It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 80

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or cat vandals.


Today's topic: Hump Day Forever


A few nights ago, my house was quiet. This is newsworthy in that my house is never quiet, but the kids went to bed without protest for a change and I had a little 10 p.m. facebook/Twitter time. I'm happily creeping on other people's pages and reading celebrity tweets when I hear this loud THUNK like a water balloon hit the side of the house, and then Raaaaaarwwwwr RAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

It was immediatey recognizable as cats having sex, but it sounded oddly like vandalism, like someone did a drive-by and instead of throwing a Moltov Cocktail they threw f**king cats at our house. Who hates us so much they'll throw f**kng cats at the house?

Our neighborhood on a daily basis. 

It's like an opium den of cat sex in the yard.

But most of the feral cats are black

and missing signifcant chunks of fur.

I run downstairs to Current Husband's office and start saying, "Did you hear that?" when it's like they are in the room doing it. RRRAAAAAWWRRR! HISS HISS HISS! THUNK THUNK RAWWWWWWRRRR!!!! It's like the National Cat Fornication Service just activated a Cat Sex warning and the siren is going off.  Take Cover!  Take Cover!  We look at each other with wide eyes, like "Is that what sex sounds like?" because it's been awhile and we've forgotten. CH opens the curtains to the egress window in the basement and lo and behold, total cat sex peep show in our window well.  The cats see CH and they literally shoot four feet into the air, mwowling, and we can hear them howl all the way down the dark street.  We so look forward to increasing our brood of 34 feral cats to 87 this spring.

But lest ye think the mating is over in our hood, fear not, gentle reader.  Everyone in our hood is doing the Humpty Hump.

The other day I walked out to show my sister our crumbling chimney when I glanced over to our neighbor's yard, where their yellow lab was busy mounting a visiting chocolate lab.  This was an arranged date, but Zeus is a little short in the leg and was having trouble getting on his taller date.  What he lacked in height, he made up in stamina, and even without the aid of the doggie sex stilts I recommended to the neighbor, he managed to get the job done more efficiently and with less noise than his feline counterparts.  And?  Zeus is a broad daylight kind of guy.  There's no fear there.  It's a "Check it OUT, neighborhood, I've got balls bigger than your cars!"  Meanwhile, George the Superpet, ball-less wonder, stood at the fence, watching sadly.

The next night, George had his chance at love. 

The neighbor was having a little bonfire and invited me over to have a beer with her.  I brought George the Superpet, and the moment he got inside their gate his gaydar went off and he started humping their male dogs like he'd just done a line of coke at the Stonewall Inn in Grenwich Village while the DJ played Lady Gaga.  He was just born this way.  The neighbor's two male, un-neutered labs had to lay down on the grass so George couldn't hump them, and then he just walked around for a bit air-humping.  My neighbor and I were laughing, but I felt a little sorry for him.  He's so repressed, and everyone around him gets to have sex while he's stuck in the house watching the Disney Channel. 

George, mounting Grandma Jan at Christmas. 

Awkward for everyone.

So, in sum:
1.  Someone is throwing f**king cat bombs at our house in some weird kind of hate crime.
2.  Short dogs have bigger mojo.
3.  George the Superpet is a repressed sex machine.

Spring has sprung, people.  Get out there and enjoy it like an animal.

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 60

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the people who read this post last year.




Today's topic: Massages and blockages.

This was spring break week for the kids.  Since I don't want to take crazy vacation days because I need to see The Black Keys this summer, and we are hoping to take the kids on the lifetime pilgrimage to Graceland and then Atlanta this summer, I only took Monday off.  Current Husband took the kids, plus another teen, to the Wisconsin Dells to party like a rock star, if the rock star was underage and liked waterslides.

I sacrificed and stayed home to work.  By sacrificed, I mean had a delicious meal of Spicy Basil Noodles with one friend one night, and a spa night and meal with another friend the next night.  It was tough, but someone had to do it.  On spa night, I opted for a facial and a pedicure, while my friend took the one hour massage.  During our post-rubbing analysis over a couple glasses of ice-cold Blue Moon, we had a massage discussion.

