That One And That One…

You know that kind of morning where you wake up early and it’s really sunny?  There’s a bright green hue appearing on all the mesquite trees and a hint of little blue flowers on the rosemary?  I’m having one of them right now.  It’s going to be in the mid 70’s today and 82 tomorrow!  It’s Spring! And you know what that means?

I’m perpetually horny.

I mean, I’m already perpetually horny (what man isn’t?) but in Springtime, it’s like a four alarm fire.  Emergency–emergency!  Beep beep beep! Pull down your pants and put your hands up–my shorts. 

And yes, of course, it’s one of my most favorite seasons.  Ray likes it too!  It’s a little bit difficult in public places though.  My tounge goes a  waggin’ at every single upright and ambulatory man within eyesight.  My eyeballs sniffing them up and down like a bloodhound. 

 “I want that one!  Ohhh, and that one. Yes! Yes! I totally want that one! Please? Can I?”

It’s a strange kind of sexual energy.  I just have an urgent desire to jump every man I see (within reason, I do have standards).  Hey, what can I say really?  I’m a highly sexual being living in a world where showing Janet Jackson’s boob on TV for a split second is punishable by monetary fee.  That’s just laughable.  It’s also embarrassing.  The rest of the world is not as prude.  A boob is a boob is a boob. 

As a child, most people saw lots of boob.  The very first thing they saw was a giant boob being shoved in their face that they sucked milk from.  My God! That happened a few times a day.  For months–years.  How traumatic.  Perhaps there is a public fear that Ms. Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction my trigger a widespread post traumatic boob episode. 

A boobisode?

I think according to whatever board regulates (in their own feeble minds) what’s moral or immoral, I would be off the charts on the latter.  That’s something that perplexes me.  I don’t feel immoral.  I don’t hurt anyone.  Why should someone judge what I do in the privacy of a public restroom–just kidding–the privacy of my own home?  Get the fuck out of my house. 

In the long run, the truth–and we all know this–is that everybody is a little bit freaky.  Everyone is sexual.  How could we not be? 

In the words of George Michael, “Sex is natural, sex is good.  Not everybody does it, but everybody should.”  That coming from Mister Public Restroom himself. 

I don’t care what people do sexually as long as it doesn’t involve hamsters and duct tape.  If a 19 year old gets it on with a 17 year old, who gives a shit?  Hell, I did it with a thirty-something PE teacher when I was 14.  Did he molest me?  No.  How could I be molested when I totally wanted it?  I was a 14 year old budding homosexual with a very robust sex drive and an all grown up PE teacher with a killer bod, tight shorts and furry legs wants to get it on with me?  Hell yeah!  But I wasn’t a consenting adult.  The age of consent in immeasurable.  That line of 18 year-old-ness is so blurry.  Not that I’m into guys that young.  I’m still into the hunky mature PE teacher types in tight shorts. 

We all have a sex drive.  Most people are stuck with the parking brake on. 

<<insert sound of tires screeching away into the distance>>