Tag Archives: sex

New Gynecologist – One Way to Start Your Day.

When you move, you need lots of new things.

New house keys.
New way to get to work.
New utility company.
New curtains.
New stuff in general.

You also get the bonus, if moving far enough away from your current location,
a new cha-cha doctor.

I’m not talking about a dance instructor either.

First of all, the one thing I can’t get over in my mind, is
WHY?
WHY?
W H Y?
Would a man want to be a gynecologist?

It’s not like the female nether-region is a beautiful thing to look at.

Who wants to look at those?

All.
Day.
Long?

After his 50th one, would he not be bored?

No doubt, the next time his lover wants to strip down and have a passionate love making session……he is going to have one of several thoughts:

Eh, I’ve seen better.
Ugh, I don’t want to see another one.
Wow, if they were all as lovely as yours.

I don’t get it.
Which is why I always go with the female gyno.

Besides, she gets the whole concept of having a coochie.

Thank you.

So today I started my day with a visit to my new obgyn.
Excellent. Can’t wait.

First off, I tried to find someone close to my office.
Check. Under 6 miles away, however in Boston that could still be 30 minutes of travel time.

Second, had to be female.
Check.

Third, had to have a good reputation.
Check.

Fourth, I had to be able to pronounce their name.
Check.

There is nothing worse than someone saying, “What’s the name of your doctor?” And the only thing you can say is, “Well, it starts with a SK….”

I turn on my WAZE app – and The Terminator – directs me to the front door of the new doctor’s office. He avoids traffic congestion so I traveled this morning through some neighborhoods that were overflowing with mansions. Tiny, winding, two lanes, through the woods kind of area….and enormous….gargantuan homes. Big enough to hold a medium sized fortress of warriors if necessary. Beautiful.

The downside to this morning’s drive is that I had NO IDEA where I was going and I’m sure the people behind me were very much screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I’m literally dazed and confused.

Sorry folks, keep calm, I’ll make up my mind in a moment. Okay, it may be two moments. Stand by….I’m waiting on The Terminator.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I arrive at the office.
I’m always late, so this fifteen minutes is obviously a mistake.
OR
I didn’t actually get lost on the way over!

Up to the office I go and check in.
They give me the standard clip board to respond to the various questions.

Do you smoke?
Do you take drugs?
Do you drink?
Do you wear a helmet?
Do you have any allergies?
Do you wear a seatbelt?
Do you drag race?

Yes, seriously, it asked if I wore a helmet.

When they asked me in person, I said, “well, not in daily life.”

Then into the health questionnaire I go….hang on to your hats.
There must have been 100 possible health issues.
At the top it said the usual: check mark if you have / had any of the following:

Acid Reflux
Acne
Aging
Aggravation
Arthritis
Anemia
Angina
Anxiety
Ass issues
Asthma
Athlete’s Foot
Avian Flu
.
.
.
.
.
.
Back Pain
Beetlejuice Complex
Binge Eating
Bird Flu
Blisters
Bloating
Bone Spurs
Bound feet
Bruising
Belly Dancing Fetish
Bulimia
.
.
.
.
.
Heart palipatations
Heart failure
Heart murmer
Heart weakness
Heart attack
Heart value complications
Heart disease
Heart worms
Broken heart
Hemorrhoids
Hearing loss
Hot single last-nerve complex

You get the picture. It was all you would think they’d ask and then everything else.

I didn’t even have a chance to complete my paperwork before they called my name. It was the helmet question that hung me up. I should have taken a photo.

Into the little room I go to verbally answer the questions that were on the paper. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.

What I’ve discovered is that I should have check marked, memory failure.

In the interview I was expected to remember things that happened 30 years ago. Seriously. Who remembers when they got their first period? What? No clue. When did I first have sex? What age did I learn to drive? What? When was my first obgyn exam? How old was I when I discovered the truth about Santa? I make them up and advise them of such by adding an “-ish” on the end.

How old was your father when he died?
No clue. Sad. But true.

My answer tactic, is……I turn my head to the left, look out of the corner of my eye to the right, squint and say, “65-ish.”

How old is your mother? I turn my head to the left, look out of the corner of my eye to the right, squint and say, “65-ish.” This, I know is a lie…

Because of the next question….

What age did your grandmother die? I know this one, cause my mother says it all the time, “You know Grandmom died at 65, I shouldn’t live this long.” She is obviously older than 65 – The Mother.