HER:  "The person was great, but she spent a lot of time on my butt."
ME:  "You have a nice butt.  I would probably spend most of my time there."
HER:  "I was starting to wonder if she would move in."
ME:  "I don't think people in the Quad Cities give Happy Endings."
HER:  "You might be surprised.  I wonder if someone has ever been giving a guy a massage,
          and then suddenly he has an erection."
ME:  "You know that's happened."
HER:  "Yeah, because any guy, if you rub him anywhere near there, has to get a hard-on.
          I don't think they can help it, it's automatic."

We interrupt this Whoreticulture Friday
for an intestinal blockage.  No shit. 
(HA!  GET IT!?!?)

I started this post last night, as I usually try to do on Thursdays.  Then CH took an Aleve and it went down his airpipe, and I briefly thought he was going to die, and then, even though he repeatedly assured me he was okay, I had to call the doctor on call to be sure he didn't need to have his lungs aspirated, which he did not.  But it sort of took the wind out of my sails on Whoreticulture.  "I'll do it tomorrow," I thought, while I watched CH sleep and looked for signs of respiratory distress.  (He made it.)

Then I'm at work, and it's Friday afternoon, and everyone else seems to have left for the day, and I never took a lunch, so I thought, "Hey, I'll blog for a little bit."  I tried to start blogging, and then this very nice co-worker man comes in to my office area, I'm the only cubicle-dweller left, and we started discussing a co-worker's medical issue.  (Productivity at work today peaked around 2 p.m., and then I think everyone just sort of phoned it in.  If you are my boss, or think you are my boss, you are mistaken.  Go to thebloggess.com.  There is nothing to see here.)  Before long, I found myself victim to a 40-minute detailed description of his intestinal blockage.  Really.  Did you know if a doctor wants to "Run your Bowels" it means they cut you open and take out your bowels and hang them on hooks so they can examine your entire colon?  Now I do.  It's not something easily forgotten. 

Current Husband and I went out for drinks and then to see the musical production of "Avenue Q", and while I was eating my bruschetta and drinking vodka cranberries (River Baron vodka, made here in the Quad Cities and fabulous) I wasn't thinking about Whoreticulture Friday, or about whether or not guys get erections during massages, but instead about what that bruschetta might look like in my colon if it was hung out on hooks in the ER.  It made me think, "I hope if they ever have to Run my Bowels I am caught with broccoli in my colon, and not two boxes of Dots damming up a strawberry cheesequake Blizzard."

I'm sorry if I've failed you in the Whoreticulture department, people, but think of it as a public service.  Here is what we've learned:

1. Sometimes it is good to stay home while everyone else goes on vacation.
2. Guys probably get aroused during massages, but it's unintentional.
3. Be careful when swallowing pills.
4. Don't tell casual acquaintances about your bowels.
5. Eat healthy food if you think you'll be going into the hospital.

You're welcome, America.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 27

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Choking the Chicken.

So tonight I had a totally different topic in mind but I needed some help so I walk into my bedroom and Current Husband is lounging in his comfy pants, one hand on the remote and one hand sort of stuck just in the top of his waistband, eyes glazed over and watching TV.
ME:  "Don't judge my Whoreticulture Friday topic, but do you have any weird stories about..."
CH:  (still looking at TV) "Choking the chicken?"
ME:  "Wha...No.  No, it was not about choking the chicken.  It was about..."
CH:  "Pullin' the Pud?"
ME:  *sigh* "Why don't you tell me all of the slang terms you know for masturbation."
(I can be very Zen.  I will use his current energy flow to my advantage instead of fighting it.  My hormone of choice is EstroNinja.)
CH:  "Okay!" (Now he's excited about the blog.  This rarely happens.) "Um, there's..."
AND HE DRAWS A BLANK.  No pun intended.  I guess that would be "Shoots a Blank" to be a pun, but I'm a lover not a fighter.
ME:  "How about Spanking the Monkey, or Shining the Brass Knob?"
CH:  "No, you can't use Shining the Brass Knob, that's a blow job."
ME:  "I don't think so.  It sounds more tactile than oral."
CH:  "Whatever.  It's a BJ."
ME:  "I'm going to Urban Dictionary."
And THAT, folks, is a snapshot of the marriage of The Wife and Current Husband.  Your welcome, Hallmark, on ideas for next season's anniversary cards.

FRONT

To the man whose brass knob I would shine any day.

INSIDE

But that's NOT a blow job!  Happy Anniversary anyway!

Don't you love how Hallmark can get away with a lame joke by saying "anyway"?  

We invited the fire department to your birthday

...to put out the candles!  Happy Birthday anyway!

 Hallmark, you crazy sonofabitches.  Back to whacking off...

I called a couple of friends and said, "Do you have any weird or crazy stories about masturbating?" and they all pretty much said, "I have stories about masturbating, but they are generally disturbing more than entertaining."  And then I realized I have the most awesome friends that they don't bat an eye when I call them at 9 p.m. and ask them about beating off.  So we're back to Urban Dictionary, the Official Go-To Guide for Whoreticulture Friday.

Masturbation- The act of touching oneself to produce a favorable feeling in the groin area. Usually accompanied by some sort of mental, visual, or audio stimulation to assist in reaching climax.

But you already knew that.  I like the examples better:

No honey, I don't want to tonight, I'm tired from watching Oprah. Why don't you just go masturbate? 

That dumb broad got me all worked up and left me; so I had to spit-shine the old water pump manually if ya know what I mean.

Sometimes, when I wake up, I have an erection, so I have to beat off until it goes away. Sometimes, it comes back so I beat off again until it goes away. Once, it kept coming back so I just chopped it off. It hurt bad.

After Urban Dictionary, I Googled "Masturbation", and as I hit Enter, I cringed as I thought about all of the porn sites that were now going to spam me.  What really surprised me is the sheer number of "How To" sites on masturbation.  Really?  Is it that hard?  Couldn't anyone learn the basics by watching "9 1/2 Weeks" or "American Pie"?  If you are a little behind the curve, here is a whole list of sites from About.com, but for the REAL thrill, you have to visit Wikipedia.  There are a variety of pictures, from the artsy, by Gustav Klimt, to the incredibly disturbing sex offender self-portrait by Egon Schiele.  Even better, there are incredibly smooth and Brazilianed people "demonstrating" it.  For Science, OBVIOUSLY. 

I did get a couple of interesting masturbation stories, but those all involved a vibrator, which I will save for another Friday because THAT is deserving of it's own post.  Since you are all so well-versed on masturbation, today's post will serve to help broaden your knowledge of alternate terms for masturbation.  Feel free to add your own in the Comments section. 
 
YAY!  It's an interactive blog!


jacking off * jerking off * wanking off * hand job * spanking the monkey * beating off * spanking the monkey * beating the ugly stepchild * choking the chicken * flogging the donkey/dolphin/log/hog * spit-shine the water pump * flagging the mule * slapping the salami * beating the meat * rubbing one out * pocket pool * buffing the banana * walking the dog * roping the pony * beating the bishop * burping the worm * wonking your cronker * bleeding the weasel * corking the bat * pumping the python * buttering the corn * pull the weasel * tug the rope * polish the knob * do the 5-finger shuffle * slide the snake * toss off a batch of orphans * peek-a-boo the mole * pay the babysitter * plant the carrot * stroke the one-eyed monster * burp the baby * choking the man in the pink turtleneck * jacking the beanstalk * yankee-ing the doodle * waxing the wood * caulking the cracks * tickle the pickle * shizzle the nizzle * cream-filling the donut * cleaning the pipes * juicing the Twinkie * punching the clown * shaking hands with Dr. Jolly * roughing up the suspect * feeding the geese * shaking the shark/Pringle can/shit/bottle/change/gadget/iPod

Consider yourself educated, America.  Doesn't it seem like ANYTHING can be a term for masturbation?  Now go on and Fill Your Friday or Greet Your Weekend or Call Your Mom.  It can be creepy, or a drinking game.  Your call.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Why The Children Are Locked in Their Rooms...Forever.

This is another sad tale from The Mothers Grimm, about how sweet little children are lured by an angry, evil witch with candy, only to realize they are going to die because of their own greediness and addiction to high fructose corn syrup.

Oh, wait.  Wrong story. 

This is the tale of a fun college party girl who was lured by a dangerous, seductive fraternity boy who would be sure to piss off her father, married him, bore his children in excruciating labors, and then found herself sitting by the fireplace in rags, sweeping up the cinders and talking to the mice.

Um, that's not the story I meant either, sorry Current Husband.  I meant a different fraternity boy.  Of course I didn't have other children.  Are you saying I look fat? 

This is actually the tale of how a sweet, caring mother with no spine was lured by her Nutri-Sweet diabolical daughters into switching their bedrooms over the past weekend, only to discover that both of the girls are hoarders and should have their own reality show called "Mini Hoarders:  Youth in Training".

It all started on a boring winter snow day, when another 48 inches of snow and ice fell upon our fair land and the children were confined to their houses with their mothers, who had other plans until the school called.  But I digress.  Oldest Daughter (OD) and Youngest Daughter (YD) seemed to be getting along well...TOO well...and then they approached me together, which meant they immediately outnumbered me.

THEM:  "Can we get you more coffee, or a Xanax, Mommy?"
ME:  (suspicious) "NO!  You stay away from my Xanax!  What do you want!"
THEM:  "We decided we would like to switch rooms."
ME:  "Why?"
THEM:  "Because YD needs the bigger room for her gazillion small creepy fake pets with the big eyes, and OD merely wants to piss you off."
ME:  "OD, didn't I just paint your room for the second time in three years?"
THEM:  (because they are speaking in creepy twin-speak, like the girls in The Shining) "Yes."
ME:  "Why did you have me do that if you meant to switch rooms within the year?"
THEM:  "To test your love."
ME:  "You understand that if I let you switch rooms, I refuse to paint or decorate either room in any way.  You inherit the decor.  Capiche?"
THEM:  "Of course, Mother."  And then they both turned in their matching pinafores and walked away.  I had a small glass of Red Rum in the laundry room behind the boiler.

And so it happened.

We had a four day weekend off from school, and so The Great Room Switch began.  We put on some yoga pants (I found a use for them!) and some fun music and I poured a very large, beige coffee, and we started moving.  I told jokes, we laughed, we danced, we had a great time.  And then when that 30 minutes was over, I started yelling at them.  It sounded a lot like this:

"WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU TWO GET ALL OF THIS STUFF!!?!?!"
"I AM TELLING EVERYONE NOT TO BUY YOU ANY MORE GIFTS!"
"WHY ARE THERE GUM WRAPPERS IN YOUR SOCK DRAWER!??"
"WE LIVE IN A HOUSE, NOT A DUMPSTER!  THIS IS CALLED A 'GARBAGE CAN' - FAMILIARIZE YOURSELF WITH IT!"
"WHY DID I AGREE TO THIS!? WHERE IS MY MERLOT!?"

The girls started avoiding me.  The Son realized he was not connected to the stress in any way, so he started asking if he could get me more coffee or cookies or knit a sweater for me, because he is a very clever boy and knows he has a birthday coming up.  In June.  But he's a planner.

OD put on her best Martyred PreTeen mask and began looking at me like a kicked puppy - one that plans to cut you when you turn your back.  She stalked up and down the stairs with her things, and stood in her room listening to music until I would appear in the doorway and then she would busy herself.

YD couldn't care less.  She was getting The Big Room!  Wheee!  And YD knows that Mommy gets angry, but isn't physically violent and it will blow over sometime around her next meal.  She sat upstairs and sang Hillary Duff in the karaoke machine OD bequeathed to her.  What YD didn't realize is that I took the opportunity of her absence to throw away all kinds of treasures:

• Easy Bake oven with the semi-melted and twisted cake retrieving stick.
• Huge pink plastic Barbie art center with all of the pictures colored in.
• Cheap rubber Tinkerbell fairy flower cap CH bought her at Disney on Ice two years ago.
• All McDonalds Happy Meal toys.
• Ripped Polly Pocket outfits.
• Barbie Island Princess puzzle with five pieces missing.
• The desk in OD's room, and with it, her soul.

Had YD realized even one of these items was being hauled to the garbage, she would've worked up her best Sweet Precious Last Baby face, asked sweetly to keep them, and then fought me to the death to keep them in the house.  So sing with Hillary, princess.  Sing it loud and sing it proud, because Mommy is cleaning house downstairs.  Mwah-ha-ha!!! 

However, it all came crashing down when we tried to throw out OD's desk.  It is Bulky Item pickup day on Tuesday, so this made it the perfect weekend to get this broken down white trash monstrosity out of our house.  It has two broken drawers and no knobs.  But when I asked CH to help me move it out of the room, YD began sobbing, "But I moved up here so I would HAVE THAT DESK!!!"

I said no.  It was going outside.  YD had other plans.

Soon, I heard her talking to CH upstairs.  "Daddy, I really love that desk, but I suppose we could get rid of it since Mommy said she would buy me a new one."  WHA?!?!  "We don't need to buy a new desk.  If you really want it, I'll fix it for you."  DOUBLE WHA?!?!  In the words of the King of Pop's sister, Ms. Jackson if you're nasty, What Have You Done For Me Lately, CH?  I can't get this guy to take out the garbage or shovel regularly, but he's going to repair a desk that's been broken for three months because Sweetness threw Mommy under the bus?  Yes.  That's exactly what happened.

So while Bob the Builder repaired the desk, I continued to carry loads up and down the stairs.  CH helped me dismantle the beds and carry them between floors and reassemble them.  (See, CH, I made it sound like you do stuff.  Mom and her two non-English speaking friends who read this blog know I am just kidding.)  And then OD started smiling and I knew there was something rotten in TeenWorld.

OD:  "Mom, this is great!  I just love it!"
ME:  (warily) "I'm glad you are...happy?"
OD:  "I think the dark purple and light purple accents I've picked will go great with the light green walls!"
ME:  "Back up the bus, sister.  What are you talking about?  Remember, we are not decorating these rooms!"
OD:  "Well I had to give my bedding to YD because it matched the room, but her bed is a twin and mine is a full, and her ballet princess comforter won't fit my bed.  And she had to take her rug and shades since they will go with her new room.  I e-mailed Grandma Jan and she is getting me a purple duvet for my bed for my birthday, and I figure I can use money or gift cards from the other grandmas for my birthday to get some other things."
ME:  "I've been out-maneuvered.  Well played, OD, well played.  I see a bright future for you in the legal field."

So YD is happy, as she gets all of the items she's coveted from her older sister.  OD is happy, because she gets a brand new redesigned room for the third time in three years.  Middle Son is happy because he didn't get yelled at, and assumes this means he is the favorite.  Who is unhappy?

Me.  Why?  Because CH and I realized the first night after the switch that OD, who will be 13 in two weeks, is now approximately twenty feet away from our bed, with only a thin wall and a door without a lock in between.  She stays up later than YD, and doesn't sleep as soundly.  Plus, she has already seen the "Growing Up and Liking It" films and had her middle school teachers dress up as ovaries and testes in class.  She KNOWS things.  Icky things.

After nineteen years together, CH and I are embarking on our first year of celibacy.  Or lots of nooners.  Or Nyquil for our teenager every few nights at bedtime.  I hope this story has a happy ending.



 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 5

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygeine mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Happy Endings
The Urban Dictionary definition of a Happy Ending is:
When a masseuse feels inclined to finish your session w/ oral sex or manual release (usually for an extra twenty dollars). "I was in China Town getting a rubdown and the girl gave me a happy ending; is that cheating on my wife?"

Again with the trip to Arizona. Bear with me, I'll get it all out of my system soon.

So four of the seven women decided to got to a spa (the other three chose to make margaritas and sit next to the house pool in sunny-and-88 weather) and let trained professionals rub lotion all over our mostly-naked bodies for money. I love massages, but I've found over time that there are things one should know before getting naked and crawling under the towel:

• Leave your underwear on. I'm just saying that because I don't want to be the person after you if you are all buck naked on the table, and who really knows if they wash those linens between massages.
• Don't eat spicy food, beans or eggs shortly before your massage, because I will guarantee you will end up gassy. And nothing ruins a massage faster than some misplaced flatulence. And if you are trying to hold it back, guess what? They are massaging the muscles you are clenching in desperation to hold back the methane. You're busted.
• Shave. Really, this isn't Europe. You either need to be freshly shaved or haven't shaved in three months, but don't be bringing your prickly stubble up in there.
• Don't be shy about specifying what level of pressure you want, because otherwise you may get Kevin Kick Your Ass or Lenny The Light Toucher. And you might be a Mikey Medium Massage, and leave disappointed.
• Don't start a conversation unless you want to spend your entire massage talking. If you need to talk, see a real therapist, not a massage therapist. But it's your dime.
• Know about a Happy Ending, in case you get asked. (I did not, thank God. More on that later.)

So the four of us are sitting in The Quiet Room, purportedly set up to get us in the mood for all of this bodily manipulation. We are brought water and neck warmers. The neck warmers are little C-shaped pillows full of eucalyptus or lavender, and are slightly hot. You wrap them around your neck, hence the name. Friend D was the last one to get into The Quiet Room because she was having a body wrap. When she arrived, the spa owner asked D if she wanted a neck warmer, and D, seeing that we all had them, said yes. The owner came back shortly and sheepishly handed her what looked to be a beanbag kittycat, and it was not fresh out of the wrapper.

OB: "Is that...a CAT?" (laughter)
Friend A: "It looks like it belongs to a baby - did it come out of someone's car?" (more laughter)
ME: "Or did she just imply that you are a pussy?" (gales of laughter, because I am the writer of this story, so I get the biggest laughs)
Friend D: "Um, guys? It smells like bacon."


Baconcat poses two problems. First, we are not relaxing, we are laughing so hard some of us could be slightly wetting ourselves, and therefore maybe their Quiet Room furniture. Second, D is a vegetarian, so the smell of Baconcat is not bringing her to her Happy Place so much as her Vomit Place. However, she cannot remove Baconcat because D is so polite that she wouldn't want to upset the owner by banishing Baconcat to the floor. So she endures the smell of old meat around her neck. In the form of a pussy. With an OB-GYN in the room. It's sort of metaphorically funny and upsetting at the same time.

The door to The Not-So-Quiet Room opens, and there stand the men giving the Swedish Massage to Friend A and me. One man is well muscled, dark, and mysterious. He says, "Who likes it rough?" with a swashbuckling, winking demeanor and a Russian accent. Friend A shoots out of her seat, throwing her neck warmer on the floor. "ME!" and she trots off down the hall. The other man negotiates his way around the corner in his walker and adult diaper and says, "Why am I here? Cindy?" Clearly this man was mine.

(Okay, so he wasn't really using a walker or wearing an adult diaper, and he actually seemed like a very nice guy. And he gave a great massage. But is that funny? No. And I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)

So my guy takes me to the room, and the massage commences. One problem I have during massages, other than the fear of having gas, is where to put my arms. If I am laying on my stomach, it feels like they should go off of the table and lay on some little armrest, but these things do not exist. I ended up resting my arms on the headrest, sort of up over my head. So we are about halfway into the massage, and Grandpa Jim walks behind my head and starts massaging my shoulders, but the problem is that it makes him lean over me a bit. Since my arms are over my head, my hands seem to be inadvertently rubbing him in the crotchal region. As I contemplate what to do, my eyes snap open, and I am looking directly at his black stockinged feet, which is a little weird. He doesn't wear shoes? And then I realize I am more concerned about the fact that he is shoeless, rather than the very real possibility that I am rubbing his nether parts. I move my arms by my sides, and Father Christmas and I have no more problems.

However, when Friend A comes out of her massage, she is full of information. We go to a gelato place next door to (figuratively) debrief her.

We learn that the Russian has massaged Roger Moore, as in Bond, James Bond. We also find out he is a go-to guy for a number of porn stars and the gay community. My friend breaks the no-talk rule and asks the Russian if he's ever given a Happy Ending. He says that he did have a client once who mid-massage grabbed his hand and put it on the genital region, but the Russian said he politely but firmly pulled his hand away, and said "This massage is over." He said he couldn't be rude, because when he sees the client's face, all he sees is a $100 bill, so he has to be discreet. But that's as close to a Happy Ending as he was willing to admit. But they're out there.

On a random side note that will only fit under the umbrella of Whoreticulture Friday, I have to say that somehow over the weekend the phrase "strap-on penis" came up (No pun intended! And after 25 years of conversation, your topics tend to expand by Day 3 together) and one gal said she wants to wear one. Not sexually, mind you. She just wants to wear a penis around all day and see if it makes her act like an ass. And kick her dog. It's something to consider.

And thus concludes stories about the Arizona trip, because the rest of what we talked about is secret and private. (See girls, I kept most of it in the vault!) Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!