisters who never got married. They’ve never had sex, and I don’t think they masturbate, either. And they are two of the most miserable people I’ve ever met.”

Jesus fucking Christ, I bet they are. This was a pretty intense day.

After riding the Ferry, I took him past Fraunce’s Tavern, explaining that George Washington chilled out there at some point, and we hit all the must-see’s on Wall Street. We found a counter-service restaurant for a late lunch, where he paid for my meal. He had pea soup, which he assured me was not nearly as good as Ruth’s but would still get the job done.

For a moment, my imagination ran away wondering what else isn’t as good as Ruth’s, but would get the job done.

As we ate, he talked about some of the rules his church has for their congregation. Things that are completely ritualistic and asinine, like that men are supposed to wear a hat when they go out. Rules that had absolutely nothing to do with morality or avoiding sin.

…This is how cults control the faithful.

Eli also talked about his love of trains, and the places he’s traveled on Amtrak. He mentioned visiting some hot springs in Colorado, which was just the segue he needed.

“And like hot springs, I also really love hot tubs.  Do you like hot tubs?” Eli asked.

“I do.” I said. “But most of our hotels in New York don’t have them.” I almost slipped and revealed the information that I’ve been inside A LOT of New York hotels, but I definitely didn’t have the energy for what might happen if this man knew I get paid to snuggle with strangers.

“It’s too bad. Maybe someday in the future, we can travel together. We’re both adventurous, both people-persons…would you ever get in a hot tub with me?”

“Uh, I guess. I don’t see why not.” I said begrudgingly. In my head I knew there was NO WAY I would ever sit in a hot tub or go traveling with this dude. Not without Ruth, anyway. I’d try to kidnap her so she could live out her remaining years in freedom.

“In those skimpy bathing suits English people wear? I would love that!” he exclaimed.

Eli’s excitement over this hot tub fantasy was one way to make this tour guide feel uncomfortable, that’s for sure.  This was the only overshare he made all day that dealt with me, directly. Another trip to the ladies’ room, and we continued seeing the sights.

Because Eli is a junky for trains, we rode the 6 Train through the tunnel at the Brooklyn Bridge stop where you can sort of see the beautiful, abandoned station in the dark. Then we went uptown, where we rode the tram to Roosevelt Island.

As we crossed from Manhattan to Roosevelt Island and back again, seeing the city skyline and the East River pass below us as we dangled from a wire, I heard about these women Eli used to know who had a dog. He told me they would take the dog into a room and lock the door.

“They were rubbing that dog; I just know it. I once saw an X-rated film about women and a dog. That’s how I know.” He said matter-of-factly.

My poor brain can never unknow that.

This man wouldn’t understand a Beatles reference, and didn’t know the significance of the Plaza Hotel as a popular movie landmark, because he’d been raised away from technology and the media. But the fucker had still managed to see porn with a dog in it. I shudder to think how Eli spent his Rumspringa.

From the tram, we made a stop in Grand Central Station to check out the beautiful architecture and the wonder that is the whispering hallway.  Fortunately, he didn’t whisper anything about masturbation or bestiality to me. From there we walked back to Penn Station.

As we walked, he said how he thinks that saving sex for marriage is a very good idea. I did not have the energy to refute this, not only because I was completely overstimulated from the day, but because I didn’t want to be asked about my sex life, or about Black penises, which struck me as inevitable knowing where Eli’s interests lie. Then he told me some stuff that reminded me of when children tell you something that you already know but is obviously new information for them. Like when my kiddo came home from camp and taught me a song that was familiar to me from my own years of summer camp.

“But two people could still get naked together before they’re married and not have sex. That would be alright. She could see what a naked man looks like. He could see what a naked woman looks like. I would have wanted that when I was young, not that I ever got it. They could even touch each other. If they rub each other, they could get off and it would feel good, and they wouldn’t be having sex, so that would be alright.”

Yes, kiddo, I know the words to the song about the moose who drinks a lot of juice. Also, destructive monogamy culture.

