Why Men Shouldn't Read Sexy Stuff on the Train

 Books, Essays, Humor, MARTA, Memory Mondays, Sex  3 Responses »
Aug 202012
 

When peo­ple find out that I’m a writer, they often rec­om­mend that I read this book or that book and sug­gest that I write some­thing like it.  One of the recent sug­ges­tions had been for an erotic-mystery-thriller.  I wasn’t sure exactly what an erotic-mystery-thriller was, so I decided to pick it up and give it a go.

Since erotic was the first word in the descrip­tion, I had antic­i­pated that the book might read like a porn movie, which are very sim­i­lar to Rodgers and Ham­mer­stein musi­cal, except instead of hav­ing a char­ac­ter erupt into song at the drop of a hat, the actors have sex every five minutes.

I started the book at home and got about 100 pages into with­out any sexy time; how­ever, I liked the protagonist’s voice, the crime was intrigu­ing, and there seemed to be twist at the end of every chap­ter that kept me turn­ing pages.  But all the action seemed to be from the waist up.

The next morn­ing, I boarded the train for work and stum­bled into the first sex scene.  I peered over the top of the book to check to see if any­body was watch­ing me, like the other peo­ple sud­denly knew that I tip-toed into the dirty part of the book.   I returned to read­ing and after a few para­graphs I felt–how do I put this?–one of those “periscope up” moments com­ing on.

I imme­di­ately low­ered the book to crotch level and started think­ing about base­ball, Mother Teresa, road­kill, and any­thing remotely unsexy, while I sucked in deep breaths.  The last thing I wanted to hap­pen was for another pas­sen­ger to point at me and scream, “Hey, let that Boy Scout out of that pup tent in your pants!”  In a nut­shell, I was mortified.

Obvi­ously, I just needed to put the book down until I returned home that evening; how­ever, I wanted to know what hap­pened to the char­ac­ters and who the killer was.  I couldn’t wait, though.  I had to find out what hap­pened next.  Nat­u­rally, I thought I’d just thumb past the sex scene, but when I got there, I real­ized some­thing impor­tant hap­pened because they were no longer speak­ing to each other.  I had to read the sex scene to find out what happened.

If I had been seated, it wouldn’t have been a prob­lem, but there were too many women, elderly folks, and dis­abled peo­ple on the train for me to sit down.  I tried turn­ing my back to the rest of the car, but then I looked sus­pi­cious and the MARTA police­man started watch­ing me.  Finally, I slid my back­pack off my shoul­der and held it ad an odd angle to cover myself while I fin­ished the sex scene.  Just as I fin­ished, the train pulled into my sta­tion and I disembarked.

I thought I was safe for the ride home that evening, but no–the cou­ple had such a good time that they imme­di­ately had to get it on again.  What’s up with that?  Who does that in real life?  And why did it take these char­ac­ters so long?  It’s not like that in real life.  If one per­son man­ages achieve orgasm before the other starts snor­ing, it’s con­sid­ered a suc­cess.  Again, I reached for my backpack.

I read more of the book that night at home, but the char­ac­ters seemed to still be angry with each other–or at least tak­ing cold show­ers.  The fol­low­ing morn­ing, as soon as I boarded the train, they were paw­ing at each other again.  And it was the same thing on my trip home, and the next day.  By the time I got to work, I was crav­ing a cigarette–and I don’t smoke.

So, gen­tle­men, I do not rec­om­mend read­ing read­ing any­thing sexy on pub­lic trans­porta­tion, unless you’re seated or you’re wear­ing extremely baggy pants.  And if you see me wear­ing a trench coat on the train in August, I’m going to tell you that I’m read­ing the bible.

Top Ten Tips for How NOT to Score at the London Olympics

 Humor, Men's Interest, Olympics, Parody, Pop Culture, Relationships, Self-Help, Sex, Sports, Top Ten Thursdays, Women's Interest  No Responses »
Jul 262012
 

After read­ing that the Lon­don Olympics Orga­niz­ing Com­mit­tee is giv­ing out a record 150,000 con­doms for use dur­ing the 2012 Olympics, I feel it’s my respon­si­bil­ity to give the ath­letes some advice on behav­ior to avoid, so they can actu­ally use those multi-colored rubbers.

