When love’s an inky business
As you might imagine, being suddenly in print — bedroom photo and all — has started to make life interesting. Whether or not and what to share with parents, for instance, has prompted great debate. At first I thought I could simply run off color copies of my photo and leave it at that. But as a recent conversation with Coffee Pal makes clear ...
[Reading aloud] “...one of a number of intensely intelligent women making the case for celibacy.” At this point I could happily share the caption with my folks and grandparentals, right? Nice little flattery for them, the progenitors ... Oh but wait.
[Still reading] “Oh, it says here you have ‘an unusually high—’” Slug. I punched him in the arm and whirled in search of a water refill before being subjected to the embarrassment of hearing him read that damn caption aloud.
Unusually high sex drive. Never, my friends, never confide in a reporter. And should you intend to make remarks about how, based on former Sexless BOTtoM author Steven Rhoads’ research you probably have high testoterone — a condition that results in strong spacial awareness, analytical acuity, strong sex drive, etc. — be prepared for captions like these.
Oh, but my favorite part of the article almost no relatives will ever, ever read is that we were dubbed a “virgin army.” We may be an army of four, but we’re an army, damnit. Abstinence is just so militant, you know? All those chastity belts and masturbands ... why, it’s a wonder they even let us onto airplanes! I might turn you on, and then swallow the key to my belt!
Dangerously disciplined people, we are. I mean, look at the Shakers! They made all that furniture! You never know what a virgin army is capable of ... Although, with our path’s appeal, we surely make the U.S. military’s recruitment problems look like a labor surplus.
And, really, where exactly is our “battlefield”?!! Bars, perhaps, and apparently the street (at least for guys). I imagine portions of Times Sq. are major high-security zones. But it’s not like we go around making citizen’s arrests for arousing our lust with that too-tight lycra or cleavage-baring tanks. We don’t even eat crap rations! I, for one, bake a pretty good loaf of bread.
So, frankly, I am very confused about where this “army” business came from. Readers? Any thoughts on this? Any extensions to the metaphor that might enlighten me?
[Reading aloud] “...one of a number of intensely intelligent women making the case for celibacy.” At this point I could happily share the caption with my folks and grandparentals, right? Nice little flattery for them, the progenitors ... Oh but wait.
[Still reading] “Oh, it says here you have ‘an unusually high—’” Slug. I punched him in the arm and whirled in search of a water refill before being subjected to the embarrassment of hearing him read that damn caption aloud.
Unusually high sex drive. Never, my friends, never confide in a reporter. And should you intend to make remarks about how, based on former Sexless BOTtoM author Steven Rhoads’ research you probably have high testoterone — a condition that results in strong spacial awareness, analytical acuity, strong sex drive, etc. — be prepared for captions like these.
Oh, but my favorite part of the article almost no relatives will ever, ever read is that we were dubbed a “virgin army.” We may be an army of four, but we’re an army, damnit. Abstinence is just so militant, you know? All those chastity belts and masturbands ... why, it’s a wonder they even let us onto airplanes! I might turn you on, and then swallow the key to my belt!
Dangerously disciplined people, we are. I mean, look at the Shakers! They made all that furniture! You never know what a virgin army is capable of ... Although, with our path’s appeal, we surely make the U.S. military’s recruitment problems look like a labor surplus.
And, really, where exactly is our “battlefield”?!! Bars, perhaps, and apparently the street (at least for guys). I imagine portions of Times Sq. are major high-security zones. But it’s not like we go around making citizen’s arrests for arousing our lust with that too-tight lycra or cleavage-baring tanks. We don’t even eat crap rations! I, for one, bake a pretty good loaf of bread.
So, frankly, I am very confused about where this “army” business came from. Readers? Any thoughts on this? Any extensions to the metaphor that might enlighten me?
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