Maybe I’ve lived on the island too long, but when someone tells me there’s a special week set aside for getting drunk, eating too much, losing your inhibitions and exposing your nude body to the world, my first question is, “Just one week?”

Mardi Gras is upon us, and I’m afraid I may be too late. Thousands of women around the world are already in the thick of it, popping their puppies out of their shirts for a handful of cheap plastic beads, and thank God for those women. But far too many of them are inexperienced beginners at the fine art of public flashing. Hard working New Orleans police spend their mornings searching Bourbon Street and collecting the injured from the field, transporting them to the Breast Trauma Center at River Oaks. These poor girls are strained, tit-whipped, and destined for long months of intense physical therapy and cocoa butter massages.

Even though there are only a few nights left, I’d like to offer some tips on proper public personal expression.

Practice.

Sure, it looks easy. Flip it up, flip it down, catch the beads. But like any physical activity it requires practice and preliminary stretches. Stand in front of your mirror, lift your head and look up, and grab the bottom of your shirt. Then lift your shirt up over your breasts and hold it beneath your chin so your torso and face are both visible. Hold it for a count of three, then lower your shirt in one smooth motion and giggle uncontrollably. Repeat. Keep this up until your arms are burning and your neck is sore. Ha! Not so easy now, is it? Check the time – did you make five minutes? Ten? Then how are you going to last a whole weekend? Practice, girlfriend, practice!

Get some of those wrist weights to help build up your arm muscles. If you have beads from last year wear them, or buy pounds of them from a dollar store to wear while you train. As they accumulate on the big nights you’ll find yourself with more and more to manuever around, best to get ready for it now where you can get your wrist movements smooth and confident. You’ll also need to practice catching beads flung at you from a great height; throwing them as high as you can in your back yard is a good way to get ready for this.

A helpful friend is good, as they can spend the next few weeks yelling “Beads!” at you at random intervals to help increase your response time. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Be sure to flash in different directions. You don’t want to master flashing balconies, only to trip while awkwardly flashing an alleyway.

Begin a healthy diet of wheats, grains, fruit, and vodka to bring your alcohol tolerance to competitive levels, and learn to pace yourself so you don’t burn out by Saturday night.

Observe some common sense safety rules. Ladies who are especially blessed have been known to have lower back strain, so please: flash with your knees, not with your back. Carpal tunnel from repetitive flexion at the wrists is not uncommon, so be sure to wear braces on your wrists, and take a five minute rest for each hour of flashing.

When your friend yells at you while you’re carrying groceries in the house and you can still let go, spin, flash your jugs, smile, and catch the bags before they hit the ground, all without breaking stride, you’re ready for the big time.

Prepare.

Select your outfit carefully; you’ll want something stretchy that clings to your curves but lifts easily over your sweet, sweet knockers. C cups and up, you may want to consider a top with a built-in shelf or support web (it’ll be a long night). Don’t think that small breasts are a disadvantage! True, they’re harder to see from a distance, but they’re every bit as exquisite, plus they’re easier to flash. You only have to pull your shirt up, not up and over. The saved time can really add up.

Take care of your breasts. Even up your tan (if desired) and check for stray hairs or blemishes. I recommend a few weeks of nightly massages with a good vitamin E cream. Not only does that help keep your skin healthy and supple, it also helps you get familiar with your breasts so the three of you are forged into a powerful team. Also I really like thinking of all of you rubbing your slippery tits, over and over, around and around…

Pay special attention to your nipples. Left alone, they’re very likely to get raw and sensitive from all the activity, so spend some time now pinching, tugging on them and twisting them lightly to build up their tolerance. Oh, yes.

Don’t neglect the rest of your body! You’re going to be walking a long way, you want legs that can handle it. Your walking regimen should eventually be five miles a day, with flashing stops every ten feet or so. If you’re going to be spending any appreciable amount of time on the shoulders of a friend, preliminary training is vital for both of you. Also dieting.

Your outfit.

As mentioned, soft and clingy works best. Bikinis get tangled, dresses get stretched out, tights are impractical, and anything bulky is going to wear you out faster. Don’t pick something that has to be pulled down, it’ll only get stretched out and large-breasted women risk getting stuck trying to pull it back up.

You’ll also want to choose the rest of your outfit just as carefully. Thongs are standard now, so watch that razor stubble. Make sure that whatever underwear you’re wearing is clean since it’s almost certain your picture will become a permanent part of the Internet and you don’t want your grandchildren seeing you in dirty underwear. Do you want your third-grade English teacher to die of embarrassment? Do you?
Try to make sure your tattoos and piercings (if any) are coordinated. Body paint should be either decorative (turning your pups into puppies, or flowers, or eyes, or anything roundish) or declarative (”No war!” “If you were my boyfriend, you’d be home now!” “Suck on these, frat boy!”) and should be easy to touch up. Keep sparkles and heavy makeup away from your chest – too much danger of abrasion or fire hazard.