01. Alco­hol and the Olympic torch have always been a recipe for dis­as­ter.  (Google Leroy Huck­le­berry and the Great Fire of Annis­ton, Alabama that burned down the Foxy Lady Lounge in 1988.)

02. Swim­mers who wear their gog­gles to bed.  (No one likes to feel like their being shagged by a crea­ture from the deep–not even from behind.)

03. Fencers who use their foil or sabre to carve their dig­its into the torso of a poten­tial part­ner.  (Bloody hell! … literally).

04. Never assume that just because a table ten­nis player uses a pad­dle (racket), doesn’t mean he’s into spank­ing.  (Ask some prob­ing ques­tions to feel him out, like what he thinks about cor­po­ral punishment.)

05. Just because you spike a ball on the vol­ley­ball court, doesn’t mean you should spike his balls in the bed­room. (FOUL!)

06. It’s best not to try to mount an eques­trian in the same way that you mount the pom­mel horse (espe­cially if you haven’t intro­duced yourself).

07. Don’t joke about him hav­ing a javelin in his pocket or being happy to see you.  (You might be right on both accounts, but you’ve blown your chance with a corny cliche.)

08. Just because a syn­chro­nized swim­mer stands on her head in the deep end of the pool, doesn’t mean that you need to let your imag­i­na­tion run away with you.  (She has remark­able lung capac­ity, not nec­es­sar­ily con­trol over her gag reflex.)

09. Share the pics that you took with your mobile phone of you get­ting down with the Olympic mas­cot in a hot and heavy furry action.  (And remem­ber, it’s not just on Face­book, it’s FOREVER.)

10. For­mer Olympic ath­letes who thrash around on the dance floor of the dis­cotheque and bruise their neigh­bors with the gold, sil­ver, and/or bronze medals they’re wear­ing around their necks.  (Hello, color me desperate!)

First Gay President Stars in M/M Fiction Bestseller

 Books, Celebrities, Humor, Parody, Politics, Pop Culture, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays, Women's Interest, Writing  No Responses »
May 152012
 

Pres­i­dent Obama made his­tory twice over the past week:  First, for declar­ing his sup­port for gay mar­riage, and, sec­ond, for being the sub­ject of a best­selling slash fic­tion novel enti­tled Barack Hard, a steamy romance between an African-American Pres­i­dent of the United States, Barack O. Bama, and an Asian-American Secret Ser­vice Agent, Chuck E. Chan.

M/M fic­tion, a genre of fan fic­tion that tells sto­ries about roman­tic and/or sex­ual rela­tion­ships between male media char­ac­ters.  The major­ity of the read­ers, and the authors, are het­ero­sex­ual women.  Jill Favors, the author of Barack Hard, said she was first intro­duced to M/M fic­tion when she ran across a Cana­dian Star Trek novella enti­tled Beam Me Up the Bum, Scotty.  “It was hor­ri­bly writ­ten and edited, but the scenes between Kirk and Spock were so ten­der, yet so hot, that I couldn’t get them out of my mind.  I started read­ing all the M/M fic­tion I could find, and even­tu­ally began writ­ing my own.”

Accord­ing to Favors, Her Pres­i­dent Barak O. Bama is just a reg­u­lar bira­cial guy who hap­pened to grad­u­ate from Har­vard Law School who wants world peace, the occa­sional pick-up game, and some­one to watch HGTV with, after a long day in the Oval Office.  Chuck E. Chan, is a Secret Ser­vice agent who likes to restore clas­sic cars, cook French cui­sine, and knows the words to every Barry Manilow song, who is assigned to pro­tect the Pres­i­dent on a trip to pay his respects to the Prince of Trik­istan, who just came out as gay to his father, and accom­pany him to a Madonna con­cert in Dubai.  At first, the Pres­i­dent and Agent Chan hate each other, but things begin to heat up by the time they land in Dubai.  How­ever, before Madonna can return to the stage for an encore of “Hol­i­day,” ter­ror­ists kid­nap the Pres­i­dent.  It’s up to Chan to kick ter­ror­ist butt, save the Pres­i­dent, and enter into a pick-up game for life with the man he loves.

“The rea­son that I chose to make my pro­tag­o­nist slightly dif­fer­ent than Pres­i­dent Obama is because I like the First Lady,” said Favors.  “I mean, I couldn’t kill her off.  I also didn’t want to send her off to visit her mother or go shop­ping in Italy, so I set my story in an alter­nate universe.”

