by Shy Skyler
Today I begin my new job as a porn star. I’m hoping that being an introvert won’t prevent me from succeeding. At the very least, it can’t be worse than my last job as a court jester at a Saudi Arabian Renaissance Faire.
8:00 A.M. – I arrive on time and am very nervous. The room is full of naked strangers. I hang out by the donuts and a crate of condoms, hoping no one will notice me. Finally, a woman with a tattoo on her buttock, pierced nipples and horse blinders approaches me. She introduces herself: “Hi, I’m Betty the company accountant.” I’m nervous at first, but she’s very friendly and intuitive. We have an interesting conversation about tax shelters and multiple orgasms caused by excessive trampoline play.
9:15 A.M. – I meet my co-star for the morning. Her name is Ina “In My Face” Carona, and she’s immediately in my face with insipid questions like, “How long is your penis?” and “Would you like to have a threesome with a UPS man?” Just once I’d like to meet someone who enjoys talking about more meaningful things like Zen and the art of anonymous restroom sex.
9:45 A.M. – During our first scene, the director keeps telling me to grunt and groan more. Small and insignificant moaning has never been easy for me, so I start panting T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” After eight minutes, they assume I’m having a seizure and call 911.
10:15 A.M. – During a scenario in which I’m servicing a naughty nurse and a transgender pizza delivery person, a mixed-race dominatrix keeps asking me, “Why are you so quiet?” Finally, I can’t take it any longer and scream, “Because I’m an introverted cabana boy, dammit!” I thought I ruined the scene, but the director yelled, “That’s great! Use it!”
10:45 A.M. – They want me to join in a group sex scene. At his point, I’m totally exhausted by all this human interaction. I’d like nothing more than to go home and have sex with myself, but I have no choice. The orgy starts. I’m sitting by myself on a couch reading a magazine. The next thing I know, I’m body surfing over two sets of chubby twins. I must admit, I’m enjoying it, but after coming up for air the third time I’m ready to go home. I pretend to pull a hamstring while servicing the hostess on a chandelier, then slip out the back door and drive back to my apartment.
11:37 A.M. – Back home at last! I close the front door, fall into my large, comfortable reading chair and decompress. Nicole, my cat strolls across the room without showing the slightest inclination she wants to be stroked. She really gets me.
I knew something had gone wrong with my emergency liposuction surgery when I heard my operating surgeon say, “That’s it. We did everything we could.” Seconds later, I was hovering over my own body and yelling at the doctor, “No you didn’t! You only removed my insurance card!” But nobody heard me.
The next thing I remember is floating gently away. I was overtaken by a comforting sense of tranquility as I drifted through a quiet tunnel towards a soft glimmering light. For the first time, I felt as though I was living in the moment. My never-ending conversation with myself faded away – for a few seconds and then I began talking to myself about why my never-ending conversation stopped.
I finally reached the end of the tunnel. I was met by un-defined figure who I assumed was a woman, although she could’ve been a male with a high-pitched voice. Regardless, she radiated a lovely aura. After greeting me, she said softly, “Join us.” I was overcome with a feeling of acceptance and understanding. After a lifetime as an introvert struggling to fit in, I had finally arrived at the place where I belong.
Imagine my surprise when we entered a large, bright room packed shoulder-to-shoulder with other un-defined figures, talking and laughing loudly. A stereo was pounding nineties techno rock. One by one, people approached me and spoke: “How are you? “What do you do for a living?” “I still can’t get over the great weather we have here.” “Why are you so quiet.” “Do these ill-defined jeans make my ill-defined ass look big?
My first impulse was to find a bathroom where I could be alone and gather my thoughts. Then I realized I was now in a place that didn’t require bathrooms.
As I watched a group of 20 noisy ill-defined figures play Tag Team Twister, I asked myself, what did all this mean? Is the afterlife just as unaccepting of introverts as the current life? Will we have to wait until Susan Cain passes on to the hereafter before extroverted spirits understand that there’s nothing wrong with a ghost wanting to stay home on a Friday night and read a book?
Or maybe it was not my time to die. At this point, it didn’t matter; I just wanted to leave. I wanted to go back.
Since I’m used to leaving parties early, this was the easiest part. I slipped out the door and drifted back through the tunnel, away from the light and noise. The next thing I remember I was lying on the operating table and a nurse, gasped, “Doctor, she’s breathing! She’s alive!” The doctor responded, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Was this all a dream, or is the afterlife one big noisy, crowded happy hour? I can’t say for sure. However, if you are an introvert who values your peace and solitude, I recommend strongly you practice walking away from the light, any light.
Artist’s models never hide anything from each other.
