So, yeah. I quit talking on Yahoo instant Messenger a couple of years ago. Well, longer ago than that, really. But I still have this one friend, let’s call him my Best Girlfriend Forever (because that’s what I call him), who likes to chat on it.
He doesn’t like Skype, and he insists on using Messenger even though the only time I’d see his messages were when I’d check my Yahoo mail once a month or so, since I only used it for shopping and I absolutely never checked it because so much spam comes to that account it’s impossible to find real correspondence there anymore. Actually, one other friend who moved to Baltimore several years ago, and whom I hardly ever hear from, uses Messenger, too, and I’m embarrassed to say that I miss his messages most of the time.
So just for these two friends, let’s call them my Best Girlfriend Forever and That Guy Who Moved to Baltimore, I reinstalled Yahoo Instant Messenger when I got a new laptop. Just for Kicks. And for them.
Of course, only my BGFF knows I have it installed. I’m invisible to everyone else. Tonight, though, somehow and for some reason, I was visible for awhile. Out of the blue comes a certain troll I had not chatted with for several years. Like, since I had used Messenger back in the days of the Virgin Training School. The conversation, predictably, went like this:
winteret: Hi Aramink… the last time that we chatted I had told yo that I was fascinated with bellybuttons since each one is as unique as a fingeprint. You were beginning to tell me about yours…
aramink_rust: I doubt that. Mine is uninteresting. I mostly use it for lint storage. I also use it as a focus for meditation and contemplation.
winteret: That’s great. What type do you have?
aramink_rust: Lint-filled. I already told you.
winteret: Lol… so you have an Inne?
aramink_rust: Sometimes I take the lint out when I want to contemplate it, but when I have no other place to store the lint I have to contemplate a navel orange instead. It can be a problem.
winteret: You’re such a tease…. what coin size and how deep is it?
aramink_rust: Oh, I wouldn’t take money for it. If I sold it, where would I store my lint?
winteret: Oh come on now… please stop being sarcastic…
aramink_rust: Who’s being sarcastic? Not every container is suitable for lint storage, you know.
winteret: What does your knot look lke?
aramink_rust: My knot? I’ve never examined it.
winteret: Your knot is the pattern located at the bttom of your bellyhole. What does it look like?
aramink_rust: Um… I’m thinking it looks like, well, a belly button.
winteret: Every bellybutton is as unique as a fingerprint… the outer rim, the inner walls and the pattern (knot) at the bottom of the hloe. What does yours look like?
aramink_rust: There’s a lot of lint in the way. I’d pick it out, but I think I need a crochet hook. I can knit a sweater with all the lint I have crammed in there.
winteret: do you like having it tongued?
aramink_rust: What?! You just asked if I like having it tongued! Fucking freak-ass fucktard! You want to turn my collection of belly-button lint into boiled wool! I just know you do!
winteret: Mmmmmm… do you do any bondage?
aramink_rust: You want to tie me down with my own belly button lint! Shit! You’re freaking me out, Dude! I mean, how crazy is this going to get? Next you’re, like, going to want to have belly-button buttsecks! Ew!
winteret: What’s wrong??
aramink_rust: What’s wrong? WHAT’S WRONG? You’re tying me down with boiled wool made from my own belly-button lint, you’ve threatened me with belly-button buttsecks, and you want to know what’s WRONG?
winteret: What type of gag do you prefer to be gagged with?
winteret: mmmmmmmmmmmmm… I thought so
So tell me: What do you do with your lint while having smokin’ hot belly-button buttsecks?
Jack and I went to my sister’s for Christmas dinner. When we got there, Sis put a pork tenderloin in the oven and we gathered around the tree to open gifts. Sis’s two boys, ages 15 and 13, were there, as was my mother. We spent a lovely hour ooohing and ahhhhing over what everyone got and gave. It was a very nice time.
We were almost through opening gifts when Sis got up to go check the tenderloin. She was gone for a few minutes. The rest of us waited to open any more gifts until she returned.
We were chatting and laughing in typical Aramink family fashion when Sis tip-toed back into the living room and tapped me on the shoulder. “Come here,” she whispered.
I got to my feet and followed her into the kitchen.
“Have you ever cooked a pork tenderloin?” she asked.
“Yes,” I told her. “Lots of times.”
“Good. I have something I need to ask you, then,” she said, and opened the oven door. She reached in and pulled out the roasting pan holding the meat.
“Is it supposed to look like this?” she asked.
I gaped. I blinked.
Sis put the pan down on the counter and grinned at me real big. “Shhhh,” she said.
We walked back into the living room, and Sis beckoned to Mom.
I couldn’t help it. I was about to die laughing. When Gran headed into the kitchen, I did my best to keep three large teenage boys at bay, thinking they were too young and … ahem… tender… to witness what their mother had prepared for Christmas dinner.
I was unsuccessful. The boys barreled into the kitchen just as their grandmother was in the act of looking perplexed at the slab of meat that faced her. Gran glanced up with a quizzical look. For a second I thought she didn’t get it.
Then she burst out laughing.
The boys crowded around. “What is it? What’s so funny?” they demanded. Their mothers and grandmother were laughing too hard to tell them.
Sis headed down the hall to the bathroom before she wet her pants. When she came back, she suggested that a creamy Bearnaise sauce would be a lovely accompaniment.
That set us off again. Sis headed back to the bathroom.
We females of the family enjoyed every bite. “Mmmmmm.” “Yummy.” “This is delightful,” we said.
The boys, for some reason, opted for a meatless Christmas dinner.
And now, for the crucial question:
If a pork tenderloin is circumcised, does that make it kosher?
I was just about to leave my office for the evening and head to the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge for an evening libation when I heard their voices.
“I can’t believe you did that to me!”
“I didn’t do anything to you. You did it yourself!”
“Ladies, please,” a male voice interjected. “Wench won’t like it if you are screaming at each other. Let’s just talk to her about the situation.”
Agincourt? Sir Agincourt Finsbury-Pikestaff? Was that the voice of my trusted, loyal operator of the Satellite Virgin Training Academy on the Moon? I wasn’t expecting him, and it seemed he was bringing a problem to me. Usually his assistant, Teri the Boopster, handled routine matters. This must be serious!
I opened the door to my office just as they approached. Yes, there was Agincourt. I couldn’t help but smile to see him. He’s my brother, you understand, and I adore him even if he does quaff a few too many pints now and again.
“Agi!” I exclaimed, holding my arms out for the requisite hug. Instead of the big squeeze he normally gives me, he stopped and gave me an exasperated look. I was startled, to say the least. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked, eyeing the two trainees accompanying him.
One, a tall, slim blonde, clearly had been wearing her long hair in a ponytail. That ponytail no longer looked very neat, though. It certainly wasn’t a look we encouraged out Virgins to display. Great hanks of hair stuck out at odd angles from her head, and red streaks that looked for all the world like claw marks decorated one of her cheeks.
The other, a small brunette, had high color in her cheeks and a bloody nose. A bruise on one of her upper arms was darkening before my eyes.
Agincourt was talking.
“It seems that there was a bit of an accident during the zero-G pole dance exercise,” Agincourt began. He was clearly upset and more than a bit aggravated with his two charges.
Before he could continue the brunette interrupted. “Accident! It was no accident! She pushed me!”
“I was spotting you, not pushing you!” retorted the blonde.
“Ladies, it seems we might need to calm down before we discuss it further.” One thing I had learned in my year of operating the Virgin Training School was that angry Virgins needed to be coddled and soothed. Only after tempers cooled would I be able to make sense of the situation.
I led them into my office. They were grumbling and snarling at each other. I sighed. My daiquiri and the Twisted Wench were looking like a fond dream at this point.
“Wenchy, dear, I am so very sorry to bring this situation to you,” Agincourt said as I brewed a tisane loaded with herbs of comfort and calming properties.
“Hand me that small box of valerian root?” I asked Agincourt. He passed it to me. As I added a large dose of it to the mixture, he started to tell me about the situation.
“Not yet,” I said. Let’s give the girls some tea and let’s us have something a little stronger, shall we?”
He grinned at me. “You know me well,” he chuckled. I was glad he could smile. I was beginning to wonder if this dispute wasn’t taking its toll on him. I poured us both a healthy serving of a lovely, smooth Irish Cream. We took our first sips as the kettle whistled. I poured the water over my herbal recipe and carried the pot to the conversation area of my office. One trainee sat on each sofa, glowering at the other across the gorgeous marquetry inlay of my antique Italian coffee table.
Agincourt again began to speak, but I shushed him. I poured the herbal concoction for the trainees, setting one cup before each of them.
“Drink,” I ordered.
I had them empty one cup and start on another before I let them speak. The silence was difficult at first, but finally the warm drink and its herbal contents did the trick and the two young women began to calm down. I could tell by their slower breathing and the way they sipped slowly at their second cups that my concoction was working.
“Now,” I said. “I would like to hear first from Sir Agincourt. After he tells what he understands the situation to be, you each will have a chance to add to his explanation or correct it as you see fit.” The trainees nodded.
Agincourt cleared his throat. “As you know, the trainees practice the pole dance in zero-G on the Moon. Cyndi has appointed several of the more advanced trainees as assistant instructors.”
“That’s me,” the blonde broke in.
I shot her a warning look. “Sir Agi first, then you will have a chance,” I murmured. She settled back into her plushly upholstered cushions.
“Yes, well, erm…” Agincourt took another sip of his Irish Cream. Finding a bit of determination from somewhere within his glass, he continued. “After demonstrating the move she was teaching, the assistant instructor allowed the student trainee to attempt the move. Unfortunately, the trainee wasn’t quite properly balanced …”
“I was perfectly balanced! She pushed me!” the brunette declared hotly.
“I most certainly did not,” the blonde assistant stated emphatically. “I was spotting you and attempting to adjust your balance and you fell.”
“I fell, all right! I fell right on my nose. If it swells up and no one will offer camels for me, all this training will be for nothing!” She glared across the table at her erstwhile instructor.
“Unfortunately,” Agincourt continued, “After the fall I’m afraid the two got into a bit of a fight.”
I shook my head in disbelief, wondering if “Deportment” would be yet another class we would have to add to the curriculum.
“Why in the world would a fight have ensued?” I asked. I looked at the petite brunette, who I expect swung the first claw.
“Because she pushed me!”
“I did not!”
“Ladies, ladies. Please. Agincourt, were there any witnesses?”
My gallant brother looked uncomfortable. “Well, erm, yes.”
“I was filming the class at the time. I was the one who separated them, and then, of course, got them down here to the school for you to deal with as Head Mistress. Have you any Guinness?”
The subject change was meant to distract me from the fact that a male had been watching my Virgins in training. It was meant to distract me from the fact that my brother had been watching them.
“Oh, Agi, what will I do with you?” I sighed. Both Virgins had fallen asleep by this time. Good. The valerian root worked.
Agi and I watched the video. Here it is. Tell me if you believe the trainee was pushed, or if she fell. Then, in the comments, tell me what I should do about Agi, and recommend to me suitable disciplinary measures for the fighting Virgins.
I was humming a little tune and adding a bit of water to the bouquet of six dozen pure white roses Tyme Traveler had sent me when the knock came on my office door.
“Come on in!” I called, turning to water the bouquet of six dozen blazing red roses my … ahem … sponsor, Ze Baron had sent me. ( I still haven’t taken delivery of the Partridge Family Bus, so he doesn’t completely own me yet.) I heard the door open and then close, but whoever entered had not said anything. “Yes?” I asked cheerfully, my back still to the door.
When there was still no answer, I turned around, hoping I wasn’t about to get Shanghaied by some angry Samoan father. I was relieved to see Susan, but my relief immediately changed to concern when I saw her trembling and noticed a tear plunging down her cheek.
“Oh, no!” I put the water pitcher down next to the six dozen pristine yellow roses Sir Agincourt had sent me and crossed the room to Susan, giving her a reassuring hug. “What’s is it, dear?” I asked, steering her by the elbow to the fainting couch near the window. She began to sob in earnest and I quickly mixed her a Margarita. “Tell Wenchy what’s wrong,” I encouraged, handing her a delicately embroidered, soft, linen hanky.
Susan’s sobs turned into sniffles as the Margarita began to work its magic and she was able to catch her breath.
“Oh, Wench! I’ve done the most terrible thing a Virgin can do!”
“Now, now, Susie.” I said soothingly. “You were one of the very first students to matriculate here at Wench’s Virgin Training School. You know there’s nothing we can’t fix.”