When a religion creates rigid rules around sex, like saving it for marriage, and pretends it’s not real anywhere else… this is the kind of illogical nonsense that leaks out. People rationalize being intimate in every other way, and being able to get away with it with a free conscience because they didn’t break the arbitrary rule.

At Penn Station, I waited with Eli until his train came. My phone was very low on battery and there was a charging port in the Amtrak waiting area, or I’d have left him there. I’m not sure how long I sat there with him, but I’m fairly certain it felt much longer than it actually was.

He gave me the money for touring him around. It was the same amount I’d paid for my night in Amish country, the same amount that had sat in that envelope in my parents’ house for so long.  Things had come full circle in a way that really indicated that this had happened with divine timing. I asked him what his favorite part of the tour was.

“My favorite part was talking with you.” This man had ridden on a wire through the sky, seen the Statue of Liberty, and traveled underground in the subway for the first time in his 70-plus years of life and his favorite part of the day was discussing fucking masturbation and hot tubs with this bitch right here.

He’d saved the big guns for after he handed over the money, though. It was with the last shreds of mental capacity I had left that I endured listening to the grand finale.

“What do you think women find attractive, Lisa?” he asked me.

“Well, that’s a pretty broad question. There’s a few billion of us, so it might vary case by case.”

Then I got to hear all about how he got pamphlets in the mail about male enhancement.

“There were these pictures, and the women’s hands looked so tiny, holding a twelve-inch dick! What could a person even DO with a twelve-inch dick??” he puzzled aloud.

Every time Eli said “dick,” my brain imploded on itself.

To finish that story, Eli ordered some of the pills and his penis didn’t get any bigger. He had to work very, very hard to get his money back. Shocker.

“Have you guessed what it is that I don’t like about Ruth yet?” Eli asked me.

What with the nonstop current of shock-value, I’d completely forgotten about his little hint from earlier in the day. “Not yet.” I said.

“After making love seven thousand times, and having six children, Ruth is not as tight as she used to be.” He said, completely deadpan.

I couldn’t. I simply could not even.

“Well, having SIX CHILDREN will definitely affect a woman’s body.” Was all the response I could muster.

Ladies…don’t you just hate it when you create a human life, and as you’re shoving it out of you, your love tunnel loosens up? And how after you do that SIX FUCKING TIMES, your tits don’t quite bounce back from feeding them all? And doesn’t it suck how you age? And how much does being an Amish woman fucking suck??? How much does it suck to be Eli’s wife???

I couldn’t. That little tidbit of defense I gave for poor Ruth was all I had left. I could only mumble my comprehension as he went on to tell me about his trip to Montreal, where he got a massage. The masseuse lady was “foreign, but friendly,” (so glad he clarified!) and for a tip, she would take her clothes off too. Naturally, Eli jumped on that deal.

Eli proceeded to tell this friendly foreigner about his wife’s tragically loose pussy. The friendly foreigner then made the very generous offer for him to stick his pinky inside her, to feel just how tight she is.

“And she was so tight!” he relayed to me. “You wouldn’t even need to go in and out. If she would just squeeze twice, you would definitely cum.” He assured me emphatically. “I would never ever cheat on Ruth, so I didn’t give in to temptation. But I did make the lady cum with my finger, and she liked that.”

My favorite part of this story is where he felt the need to clarify that the woman liked cumming. My second favorite part is where he thinks he didn’t cheat on Ruth.

I left shortly after.

Not long after what was possibly the most overwhelming day of my New York life, I got a voicemail from Eli asking if he could bring a larger group for me to tour around the city. Figuring there was no way he’d incessantly talk about jerking off in the presence of other Amish people, I welcomed the opportunity to make even more money touring people who looked like they lived in a different century around my bustling metropolis. A few months later, Eli came back to the city, this time with several farmers and their sons, and I took them around to see the sights. As I expected, Eli didn’t say anything inappropriate, and I had the pleasure of watching everyone stare at my little tour group as we made our way past taxis and skyscrapers. Here are some photos from that day: