And what better way to get things sexified than with a portrait of my sexiest body part.
Wow. Can you believe how damn good my ear looks?
In all seriousness, I'd like to share a sexy, sexy story with you. And it all starts with a snap from Monday morning.
Now, Mondays are traditionally my least favorite day of the week. It's the start of the work week--ick--and that means you have five long days before you get to enjoy the solace and complacency and beauty of the weekend. It's also the day before we get to watch RuPaul's Drag Race which causes an insurmountable amount of lag between Monday and Tuesday. Basically: it's an incredibly painful day that just begs to be dismissed.
And, yes, it's true that yesterday crawled by slower than a half-speed high school production of The Ten Commandments, but it started off with a bang (AND THAT'S A VERY FUNNY JOKE THAT YOU'LL GET VERY SOON).
I was just getting my day started downtown. Daily, I park in the lot across from the Lumber Exchange Building, the massive brick structure that houses my office. It's a shady little sixty car open-air facility that is "monitored" by the police and is comfortably nestled between an adult entertainment facility--a porn dungeon--and the Gay 90s. So, really, I guess all my days start with a healthy dose of sexiness. Huh.
Anyway, I parked in space 34. It's one of those pre-pay places. You take note of your space, hustle to the machine, and punch in a few numbers to indicate where and for how long you'll be parking. I took note of the the large block numbers and scurried over to pay station. Of course, a line three people deep--each of them bundled for the cold within an in inch of their life--had formed. Just my luck. How obnoxious.
Of course there's always that guy or girl in front of you that, for the life of them, cannot figure out how to properly insert their card into the slot. Listen, sir. I see you park here every day. If you can't figure out how to insert your card by now, even with the blatantly clear diagram right above the slit reading "insert here," you probably have bigger issues than worrying about a $22 parking ticket.
Eventually, the line fades and it's finally my turn to pay for parking. By now, I've memorized the numbers I need to punch in, so tapping the keypad is sort of an automated habit. As I zoned out, my fingers mindlessly going through the motions, I noticed a peculiar object on the ground.
A condom wrapper.
Now, I'm no prude. So my objections to the condom wrapper in the dirty, cigarette-lined snow were purely formed from confusion and concern.
1. It's Minnesota. It's winter. What the hell are you doing having sex outside? Weren't you at all worried that your genitals would freeze up, fall off, and turn into the most disturbing and anatomically correct popsicles you've ever seen? I've heard of penis pops--a bachelorette party party favor, I think--but a frozen and displaced penis next to an ancient parking meter? Seems like a recipe for disaster or the next Coen Brothers movie. Either way, I'm not interested.
2. In a parking lot? Right, because nothing says sexy like, "Do you have enough quarters for half an hour?" What could possibly turn one on about a bunch of filthy, salty, snow-covered automobiles? Unless you're into muffler play--and, fine, that's insane, but whatever--there's nothing sexy about a parking lot.
3. You couldn't be bothered to take care of the wrapper? Did it just come out of nowhere? Were you in such a rush in the sleaziest parking lot in Minneapolis that you couldn't throw the wrapper in a pocket or in the trash that is literally four steps from where you tossed the evidence? Who are screwing from the Brass Rail or the Gay 90s that is that desperate for some tail? (Okay, sorry, that last point is totally moot. You'd be harder pressed to find someone who wasn't that desperate.)
Well, whoever it was, I hope it was worth it.
And, I guess, at the very least:
.PNG) |
| Can you say "chilly willy?" |
It was safe!
No comments:
Post a Comment