Inexplicably, she began sobbing again. I patted her shoulder and mixed my student another Margarita. I also went to the phone on my desk and called for Sherry and Silly. If anyone knew what was wrong with Susan, they would.
Sherry arrived first. “Uh-oh. I was afraid this might happen,” she said when she saw the shape Susan was in.
“Clue me in, then,” I requested. I was worried. Susan was inconsolable.
Silly arrived just then and drew up short. “What did that man do to her?” she exclaimed.
“Man?” I cocked an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. “No man has been authorized to have access to Susan.”
Silly’s eyes widened and she slapped her hand over her mouth. Sherry shook her head sadly.
“Susie, may I tell Wench what’s going on?” Sherry asked. Susan cried harder but nodded her permission. I looked at Sherry expectantly. Sherry sighed. “Mind if I have a Margarita? This isn’t going to be easy.”
I nodded and indicated the pitcher of drinks already mixed and waiting. Sherry poured one for me and one for Silly, then gulped one herself. She refilled her glass, sighed again, and began.
“Susan met the Encore Shooter a month or so ago, and the sparks were instantaneous. He’s asked her to move in with him.”
“Move in with him? But she has a home! Her FEMA trailer is gorgeously and tastefully decorated, and her SEALs are so devoted to her they’ve even done spectacular landscaping around it!” I was utterly mystified. Why in the world would Susan want to leave the school and her home? And then his name hit me.
“Wait a minute!” I yelped. “Encore Shooter?”
Sherry and Silly both nodded.
I dashed to my desk and began rifling papers. Aha! There was the letter I wanted!
“Encore Shooter wrote me last week asking if I would consider taking payment for a Virgin in some medium of exchange other than camels or oil wells. I nearly threw it away but kept it for a good laugh. I had no idea he already had a particular Virgin in mind!”
“He has had a particular Virgin in more than just his mind,” muttered Sherry.
“Excuse me?” Susan was sobbing so loudly at this point that I wasn’t sure I had heard Sherry correctly.
“They’ve been seeing each other in secret,” Silly offered hesitantly.
“Seeing each other…?” I was stunned. Dumbstruck.
“Unchaperoned,” confirmed Sherry with a tight nod of her head.
This was disaster. If one Virgin was going over the fence at night, what kind of example would this set for the others? Susan may be one of my favorite and best students, but this matter would have to be dealt with swiftly and firmly. Once again I picked up the telephone on my desk. I dialed the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge. When Mad Diane LeDeux answered, I simply said, “We have a Situation. Please come to my office immediately.” The line went dead in my ear, but I knew Mad Diane was on her way.
“We obviously need to get this man here so we can discuss a price,” I said decisively to Sherry and Silly. “Do either of you know how to reach him quickly?”
To my chagrin, Susan actually was able to cry harder and louder. I rolled my eyes. Susan’s reaction to my question could only mean one thing. “Silly, go to Susan’s FEMA trailer. Have any men who are there, including her SEALs, come here to my office at once. And find Basser, too.” Silly ran to obey, the colorful silken veils of her harem outfit flapping behind her.
I turned my attention to the still-sobbing Susan. “Susan, pull yourself together. I’m going to deal with this situation, and it isn’t the end of the world. Have another drink.” I handed her a freshly topped-off Margarita. She gulped it and hiccuped.
Sherry sat beside her on the fainting couch and patted her had reassuringly. “Sus, I told you Wench wouldn’t get mad if you just told her the truth.” Sherry scolded her friend gently, and offered her a hanky that wasn’t nearly as sodden as the crumpled mess Susan was holding. Susan blew her nose loudly.
While Susan calmed herself I mixed another pitcher of Margaritas. Dealing with this situation was going to take much fortitude, and tequila is chock full of fortitude. Sherry and Susan murmured together quietly.
I settled myself comfortably on the divan across from them, drink in hand, and addressed Susan, who was still hiccuping but calm. “So tell me how it happened,” I commanded.
She glanced at Sherry for support and took a deep breath. “We actually met before the Virgin Training School opened. Just once, and in a crowd. There was nothing compromising about it at all. But then one day when Silly and I were shopping in the open-air market, I bumped into him again. Bumping into him was what did it. That physical contact….” A dreamy look came into her eyes.
“Obviously that one instance of physical contact isn’t what has you so upset,” I pointed out.
“Well, no. He asked for my phone number. Silly warned me not to do it, but I gave it to him. And he called. We met for dinner, and for a picnic, and more.” The dreamy look was back. “He’s so handsome, and so kind, and so funny, and so wonderful…”
I could tell that the adjectives would just keep coming ad nauseum, so I was relieved when Silly returned with Basser and Susan’s two assigned SEALs. A nice looking, tragically American man was with them, too. The SEALs appeared to have him in custody.
I stood and extended my hand for a kiss. “Encore Shooter, I presume?” He looked flustered, but knew what to do. Susan had either briefed him well or this man was indeed a true gentleman. I suspected the latter based on how quickly he seemed to assess the situation in my office.
“Mistress Wench, I have taken shameful advantage of Susan and I want nothing more than to make things right,” he said.
I was impressed. With his first words he had assumed responsibility and was offering compensation for the damage he had done.
“I’m listening,” I said evenly.
From his pocket the man produced a small box. He opened it. Inside was a gorgeous diamond ring. In spite of myself I let out a breath of awe. I am not easily awed by jewelry since I own some of the most sought-after jewels in the world. Nevertheless, the sparkle and brilliance of the stones, enhanced by a setting that would put Cartier to shame, amazed even me. I was about to reach for it when he turned and presented the ring to Susan.
“My darling Susan,” he said, falling to one knee, “I had intended to give you this ring in a different place and at a different time. I hope you know that it is the first of many rings to come. Will you be mine?”
Susan began crying all over again and fell into her swain’s arms. The SEALs started toward Encore Shooter but I waved them back. Basser and I exchanged a knowing look. Susan and her friend might be in a little trouble, but so were the SEALs, who had allowed a Virgin to be unchaperoned with a man. Their dereliction of duty seemed to have cost us one of our most valuable Virgins.
“Basser, I think your SEALs also have some explaining to do.”
Basser nodded. “Yep. They do. Boys, how’d you come to let a man into Susie’s FEMA trailer? I mean, Homeland Security is gonna come down on us like the Fred Murrah Building for this! What if he’d been a terrorist? What if he is a terrorist?” I could see that Basser was about to get really wound up, and I really wanted answers. I interrupted.