Barack Hard had already been writ­ten, sold to Tes­terone Squared Pub­lish­ing, and was being edited when Pres­i­dent Obama voiced his sup­port for gay mar­riage.  The pub­lisher rushed to make the title avail­able as an e-book the next day and sales went through the roof.  Up next for the Gay Pres­i­dent is Barak­back Moun­tain, which is due out before the end of the month.

How I Learned About the Power of Playing Dumb Against Sexism in the Seventh Grade

 80s, Essays, Humor, Kids, Memory Mondays, School, Sex  No Responses »
May 142012
 

When I was in the sev­enth grade, my fam­ily moved from Waco, Texas to Burleson, Texas, a small town just south of Forth Worth.  I shared a two-person desk with a boy in Life Sci­ence class.  He was an affa­ble red­neck with hard drugs in his future, and he enjoyed shar­ing the details of his sex­ual adven­tures with me before class began.  Being new to school and nei­ther hav­ing many friends nor know­ing the proper pro­to­col for respond­ing to the lurid details of a young boy’s dig­i­tal enhance­ment of a young girl’s plea­sure, I smiled, nod­ded, and inter­jected a few “uh-huh’s” and “tell me more’s,” while won­der­ing why God hated me.

He once shared with me a per­sonal solo sex tech­nique that he and another boy from school per­fected one after­noon.  I sup­pose I should have been appre­cia­tive of the infor­ma­tion; instead, I made a men­tal note to never shake the hand of either boy in a for­mal set­ting, for exam­ple, we met at a tea the next time the Queen of Eng­land came to town.

This was the boy who wrote in my year book, “Hope you get some @#%&* this sum­mer.”  Sur­pris­ingly, I laughed when I read it.  Sure, it was crude, but he had such a like­able per­son­al­ity that it seemed more absurd than dirty.  Besides, I sort of admired his bravado; if you’re going to be crass, do it boldly.

My mother and father, how­ever, were livid.  “You’re the ones who moved me to this god­for­saken place,” I reminded them.  “I was per­fectly happy in Waco, thank you very much.”

One of the cheer­lead­ers sat at the desk behind us.  She was a bub­bly girl who always seemed to be chew­ing on a cud of bub­blegum with the inten­tion of anni­hi­la­tion.  My desk­mate con­stantly tried to embar­rass her by say­ing provoca­tive things to her.  One day he asked, “Are you a virgin?”

With­out bat­ting an eye, and per­fectly timed between chomps of gum, she replied, “No, I’m a Leo.”

The boy beside me busted out laugh­ing, and I laughed, too, yet for a dif­fer­ent rea­son.  While he thought she was just a dumb blonde, I saw a glim­mer in her eye when she responded that hinted that she was in on the joke.  She had bril­liantly side-stepped his ques­tion with­out a con­fronta­tion, while simul­ta­ne­ously prov­ing she was smarter than him than he was with­out him know­ing it.

I thought, This girl has a future in politics.

Top Ten Types of North American Ladies of the Night

 Creativitiy, Humor, Jobs, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Top Ten Thursdays, Word Up Wednesdays, Work  2 Responses »
Feb 232012
 

If you’ve ever seen the musi­cal Gypsy, you’ll recall that when Gypsy Rose Lee decides to enter the bur­lesque indus­try, her fel­low strip­pers advised her that she had to have a gim­mick.  For some rea­son, my friend Joan and I were dis­cussing how the word “ho” seemed friend­lier than pros­ti­tute and was much more fun to say, which led to the dis­cus­sion of what type of gim­micks were avail­able in one were to become a sex worker.  Here are some exam­ples that we came up, with no dis­re­spect to the ladies (and some­times men) of the night:

01. Glo-Ho — A radioac­tive floozy.  Jill chas­tised her­self for not mov­ing far­ther away from the nuclear power plant, how­ever, she enjoyed danc­ing at the gay club, where the boys would use her as a human glow stick.

02. Sew Ho — A bimbo who makes her own clothes.  Faye was thrilled when she real­ized that she could charge twice as much if she could take up an inseam on a pair of slacks while she lay there.

03.  Dough Ho — A pros­ti­tute who also bakes.  Tina and her pip­ing bag were famous in the tri-state area–and she could knead like nobody’s business.

04. Row Ho — A tramp who likes to work in a canoes.  Marge said her clients liked to end their ses­sion with a good paddling.

05. Flow Ho — A sex worker who is also a hemo­phil­iac.  Candy was very pop­u­lar with the men with a tourni­quet fetish.

06. Blo-Ho — A whore who also works with aquatic mam­mals.  Pam’s clients gave her high marks for her tech­nique and friendly per­son­al­ity, but it unset­tled them to look up and find the whale watch­ing them.

07. Ho-Ho — Sex work­ers who are also Siamese twins.  Kerry and Terry were savvy busi­ness­women:  They dou­bled their fee and adver­tised a two-for-one special.

08. Mow-Ho — A pros­ti­tute who also land­scapes.  Ann’s clients thought she was God’s gift to men; she did them and their lawns.

09. Tof-Ho — A vegan hooker.  Gretchen’s clients appre­ci­ated that she didn’t reek of meat, but instead exuded a fra­grance of jas­mine rice and soy milk.

10. No-Ho — A sex worker who refuses a client ser­vice.  Once Roz real­ized that there were men who were only attracted to women who said no, her job no longer felt like work at all.

11. Po-Ho — A whore who is also a police offi­cer.  Suzanne’s clients loved the way she ser­viced them, then busted her­self for her crime.

How I Lost That Loving Feeling and Got It Back

 70s, Essays, Friends, Holidays, Humor, Kids, Memory Mondays, Men's Interest, Pop Culture, Relationships, Self-Help, Sex, Women's Interest  No Responses »
Feb 132012
 

I don’t con­sider myself much of a roman­tic, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Valentine’s Day. When I was younger, I enjoyed dec­o­rat­ing a white paper bag with pink and red hearts, cut metic­u­lously from con­struc­tion paper, for the sole pur­pose of receiv­ing valen­tines from my class­mates. Later, I would care­fully peruse the hol­i­day aisle at K-Mart, weigh­ing my options between Peanuts, Looney Toons, and Dis­ney before finally choos­ing a pack­age of valen­tines that expressed the essence of my love for all the kids in my class. I would thought­fully match the valen­tine accord­ing to my rap­port with that stu­dent. There­fore, my best friend, Kelly, received the cov­eted Don­ald Duck in the astro­naut suit, while Sharon and her wrap-around retainer received a valen­tine with a B-List Dis­ney char­ac­ter. Some­times, if I felt so inspired, I might per­son­al­ize the valen­tine with a mes­sage such as, “Stay cool.”

On Feb­ru­ary 14th, I would drop a valen­tine into each classmate’s dec­o­rated bag before gorg­ing myself on cup­cakes, cook­ies, and punch with­out a sec­ond thought for chil­dren starv­ing in third world coun­tries. After­wards, fly­ing high on a killer sugar buzz, we would empty our sacks on our desks and open our valen­tines. It all went so well until the 5th grade, when in the midst of an envelope-ripping frenzy, I real­ized that I had for­got­ten Randy Fer­gu­son. Even though I had worked straight from my home room list, some­how, Randy had been passed over and I lost that lov­ing feel­ing. I still think of Randy from time to time and won­der what he’s doing now. I won­der if he’s hap­pily mar­ried with a fam­ily of his own, or whether, instead, he is sleep­ing on a park bench some­where, sip­ping out of a brown paper bag.  I ques­tion if, per­haps, I could have saved a life if I had only given another ten-year-old boy a piece of card with a por­trait of Goofy ask­ing him to be mine.  Alas, I’ll never know.

His­tor­i­cally, Valentine’s Day is a cel­e­bra­tion of a Catholic mar­tyr who was beaten to death and beheaded because he secretly mar­ried cou­ples dur­ing the reign of Claudius the Cruel. It seems Claudius had can­celled all mar­riages and engage­ments because he believed them to be the rea­son he had trou­ble find­ing sol­diers for his army. No roses, candy, flow­ers, cup­cakes, punch, or paper bags dec­o­rated with hearts were involved. Strangely enough, it’s sort of like cel­e­brat­ing Vegan Day by eat­ing a sir­loin steak or world peace with a box­ing match.

