The J. Geils Band and the Missing Vulva
two horrible, horrible dreams
Sean called me up and told me that he had won tickets to see the J. Geils Band. Since he was in Germany I would have to go, to report on the show for thingsihate. That didn't seem terribly odd; Sean's family has an insane knack for winning free things from drawings and raffles. I was a little concerned about something else, though; the only things I'd ever heard by the J. Geils Band were "Centerfold" and "Freeze Frame," and I didn't have time to get an album or listen to anything else they'd done.
I am uneasy when I go to musical shows for bands with whom I am not terribly familiar. I guess I worry that the singer might jam the microphone in my face and ask me to sing the chorus, at which point I would let everybody down. There might also be some kind of clapping or dancing I was supposed to do; while I am good at getting to and enjoy being in the front few rows of standing-up type concerts, I always feel obligated to look like I am very into things, in case the band is watching. Then I feel sad, because I can barely manage a sort of rhythmic rocking back and forth.
I didn't feel too worried about letting down the J. Geils Band, though. I figured I could just stand in the back or something. I guess if I didn't pay to get in, I don't feel as strongly about getting to the front of the audience.
When I got to the show it turned out that they had somehow found out that the only songs I had heard were "Centerfold" and "Freeze Frame." Because I was representing the press, those were the only songs they were going to play. They played those two songs over and over and over, and it was really unfortunate because, as it turned out, I only know the chorus to "Freeze Frame," so they'd play that for a while and then play "Centerfold" again.
It felt like that show lasted for days. Then I tried to leave without the band seeing me. I had to hide behind a Dumpster like in a bad spy movie; as I waited in the night, feeling really cold after the hot, sweaty auditorium, my throat felt hot and scratchy like I was about to catch a cold.
.
A middle-aged woman came to my house and asked to see all my bondage gear. I dragged a large duffel bag out of the closet and started laying it all out, a little nervous that she would disapprove. I guess she was there to renew my bondage-gear-owning license or something.
As it turned out, I had the stupidest bondage gear ever. I had a pair of leather pants - not sexy leather pants but dry and cracked brown leather slacks. I had a thing that looked like an enormous bowtie, untied, with one side covered in grip-knobs like a work glove or a slipper sock. I had a whole bunch of sea anemones, which at first I thought were french ticklers or something, but instead they turned out just to be jelly vinyl replicas of sea anemones. Then I found something hideous and flesh-pink and hollow, wrinkled and obscene. The woman and I stared at it for a while, until I remembered what it was; the inside of a vagina.
As I tried to explain to the woman, I had one of those pairs of latex underwear that looks like a woman's genitals, made to be worn by transvestites. (Mine was super-realistic, though; not one of the cheaper models.) I had it largely because it was on sale and I thought it would be ironic to own, but I didn't want to say that because I thought it would make her, a professional fetish gear inspector, look down on me and possibly give me a worse grade.
Absently playing with the inside-out vagina, she asked me where the rest of it was. I realized with a shock that turned into panic that I had no idea. Forget about my stupid fetish-gear-ownership permit, what if Mom came over and found it? Or the computer guy? What if I moved and left it behind? I started to worry that I'd left my name in the vulva panties, and the next renters would track me down to return them. My name is pretty uncommon but I am still the most peripatetic Oregon Truwe; what if they found my father first?
With that to worry about, I developed a much more cavalier attitude regarding the bondage inspector. As I unpacked my duffel I found a hard case full of sticks and canes and things, so I tried to distract her by hitting her a few times with each of my whips, flails, paddles and riding crops, which she took in stride. That might have been part of her job, though, what with the inspection and all. Then I ran out of things with which to hit her. She asked me again, where were the vulva panties?
I looked into her eyes for a moment, then threw the whip case through the window and jumped out. It wasn't as cool as it might sound; we were sitting on the couch, in front of a ground floor picture window, so I basically threw it then heaved myself up and over the couch, landing sprawled on the ground outside. I crawled and flailed awkwardly, eventually getting to my feet. I don't know if she was looking through the window or even following, because I just started running.
I am uneasy when I go to musical shows for bands with whom I am not terribly familiar. I guess I worry that the singer might jam the microphone in my face and ask me to sing the chorus, at which point I would let everybody down. There might also be some kind of clapping or dancing I was supposed to do; while I am good at getting to and enjoy being in the front few rows of standing-up type concerts, I always feel obligated to look like I am very into things, in case the band is watching. Then I feel sad, because I can barely manage a sort of rhythmic rocking back and forth.
I didn't feel too worried about letting down the J. Geils Band, though. I figured I could just stand in the back or something. I guess if I didn't pay to get in, I don't feel as strongly about getting to the front of the audience.
When I got to the show it turned out that they had somehow found out that the only songs I had heard were "Centerfold" and "Freeze Frame." Because I was representing the press, those were the only songs they were going to play. They played those two songs over and over and over, and it was really unfortunate because, as it turned out, I only know the chorus to "Freeze Frame," so they'd play that for a while and then play "Centerfold" again.
It felt like that show lasted for days. Then I tried to leave without the band seeing me. I had to hide behind a Dumpster like in a bad spy movie; as I waited in the night, feeling really cold after the hot, sweaty auditorium, my throat felt hot and scratchy like I was about to catch a cold.
A middle-aged woman came to my house and asked to see all my bondage gear. I dragged a large duffel bag out of the closet and started laying it all out, a little nervous that she would disapprove. I guess she was there to renew my bondage-gear-owning license or something.
As it turned out, I had the stupidest bondage gear ever. I had a pair of leather pants - not sexy leather pants but dry and cracked brown leather slacks. I had a thing that looked like an enormous bowtie, untied, with one side covered in grip-knobs like a work glove or a slipper sock. I had a whole bunch of sea anemones, which at first I thought were french ticklers or something, but instead they turned out just to be jelly vinyl replicas of sea anemones. Then I found something hideous and flesh-pink and hollow, wrinkled and obscene. The woman and I stared at it for a while, until I remembered what it was; the inside of a vagina.
As I tried to explain to the woman, I had one of those pairs of latex underwear that looks like a woman's genitals, made to be worn by transvestites. (Mine was super-realistic, though; not one of the cheaper models.) I had it largely because it was on sale and I thought it would be ironic to own, but I didn't want to say that because I thought it would make her, a professional fetish gear inspector, look down on me and possibly give me a worse grade.
Absently playing with the inside-out vagina, she asked me where the rest of it was. I realized with a shock that turned into panic that I had no idea. Forget about my stupid fetish-gear-ownership permit, what if Mom came over and found it? Or the computer guy? What if I moved and left it behind? I started to worry that I'd left my name in the vulva panties, and the next renters would track me down to return them. My name is pretty uncommon but I am still the most peripatetic Oregon Truwe; what if they found my father first?
With that to worry about, I developed a much more cavalier attitude regarding the bondage inspector. As I unpacked my duffel I found a hard case full of sticks and canes and things, so I tried to distract her by hitting her a few times with each of my whips, flails, paddles and riding crops, which she took in stride. That might have been part of her job, though, what with the inspection and all. Then I ran out of things with which to hit her. She asked me again, where were the vulva panties?
I looked into her eyes for a moment, then threw the whip case through the window and jumped out. It wasn't as cool as it might sound; we were sitting on the couch, in front of a ground floor picture window, so I basically threw it then heaved myself up and over the couch, landing sprawled on the ground outside. I crawled and flailed awkwardly, eventually getting to my feet. I don't know if she was looking through the window or even following, because I just started running.