If you work for a really prestigious business, like Citibank, the Christian Science Monitor, or Congress, consider wearing a company t-shirt. Hey, advertising is advertising.

Bring a couple strings of beads with you to start off with, to seed the pot, as it were. And a colorful fanny pack makes a good place to carry extra lotion, bail money, and your lawyer’s business card.

Wear some comfortable shoes (if you’ve got a balcony spot you can go barefoot, but arch support is still important). And remember that whatever you wear, you’re stuck with for hours. With that in mind, go wild. It’s Mardi Gras!

Choreography.

It’s not just flipping and walking. There’s an art to it, a style, a manner that draws the crowds and the webcams.

First, wear the outfit you’ve chosen. No good to practice a move only to find that your feathers cover your goodies.

Now, go back to your mirror. Skip along a little bit, “notice” someone watching you, and smile at them to get their attention. Now grab the bottom of your shirt.

Don’t pull it up immediately! Keep your hands there for a moment – that’s the universal sign for “tits coming!” and it signals everyone around you to check their camera settings. Giggle to yourself, like you don’t believe you’re doing this, then whip your shirt up to your chin and stand proudly for a measured count of three. Do not cross your arms, you don’t want to obscure your vision. Also, by lifting straight up you throw your elbows out straight, which will whack passersby that might be getting too close. You may wish to shake a bit. Laugh while you hold it. Bring your shirt back down fast and bend over slightly, like you’re embarassed by all the cheering, then get ready to catch the beads and move on.

For variety, some advanced techniques involve rubbing your breasts, cupping them and holding them up for presentation, and licking your own nipples.

It is advisable to bring a friend with you, not only for companionship and for splitting bar tabs, but to help protect you from the crowds and to provide additional choreography. If your friend is male, standing behind you and cupping your breasts is a great way to show them off and offer extra support at the same time. If your friend is female, double flashing gets more attention, especially if you touch each other while doing so. For some reason men love the idea that all women really want to kiss each other, and you can use that to your advantage, especially if your friend is cute and you always wanted to kiss her anyway. You did, admit it. You touched her that one time in the shower at the gym, right? Did she like it? Huh?

Style

This part is all yours. You’ll need to develop your own unique style to avoid fading into the crowd. You want to stand out, to get noticed, to get picked for the Girls Gone Wilder box cover. There’s the old standards: shy girl flashing because she discovers she likes it, bold girl flashing because she knows what’s she got and wants everyone else to see it, arrogant girl who knows what she’s got and wants everyone to see what they can’t have, drunk girl who’s flashing because she thinks she’s at Burning Man , horny girl who’s flashing as a live-action billboard, and any number of variations and combinations. What can you do to shake it up a little?

Go online and do a search for “mardi gras flash” to check out some sites devoted to the subject. I think there’s one or two. Which pictures do you notice? Buy the videos and watch them over and over to look for techniques and moves you can adapt for yourself. Practice on friends and relatives before you go out in public. You can even try video-taping yourself to watch later for mistakes, and send the video to professionals or adult webmasters for expert pointers.

Finally, remember that you’re doing this to have fun. Don’t get too tied up in perfectionalism, especially when you consider that any straight guy will want to see your tits no matter how you do it, and 95% of all the people you’ll see will be so wasted they won’t be sure what you look like anyway. Have fun, and remember to moisterize!

Make me proud.

[Screen fills with a starfield, and celestial music plays ("celestial" means lots of sitars, apparently). From below and offscreen a hand appears, zipping up the zipper on a pair of jeans that covers the screen. Light shines brilliantly from inside the zipper, forming the show's logo. Hold on the logo for a second, then it flips away to reveal a studio audience applauding. Our host Ricky Russell strides out from behind the curtains. He is short, squat, and looks like a smartly tailored mechanic.]

Announcer: Prepare to be astounded and amazed, it’s the Crotch Psychic!

Russell: Hi, everyone, I’m Ricky Russell, the Crotch Psychic. I’m here to listen to the parts of your body that you’re ignoring and to answer the questions that are crippling your love life.
[The crowd applauds again]
Let’s start right off with a few questions from our studio audience. You sir, do you, or your crotch, have a question for the crotch psychic?

Phil: Wow, yes, I sure do. My penis has been completely flaccid for almost three days. Three days, Ricky. I’ve never gone this long without a stiffy, and me and my wife Gloria are starting to get worried.

Russell: This sounds serious. First of all, when did you first masturbate?

Phil: Successfully? That would be June 23, 1991.

Russell: Ah, good, your penis is a Cancer.

Gloria: Really? But Phil’s a Sagittarius.