Gen­er­ally, men tend to receive the short end of the stick when it comes to choos­ing the per­fect present to give on Feb­ru­ary 14th. Any­thing a woman says from Jan­u­ary 1st until V-Day is a pos­si­ble clue. Some men learn the hard way that when a woman says she really doesn’t expect any­thing or want him to go to a lot of trou­ble for Valentine’s Day, it’s basi­cally a lie. Of course she wants him to do some­thing to prove that he thinks she is a god­dess on a moun­tain­top burn­ing like a sil­ver flame! The chal­lenge is to decide whether to give lin­gerie, flow­ers, or a dia­mond, but I say you can never go wrong with choco­late. Even if she’s on a diet or a fit­ness fanatic, she’ll love chocolate–and if she’s bulimic, she’ll enjoy it twice as much! For men, on the other hand, there is only one obvi­ous choice: sex. Beer can do in a pinch, but, ladies, wouldn’t you pre­fer to give him some­thing where his atten­tion is on you and not the con­tents of a bot­tle or can?

For some, valen­tine anx­i­ety is not a symp­tom of the lack of the right gift, but rather Mr. or Miss Right. In their minds, to be sin­gle on Feb­ru­ary 14th is akin to walk­ing around with the word LOSER stamped on their fore­heads. They claim to be unhappy because they don’t have any­one in their life. I say to these peo­ple, “Adopt a home­less per­son!” How­ever, they argue that they want some­one spe­cial. “Adopt a mentally-challenged per­son!” I reply, but it seems, instead, that they want some­body to com­plete them. So they imme­di­ately look around for a des­per­ate date for V.D.; any­one with a pulse is eli­gi­ble. The date is typ­i­cally a recipe for dis­as­ter and results in tears and some­one hurl­ing flam­ing shish kebob skew­ers while the other runs for his life–or at least that’s been my experience.

Some­how, it seems that we miss the whole point, no pun intended, of Valentine’s Day. Instead of think­ing of roman­tic love, which gen­er­ally focuses on our own desires and yearn­ings, we should expand our inter­pre­ta­tion to include agape, a self-less and spir­i­tual love that we can share with the whole world. Instead of buy­ing your kids more candy they don’t need, sug­gest they give it to me, or make a dona­tion to an orga­ni­za­tion that works toward elim­i­nat­ing world hunger. If you know a cou­ple with chil­dren that never seem to have time for them­selves, sur­prise them by offer­ing for you and your sig­nif­i­cant other to baby-sit while they go out and trip the lights fan­tas­tic.  Then after the kids go to sleep, mess around in the couple’s bed.  If you find your­self with­out a date, take a home­less per­son to Dave & Busters; you’ll have some­one to play air hockey with. But why stop there? Why not extend Valentine’s Day to 365 days a year by giv­ing your time and energy to one of the many orga­ni­za­tions that need vol­un­teers? Help do main­te­nance at a local church, vol­un­teer to mow an elderly neighbor’s lawn, or ask the four-star chef who lives on the cor­ner if he needs any­one to sam­ple his food to make sure it’s not poi­soned?  One can never be too sure these days …

I always wanted to read to chil­dren, so I vol­un­teered to read to the sec­ond grade class of a local ele­men­tary school. How­ever, it seems that my choice of mate­r­ial was not appro­pri­ate. Since chil­dren were men­tioned in the title, I assumed, nat­u­rally that Jackie Collins’ Hol­ly­wood Kids would be a good choice, but it seems that unhook­ing a bra is not some­thing that is cov­ered in a sec­ond grade boy’s cur­ricu­lum. Sadly, he will have to learn that later in the streets. Next, I thought I would draw atten­tion to per­sonal safety with Car­olyn Har­ris Johnson’s Come With Daddy: Child Murder-Suicide After Fam­ily Break­down, but this choice was nixed for rea­sons never fully explained to me. Finally, I asked the teacher for a rec­om­men­da­tion, and she sug­gested a nature story with ani­mals, one that presents a bold mes­sage which chil­dren can remem­ber for the rest of their lives. I smiled smugly, know­ing just the book for the job. As a result of our con­ver­sa­tion, this week, I will be read­ing from Peter Benchley’s Jaws. Sigh … It feels good to give a gift that will keep on giv­ing. This one’s for you, Randy!

Calvin Klein and Kentucky Fried Chicken Collaborate on New Fragrance

 Animals, fashion, Food, Humor, News of the Weird, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays  2 Responses »
Feb 072012
 

Fash­ion designer Calvin Klein and fast food restau­ran­teur Ken­tucky Fried Chicken will launch a new fra­grance on Valentine’s Day–KFC1.