You see a pattern here? I also say out loud that I really need to put this stuff down on a piece of paper. I just don’t remember these things. I only have so much space in this walnut of grey matter. I can barely remember my own phone number let alone how old people are….and when I got my first period.

This concluded our historical overview of my life. I was then advised to get undressed and the doctor “will be in really quickly.”

Seriously?

What doctor ever arrives quickly?

Quickly according to whose watch?

Do you mean quick in patient time?

Quick in a doctor’s time who may or may not always be running late, so today they’re closer to on time?

Doesn’t matter…I do the one thing I can do:
I stripped faster than a dancer at a tits & ass club.

Then I sat.
And waited.

Then I realized I had to pee.

In Alaska, they take a pee sample. So I’ve been waiting to go. There was no mention of peeing in a cup.

I open the door and stick my head out into the hall.

Fear not, I have my gown, which opens in the front – wrapped tightly around my body.

I see a young doctor – MALE – down the hallway.

I don’t see my nurse.

So I wait inside the door. Not two minutes later she comes bounding in – scared the both of us. Apparently the young MALE doctor alerted. Good doctor! Good boy!

I explained the previous doctor always took a sample “What for?” was the response. Well, to test whatever it was they wanted to test.

Then she advised me the gown should go with the opening to the back.

REALLY? This is great news!

Down the hall I go, pee in a cup and turn my gown around.

I return to my little room and not two minutes later in walks my new doctor.

The first thing she tells me, while staring me straight in the eyes is she is an instructor at her hospital and she has a doctor in training.

A
MALE
DOCTOR.

Would I mind if he came in for the appointment?

She then said some more things but I couldn’t get past: MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.

I had flash backs to all those hospital shows where the esteemed doctor brings in the interns to see how it works. What?

A MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.

The interns gather around the bed. Ask crazy questions. Prolong the experience.

A MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING.

Do I want not only another doctor looking at my YaZoo but a MALE DOCTOR IN TRAINING?

He’s learning. Not leering.

Meh. Blech. Seriously, is it rude to say no?

I finally snap back into reality and advise her, it’s fine but when it’s exam time – he needs to go.
OUTSIDE.

She waves Dr. Jordan into the room.

Oh My God. It’s the same doctor person I saw in the hallway 5 minutes ago.

He is so young. I don’t even think he shaves yet.

I immediately reach back to make sure my butt is covered in the gown.
Check.

He introduces himself and I shake his hand.

His hand could compete with a freshmen boy at a dance for the sweat factor.

He was more nervous than a short person in a room of giants.

More nervous than the chicken trying to get across the damn road.

Okay, I’m the naked one here.
Are you certain you want to work in this profession?
There’s nothing to be nervous about – seriously.

I mean, if I fall off this table and you see everything cause my gown will have exposed my entire being – then hell yes….we have an embarrassment factor. Overload in fact. But, no need to worry about it, cause I’m not going to fall off the table.

The doctor and I reviewed how I got here, why I moved, my health, the goal for the day etc. I spoke to both of them. They couldn’t believe my age. When I said, I was very dull, she insisted I was quite entertaining. Alright then. Then I literally thought, “oh if you only knew how entertaining….I have a blog.”

Eventually the young and impressionable and awkwardly placed Dr. Jordan was asked to leave the room.

Breast exam. Check.
Feet up. Check.
Poke. Poke. Poke. Check. Check. Check.

Done.

Really?

Okay. Really?
We’re done?

I didn’t have to sit and wait in the lobby.
No peeing in the cup on demand.
I wear the gown with the opening in the back.
I get nervous learning doctor with sweaty hands.
The exam is focused and no nonsense.
I’m in and out in an hour.

Really? We’re finished. Is this good or bad? No idea, but I’m delighted I don’t feel like someone should have bought me dinner after the whole thing.

Eureka.

Now I need to make a note to remind The Mother to send me a note with everyone’s death dates, causes of death and when they discovered the truth about the Toothy Fairy. Someone has to know these things – either than or its off to Ancestry.com.

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Hard Bodies Apply. Yes, You!

When I lived in Juneau, Alaska…… strip clubs, porn shops and Hooters restaurants were not readily available.

Occasionally one of the local bars would host a “topless poker tournament” and of course a friend and I couldn’t help ourselves. We went.

The same bar flew in “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Again, we couldn’t help ourselves and we went.

Twice.

These same “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Also came to town as the ring girls for the sponsored UFC style fights. I, of course, went to those (and sat right next to one of the judges…ringside.)