Russell: You can’t go by that, ma’am. It’s widely known that genitals can have completely different personalities from their owners, and those personalities must be carefully charted. Take Phil’s here, for example. Let me listen for a moment. (He kneels and presses the side of his face against Phil’s jeans front; Phil looks startled) Uh huh. Uh huh. Right. Really? Oh, well sure. I’ll take care of it. (He stands up) Gloria? The answer lies within you.

Gloria: What? Me?

Russell: Yes. You see, a Cancer penis thrives on the exchange of feelings. They need security and love to be wrapped in an environment of love and comfort. And that means blowjobs, Gloria.

Phil: (visibly cheering up) Oh, yeah?

Russell: Definitely. Cancer dicks need some regular hot tongue action to feel content. Phil’s penis desperately needs the feeling of you sucking it all the way down your throat while your hands stroke his balls.

Phil: He’s right! It’s working already! Welcome back, big guy!
[Audience applauds]

Russell: It’s simple if you just listen. Let’s take another problem. Excuse me ma’am, what can I do for you ladies?

Lucille: Hello, Mr. Russell. It’s my twat.

Russell: What seems to be the problem with it?

Lucille: It’s gone bone dry and won’t lubricate for anything. We’ve tried all of its favorites – oils, hand cream, whipped cream, pictures of Jessica Alba, nothing. It’s really causing problems between me and Gina, here

Gina: It’s a Libra, Mr. Russell.

Russell: Hmmm. Let’s have a listen. (He bends over and pushes his ear into Lucille’s groin) Well, hello little lady. What’s all the trouble, then? You don’t say? Really? More than anything, huh? That’s interesting. Yes, I’ll tell her. What? (He looks up to Lucille’s face and chuckles in an avuncular manner) It’s the cutest thing, she wants me to give her a kiss. Do you mind?

Lucille: Uh, I, I guess not. Honey?

Gina: Hey, he’s the psychic, right? (Russell smiles and grabs Lucille’s hips to plant a big smacker between her legs. Lucille gasps and runs her fingers through Russell’s hair)

Russell: (Standing back up to face a slightly glazed Lucille) The problem here is a simple one, I hardly had to ask. Lucille’s twat is a Libra, so right away I know that beauty, balance and harmony are important. Libra pussies have a great need to share, to be fair and impartial. They have a very active, outwardly radiating personality, and that’s why it’s drying up.

Lucille: I don’t understand.

Russell: By limiting yourself to Gina, you’ve bottled up your twat’s natural Libra expressiveness and generosity. What’s more, the dryness symbolizes the desiccation of your sex life. You need to open yourself to more things, more liquids.

Gina: So what should she do, Mr. Russell.

Russell: I think the fastest way out of this difficulty is for Lucille to blow me right away.

Lucille: But, I’m a lesbian!

Russell: My dear, your pussy knows what it needs. I’m only trying to bring the two of you together again, to the point where you’re perfectly in tune with its wants and needs and you’ll never need or call me again. But I don’t want to cause a rift in your relationship, and in fact I can see this as a potential bonding moment for you and Gina. You should both blow me, without delay.

Gina: (Taking Lucille’s hand) If you’re sure it will help

Russell: I don’t think I’ve been more positive of anything my whole life. Folks, while we’re doing what we can for Lucille, please watch this tape of a case I dealt with over the weekend in Calvaras County.

[Lucille and Gina argue as the camera pans to the big screen and we see Russell outside an expansive farmhouse]

Russell: I’m at a farm just outside Angel Camp, California, to address the problem of Mr. Jackson Bryson, millionaire and cattle baron. [A graphic of a piece of stationary spins out from the side to fill the screen] Mr. Bryson’s anguish was brought to my attention by a letter from his wife Carla, who writes

Carla’s voice: Dear Mr. Russell. We’ve been watching your show for two years, and we’ve been very impressed with the way you’ve solved all those problem peckers. My husband used to think you were a scam artist, and that you just picked cases you knew you could solve, but over the years we’ve become convinced. The reason I’m writing is that tragedy has struck at home. Jackson’s prick has lost its will to live. We’ve been trying the remedies that we’ve heard you advise so many times, but it just doesn’t seem to be working. Can you help? God bless you, Carla Bryson.

[The letter folds away and we see Russell in a well-appointed room with expensive furnishings. He is sitting by the bedside of Bryson, a frail man who looks about a hundred years old. Standing on the other side of the bed is a stunning brunette wearing a halter top and crack-hugger shorts.]

Russell: Mrs. Bryson, what can you tell me about Jackson’s penis?

Carla: Oh, Mr. Russell, it’s been terrible. No matter what we do it just lays there like a little worm. It used to be so tall and strong, like a big worm!

Russell: What have you been doing to help?

Carla: Well, we watch all your shows, and we bought your book “Swallow and Thrive,” so I followed the health regimen you have in the back. Every morning I wake up early, bathe and oil myself, and make breakfast, then I bring it in here and pull down his sheets and suck him off.

Russell: And does it respond?