The fra­grance is rumored to con­tain pheromones that active parts of the brain that cor­re­spond to sex and com­fort food.

Test sub­jects responded favor­ably after using the product.

““A few spritzes behind my ears and on my wrists, and I sud­denly felt like I could con­quer the cor­po­rate world and attend a Sun­day pic­nic at the same time,” Ran­dal Wal­lace, 32, an invest­ment banker.

““I was hang­ing out at a bar with my girl­friends, and slipped into the ladies’ room to put some KFC1 on,” said Corky Dawes, 38, an art gallery owner.  “After I came out, men kept com­ing up to me and say­ing things like, ‘I want to make love to you next to a moun­tain of mashed pota­toes with brown gravy.’  It was oddly titillating.”

““I walked down the street and men, women, and ani­mals would stare at me with their mouths water­ing,” said Tomeka Davis, 27, a busi­ness ana­lyst for a major pub­lic trans­porta­tion com­pany.  “I just thought to myself, Mm-hmm, that’s right, I’m fin­ger lickin’ good!”

The prod­uct has already attracted con­tro­versy after Calvin Klein & Ken­tucky Fried Chicken unveiled their adver­tis­ing for KFC1 in Times Square, which includes black-and-white images of ema­ci­ated chick­ens in dis­tressed denim that resem­ble run­away heroin addicts than a two-piece meal.

““I was dis­gusted by it,” said Taz Mor­ri­son, 41, an ani­mal activist.  “It made me vomit onto a a guy dressed as a hot dog who was pass­ing out flyers.”

““It actu­ally made me aware of just how sexy food can be,” said Jes­sica Coul­ter, 21, an art stu­dent.  “I’d never seen a chicken with tat­toos and body pierc­ings before.  It made me won­der, if I ran into a rooster in a club or bar, would I go with him?  I’ve also started hav­ing these hen fantasies.”

The fra­grance, mar­keted to both men and women, will be avail­able in two vari­eties:  Orig­i­nal Recipe and Extra Crispy.

Would you wear KFC1 if it actu­ally made you irre­sistible to men and/or women?

Word Up Wednesday: Infoxicated

 70s, Dictionary, Humor, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Vocabulary  No Responses »
Oct 122011
 

Infox­i­cated (adjec­tive) \in-fok-si-key-tid\ – When a teenage boy in the 1970s was inca­pac­i­tated by an attrac­tive teenage girl (a fox)  and unable to speak, move, or oper­ate heavy machinery.

Exam­ple:  Myrna thought her son was drunk, until she saw the foxy cheer­leader with feath­ered hair in a tight sweater and a short skirt and real­ized that Billy was infoxicated.

Can you use this word in a sentence?

Why Satanists Are Embracing the Gays

 Humor, Money, News of the Weird, Parody, Pop Culture, Religion, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays  No Responses »
Aug 162011
 

As more Chris­t­ian fun­da­men­tal­ist churches are clos­ing their doors to homo­sex­u­als, Gay/Bisexual/Lesbian/Transsexual (GBLT) peo­ple are find­ing room at an unlikely table–devil wor­shipers.  In an effort to increase mem­ber­ship and gain access to dou­ble income with no kids, Satanists are reach­ing out and wel­com­ing gays to their churches with their “Meet Your Neigh­bors Before You Burn in Hell for All Eter­nity” campaign.

“We fig­ured we’re going to burn in Hell, and they’re going to be in Hell, so why not get together and become friends?” said Betty Jo Simp­son, Pres­i­dent of the Happy Val­ley Church of Satan and Cup­cake of the Month Club.  “After all, they like goa­tees on hunky, bare-chested men, and we like goa­tees on a hunky, bare-chested men.  They like horny men, and we like “horny” men.  They like orgies, and we like orgies.  In fact, there really are very few dif­fer­ences between a Black Mass and the White Party, just a a disco ball and an infant sacrifice.”

Many gays agree that Satanism offers some­thing for all GBLT peo­ple to enjoy.  “My part­ner Kris and I both enjoy being naked at home,” said Gary Palmer, 37, a phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal sales­per­son.  “With Satanism, we can expand our beyond the pri­vacy fence sur­round­ing our pool into the rest of the world.”