Needless to say, these woman were a disappointment. I think the topless dealers were mothers of ten, who breast-fed until the kids were able to form full sentences.

Their nipples were dragging on the felt.

Who enjoys that?

The “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” While cute – in their early 20’s….were not anything you would expect to see in say….a strip club.

They had paunchy beer guts.

They had cellulite.

THEY WERE IN THEIR 20’s!

Girls in their 20’s are supposed to be trim and tight. Then again, this is Alaska. There is a reason, besides the cold, we are covered up in wool and rubber clothing 11 months out of the year.

Some time in between these adventures in Juneau we had a tourism convention in Anchorage. Leave it to me to pour everyone into a cab late one night and head over to the strip club in Anchorage: The Bush Company.

Yes.

Yes, I did.

It was a lot of fun.

The women – were “better.”

Not Vegas standards.

Not even midwestern standards.

Definitely better than topless poker tournament dealer in Juneau, Alaska standards.

We bought a couple of lap dances for various members of our party – those people know who they are….ahem. Of course, we picked out the best looking dancers in the lineup. I was not one who received a lap dance – thank you.  I don’t need that drama.  But appreciate the gesture.

Now I am living in Miami where very little is left to the imagination.

VERY.

LITTLE.

Here is my latest issue. Which was discussed at length today with my “kinder and gentler Mister.”

As we were driving along….there pops up a Hooters. Now, one of our missions on this earth is to find the best chicken wings. Granted, at home we are vegetarian / vegans. Out of the house we will go for fish or chicken wings, a pizza now and then. On a really bad day I will call home and tell him, “I need a cheeseburger…..meet me at …..”

THAT is my weapon of choice.

CHEEZZZZEEEE burger.

Just dip me in the blue cheese, and let me lick myself clean really. CHEEEZZZZZZEEEE burgers are my weakness.

Last meal on earth?

CHEEEZZZZZZZZEEEEEEE burger.

At any rate. We go past the Hooters, which I have been to numerous times before throughout my life span.

What is the deal though? Why is it…you get a Hooters with the woman in the shorts and tank tops.   Really?  I’d like a well-built man to serve me some time. He doesn’t even have to serve me a meal – just bring me drinks.

The Mister says, “Yeah it’s called Chippendales.”

No.  It’s not.  What I want doesn’t exist.  I don’t want the dancing and the grinding….that’s extra nonsense that detracts from the beauty of the body.

It’s embarrassing for him and for me. I don’t need that agony. Thank you. Or else he’s gay.  Or he has a girlfriend who is stalking him outside and the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket in 17.4 seconds.

NO thanks.

Women have beautiful bodies. Soft curves. 

Men have hard bodies by nature. They are strong and protective creatures. I don’t want to see a man who pumps enough iron that he can pull a tractor-trailer – that to me isn’t attractive. You know the “Arnolds” of the world.  I don’t want to see the veins popping out of their necks.

That isn’t hot, sexy or anything in between.

I want a well-defined, nicely built man with a charming personality to serve me a drink.

Shirtless.

With abs.

And those nicely cut muscles along his hips……those ones…… you know the ones I’m talking about ladies.  Those muscles …..as a man would say, “hips I can grab on to” muscles.

M E O W.

Men have a plethora of bars, strip clubs, peep shows, restaurants …..all hosted by exotic women. Barely clad in anything resembling a uniform. Let’s not even get started on the magazines.

MEN!

You know exactly, what I’m talking about here.  You go into the club.  The ladies greet you.  A gorgeous woman give you whatever you ask for.  She smiles and asks how has your day been?  Hair is being flipped.  Eyes are wide.  Lips are licked.  Oh my.  Totally interested in you.  Cleavage is exploded, oh so sweetly.  Innocently.  A touch on the forearm or thigh.   Yes, whatever you want.  How was your day – oh that sucks….so tough.  A laugh and giggle.  Another big smile.  Can I get you a drink?

Jameson – check.

Double vodka – check.

Budweiser – check.

Chicken wings – check.

Completely and totally into you.  Whatever you say and ask for can be yours.

I WANT THIS!

Yet in reality…

What do women get?  Jack shit.

Certainly not the same level of peep shows, bars, strip clubs, restaurants or other establishments…hosted by nearly naked men. I am sure they are out there, but not nearly to the same degree. It’s no wonder women are going after the pool boys!

Why is that do you think? Men are visual animals no doubt.

