Friday, April 28, 2017

Book Of Love Bomb

An elderly man (about my age) wanted to use a library computer.

"I need to write something on my blog, and then have no one read it! Ha, ha!"

I looked at him, stunned. How did he know?

Of the known universe, Pat is also one of those sentient creatures who will not read these words in interstellar space. I visited him on Sunday, Latin lesson deliciously prepared.

"I need a surrogate to have sex with me," he said in the midst of conjugating the passive periphrastic.

"I'm sorry?"

"I need a sex surrogate. Someone to have sex with me so I can overcome my negative associations with the sex act. Whenever I do karate and someone tries to mount me, I freeze up. My instructor is getting frustrated with me. For me to get to the next level I have to be able to clench with my opponent, but he doesn't understand that I just can't. I was raped when I was little and that memory is deep in me. I know in my conscious mind that I'm not having sex with my karate opponent, but my body can't forget that easily. So I thought if I had sex with a surrogate I can tell my body that it's okay to have karate sex."

"Interesting," I said.

"Yeah. But no surrogate will do it when they learn I've had trauma. They won't help you when you've had that kind of trauma because they're afraid they'll set it off again."


"Beside, I don't have the equipment yet. They'll get my pants off and see my vagina and that will probably be it."

"I'm going to stop you there-- Wait, I should have said that ten minutes ago. Anyway, I was having lunch with my mom and I was getting out my library card for her, as I'm wont to do, and some of my other cards came out of my wallet. Mom stared at one of them. 'Is that for a gentleman's club??' she said, aghast. For a second I had no idea what she meant--then I realized it was my Bad Daddy's burger punch card. Apparently all those little burgers looked like sexy sex parts. 'Yes, Mom, that's my gentleman's club card. Five lap dances and the checkup at the sex clinic is free.' Mom grabbed the card, convinced she had found proof that I was a dirty birdie all along, and looked at it closely, and then she relaxed. She flipped the card back at me. 'That's a smart deal...'"

Pat laughed hard. "Your mom is crazy! She really thought you had a gentleman's club card?? Haw, haw, haw...!"

"Yeah. Anyway, the ablative case is..."

"And now my sports therapist is love bombing me."

"I'm sorry?"

"He's love bombing me. I know the tactic. It's what they do when they try to get you to join a cult. He lives on a commune up by Longmont, and he couldn't see me last week because it was his turn to buy food for the whole commune. But he's supposed to help me with my crippling fear of being touched and instead he's love bombing me with unconditional support and all this jazz about his leader being pure energy and light. He wants me to meet the guru. This is the third time someone has tried to get me to join a cult!"

"Maybe you should get a punch card for cult joining."

"I'll tell him off, and he'll figure out real fast that I have no interest in gurus or communes."

"Then again, love bombing may not be such a bad thing. In fact, maybe the whole damn planet could use a giant love bomb."

image courtesy of Drew Industries

"That's a dumb way to end this blog post."

"I know--and imagine that ending a story!"

1 comment:

  1. I don't think you understand how nuclear bombs work. - Manny