Carla: At first it does, but right after he comes it just goes limp again. Then he eats breakfast and goes out to work. The other boys I dated didn’t do that! It’s just so sad!

Russell: Is that the only time?

Carla: Oh, heavens, no! When he comes home for lunch I’m on him at the door, gulping away. Lately at night he tries to hide in the bathroom but you can open those doors with a penny, you know? But his poor thing barely twitches, it takes me almost an hour to get a spurt out of him, and by then he’s wheezing and clutching his chest and his left arm is all crooked.

Russell: This does sound serious. Let’s have a listen. (He lowers his heads to Jackson’s crotch; Jackson screams in his sleep and tries to curl up and roll on his side but is easily held in place by Carla) Hmmm. I yes? In English, please, thank you. Yes, that’s better. (Carla clasps her hands, rapt attention on her face) Ah, I see. That explains a lot, thank you. Carla?

Carla: (Rushing around to sit next to Russell) Yes?

Russell: You’ve been doing exactly what Jackson’s poor prick needs. But it needs more. (Behind them, Jackson can be heard whimpering) At his advanced years, it takes a special effort, but I think you’re just the special girl to do it. Are you?

Carla: Oh, yes, Mr. Russell!

Russell: What I want, and what his prick wants, is for you to double your efforts. Suck on him in the middle of the night, and meet him out in the fields during the day. You need to remind his prick that it has a job to do and appeal to its Calvinistic nature.

Carla: Excuse me?

Russell: It’s a workaholic, Carla. It expects to pull its weight, but it’s been coddled and allowed to rest far too often. Tell me, does Jackson have any other dependants? (Behind them, Jackson’s hand rises weakly before falling back to the bed)

Carla: No, I’m his only relative.

Russell: How difficult for you. I’m afraid that the responsibility for his health and his financial holdings falls squarely on you. Suck him hard, Carla, no less than seven times a day. Don’t let him stop you, either. He’s a proud man, he won’t want to admit his weakness. You may need to tie him down to do it right. Surprise him in the dead of night. If you have any attractive girlfriends, ask for their help. He’ll be right as rain in no time.

Carla: (Throwing her arms around Russell and burying his face in her cleavage) Oh thank you Mr. Russell! I will! I will!

Russell: (Muffled) And please call me in a week, I’d like to come check you out. Check up on you! I’d like to check up on you. And Jackson, of course. (The camera shakes for a moment and Russell looks just above it for a second. A silent one-sided argument is seen.) My cameraman would like to check up on you too, preferably Thursday night around 10, if that’s all right. We just don’t want you to feel you’re all alone, Mrs. Bryson. (He turns to the camera) And now back to the studio.

[Cut to the studio, where a relaxed-looking Russell is standing onstage.]

Russell: That’s all we have time for, but please be sure to tune in next week for another episode of Crotch Psychic! And stop by our website at Discovery.com for more tips on how to keep in touch with your crotch! Must be over 21.

So awhile back I got this ICQ message from Heather Corinna, and she asked me if I wanted to go appear on a panel and talk about erotica webzines with her and a bunch of our mutual online friends. Seems that there was going to be a webzine seminar in New York City and she had been nabbed as moderator for the erotica panel, and I figured what the hell, I’d go. Okay, that was a bit of a fib, I really thought it would be really really GREAT because I had never been to New York before and I really really wanted to, and I’d get to meet a lot of amazing people I’d only written to before, and it seemed like a perfect chance to get a couple of fantasies out of the way at the same time. I was on my way.

FRIDAY MORNING: Up, up and away!

I get up, bright and early, already packed and double-checked, and zoom off to the airport with a song in my heart and joy in my pants. I had spent the last week researching so I wouldn’t look like a total dweeb when I got there; I re-read all my old Spiderman comics, watched The Muppets Take Manhattan again, read my Spotter’s Guide to Celebrities, and studied The Simpsons episode where Homer has to go get his car in New York. Off we went, singing and laughing, to the airport, where I found that I had missed my flight.

We went back home and went back to sleep.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON: Up, up and away!

 

 

 

 

Air flight is always exciting. Meeting new people, seeing the world from high above, where everything looks so clean and beautiful, puking my guts across six different states… ha ha! I’m kidding, I never get sick on airplanes. I get all that out of my system during the boarding process. Sorry folks!

After the landing and debriefing, I was finally in New York! Wow! It was exactly how I imagined it, unfortunately. No, I’m kidding, it was great. There were thousands of people bustling around, just in the men’s bathroom, and I’m pretty sure I saw Nathan Lane’s feet in one of the stalls. I caught a shuttle van into the city and was amazed to see how driving habits differed from back home. See, my dad taught me that when I was behind someone, I should never get so close that I couldn’t see their rear tires over my hood because that would mean that I was too close and if their car got stuck then I would still have enough room to maneuver around them. Everyone in New York seemed to ignore that simple rule, along with street signs, stop lights, pedestrians, fire hydrants, buildings, just about anything beyond their own dashboards really. Near as I could tell, as long as you didn’t leave any traceable car paint scrapings you could do whatever you wanted. How free! How wonderful!