The Mister says this is because, “Men aren’t going to feel comfortable going into a woman’s version of a Hooters.”  Yeah well you  know what men?  You need to buck up and grow some thick skin and get into the game.  Woman have had to fluff and puff, pull and tuck, nip and inject themselves to mold themselves into what you find sexy and gorgeous.

Grow a big hairy pair and get some fucking confidence in yourself and get out there.

You know who has confidence in themselves?

Europeans.  One word:  Speedos.

If you need the name of a great waxer, let me know.

Or, could it be that woman simply don’t have time for the lusty skin bullshit?  We simply have more important things to do? Would we rather spend our time elsewhere? We never gave that type of establishment the type of recognition it needed?

Or are we voyeurs behind masks of annonineminty? What the hell?! Imagine, if you will. …. If we were cut loose in a sex club. I’m just saying.  Chaos and mayhem.  Would you be the one hiding behind the curtain or jumping into the swing?

Look at all the bacholorette parties every year and the must have requirement: the for-hire male stripers. THAT says something. Open an old fashioned phone book and look up “escort” try and search for MALE. You’ll have to wade through 25 pages of female before you can find anyone sending out the boys.

You can pick out men with hookers more easily in a bar than a cougar with a pup.  WOW!

Honestly.

Whatever the reason, ladies, we need to be enjoying the view. Pure and simple.

Every day, I pass by giant billboards for mens entertainment clubs: Tootsies. Scarletts.

I pass by sex shops. There’s one the name just make me laugh every damn time, “The Sexy Box.”  Yeah, well, the only time it was busy was right before Valentine’s Day. The other I’ve seen billboards and have driven past is “Hustler.” You’ll be glad to know….they also sell….”couples” gifts. Well, thanks.

I’ve been in sex shops. The one thing I regret is I didn’t buy the penis straws when I saw them. Seriously. Saw them in Juneau – didn’t buy them. Now I wish I did. Damn.

HA!!

Ladies, The boys are going to “the bar” to watch the game. To meet the boys. To discuss a business deal. Yatta yatta yatta. Whatever, that’s fine. It’s their inner caveman coming out. Let them go and oogle. Fine.

Well you know what?

We may only get the pleasure of the ridiculously bad PlayGirl magazine. The yearly calendars with firefighters or the Chippendales. But….there is a great photographer out there….check him out.

Michael Stokes…..find him on Facebook  and his book on Amazon.com:  http://www.amazon.com/Masculinity-Michael-Stokes/dp/386787428X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347800523&sr=8-1&keywords=michael+stokes Amazon  Amazing.  It’s time to stand up and say

Yes, please, I’ll have a martini…make it a double.

1957665_667444109981115_1651410991_o      1599914_662549387137254_2100850160_o  1147096_651967231528803_850012628_o

Did I Already Tell You About…..

Years ago…. like almost 8 years ago….I got divorced and bought a cute little condo out in Auke Bay, Alaska.  It was a tiny little place.  So small you had to go outside if you wanted to change your mind.

It was all mine.

All 600 square feet.

I could sit out on the deck and watch my favorite birds – Blue Herons – fish in the wetlands.  When bored, just throw some herring up in the sky and watch the Bald Eagles come swooping in to pick up their snacks.  Talk about excitingly scary!  It was awesome.

When I moved in on a Saturday morning a bunch of people came to help me carry in the boxes.  My new upstairs neighbor happened to arrive during our moving chaos.  I yelled out a hello to her and introduced myself.  We’ll call her Mary.  Right about this time one of my oh so funny friends decided it would be hilarious to loudly inquire where to put my box of sex toys.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

MY —

WHAT?

We all got a good laugh out of it.  Mary didn’t know what to say and immediately went inside her condo.

Let me give you a visual of Mary.  About 5’3 and probably about 150 pounds.  Thick calves.  Outfit of choice?  Skirts and colored tights.  Shoulder length corse black hair – wavy.  Coats two sizes too small.  Probably mid-late 20’s somewhere in there.  Works half the year for the government and half the year at a bank. Sure.

Got it?

Good.  You’ll need it later.

Along with the sex toys.

Six months went by or more.  One day I look out the window and I see Mary coming up to the building wearing exercise tights.  She had obviously gone running.  Huh.  Okay.  Well, I’m not a runner so good luck with that one.

A few days later I notice Mary with a guy.  We’ll call him Josh.  Now you need a visual of Josh.

Think Hobbit.

That should do it.