“Gentlemen, the reason we allow SEALs here at Wench’s Virgin Training School is to prevent men from entering the campus and stealing away our Virgins. It seems that a man has entered campus and a Virgin is about to leave with him. The Virgin in question was your responsibility. Please explain.”
Both SEALs turned a bit pinkish. The younger one hung his head. The older one cleared his throat. Just then, though, Mad Diane LeDeux arrived. The Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins had made excellent time coming from the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge.
“Diane, thank you for coming so quickly. I’m afraid we have an rather unusual disciplinary problem on our hands.”
Mad Diane grinned. She fondled the flogger she always carried in a special tool belt attached to her corset.
Yes, Susan has been allowed to leave with her man. I hear she has painted his living room “Buffalo” or some such color. The SEALs are unlikely to allow any more men on the premises just because they aren’t leading camels. Basser has made the SEAL training more rigorous, and fortunately we have escaped closer inspections by Homeland Security as a result.
Mad Diane had a wonderful time wielding her flogger on those four upturned bums. I couldn’t just allow Susan to leave with no punishment, after all, and her noble consort volunteered to undergo the same treatment when he saw how the punishment was administered.
Diane was rather rough with the SEALs, but it’s my understanding she took them back with her to the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge after the experience, where they were each issued a Hot Bottom Wench in a standing position.
I was working on the Virgin Training School’s books just before the corporate tax deadline last Thursday. The accountant needed some details clarified. The enormous amounts won and lost by Spy and Silly on their trip to Monte Carlo last December included odd expenditures, and to avoid questions during an audit, the accountant wanted me to be sure.
I was burning the midnight oil when the phone rang. Absently I picked it up. “Hello?”
“Wench? Hey. It’s Tyme. How’s business?”
“Tyme! You’ve been out a long while!”
“Yeah, and I’ve had a good run this trip. Listen, my ship has 300 island girls on board, minus the 35 Ze Baron traded for that are consigned for delivery to him. All the rest are headed to your virgin school.”
“Trainees! Yay!” Looking at my bottom line for last year and paying the inevitable taxes made me eager for new Virgins to train and distribute among our Eastern brethren. I mentally tabulated the value of 265 virgins times 6 camels apiece. I liked that bottom line!
The Tyme Traveler’s voice crackled over the line again, interrupting my calculations. “So where do you want them?” he asked me.
“Park them in the empty FEMA trailers.” Somehow the Virgin Training School ended up with all the temporary homes that never got delivered New Orleans after Katrina. They made excellent dorm rooms for our trainees. “How far out are you?”
“Just a couple of hours.” Tyme sounded a little strained. He was tired, maybe.
“Should I fire up the hot tub for you and your crew?” I asked. A good supplier like Tyme needs to be treated right.
“Wish we could stay, but after we unload the cargo we have to skidaddle.”
“What’s the rush?”
There was a pause. Then Tyme apparently decided to come clean. “Well, their fathers are following in dugout canoes, and they are good paddlers.”
“What are you talking about? Why are their fathers coming?” Then it dawned on me. “Tyme, you didn’t exactly take these island girls over their families’ objections, did you?” My mind was racing. How many SEALs were on campus right now? What kind of defenses did the school have from angry fathers of reluctant Virgins?
“They’re in canoes? It’ll take them weeks to get here by birch bark. Their daughters will be freshly revirginated and sold to the highest Arab bidder before then. We can look innocent among our herds of dromedaries.” My confidence was returning after the initial shock.
“They aren’t traveling by birch bark canoe,” Tyme replied hesitantly. “Palm tree, outriggers…. big Samoan dudes…”
“Oh, hell. Well, if they have to cross the Pacific we have even more time,” I said confidently.
“Truth is, they’re about a day out and are closing on me, and I’m under full canvas.”
I yelped. “You’re leading them straight here?”
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Obviously Tyme expected me to come up with some sort of plan. Fortunately I had one.
“It’ll be ok. I’ll have some of the Western Virgins intercept them and try out the moves from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra. Those big Samoans will forget all about their daughters. I’ll warn the Virgins not to mention your name.”
Tyme sighed in relief. “I knew I could count on you, Wenchie. By the way, my crew needs some diversion. They looking at each other kinda weird.”
I laughed. The crew of the Wandering Wench looks kind of weird regardless of their length of time at sea. “Not a problem. Now, the Samoans won’t recognize the crew, will they? If we clean them up, I mean. We can put them in the hot tubs first then assign Virgins to each one.”
“I don’t know,” Tyme mused.
“We’ll give them all shaves and dye their hair as needed.”
“Hmmm. Blond Africans. It might work.”
“Yeah. The Samoans will mistake them for Maoris.”
“Maoris? You mean Morris? The cat?”
“No, not the cat. Maoris. Like Australian aborigines. From New Zealand. They sometimes have blond hair.”
“I don’t really want to dye my hair.”
“OK, so we can put your crew in African tribal dress and remind them to speak with Cameroon accents.”
“Oh, I like Cameroons. Especially the ones with coconut and caramel.”
“Tyme, those are MACaroons, not CAMeroons.”
“Hey, you got rum?” It was an abrupt change of subject, but knowing Tyme he was trying to cover his mistake. Or he was thirsty. You never can tell about these pirates.
“Of course we have rum! I’m a wench, aren’t I?”
“So back to the problem of the angry Samoans. We can have your guys put on civil war uniforms and say they are reenactors. Or, we can put your crew in NFL jerseys and tell them to act like fraternity boys. The Samoans will think they’re football players.”
“No, lots of Samoans play in San Diego. They’ll figure it out. And I hope you’ve got a LOT of rum if you want to make it look convincing.”
“Other than that I’m all out of ideas, unless your crew want to don harem dress and go through Virgin training themselves. If they do then the Navy SEALs are duty bound and sworn to protect them.”
“Navy SEALs look at each other weird too, have you not noticed? That’s why I left the teams.”
“Well, yes, but they are Special Forces. Of course they’re weird.”
“No, Wench, you don’t understand. They have names like Melvin, Bruce and Chewey. THAT kind of weird is what I mean.”
“Oh. I see.” I didn’t, but it was dawning on me that Tyme and his crew weren’t going to stick around for 300 angry Samoan fathers to attempt to reclaim their Virgin daughters. Tyme confirmed my suspicions with his next words.
“I think I’m gonna get new load.”
