It was Friday night and I went to GYNO (Get Your Nuts Off), a monthly party at a yoga studio organized by a girl I met at a Native Ritual weekend where we all drank ayahuasca and got naked and bumped uglies. I’ve gone to this party just about every month for the last five months or so because it’s a good time for not too much dough, a cheap bastard who wants to take a break from watching South Park every night’s dream.
For $20 there are a bunch of sort of healthy snacks, drinks including coconut water and kombucha. My first activity on arrival is to stuff my bag with as many free nut and berry bars as my back can support before I store my extras in the lockers they have with these cool electronic make-your-own-combination locks. I have learned my lesson of stuffing the food into my bag and not my mouth at the start of the party, as the few times I stuffed my mouth instead of my bag, I nearly spilled the container when dancing and whirling later in the night.
The last time I blew something that big I was kneeling in front of a black man nicknamed "Big Johnson"!
Also at GYNO is The Didge Project, which is a group of didgeridoo players and last Saturday a tabla player and couple other musicians joined in, blasting the methodic melodies of this Australian aboriginal instrument. That just sounded like a CD review, no? “The methodic melody of decapitated heads crackling over the fire of the head hunters of New Guinea was lacking nothing but marshmallows on a stick.”
The first time The Didge Project as added to the line-up I was like, “Who needs some lame mellow crap that sounds like an old man clearing his throat of a build up of mucus at a dance party!” But a couple of parties ago, after having my fill of dancing, I went into the didge room and meditated—or rather, pretended to meditate while I tried to cop a feel of the cute girls with their eyes closed—and it was pretty cool. Another time I showed up early because I kind of screwed up the two adages: “The early bird gets the worm” and “Only fags arrive right at the start of the party” and came up with, “If I show up early I may be able to suck some fag’s worms.” Needless to say, when the clock struck 8:00 p.m., I was barreling through the door looking for worm.
At the last party, they added some talk about ecological stuff. I went in and after about 30-seconds was like, “Dude, how can a guy feel any chicks up when their eyes are open!” and left. I filed a complaint with the organizer and was informed that feeling up girls with their eyes closed was not permitted. What the fu—? I guess I would have to be an exclusively dick and balls copifier.
I just love beating-off!
One room has a D.J. Truthfully, I have never gone in that room and danced. This is not because I once slept with a woman named D.J. and got the clap, although that incident has strangely affected my ability to order O.J. at a restaurant or bar. It is because I am always dancing in my favorite room: THE LIVE DRUMMERS. Dude—drummers banging away beats, jumping and spinning and dancing and sweating—seriously, is there anything that one could think of that is better than this? I hear you, jerking-off with an elephant’s ear is pretty darn delightful but even that doesn’t really compare to the grooves in the live drumming room, not to mention that dancing to the drummers beats won’t result in you being banned for life from the African Safari at Disneyworld.
It was two GYNOs ago where I met Rose Petals. I was coming in to get my ovaries checked and she was the doctor on duty. “Left ovary…right ovary. Well then, it looks like you have a few reproductive years left in you, old girl!” and while I didn’t appreciate the “old” comment, she had hands of magic that even the cold steel of the vag spread clamp couldn’t keep my labia from heating up. She was working the desk and I was working the macking. My relationship with Rose Petals spanned from lip-locking to “Swami X who?” in a matter of days [See http://rebelyogi.com/getting-my-groove-on].
So at the last GYNO I attended, I wondered if I would see Rose Petals there again. I didn’t, probably finding some other venue that was easier for her to break the hearts of guys who fell in love with her. Until last Friday. Unfortunately, I had already had my ovaries checked and what had concerned me at first ended up only being a lost Lifesaver from the last guy who had gone down on me. I talked to her and smiled in that charming way a gal does when she wants to convey, “You see, I’m still doing just fine without you!” while stifling back the flood of tears.
"Nah, it's not a problem. Just one more swig, honey. You can do it."
Later in the night, Rose Petals asked me if I could bring her a cup of organic wine. Knowing she is somewhat of a boozer, I thought that if I plied her full of liquor, I might be able to “Get My Nuts Off” on her inebriated body. Instead I settled for just dropping a pube into her drink. I had a vision of them performing the Heimlich Maneuver on her, as the whole party grinded to a halt to watch the unraveling. And then when she finally coughs and breathes easily again, an EMS guy announcing to the crowd, “Nothing to worry about here. Just a pube went down the wrong pipe.” Nice. I’d teach her for leaving me at the altar in my imagination! She’s even the star of my imaginary movie called Runaway Imaginary Bride. I’m thinking of replacing her with Julia Roberts, as in ImaginationLand I can afford to pay star wages for anyone I want. I’m thinking of casting Tom Cruise as the gay best friend. Oh wait, that’s for My Imaginary Best Friend’s Wedding.