Okay, you need more visual assistance?  He is about 5’3 also.  Wears baggy sweat pants and t-shirts.  Constantly has that Don Johnson 5:00PM shadow going on.  His laugh is atrocious.  Down right ridiculous.  Like a hyena.  This guy thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips….sadly he isn’t even the stale pickle (without snap) on the plate.

Not to mention he walked around like a Neanderthal.   I mean really Hobbit Man can you do something about those lead bricks you call your feet?  Even elephants don’t make that much noise.

The guy made me weary and I never actually met him.

Over the next few weeks the Hobbit comes and goes from her condo.  He’s obviously visiting from somewhere else and isn’t local.  He’s always over visiting on the weekends. I’m thinking maybe he’s a fish processor or miner.  Maybe he works on a barge or something.  Who the hell knows?  I don’t care.

Suddenly one day the Hobbit shows up and he has a beat up Toyota truck.  Rusty and a total POS (please read as Piece of Shit).  He’s here for a week and gone for a week.  Here for a week and gone for a week.

One night I hear him on the phone – cause he’s stupid loud.  Now, he’s just pissing me off. Going on and on about starting up some business.  Later, out at the dumpster I see boxes and cartons from some manufacturing company for “Buzz Bites” energy bites.

Hobbit + POS + Buzz Bites = you have to be kidding me.

Please note:  You are going to need to reflect back on both of their visuals, the idea of Buzz Bites and yes, the sex toys.

Finally, one day I go upstairs and knock on their door.  The music was so loud, even the people in my head were vibrating around.  The Hobbit answered the door as Mary wasn’t home.  I politely ask him to turn down the vibes before my chandelier becomes a nightlight.  I also explained how the noise travels very easily and if he / they could be a little more considerate that would be fantastic.

Oh, yeah, sure.  Not a problem.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry.

Weeks go by and I’m sound asleep in my snuggly little bear bed one morning.  Slowly I drift out of my sound slumber and I’m like, “what the hell is that noise?”  I am half asleep and it starts again.

What the hell?

*More noise*

Now I am sitting up in bed.  The noise stops.

Huh.

I lay back down.

*Noise starts again.*

Wait.  One.  Minute.  You.  Pain.  In.  My .  Ass.  Neighbors.

I am fully awake.  The Hobbit and his thick calved girlfriend are screwing.  After a yodeling like crescendo….the Hobbit yells a Tarzan like yelp:

“OUTSTANDING!”

Then….Hobbit leaps off the bed (I know this because the change in my piggy bank rattled on the floor and I’m pretty damn sure T-Rex is extinict) and takes off running for the bathroom with her right behind him.

Good lord of mercy give me a break.   You have to be kidding.

On my way to work, I go upstairs and tape a note to their front door.  I left no doubt in mind what I was talking about as I simply wrote, “Good morning!  Just so you know I do hear EVERYTHING downstairs.”

Being kind and polite can go a long way.  Emily Post and Sarah Lee both think so as does Dear Abby.  I am certain this will solve the problem.  Don’t we all want to be good neighbors?

A couple days go by and guess what….I am sound asleep….in my snuggly bed…..again.

T   H   U   M   P

*

*

Thump.

Thump.

*

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

 

“I’M THE MAN!” 

 

Oh my god.  News Flash: No, you aren’t.

I am so not even kidding – I nearly fell right out of my bed with laughter and disbelief.  Yes, he yelled that.  Out loud!    Did  I fall down an acid lined rabbit hole when I wasn’t looking and I’m on a trip?  What the hell….can I rewind that?  What did you just yell?  Really?

Am I on Fear Factor?  No, wait it’s Candid Camera.  Oh – wait…I got it!  I’m on America’s Got Talent……. Snap.

I’M

THE

MAN

!!!

 

Who says these things?  Buzz Bites…..heavy calves….baggy sweatpants….

Really?

That’s it.  I’m ready for the next event.  I have my game plan.  You ignored my note.  I tried to be nice.  Now, I’m putting on the latex and grabbing my whip.  I’m so excited I feel like I should be the one yelling out.  Let the games begin.

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock.

It didn’t take long.  That night I climb into bed and before I can get into my dream sequence involving the ocean and floating along with the currents….BAM.

Hit the rewind button from earlier….

T   H   U   M   P

*

*

Thump.

Thump.

*

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Cue the yodeling.

Cue the Alaskan Minxy:  FINALLY – MY MOMENT HAS ARRIVED!