Sheila and Hank are nude artist’s models and introverts. In addition to being passionate about standing quietly unclothed for hours, they also share a love for deep conversation and perfectly sculptured love handles.
Hank: Being an artist’s model is my life. It’s the only job I’ve ever had where no one asks me, “Why aren’t you talking?”
Sheila: For years, I had a job giving out free samples in supermarkets. It was too much pressure. Too much human interaction. Too many salty snacks. One day I just snapped. I took off my apron and stood naked in Isle nine. I froze. No matter how hard I tried, I could not say “Would you like to try a gluten-free cheese ball?” As I was being led out of the building, I thought, “I’m nude and silent and have never felt so alive.” After having a newly-discovered mole removed, I immediately applied for a job as an artist’s model.
Hank: We met on the dating website, EmbarrassingRashMates dot com. Our first date was at a small, intimate café. We spent the whole evening talking about allergic eczema.
Sheila: We quickly realized we had so much in common: an appreciation for solitude, quiet thoughtful conversation and an aversion to cold metal seats
Hank: I feel blessed Sheila has chosen me to not share her most trivial thoughts with.
Sheila: We can be happy simply lying in each other’s arms, not talking about the weather. In fact, we could not talk all night.
Hank: Sheila has made me a better artist’s model. Before I met her, I would sometimes stand for hours, obsessing about a horsefly walking across my buttock. Now I think about the two of us, standing lovingly hand-in-hand, avoiding eye contact with an IKEA salesperson.
Sheila: Hank knows me better than anyone. I may earn a living posing naked in front of art students, but I’ve never exposed my heart to anyone but him – and the surgical team that performed my triple bypass.
Introvert: Noah Gazoff
Occupation: Part-time CIA agent
Location: I’ve already said too much
Whenever I need to be alone and clear my head, I go to a funeral. It doesn’t have to be for someone I know. In fact, it usually helps if it isn’t. Aside from occasional hysterical sobbing, you won’t find a more tranquil environment.
There are many memorial services from which to choose. Simply check the obituaries in your local newspaper or online. Ideally, the recently departed should be a complete stranger who died from natural causes. This usually ensures a quiet service with a minimum of drama. You know you’ve hit pay dirt if you overhear someone say, “It was her time.”
I always enter quietly and sit by myself. Mourners rarely talk to me. I have a pretty intense resting bitch face that normally scares the hell out of people. But at funerals I look like I’ve lost my best friend which is the effect I’m going for. The only time anyone has ever asked why I wasn’t smiling was when I attended the funeral of an original member of Up with People.
Small talk is minimal at a memorial service. However, I’m always prepared for the rare occasion I inadvertently make eye contact. I slowly shake my head, look down and say, “Heck of a guy;” or “We’re going to miss him;” or “They broke the mold when they made her; or “What can I say that hasn’t been said?” Before anyone can respond, I sigh and walk away.
Aside from the opportunity for contemplation, there’s something deeply spiritual about funerals. Yes, they give me time to ponder my existence as well as why the widow’s hand is resting gently on another man’s thigh. But this age-old ritual of bidding farewell to friends and loved ones always reminds me that I’m part of a vast universe inhabited by introverts, extroverts and widows who can’t wait to start dating until after they bury their husbands.
The next time you need to be alone and you’re miles from the nearest park, beach or quiet café, go to a funeral. There’s no better place to get your needed “me” time with a gentle portion of “us” time on the side.
Camila Montalban, the world’s oldest introvert, has died in Bel Air, California. She was 118 and passed away while doing what she loved best, staring quietly at the ceiling.
Montalban, who attributed her longevity to sleep, eating healthy food alone, and never revealing her address to countless relatives, died at 10:38 a.m. Wednesday. She collapsed while listening to a Meals on Wheels deliveryman drone on endlessly. She never regained conciousness.
Camila was born on August 2, 1899 in San Diego, California. Her father was a Maytag washboard repairman. Her mother was an ESL teacher who taught recent immigrants Spanish. She didn’t speak her first word until age 12, later explaining, “I didn’t have anything to say.
Montalban was the member of Chula Vista Community College’s first graduating class where she majored in housewifery and minored in gazing contemplatively at sunsets.
In 1919, Montalban married Leo Rezdin, a talkative used buggy salesman. They had five children, one of whom she enjoyed conversing with. When not pretending to listen to her husband and other kids, she enjoyed rehashing arguments in her head and anxiously waiting for parties to end so she could go home. A history buff, Camilla founded a club that researched and re-enacted famous moments of silence.
With Camila Montalban’s death, the title of world’s oldest introvert now belongs to Takeo Fukuda, a 112-year-old retired male model and the only World War II Japanese solder who refused to surrender because he preferred the peace and quiet of jungle living.