Rose Petals was mostly trapped behind the front desk but later I saw her walking around and practically dragged her into the live drumming room and forcibly danced with her. I would probably have to plead guilty to dance rape had I been taken before a judge. I don’t particularly like going to court, as my experience with men and women in robes, from priests, nuns and judges, is that while they act all high and mighty, all they really want is for you to suck their dicks—and let me tell you, some of the biggest cocks I’ve sucked were attached to nuns and I am not just talking about the ones in their asses! Regardless, we both had a good time on the dance floor. She even complimented my dancing. Being she is a trained dancer, I tried my best to receive it modestly but instead I blushed like a schoolgirl, tilted my head a little and said, “Go on.” Not my proudest moment but a moment nonetheless.
So she was about to go back to desk duty, as apparently someone had taken a dump during the last Pap Smear and there were always new sets of ovaries coming in waiting to be fingered. She apologized for being a bit aloof at her last dance show that I showed up for and was completely ignored [See “Another Way” at http://rebelyogi.com/another-way.html]. She told me that she was dealing with her then boyfriend who was there at the time but that now they are no longer together.
This is so weird--I wore the orange suit at my Bar Mitzvah and the blue one at my high school graduation! Come to think of it, maybe that is why I didn't get laid.
Wasting no time I said, “So does that mean you’ll get back to me now when I call you?” She said, “Perhaps” and I felt like that scene in Dumb And Dumber when Jim Carrey asked the beautiful girl what the chances for him and her to end up together and she said, “One out of a million” and he shouted excitedly, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance. YEAH!” [See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qULSszbA-Ek] With just that single word from her I was ready to make phone calls and send text messages that in most likelihood would remain unanswered. Ah, the power of delusion!
When I looked down at her groinal region, I saw a neon sign that read, “OPEN FOR BUSINESS.” It became clear that she was a whore and wanted her ovaries checked by a special instrument, if you know what I mean, and if you don’t, I mean my penis.
Near the end of the night, I saw her on the steps coming down from the second floor and she asked me, “Do you have a bottle opener?” In my day I’ve had many things shoved up my ass and even more things lost up there but at the moment I wasn’t really in the mood to go searching. “No,” I said. Later I saw her bleeding from the mouth. Being a total boozer, she had smashed the wine bottles neck against a wall and was drinking straight from the broken bottle. I considered taking her immediately to Alcoholics Anonymous but then thought that this would probably lessen my chances of fucking her while she was passed out and so I didn’t. “Ethics always before safety” is my motto. In my case, even bad ethics go to the front of the line.
"Self-Service"
Before leaving, I was going to send her a text message, as everyone knows how much I love text messages [See “Text-Messaging Douchebag” at http://rebelyogi.com/the-text-messaging-douchebag.html] but realized I had deleted her number. When I finally saw her I told her this. At the door I asked for her number again and she was like, “Your really deleted my number?” I said, “You never called or texted me back. Why would I keep it?” She was unable to formulate an answer, partly because my logic was impeccable and mostly because no blood was left in her brain for cognition as all the blood was pooling in her vag.
"Anchorman". I'd say that's some "anchor"!
by Idyllicmollusk, my new favorite artist
I just realized that if she were a guy, that joke would have made perfect sense, indicating an erection and keeping the comical sexuality alive. But as a woman, it just makes one think she’s on her period, and now everyone is thinking about bloody underpants and are a bit sick to their stomachs. If you want, I would suggest using an editing program and going back and changing her name to Rose Thorns and make her a guy so that you can appreciate this joke. It really is a good one. You can substitute “his ass” for “her groinal region” to help the neon “OPEN FOR BUSINESS” joke a long as well. You see, we work together and we’ll get the laughs!
She inquired about my future plan to call her, “So what do you want to do?” I said, “Fuck you.” She laughed and I smiled back, although I didn’t really get the joke.
I told her that I wanted a kiss before I left. She took me to the hallway and we kissed, with tongue and everything and by everything I mean uvula and tonsils as well. I am a big fan of “I’ll do whatever I want to do regardless of who’s around” but even I thought this might be inappropriate for a staff person to be swapping spit with some gorgeous hunk while people were walking out of the facility. In case there was any confusion, the role of the Gorgeous Hunk was being played by me.
I figured she was so slutty that I could probably lift her dress and do her right there and save myself the ten-cent charge from a cell phone call. But I also considered that I would like to come back to the next GYNO and wouldn’t want a repeat of the Elephant Ear Masturbation Incident happening all over again. So instead I just slapped her on the ass, winked while I pointed at her and made that cool clicking sound with my mouth and walked away, coolness that would have made even The Fonz offer me a desk in his office, which was the bathroom at Arnold’s or Al’s Drive-In, whether we are talking early or late-season “Happy Days.”