I leap up out from under the covers.  Standing in the middle of my bed…..jumping up and down like a two year old….I begin a rousing round of applause while yelling at the very top of my lungs:

“BRAVO!  BRAVO!  GOOD JOB!  BRAVO!  BRAVO!  EXCELLENT JOB!  BRAVO!”

Silence.  Cue the crickets.  Silence…………………………………………………

Then a burst of laughter for like two seconds – then silence.

Problem solved.  Never another peep.  Every time I ran into Mary from there on out – she never made eye contact.  Well, what’s awkward for you, is not awkward for me.  Thank you very much.

Lesson:  don’t mess with the Minxy.

Answer:  What?  No, I’m not telling you if I actually have a box of sex toys.

 

So There We Are in the Airport

Juneau International Airport is as big as a semi-truck. You turn around too fast and you’ll goose the person next to you. Trust me – we have one carousel, you aren’t going to get lost in our airport.

If you do get lost, you probably shouldn’t be driving or using sharp utensils. For that matter, put the pen down and back away from the escalator before you hurt someone.

So there we are in the airport. Myself and two co-workers. We’re supposed to pick up 12 guests who are joining a yacht in town. This is the part of the operation when my hands start to get sweaty.

Why?

I’m terrible with names.
Truth be told there are times when I can’t remember my coworkers’ names.
Yeah, well the problem is we’ve worked together for five years some of them!

So matching people up to their luggage….makes me sweat.
I would rather stand up in front of 300 people and discuss the slow process of making a cat hair ball than deal with 12 people’s luggage.

A couple, Mr. and Mrs. Brown will have upwards of five pieces of luggage between the two of them. FIVE. One piece carries the kitchen sink and the other the housekeeper. Honestly, what are these people thinking? I’m worried the housekeeper isn’t going to make it to the yacht so I’m double checking and triple checking everything. Heaven help us if the sink doesn’t make it, I don’t know what they’re going to do without fresh water.

Seriously.

So there we are in the airport. Of course standing tallest to shortest. Me being the shortest and our operations manager the tallest. Bless the dispatcher who is between us. I don’t know him very well yet when he turns to me and says, “Do you think they should get a room?”

What?

“Do you think they should get a room?” Dispatcher guy then makes eyes towards the luggage carousel.

What?

OH.

Wow.

I’ve been engrossed in my preoccupation that we’re going to loose the housekeeper, sink and probably an entire set of encyclopedia Britannica in this luggage – I didn’t even see the two who are nearly horizontal on the conveyor belt.

Then of course, once someone points that out all you can do is stare. And yes, I made eye contact with both the male and female belt performers. Either we were in the middle of a Benny Hill skit, or we were about to be Punk’d. I’m not sure I’d enjoy either but can I ask, “what the hell is she wearing?” I’ve got it! This is an episode of “What Not to Wear!”

Let me paint a picture:

30 feet in front of you she stands:

She has knee high black boots – flats, no heel.

Brown, holey stockings. Not holy, holey. Some kind of pattern. Not random holes.
But full of holes none the less, which from a distance make the hose look like they’ve taken a beating and has runners everywhere. That’s hot.

Jean shorts. Short. Jean shorts.

Baggy gray sweatshirt. We’re talking a step back into the 80’s with a Flashdance moment. I’m waiting for her to rip off her boots and have dancer tape on her feet and water to come dumping down from the ceiling.

The crowning accessory: A crochet white scarf thing, that hung around her shoulders that appeared to be something she stole from the back of her grandmother’s couch.

I look at our operations manager and inform him, it’s obvious she’s a transplant….Alaska girls would be wearing knee high X-Tra Tuff boots. Where’s my number rating cards when I need them?

5.3 for Alaska appropriate
8.9 for originality
10.0 for tongue performance

As the three of us continue to ponder the situation. Hands are groping – on the conveyor belt couple – not us! They’re snuggling, kissing, hugging, patting, rubbing and generally gyrating on the spot.

Finally I figured it out. On line dating.

I think they’re meeting for the first time.

I announce out loud, “If I have to see any more tongue, I think my retinas are gonna have a hole burned in them.”

Right about this time my first passenger arrived with their four pieces of luggage. You can imagine my disappointment when 15 minutes later I look up only to see the performers have left the building. I wanted to see what kind of luggage she had. My guess was something the size of a change purse…as the only sightseeing they’ll be doing is down their throats and beyond.

Take it outside please! Or charge admission.