 

 

 

 

 

I had missed meeting Heather and Todd that morning, but I did get to meet Jane and James at the hotel and we went out for dinner. (I had already taken the liberty of carefully distributing my cash and valuables in different areas of my person so as to confound muggers and highwaymen.) I learned many things that night: that Jane was just as bubbly and fun and cute as she appears on her site, that she and James are a lot of fun to hang around, that mussels aren’t too bad, and that you should never rely on Jane for directions in a big city.

We talked and laughed a lot — a discussion of creating a chain of S&M theme family restaurants a la Hooters remains stuck in my mind, along with James’ suggestion of the mascot (a little animé girl, on the floor, with a boot on her head) — and had a blast. Even my unexpectedly explosive allergy to shellfish didn’t dampen the evening, although I think it might have lessened my chances for a goodnight kiss. Ah well, back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. They had invited me along to an S&M gathering, but I begged off, explaining that my uncontrollable urge to heckle was not generally welcome during most public power exchanges (Hey, let’s see you try maintaining the proper level of authority and dominance over your slave while some potbellied guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt over a t-shirt that says “Let a Gargoyle Sit on Your Face” stands next to you, asking “Whatcha doing?” while eating handfuls of Captain Crunch cereal right out of the box).

I’m positive I saw Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (D-NY) ducking behind the bar with an appreciative biker. Hey, after her last few years, who’s gonna begrudge her a little kinky repulsive fun, hah? Gidoudda here.

SATURDAY MORNING: Taking it to the streets

Got up with the sunrise and quickly mastered the art of taking a hotel shower (which involves hopping in and out of the spray, timing your leaps to avoid the cycles of boiling heat and freezing cold so as to hit the brief periods of humanly-tolerable temperature) before checking out and venturing out alone onto the streets. Gosh, I can’t describe the feelings I had when I was walking around the very streets I had seen on countless cop shows since I was a kid. You gotta love a town where the porn shops open at 7, bright and early. I tried spinning into a wild dance number but I guess I didn’t know the trick of it because the crowds on the street failed to fall into step behind me. They were yelling in unison, but I’m pretty sure what they were yelling wasn’t from any Broadway show I’ve ever heard of, unless it was a Mamet play.

 

 

 

 

 

I covered quite a bit of ground with my technique, which was to go up to a corner and immediately go in whichever direction had a “Walk” sign already flashing. Unfortunately my obedience to traffic signs clearly marked me as a tourist so I was treated to a variety of colorful local dialects as natives clamored to sell me their watches, souvenirs, faux parfums, marijuana, hot dogs, and sisters. Chased the pigeons in Washington Square Park (spotted Jack Nicholson sleeping under a park bench, that rascal) and very nearly enjoyed an authentic New York hot dog. After a bit of this I stumbled onto 6th Ave and I strolled the 34 blocks to where Heather was staying, stopping only for occasional gawking, a couple of Cokes, and some hyperventilation. Heather was waiting for me on a park bench (the pink hair gave her away). The hug was worth the trip.

 

Heather is difficult to describe. An unholy marriage of Janis Joplin and Pippi Longstocking, a sexy dynamo that runs on coffee and cigarettes. Just the sort of person you want shepherding you through a strange and violent city, even though I think she weighed maybe 75 pounds. We wandered around a bit before heading over to the CB Gallery for the webzine event, and she showed me all the myriad wonders of the Village, which apparently all involve shopping for shoes.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON: The Big Event

 

 

 

 

We walked to the end of Bleecker St. (past Margaret Sanger Park, which just has to be the safest place to fuck, ever) (think about it) to the gallery and headed downstairs to the basement to discover where all the smoke was coming from. All the tragically hip people were there, although they strongly resembled early afternoon drinkers. We met Bob, the organizer who had offered me couch space that evening, and Debra Hyde, writer extraordinaire (Heather attacked both with the sort of shrieked hysterical greeting I associate with old Beatles newsreels). Also Todd, who emerged from the gloom looking tall and wryly amused, which I was to learn was his usual expression about most everything. Jane and James showed up and we all sat and talked for awhile about just the sort of things you’d expect a bunch of sophisticated, kinky adult webmasters to talk about — kids, politics, The Simpsons, movies, Diablo II — before it was time for our panel.

Heather had decided, in a fit of artistic inspiration (i.e. laziness, but with style), not to plan anything whatsoever, so we sat down, got introduced and then took questions. We had a decent turnout (many thanks to you folks who yelled “woo hoo!” when I was introduced; you disappeared afterwards, possibly from shame) and we happily answered questions and giggled amongst ourselves for an hour before they made us stop.