“Yep. Need to get load of sheep and sail for Wyoming.”
“Yeah, I hear there’s quite the market for sheep there. We have no sheep. But soon we will have plenty of camels. I guess those boys in Wyoming aren’t tall enough for camels, though, are they?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. Can camels be stump trained? I don’t think them dudettes will know the difference…. what is that smell? Damn! Wheew!”
“That smell? Oh. Camel dung. It isn’t as bad as swine, but it is a bit stronger than your average sheep. You must be close.”
“Pulling around the bend now.”
“Camels can be stump trained.”
“Are you sure?”
“Actually, most of them come to us already stump trained. Their Arab owners have no women, either.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
“And I’ve done my research, too. I mean, I am a business woman. I’m going to know my products.”
“Yeah? I want to see your dissertation on stump training dromedaries.”
“I didn’t get my Ph.D. in Stump Training! I have a camel-master for that job.”
“Hold on. I got my tongue stuck in a shot glass.”
“Yeah, I thought your voice sounded a little strange. I hate when that happens.
“Most distressful. The thing won’t come loose.”
“You didn’t have to lick it dry, you know. You could have poured yourself another shot and gotten the additional booze that way.”
“Well, I figured it was safer this way. I got it stuck in the keg earlier.”
“Are you running short on alcohol? Do I need to make a run to the distillery before you and your crew get here? I can call the guys in the hills who have their own stills for the signature labels if you prefer.”
“Hell, yes! At midnight I’m another year older.”
“We’ll have to get a cake, then! I assume rum cake is your favorite? I’m not sure which of the girls will be selected to jump out of your cake for you. There is always such competition for that honor. They like it when they get icing on themselves. Someone has to lick it off, of course.”
“Pick me, dammit, ’cause I can lick my own eyebrows.”
“Woo-hoo! The Virgins will be squealing for a chance to get at you!”
“Um, can’t you get in the cake, Wenchie?”
“Awww. Well, I have to supervise the celebrations, as well as make sure the SEALs are on the alert for wandering and invading Samoans.”
“I think the SEALs will be looking for whoever dropped the soap. They’ve been on your island too long, and no recreation.”
These particular SEALSs have been retrained without such activities necessary. We have Virgins everywhere.”
“See? I am right.”
“No, no. They guard the Virgins, and the Virgins use them in training, so their activities are all heterosexual. Well, except for the orgies, of course, when anything goes.”
“Ogres are such ugly creatures. Where do you keep them? I suppose you have those gnomes, too.”
“No, no, not ogres. Orgies. It’s a different thing entirely. And we use midgets, not gnomes. Unless they choose to dress up like gnomes, of course.”
“Midgets? Those really fast li’l race cars? I rode in one of them once. Got sick.”
“Um, well, not exactly. Think Munchikins without the big lollipops.”
Tyme? You ok?”
“No, the shot glass is dangling off my tongue, and I just bonked myself on the forehead with it!” He wasn’t that articulate, but those are the words I deciphered from his odd manner of speaking with a shot glass stuck to his tongue.
“You really must have that tongue bronzed when you die. It will be an inspiration to Virgins everywhere.”
“So are midgets Munchikins by proxy? Kinda like Dillinger, coroner whacked his 12 inches clean off.”
“That must’ve hurt. Munchikins by proxy are those sick little fuckers that are just short.”
“It’s in a jar at the Smithsonian.”
“I thought that was Rasputin’s that was whacked off and put into a jar.”
“No, no. His is in the Kremlin. It hit Gorbachev in the noggin, hence the big bruise on his head. … uh-oh.”
“Do you hear that…? That be the drummer for the 7 1/2 boatloads of Samoans. Their lead canoe.”
“They’ve caught up with you! What shall we do?”
“Hide me under your skirt. I’m telling the crew it’s every man for himself.”
“I will latch on to you, like a leech. I swear.”
“We could whip out Dillinger’s or Rasputin’s former parts and tell them that the Samoans we cut it off some guy, and that he works here and he’s really pissed off…”
“Yeah. We can tell them we have some really bitchy eunuchs. Like, they get PMS and everything.”
Tyme didn’t answer. He had left his ship and was headed for my ample skirts. The Samoans are rounding the bend now, and the Navy SEALs are all on other duties.
Who will save us now?
They just won’t leave Wench’s Virgin Training School alone, will they? If it’s not the likes of every Mohammed, Achmed, Hakim, and Hadji, then it’s the Dirk Diglers and other Giant Cocks of the world.
That’s right. Dirk Digler. I said it.
Dirk was hanging out at the Virgin Training School last Tuesday night with Judge Hanna M. High, who was showing him what she had learned in her revirginification classes, when suddenly Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf, wheeled up in his Whale accompanied by a crew of revelers in RVs, a motorcycle with a sidecar, and various other vehicles.
Now, we all know that Guy is the Spiritual Advisor to the Virgin Training School. Naturally the Virgins welcome him with open … ahem… arms when he comes. So when the guys tumbled out of all of those vehicles intent on a raid, why, we Virgins hardly knew what to do.
It was not just any raid, my friends. It was a panty raid the likes of which have not been seen since most of us were in college, if even then.
I have it on good authority that Ted scored no less than a dozen thongs in different styles and colors. Doug, being somewhat less discriminating, absconded with everything from bikinis to one very large pair of white cotton granny panties. Guy himself had two hands full of silky underthings when he burst into the room where the Judge was demonstrating her moves to FBI Agent Dirk Digler, a former Navy SEAL who had been recruited to help with special training.
When he saw Dirk and the judge working on certain techniques from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, well, Guy went a little crazy. He grunted and screamed wordlessly and headed for Dirk, who in self defense placed a feather pillow between himself and the monster that Guy had become. Guy attacked and feathers flew everywhere.
Agent Digler was so disconcerted he felt he had to do something. Fearing bad press, he pretended to arrest Judge High. It was the only thing that calmed Guy down. Guy finally quit yelling wordlessly, and Steve and Ralph led him away after speaking to him in strong words of one syllable or less. Apparently, Guy was in no shape to listen to reason although he took commands from the fellows quite well.
Somehow the whole debacle was reported in the news as being a scandal. The article claimed that Judge High was arrested in a bribery scandal and that there was a great deal of money in the room with her.
