Palms

My name is Yih-Kang Lee and I have hyperhidrosis. For those who do not know, it is a condition characterized by abnormally increased perspiration, in excess of that required for regulation of body temperature. Layman's terms? I have sweaty palms.

Sometimes, it can be caused by anxiety, but most of the time, it is independent of the temperature and emotional state. I just have to play it by luck.

Which leads me to today.

One thing at the place I work for my internship is that there are beautiful women all around. Think about it. I am in a building surrounded by female reporters and anchors who are not only intelligent, but in order to be on television, they are generally young, beautiful, wearing eye-pleasing business attire (total turn-on), and have a demeanor that demands your presence.

After all these years of higher learning with collegiate girls who squeal around each other and pretend to be sluts, I have finally met real women that demand my respect. In some sort of sick way, they remind me of the crushes I used to have of my junior high school and high school teachers. You think this is sick? Then you are probably a woman. Every straight man you know has had some sort of fantasy of one of their teachers.

In any case, I was in this recording room working with some equipment, and one of the correspondents walk in. O...my...gosh. White blouse, brown skirt, black heels. Nothing revealing. Nothing inappropriate. I do not know how to describe it, but I hope that every male reader has their imagination running wild, so that we can at least connect on that level.

But then my producer introduces me to her, and she takes her hand out in a shaking motion. Trying not to act too nervous, I swiftly reach out my hand to shake hers and that's when we both knew it. I suffered from hyperhidrosis. Squish, squish, squish. The salty sweat permeated her skin and mine, and unlike B-rated porn movies, this was not sexy. Very much like C-rated porn movies, this was very disgusting. Her eyebrows clenched a split second before she took her hand away from mine, and went on with business. I shook my head in disgust and wiped my hand on my slacks.

On the train ride back, I stared at my right hand, and repeatedly whispered to myself: Dammit, you failed me again!

The Hispanics on the 7 stared at me.