Afterwards we gabbed some more and Heather, Todd, Debra and I all moved outside (agh! Sunlight!) to stock up on oxygen and lunch. I think we were all a bit startled with how well we all got along, and the love fest lasted all day. We kept on talking through lunch, back into the event, all through Michael Moore’s keynote speech which we pretty much ignored even though it was happening about 10 feet away, and long into the evening before everyone had to bolt.

SATURDAY NIGHT: I sleep with a lot of girls. And boys.

 

 

 

 

I expected to hang out until Bob was finished, then go crash at his place. Heather hung around to keep me company and drink some more (in that order, bless her heart), but it was becoming apparent that Bob was pretty wired and, since the anticipated mugging I budgeted for mysteriously hadn’t occurred yet, I decided to go for another hotel stay. I was there long enough for Heather to shoot video of my first on screen porn debut, something she’s already threatened to make public. I also learned some fun drinking games, including “Quarters” and this weird thing you do with Stoli, some dry ice and an enema bottle. Brrr! (Note for you non-drinkers, anything carbonated can substitute).

I took my first cab ride — uneventful, since the hostage situation resolved itself — only to arrive and discover that the only rooms the hotel had left were something called dormitory rooms. No worries, I get along with everybody. I spent some time on the phone waking up quite a few people who were not Todd before I hit the correct hotel room, and I let him know what was up. At 1:30 in the morning he sounded exactly as he had at 6 in the afternoon, something else I was assured was perfectly normal, so I went upstairs to begin getting along with everybody.

Everybody, in this case, was 15 other people. 15 young, drunk, unwashed, loud people (one of them was, I believe, Christina Aquilera, but I was “cool” enough not to blow her cover) in varying degrees of consciousness. I scampered onto someone else’s assigned bunk, clutched my bag to my chest, placed a hastily-written note on my back (“Hi! Please do not anally violate me! Thanks!”) and went to sleep.

SUNDAY MORNING: Look what the cat threw up.

 

 

 

 

I was to meet everyone at Prince and Broadway to get brunch, so a bit of experimentation was in order. Luckily I awoke bright and early, sweating and screaming. Everyone else was still in their narcotic stupors so I had the shower to myself with no distractions like noises, or towels, or soap. I wandered out on the street again, determined in an atypically manly decision to figure out the subway system all by myself, with only Todd’s meticulously detailed map and descriptions to guide me.

It was early enough that I figured I could detect and correct any navigational mistakes, and aside from a quick jaunt to Jersey all went well. I took lots of shots of the city to shove into the faces of my family and friends who couldn’t come along, the losers, and even used the restroom in a corner store all by myself. I had been raised to always leave a bathroom clean before I left it so that took a while, but still it was an event I’m glad to have lived through. Would you believe they have their illegal drugs laid out in deli cases? God, what a great place. I kept expecting to see shootouts and car chases and explosions, but maybe that’s considered gauche on Sunday.

I did have to ask a few people how I could get to Broadway (they never answered, they all just looked at me for a few seconds and then walked away, shaking their heads for some reason) but I arrived with enough time to stop by Michele’s where Heather was staying and hook up with them. There I was privileged to see a sight that few people have seen and survived: Heather, pre-coffee. I love the woman like few others, but I kept my distance and a sturdy chair between us nonetheless.

We met up with the rest of our happy, hung-over crew and set off for a corner cafe — the caffeine-deprived among us lurching forward, the more seriously hung over hanging back, and Todd acting as a sheepdog trying to keep everyone in sight. We managed to keep Heather on track with two of those long forked sticks and a Taser, although we didn’t react fast enough when she turned the corner and stampeded that poor Pakistani family.

At the cafe the caffeine junkies self-medicated and we resumed our gabbing — I was my usual grim, solemn self — and I have to admit that I was about as content as I’ve ever been without actually being naked. There are damned few people in the world I can completely relax around (I had already married the cutest one) but everyone at the table was someone I would have loved to spend a few more weeks with, or had sex with, or even both.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON: I am nailed to the hull.

 

 

 

 

Sadly, after the brunch we had to split up. I hugged Jane and missed her even before she was out of sight, although I did keep an impression of her boobs on my ribcage to remember her by. Debra and I braved the subway again; she was off for home, I was off to meet Shmuel who lived locally. Bye Debra! This is only the beginning, you know. Met Shmuel and had a great time trading truly awful puns over iced tea (I won’t repeat them here, because you don’t deserve to be treated that way and because I suspect he might have gotten the better of me) before we meandered over to where I could hand him off to Todd (bye Todd!) and receive Heather in return.

 

I had told her I needed to pick up some cheapass gifts to take back, so she took me to Pearl River, an act for which I may hate her forever. Way too much cool cheap oriental crap, and I met Jackie Chan’s older brother’s dental hygienist who sold me a very reasonable autograph. I managed to limit myself to only three or four times the amount of allowable carry-on bags before we left. We split a cab back to Michele’s (where Heather avoided being ripped off by being more stubborn, more loud, and more Italian than the cabbie) and I was off to the airport. Missing my flight on Friday had made me nervous, so I arrived at JFK 11 hours early, just to be on the safe side.