Palmer’s part­ner, Kris Hughes, 29, a flight atten­dant, agrees.  “My expe­ri­ence has shown Satanist women to be very gen­er­ous.  They don’t get uptight about shar­ing their hus­bands with us.  Instead of being on the down-low, every­thing is up-and-up.”

“And I love, love, love the drama,” Palmer adds.  “The the­atri­cal­ity of the Witch’s Sab­bath is more excit­ing than that old chan­de­lier falling to the stage in Phan­tom of the Opera.”  He feigns a yawn.  “Been there, done that!”

“Still, noth­ing tops when they con­jured Kylie Minogue from a bunch of flames in the mid­dle of the pen­ta­gram and she sang ‘Bet­ter the Devil You Know’ live,” Hughes said.  “I wet my hot pants!”

It seems that a beau­ti­ful rela­tion­ship des­tined for Hell was made in Heaven.

“I think we have a lot to learn from the gays about com­ing out,” said Simp­son.  “Most Amer­i­cans would be sur­prised to find out how many celebri­ties are in fact Satanists:  Lady Gaga, Flo from the Pro­gres­sive Insur­ance TV com­mer­cials, Garfield, Flip­per, and Charo.”

The Happy Val­ley Church of Satan and Cup­cake of the Month Club’s fla­vor of the month is Sin­na­mon Crunch.

How to Scare Teenage Boys Off Sex for Life

 80s, Essays, Humor, Kids, Memory Mondays, Science, Sex  4 Responses »
Aug 152011
 

I’m 43 and my father still hasn’t sat me down to dis­cuss the birds and the bees.  I imag­ine that if the talk had come about, he would have explained it all using auto­mo­tive parts.  (My dad liked to fix cars in his free time.)  Instead, I brought home a per­mis­sion slip in the eighth grade that he or my mother signed, so the Burleson Pub­lic School Sys­tem could explain every­thing I ever wanted to know about sex but was afraid to ask.

I really didn’t have many ques­tions.  My best friend had already showed me a few min­utes of a porn tape that he had nicked from his older brother’s bed­room.  I went over to Kent’s house after school, and he said that he wanted to show me some­thing.  He popped a VHS tape into the VCR and hit play.  The next thing I knew a close-up of a man and woman’s pri­vate parts flashed in media res burst onto the TV screen.  It star­tled me, and I think I actu­ally fell off the sofa.  Not only was I unaware that I was about to con­fronted with gen­i­talia blown up twice its actual size, but the vol­ume was turned up full-blast, assault­ing my ears with heavy breath­ing, melo­dra­matic moan­ing, and cheesy music.

In a few min­utes, I pretty much fig­ured out how all the pieces came together.  And although it sounds like it should have been a sexually-charged moment of self-awakening, within two min­utes the scene degen­er­ated into manip­u­lat­ing the cou­ple onscreen with the fast for­ward and reverse but­tons.  “Before,” Kent said, before hit­ting the reverse but­ton.  “Now after!”  I men­tioned to him that the syn­the­sizer music was quite catchy, and then we went over to the piano and pecked out the melody and for­got about the movie.

So by the time my sci­ence class was sep­a­rated into two groups by gen­der, I pretty much con­sid­ered myself a pro on the sub­ject.  I sat with the other boys in my class as the male teacher went over the basics, anatomy, noc­tur­nal emis­sions, preg­nancy, etc.  This was 1981, so we didn’t have worry about AIDS or tes­tic­u­lar self-exams.  The teacher did dis­cuss sex­u­ally trans­mit­ted dis­eases, though, and he took great plea­sure in describ­ing in detail how the mil­i­tary dealt with syphilis in Viet Nam.

“Our sergeant would make us sol­diers line up every morn­ing and drop our pants.  He’d walk down the line and inspect our penises.  If he found a sol­dier with a chan­cre sore, he’d pull out his machete, and cut it off.”  At this point, I hap­pened to glance around.  I saw a room­ful of wide-eyed 13–14-year-old boys with crossed legs and their hands folded across their laps, gri­mac­ing.  One of the boys may have even passed out.

Sens­ing some con­fu­sion, I raised my hand.  “Sir, are you say­ing your sergeant cut off the chan­cre sore or the penis?”

Our teacher smiled.  “The chan­cre sore, of course.”

The boys let out a col­lec­tive sigh.  I noticed that the Don Juans of our class avoided the girls for a few days.

 What do you remem­ber about sex education?

 

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