Folks, the money that was found in the room was part of the props for the lap dance the judge had been demonstrating for Dirk. When she tried to explain that to the High Priest of Meatloaf he would have none of it. He threw money of his own at the judge and yelled wordlessly, “Nnnnnuhhhh! Uuuunnnnnhhhh!”
Poor Judge High has been forced to resign from office. Because I represent Sherry’s daughter Katie in the Giant Cock Baby Chick controversy, the Giant Cock’s lawyer, Ze Baron, demanded that Judge High be removed from the case and the proceedings be put on hold. It’s not as though the Virgins and the Baby Chicks are related interests, even. Humpf.
Thankfully, though, a new judge has finally been appointed. Judge Bugeyes Billy, known affectionately among many of us as OhBilly, has graciously agreed to preside over the case. He has assured Ze Baron that he will remove himself at the last impropriety, so the case is in good judicial hands indeed.
Judge Bugeyes Billy has ordered all of the parties to Dr. Emma’s page on Wednesday, March 14, for DNA testing. Dr. Emma told Ze Baron it would take several days for the results to be known, so we will sit with bated breath awaiting the outcome of the paternity testing. Those poor, fatherless baby chicks are being tended by their foster grandfather, Len, while Sherry and Katie are in New York on urgent business.
We fervently hope that this tawdry paternity matter can be adequately addressed in the very near future. Those chicks are becoming expensive for my client to maintain. Sadly, there is talk that some of the chicks will have to be sent elsewhere to live because they are becoming too large for their pen.
It’s those Giant Cock genes.
I am distressed to report that I have to reevaluate the whole Virgin thing.
I have recently been directed back to the series Blogging the Bible, and a rather upsetting thing was brought to my attention in the entry on the Book of Hosea. According to David Plotz, the author of the series, God’s first instruction to the prophet Hosea is to go forth and marry a prostitute.
WHAT? I got whiplash on that one. A whore? God told his prophet to marry a WHORE? You gotta be kidding me.
Then Plotz reminds me that there are lots of prostitutes in the Bible.Tons of them. Gobs. Plotz says, “There’s scarcely an unmarried woman in the Bible … who isn’t a prostitute, or treated like one! There’s Tamar, who turns a trick with her father-in-law Judah. The Moabite women, who whore themselves to the Israelites. The Midianite harlot who’s murdered by Phineas. Jacob’s daughter Dinah, whose loose behavior sparks mass slaughter. No wonder they call prostitution the oldest profession—it’s the only profession that biblical women seem to have.”
Where are the Virgins? I thought the men of the Lands of the Bible were into Virgins! What’s the point of the Virgin Training School if we aren’t going to be trading camels for our Virgins? I thought I had an entrepreneurial opportunity here!
I mean, I guess I should have realized something was up when the last time I blogged about the Virgin Training School Neither Habib Aktar nor Hachbar Vinmook showed up. Habib has found his Virgins and evidently returned to Cleveland or wherever, and Hachbar must still be in the Land of Bigfoot and Unicorns. Neither of them show up to hang out with me any longer.
I have gotten all revirginated. I have studied the Pop-Up Kama Sutra and I have practiced the positions with my anatomically correct Virgin Barbie and Camel-Rider Ken dolls. I have danced the Dance of the Seven Veils until the silk chiffon has fallen to pieces from over-use. I have listened carefully to the critique of my assigned Navy SEALs. I have diligently practiced getting the 69th comment on the blogs of as many friends as possible (without making it look obvious, of course).
Where have I gone wrong?
Are you guys interested in buying my Virgins or not?
And where the heck are Hachbar and Habib?
When I was in college I took a class in poetry writing. I had this crazy idea that I could do it at least as well as many out there, and better than quite a few. I enjoyed doing it, and kept at it for a number of years, until the responsibilities and depressing reality of marriage and work stole my muse.
How arrogant was I when I thought I could write?
Let me tell you just how arrogant I was.
I was arrogant enough to think I could improve upon the great Thomas Sterns Eliot. In my arrogant delusions of grandeur, I believed that Eliot’s whiny Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock needed improvement.
I was just the gal to improve it, too – I knew exactly the elements it needed. It needed a dose of realism, I thought, and not just anybody’s realism, either. It needed the realism of a twenty-something wise-ass. After all, I had the real skinny on life. At the time I wasn’t bogged down by the silly responsibilities and obligations that get in the way of people with families and jobs and mortgages.
Imposing realism on an unsuspecting, conventionally-oriented public takes open eyes and open minds and open hearts! And back in the early 1980’s there wasn’t much that was more open than a female college student’s legs. (This before AIDS. Herpes was incurable, but not fatal. We had antibiotics for the rest. So free love, baby!) Yes, I was a college student then. Don’t assume, though, that just because I was in high school and college in the late 70’s and early 80’s that I lived a life of drunken debauchery. Oh, dear me, please do not assume that! Wait until you have gathered proof. I mean, faced with incontrovertible proof I won’t deny it.
Oh, and, twenty something years later, I must really, sincerely apologize to Mr. Eliot. I promise, honest, swear on a stack of Bibles and on my father’s grave, that this poem is not really all that autobiographical. And I’ve changed since then. I’m a middle-aged matron now, the sainted mother of a teenage son. I’m a virgin, really….
Here it is: my morning-after tribute to J. Alfred Prufrock. Or whatever his name was.
The Morning After the Love Song
Let me see now, how can I,
While the sun is still belly-low in the sky
Like an ancient whore in a back room,
How can I, from this strange room through this strange street
Make my retreat
And forget the stops nearly made at cheap hotels,
Leaving behind me the oyster shells,
The memory of a night of lust and heat
And of nearly making it in the back seat?
It leads me to an overwhelming question…
I dare not ask why I did it;
I’ll never admit it.
Beyond the door the paperboys come and go.
I think they know.
The yellow stains upon the windowpanes
Are nicotine stains on the windowpanes,
Smoky stains from nights like the last,
Lingering in the light that comes through the windowpanes.
Smoke belongs in chimneys
To be sent out over the roof at night,
Boiling slowly out of the house
Not to block the windows’ light.
Of course there should be a time
That a window’s light is blocked,
Like at night when I try to sleep.
That is the time, but not the only time,
For a room to be dark and its door locked.
There’s also the time when we procreate
And the time when our hands
Reach for ourselves (when we masturbate).
Time for me. Time for me.
I have time for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before finding the car’s key.
Beyond the door the postmen come and go.
I think they know.
And now is my time!
Do I dare? Do I dare?