The flight home was relatively uneventful – a little turbulence, a guy two rows up spilled his coffee, and I think we lost a wing — and I arrived home safe and sound to my loving family.

Now it’s a few days later. I’m still locating my hidden bodily caches of money — the kids just found another one this morning — and I’m still in the misty love fest feeling. I miss New York already, and my personal physician assures me that I’ll always have something to remember it by.

See ya next year!

Whenever I begin preparations for a trip, there is always one big concern. Not what clothes to pack, I’m the sort of annoying person who throws some stuff into a backpack a few minutes before leaving the house. Not what books to take, although that’s usually tougher. Not even how to coordinate phone calls home, we’ve got that sort of thing worked out already.

It’s what sort of filth to take with me.

Okay, I could be in the weird minority here, but I hate being stuck in a strange city, in my hotel room alone, with no porn. At home I know what to find where, at friends’ places I usually have free run of their movie stash. But at 3 in the morning when the ice machine outside my door has woken me up for the fourth time in 15 minutes and I’ve already taken three showers, that’s when I start going through my bag to see which magazine or book or CD I’ve brought along. Sure, a lot of motels have adult movies available and they’ll do in a pinch — and I admit I even prefer the long distance, full body shots they tend to favor as being more fun to watch than the series of 10 minute long gynecological closeups the video versions use — but you never know what you might get. At times I’ve found myself picking the ones with the weirdest names just to give the desk help something to chuckle over when I check out.

Nah, I prefer to pick up something for the journey. That way it’ll always remind me of the good time I had, especially if the porn in question turned out to have been the high point of the trip.

This brings us to the biggest problem — how to get this stuff through airport security. I can tell you now that I’m an especially difficult person to embarrass. You have to care what people think of you to be embarrassed, no worries there. But I don’t want to hold up the line or delay the flight or get arrested or, worst of all, get singled out as the guy to muscle into the bathroom once we lift off. So I’ve devised a list of helpful tips for getting your smut through safely and silently, and I thought I’d share them with you.

So. You talked your lover into it, your lover talked you into it, or you both decided what the hell, and your lover is strapped down spread-eagled to the bed, helpless and waiting. Now what do you do?

If you’ve fantasized about this since junior high or if your reading habits regularly include books with titles like “Chains of Lust” or “Mistress Jones Goes to Washington”, you probably have a pretty good idea where to begin and what voltage to use, but if this is your first time you might be a bit nervous.

This is perfectly fine. The thing to remember is that the person you just tied down with your best scarves is now completely under your control. You decide what sensations they feel, you decide how fast or how slow to proceed, you decide when or if to finish. You should also decide what your ultimate goal is. Are you “just” out for the hottest sex you can whomp up, are there some domination or humiliation fantasies to consider, or are there some unresolved issues between the two of you that you’re interested in addressing?

Here are some handy suggestions for what to do now that everyone’s in place.

