“Did Anna friend you?”
Anna was someone from our past, a woman with an insanely cheerful and ambitious sexual history. She told crazy stories, sometimes backed up with the craziest of photos.
“On FaceBook?” I asked. “Yeah, but we don’t talk.”
“You remember the sex swing?”
Well who could forget something like that?
The sex swing figured prominently in Anna’s stories; and Mary and I found ourselves wondering aloud as to why we didn’t own one, why we hadn’t been telling stories about the sex swing.
I could post a picture, of course, but a wink, as they say, is as good as a nod.
And after several off-color jokes and a colored-pencil-and-glued-macaroni diagram (we couldn’t find the glitter), we came up with several ideas as to why we had never owned a screwed-into-the-ceiling sexual-enhancement device.
In no particular order:
- After finding a stud in the general populous, we’d have to find a stud in the ceiling. Have you seen me hang a picture? A nail pounded into a wall with the heel-end of a dress boot is my specialty.
- Speaking of which, I’m going to need a full-color, instructional brochure. For educational purposes, of course.
- What about the amount of exercise that would have to take place prior to getting into the swing? Who knows where those straps will cut? Control of the jiggle factor, to my mind, is crucial.
- The drawing up and signing of the legal documents, holding me blameless and giving me rights to the story should anything untoward/amusing happen whilst strapped into the swing, would be prudent.
- I would need to give ol’ Ron at Allstate a call. Will my homeowner’s insurance cover enthusiastically-incurred injuries?
- And speaking of insurance, do I have the money set aside to cover my medical deductible – and what are the odds of ending up in a Horrors of the Emergency Room video?
What can I say? That was some really good chili.