Do I dare escape and descend the stair?
I am pinned under him by my own hair!
How can I move? How can I squirm
Away from him? I wish he’d turn!
Perhaps slowly, slowly I can squirm…
Do I dare
Disturb his sleep?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will keep.
Oh, I remember them all, remember them all:-
I remember the evenings, mornings, afternoons.
I have measured my life by the length of afternoons,
From long in the summer to short in the fall,
From one television season to another
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover.
And I remember the shows; I’ve watched them all –
The shows that catch you and force you to follow
Their silly stories and repetitive prattle.
I’ve watched them all, I’ve watched them all
Until my mind has begun to rattle
And my mind and spirit have become hollow
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover.
I have known arms such as his, known them all
Arms that are muscled and bronzed and bare
(Arms that have me trapped by my hair!)
Is it his smell or perhaps his undress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along beside me, or arms that call
Secrets from myself I have yet to uncover
Because my mind has begun to rattle…
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirtsleeves, leaning out of windows?
If I had a pair of claws
I’d have torn my hair and scuttled away at dawn.
It’s almost afternoon, yet he sleeps so peacefully!
I attempt to peel away his fingers.
Asleep … he’s still asleep, the malingerer,
Stretched out in this dirty bed beside me!
Do I, after a drunken night’s nap,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have agonized and squirmed and prayed,
I have seen a vision of my room mate opening the door with a snicker,
And in short, I am dismayed.
And could this have been worth it, after all,
After the drinks, the oysters, the drinks,
Among the lounge lizards, among sone talk of him and me,
Could this have been worthwhile
To have bitten off my arm with a smile,
To have squeezed myself into a ball,
To roll myself toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Magdalene, come from the bed,
Come from a stranger’s bed, and I’ll never tell you all –
I left one with a pillow under his head…
I shouldn’t say anything at all
Nothing, nothing at all.
And could this have been worth it after all,
Could this be worthwhile,
After the broken romances and cooling of passionate heat,
After the gothic novels, after the dreams of skirts that trail along the floor –
After all that, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern could cast a light to expose me
Would this have been worthwhile
To expose myself to me, and tell myself all,
To look in the lantern’s glow and say,
“That is not me at all,
“Not what I meant to be at all.”
No! I am not Ophelia, nor was I meant to be;
I am almost a harlot, one that will do
Anything to swell my own ego, start a scene or two,
Opposite the virgin; no doubt an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Easy, uncautious, not meticulous,
Full of high living, but a bit obtuse;
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow bold… I grow bold…
I shall be out of his place before out of bed he has rolled.
Shall I leave my hair behind? Do I dare as bed springs screech?
I push away the white cotton sheets, the white-sale-special sheets.
I can hear the children calling, each to each.
I do think they will call to me.
I have seen them playing stickball in the streets,
Taunting their playmates and strangers who dare to pass
As traffic becomes heavier and their Mamas go to mass.
I have lingered in this filthy bedchamber
With its walls splattered with dirty reds and browns
‘Til children’s voices have waked him, and he frowns.
I am thrilled to report that Wench’s Virgin Training School is quite popular. Enrollment numbers are quite encouraging and the Camel Endowment is quite large. Ahem.
Please allow me to make a full report to our Trustees, Students and Sponsors.
In just three months of operation, the school has enrolled 19 female revirgination candidates. They are, in order of enrollment, KimberKat, Cyndi, Lisa, Silly, Sue, Sherry, Shira, Catherine,Blue, DWMeowMix, SweetP, Selinda, Gypsy Firecracker, Lia, Susan, Jen, Cherish, Bobbie-Lynn, and Melissa.
We are still waiting for 7 more students: Free, Juls, Red Carol, Tricia, Superbitch, JeniT, and Nancy . You may remember that these potential virgins were contacted by either Habib Aktar or Hachbar Vinmook (and maybe by both) to be members of their harems. Their admissions applications have been approved but they have not yet picked up their copies of Virgins for Dummies or the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, nor have they appeared for class. If anyone knows where these truants are, please have them report to me immediately.
We have a Winter Dance coming up soon. We couldn’t have a Christmas Dance because…well, Hachbar and Habib don’t exactly celebrate Christmas. We need volunteers to decorate the gym with the appropriate tissue garlands, incense burners, and silk rugs. One exciting feature of the Winter Dance will be the BookChick, Cyndi’s exhibition performance of the Dance of the Seven Veils. She is our Dance Instructor, and classes in both “Advanced Seven Veils” and “Belly Dancing 101″ are being offered in the spring term. (“Seven Veils” will only be available with Instructor permission based upon an audition, as “Belly Dancing 101″ is a prerequisite for it.)
We’re going to have a fundraiser and sell chocolate bars and gift wrap. It is necessary for the school to raise enough money to repurchase Ohio. Our dear friend and champion, OhBilly, traded Ohio for the honor and virtue of one of our students when Habib had her on the run. Also, Basser has passed me a letter from the National Security Advisor that if we do not reinstate Ohio soon, Habib may be considered a terrorist for having caused Ohio to secede from the Union involuntarily. We have to buy back Ohio, and that may take a little doing. Texas was also traded for one of our students, but apparently the government doesn’t much care about that.
We have a special ed student, proving the accepting and inclusive nature of Wench’s Virgin Training School. Sherry’s 504 plan is in place, and Mad Diane LeDeux,, who is our Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins, handles special education instruction at Wench’s Virgin Training School. Unfortunately, Mad Diane has had to wield her whip a few times. We are sad to report that we do have disciplinary issues with some students. Shira is in the habit of sleeping behind her veil and Silly keeps showing up for class naked. For some reason Mad Diane is particularly enthusiastic about Silly’s floggings.
In a related matter, Blue has asked about cuff and stick training. It has been determined that this class shall be an elective for advanced students, except for those who Mad Diane believes need the extra discipline. Mad Diane will be the class’s instructor, of course.
Hachbar has become quite a benefactor for Wench’s Virgin Training School. I am pleased to report that he compensated me with much livestock and health insurance. Because of his generosity, I am able to concentrate on the school full time.
Hachbar also wants to sponsor a new building on the campus of Wench’s Virgin Training School. He has directed that all virgins shall use their feminine wiles to lure contractors to build the new school. This will indeed be a test of our revirgination program because of course, the contractors will not be allowed to touch the virgins. Hachbar has decreed that the penalty for touching virgins is death by camel humpy. What Hachbar doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though. If virgins get touched, all they have to do is go back to Virgins for Dummies, Lesson 1, and start the revirgination program all over again.