1. Pop a dirty movie in the VCR and lay down next to your lover to watch it. Touch yourself occasionally. Hey, go ahead and masturbate, no one can stop you.
2. Take a lipstick and use your new canvas to play tic-tac-toe. If your lover objects, use a marker. Or nail polish.
3. Kneel between your lover’s legs, smiling devishly. Make eye contact and hold it, moving your head back and forth in a hypnotic fashion. Now, quickly drop your head to their tummy and blow loud bubbles.
4. Take the opportunity to throw out all those old clothes of his you hate.
5. Shave your lover. Make a production of it, bring out the razor and foam and hot towels and a bowl of hot water. This doesn’t have to be a vital area, you could always shave his toes, or one armpit. If your lover is especially hirsute, consider shaving drawings or words into their pelt. Pubic hair, male or female, lends itself well to intriquing shapes – arrows, hearts, barcodes, palm trees, exclamation points…
6. Take a nap.
7. If it’s torture she wants, get her strapped down good and tight and then turn on the Three Stooges Marathon (“Commercial free, nyuk nyuk!”)
8. Give her a makeover.
9. Give him a makeover.
10. Take the time to discuss how you really feel about your in-laws.
11. Go shopping.
12. Watch a tv show and return to go down on your lover in a wildly ferocious manner during the commercials. When you hear the show starting, stop abruptly and go back to watch. See how many shows you can fit in this way.
13. Is your lover ticklish, by any chance?
14. Find out just how many wooden clothespins you can fasten onto your lover’s body. Four bags? Five?
15. Take off your own clothes, oil yourself up slowly and sensually, lay down so that you’re touching your lover from shoulder to feet, then turn on the Playstation and play Jackie Chan.
16. Get a marker and use their body surface to make notes to yourself, to make shopping lists, to do the budget, to find the integral of y*e^t*arccos(xy^2) with respect to x.
17. Light candles and let the wax drip on your lover, creating tantalizing bursts of pain-pleasure. Test it yourself beforehand to discover the optimum height to drip from without causing embarrassing emergency room visits. Experts advise using only dye-free candles, I prefer candles in loony cartoon shapes to add just a touch of levity.
18. If they’re strapped down to a waterbed, bring in the garden hose, run it out the window, and start the bed emptying. Leave.
19. Get your man erect and use his penis to catapault M&Ms into his mouth. He gets a smack on the head for every missed one.
20. If your man’s impressively hung (or under 19), exchange the M&Ms for tangerines.
21. Pick up the phone where your lover can hear you and call your lover’s best friend to ask if they want to come over to watch videos. If you’re the kind sort you can fake it and speak to the dial tone.
22. If you’re not the kind sort, call your lover’s parents.
23. Or your lover’s ex.
24. Or just order some food delivered. Be nice, let your lover pick the pizza toppings.
25. Lay across your lover so your body covers theirs completely, and see if you can, through body undulations alone, cause them to pop a good one.
26. Get on an internet chatroom and ask for suggestions. Avoid the quilting bee chatrooms, those are some sick fucks.
27. It is truly amazing what can be done with a water pistol full of hot water in one hand and a water pistol full of ice water in the other.
28. Pick a square inch of your lover’s body and make love to it. Doesn’t matter which one.
29. Invite your best friend over to help you decide what to do next. If your lover is shy, have the friend stay in the next room and call out ideas.
30. If they’re getting nervous about their imprisoned condition, lay a 48″ pair of bolt cutters on the headboard and then sit back and watch.
31. Preparation is everything. Make sure you tuck lots of newspapers or towels under your lover’s body before coming back in the room with a bucket of chocolate syrup and a whitewash brush.
32. Leave the room to change into something more comfortable and then scream “Ohmigod! Fire! Fire!” Come to think of it, newspapers or towels may help here as well.
33. Rub a balloon across the carpet and then see if you can get every single hair on your lover’s body to stand up.
34. Use your lover’s body as a handy work surface. Bellies work well as mousepads (avoid the navel), firm chests make good writing surfaces, and inkpots can be balanced on the pelvic bone. Don’t sneeze!
35. That body would also make a great serving tray. Lay out your fruits and dipping veggies, get some cold cuts and chips, and balance the dip bowl in the V of the legs. Or use it as a plate for your entrees. Eating Ramen noodles off a collarbone is a blast. Be considerate and feed your lover occasionally, and avoid anything really uncomfortable such as prickly pears or fondue pots.
36. Kneel over their face and allow them to orally service you while you read a book. If they get too spirited (or make you lose your place) lower yourself a few inches until they calm down again.
37. Rub raw hamburger over some portion of their body and let the dog in.
38. Experiment to see how many different ordinary household objects fit into your lover’s major orifices. Separately, I mean, not all at once. Don’t insert anything you aren’t absolutely sure you can retrieve, such as a raw egg.
39. Stand by your lover’s side and allow a silk scarf to float lazily on their body, then begin moving it back and forth, allowing only the slightest touch of the fabric to brush their skin. Do this for about twenty minutes.
40. Sit on the opposite side of the room and see if you can hit your lover’s erect penis with a rubber band. Extra points if you get a ringer. No fair leaning forward.
41. Remember all those times you complained that he would never listen to your poetry? Well…
42. Now’s a great time to bring all those tools out of the garage to figure out once and for all what they do.
43. Did you know if you place a chocolate bar on a human’s chest at room temperature and they don’t disturb it, it will completely melt in about an hour? Are there places on the human’s body where the process might be faster? Let’s find out!
44. You would be amazed at how much better wines and champagnes taste when slurped off an aroused woman. You would.
45. Hell, you’d be amazed how much better Mad Dog tastes when slurped off an aroused woman.
46. Got a camera? A video camera? A webcam?
47. You can get some interesting results with those household vacuums, the ones with the hose and different attachments. Don’t let a suction seal last more than a few seconds or so, you don’t want to cause permanent damage and perfectly round 2″ hickeys are a bitch to explain at budget meetings. Dustbusters can be fun, those little computer keyboard cleaners are ideal, but avoid shop vacs.
48. You don’t need expensive BD/SM gear to intimidate your prisoner. The contents of the everyday silverware drawer are sufficient.
49. Make fierce love to your lover, spending hours on slow and careful foreplay before jumping on and giving them the ride of their life until they come hard and fast and, if possible, more than once. Then, as they slip into that glorious post-coital languor, they’ll be so happy and relaxed they won’t notice you reaching for the hidden bucket of ice water.
50. After you’re done and they’re free, lay down and spread ‘em. It’s only fair…