Habib has not been seen around the school very much. Hachbar informs us that Habib had a delicate operation called an “addadictomy.” I thought all that facial hair was proof certain that Habib already had a Y-chromosome, but Hachbar insists that Habib was missing from many of the opening festivities of the school because of that surgical procedure. Habib hotly denies this, and we can certainly understand why he might be a bit embarrassed about it. One simply does not discuss one’s elective cosmetic or prosthetic surgeries in polite company.
Shortly after Wench’s Virgin Training School opened, we received a dire warning from Basser.It seems that US intelligence operatives somehow got the idea that our school is an Arab Training Camp! According to Basser, Homeland Security was tipped off by an undercover inside informant. Homeland Security has now put the country on Yellow Alert because of this misinformation. Navy SEALs stealthily infiltrated the bushes behind the school and began monitoring us. When they saw Silly was naked, they even began filming!
Homeland Security was disturbed primarily by the fact that because so many women were attending revirginification classes, men could get drunk in bars with no worries about a phone calls demanding they come home. For some reason Homeland Security considers this a national threat beyond even Bill Gates running for president.
The government is now closely watching the school’s banks accounts, activities of students and instructors that occur outside the school, our cable TV bills (searching for naughty pay-per-views, I suppose), breast exam results, and so forth. Under the Patriot Act, the government has access to everyone who deals with us and our virgins. Despite my best legal wrangling with the government’s dark-suited men with their dark glasses and their dark SUVs with the dark-tinted windows, the Patriot Act allows them to violate our rights anytime they want by claiming it is in the best interest of the government. They have specifically asked that our gynecologists check us for Arab intrusion and that our hair stylists check us for fleas. As headmistress of Wench’s Virgin Training School, I find this highly insulting.
What’s even more insulting is the intimation that the government thinks that there are spitters here at our school. Basser said that the SEALs objected to the camels, which stink and spit, and advised me that Navy Men do not like spitters. I was quick to inform Basser that so far as I am aware, the camels are the only spitters at this school, and the Navy men just need to stop playing with the camels. The lip gloss gets in their fur and makes it difficult for Lou’s crew of camel jockeys to groom.
The problem was rectified very quickly, though, when we got use of the FEMA trailers still languishing at Hope, Arkansas (just a few miles down the road from where I live). David (that adorable green puppy!) Reminded us that the trailers were sitting there empty and unused, and naturally we had a great use for them while awaiting our expansion. Each virgin is now assigned a FEMA trailer when she arrives at school, and the Navy SEALs have graciously agreed to leave the bushes and stealth mode behind and take rotating shifts guarding our virgins! There are two SEALs to a virgin on each shift. This has been a great reassurance to Homeland Security and the safety of our virgins is guaranteed.
Before Silly gets too worried (I know she’s thinking about this), let me assure everyone that there is plenty of lip gloss. Our budget has ample funds set aside to purchase lip gloss in 55-gallon drums, and one drum will be placed in each FEMA trailer.
Initially we got wonderful financial advice from that scion of numbers, the Spy Man himself. Thanks to his input, we have established the prices we will charge for our virgins. A virgin in training will go for 6 camels (2 humps preferred), a 12 cup coffee maker, The Idiot’s Guide to Disarming Bombs, and a gift certificate from “BURQAS R US.” A graduate will cost 12 camels, 10 horses, a year’s supply of Glade room deodorizers, a Brookstone electric shaver with the body hair attachment, and an oil well producing at least 500,000 barrels a day.
Of course, Hachbar’s explanation of the livestock exchange rates was very helpful in establishing the virgin prices:
1 camel = 2 horses
1 horse = 2 sheep or goats
1 goat = 1 sheep
pig = worthless
I am sad to report, however, that Spy turned out to be a, well, an embezzler. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe. But shortly after publication of the last blog about the school, he bought an Aston Martin with school funds and headed to the casino in Monte Carlo. He assured me it was to increase our holdings and for marketing purposes, and he even took Silly with him, ostensibly for some undercover work. He left a note, which was found after his departure, that he had purchased a Walther PPK gun with Silencer for $650 and an $1,800 Hugo Boss Tuxedo. He wiped out the remaining funds in out bank account, leaving us with only 23 cents.
He abandoned the Aston Martin in Monte Carlo, apparently, because he took the company Lear jet back to the school. He dodged in and out under cover of darkness, I am sorry to say, and left another note. Our bank account was overdrawn by $150,000, and still he had the temerity to demand reimbursements for mini bar charges of $1,452; a cash advance at the Monte Carlo Casino of $72,000, and entertainment expenses of $33,400! And this was despite the fact that he had won $500,000 playing baccarat! I tell you, the NERVE of some people!
What’s worse is that he swiped money from the school’s coffers and wired it to the bank account of the Young Republicans. They called and thanked me, or I might never have known. I nearly died of embarrassment. Of all the organizations in all the world, he had to choose the Young Republicans! He is now officially known as ”Spy Non Grata,” if his name must be spoken at all. Please use his name sparingly in my presence as it makes my blood boil.
For every bad egg like Spy Non Grata, though, there is a good egg. Feudalserfer, my beloved friend and now my partner, has established the Satellite Academy. That’s right, Wench’s Virgin Training School has launched into space and a campus is now located on the moon! Legal aliens only may apply, though. We don’t want gate crashers.
A huge party in the Feud’s blog celebrated the grand opening in glorious style.
And speaking of blog parties, Billy’s Dusty Springfield Blog, the official 69 training ground for Virgins, has not seen a 69 since Christmas Eve. Ladies, if you want to be considered experts in 69, you had better get busy! I’m just sayin’….
The last official count, on December 12 at 7 a.m. Central Standard Time was:
Billy, honey, can we get a current count?
Oh, and you don’t mind the Virgins using you to practice their 69 technique, now do you?
Disclaimer: Please note that all prices and exchange rates either expressed or implied are subject to change without notice. The Wench of Aramink reserves sole discretion in the adjustment, revocation, and/or evaluation of said prices and exchange rates. All sales are final; no refunds and no exchanges. Internet sales are subject to all applicable regional, national, and international laws and taxes. Paypal is accepted. Virgins may be traded on eBay. All transactions void where prohibited.