Sexy Book of Sexy Sex (17 page)

‘Bating Blunders

Walking in on someone in the act of self-appreciation can be mortifying for all parties involved-so much so that Frances Calhoun made a living writing a syndicated advice column based solely on masturbation etiquette. “Whoopsie Daisy!” ran for decades, and at the height of its popularity was translated into forty-three different languages. Ms. Calhoun graciously lent us some of her favorite questions and responses.

Whoopsie Daisy!

by Frances Calhoun

Dear Frances,

As a strong, single mother of a fifteen-year-old boy I thought I was able to handle anything. Until now! I walked in on my son, Reginald D. Gatherer, rubbing his penis wildly while tonguing a glossy poster of Alyssa Milano. I didn’t know what to do, so I screamed, and then he screamed, and then I told him that I made his favorite lasagna, and he said he’d be out in a minute, and I said it’s getting cold, and he said he’d be right out, and the whole time I didn’t know where to look, so I just stared into those beady Alyssa Milano eyes, and they were staring right back at me, and it was like I could read her mind, and it said: I f**ked your son! What do I do?

Scared,

Lacey Gatherer

Dear Lacey,

Gracious, that sounds dreadful! I certainly hope your lasagna wasn’t spoiled. Those Italian casseroles can turn into a soggy mess. Still, the whole situation could have been avoided. Here are some basic guidelines to ensure the only noodle you see is on your dinner fork.

Rule number one: always knock. That is the Frances Calhoun golden rule! When the Lord takes me to heaven I will write that on my grave-stone. Here Lies Frances Calhoun, Please Knock!

“... I didn’t know what to do, so I screamed, and then he screamed, and then I told him that I made his favorite lasagna...”

Because I will be up in heaven “strumming my harp,” if you know what I mean. But I digress, I’m not dead and neither is your son! (Which is surprising. Most teenagers would be suicidal if their mother walked in on them, then wrote a letter about it using their full name to a very popular column. My second piece of advice is to put a lock on your aspirin bottle!)

But most important: get rid of Alyssa Milano. There’s nothing wrong with Reginald pulling the ripcord of his pleasure parachute now and again. But Alyssa Milano is dangerous. My bridge partner Dotty heard she has a tail! A tail!!! It’s so crazy it has to be true “Who’s the Boss?” you ask? My guess is Old Scratch himself!

Dear Frances,

I have been a flight attendant since the days when you could light up and bring a gallon of gasoline into the cabin, no questions asked! We were just having fun. And I do miss those times, but they are over and now it’s time to be scared. Which is why I was so frightened when I went to the cockpit to see if the captain wanted a cup of coffee only to find him with one hand on the airplane’s yoke and the other hand on his! All I could do was pretend that it wasn’t happening. Should I have said something? We had a perfect landing.

Flying high,

Cheryl

Dear Cheryl,

My goodness! What an exciting life you stewardesses have. Whooshing through the clouds all day long like angels. And lean just imagine your pilot gazing do what this beautiful earth, so close to the sky he can touch God, oh but not quite! But he can certainly come close by touching himself. Boy, I’d buff my button too. lean certainly sympathize with your preoecupied pilot. Especially since you didn’t follow my number-one rule: always knock! The door’s not going to complain!

Poetry Corner

And now for the Whoopsie Daisy Frances Calhoun Poetry Corner! Please enjoy this week’s poems.

The Man Who Masturbated Too Much

There once was a man who choked his chicken

The one between his legs

It came back to life and he choked it again

For days and days and days

The people in town didn’t hear from him

They chalked it up to malaise

Until that fateful evening

He walked out in the Street in a daze

He held up the chicken he was beating

It turned out it was his dick.

The Woman Who Wanked Wred

There once was a lady who polished her pearl

She did so since she was a little girl

She rubbed it for years to make it shinier

Her skin growing pale and her muscles tinier

Years went by and she went into seclusion

Suitors were turned away in confusion

This precious pearl must be an illusion

Finally she announced the jewel was on sale

And everyone gasped at the big unveil

The pearl was her clit, but rubbed raw like a ruby

“WORLD MASTURBATION DAY”

Janie sipped her martini and tried to look comfortable being alone at the bar. She laid out the paper in front of her and stared at the headline.

“WORLD MASTURBATION DAY A DAY AWAY”

It was all anyone was talking about. Could it top last year? All the wars ended, at least for a day. Janie scanned the bar. She was alone with the bartender and Wolf Blitzer chatting incessantly on the tube.

“What you’re watching now is a clip from Sudan. As you can see, the rebel soldiers have put down their guns and picked up their dongs. World Masturbation Day is already under way on that side of the world. It’s a beautiful thing—the only day the world can breathe easy, and heavy.”

A
chubby man sat down next to Janie. She quickly buried herself in the paper to avoid conversation.

The government still has no answer for the sudden vibrator crisis. Manufacturers have completely sold out, and it looks like some women may be without them for World Masturbation Day.

Janie patted the vibrator in her purse. Last year was the first time she masturbated. She always felt too reserved to touch herself, but when the whole world came out to do it she gave in to peer pressure. It was so wonderful she couldn’t wait to do it again this year. She gulped the last of her martini.

The fat man took his cue. “Buy you another?”

She glanced at his face. He had a double chin, tiny eyes, and a thin greasy hairline. Wolf filled the awkward silence with another update.

“The President is banking on the release of the recession, following the release of six billion orgasms.”

"Another martini?”

Janie shook her head. “No thanks, it’s late.” She started to fold her paper.

"Am I too ugly?” His forwardness startled her.

"No, I didn’t even notice, I—oh shit!” She dropped her purse, spilling its contents on the cement floor. Janie was mortified as the vibrator lay there for all to see.

"Here, let me help you.” He went for the vibrator. Her face flushed when he held it up. It was hot pink and cracked down the middle. It’s broken.”

Janie grabbed it from him and pushed the switch. It was jammed, stuck permanently in the “OFF” position. She shoved it in her purse and jumped up to leave. “I’ve got to go.”

He calmly turned his hefty frame toward her. “Lady, you’re not going to find another one.”

The truth of his words was harsher than his face. Without a vibrator she couldn’t participate in World Masturbation Day. She didn’t know how to masturbate without it. And she hadn’t had an orgasm in a year.

The rotund man slid off the chair. “I know a place that has vibrators. It’s a secret, but I can take you there.”

Janie was desperate. “Let’s go.”

“Later today we will talk to scientists who say that people who participate in World Masturbation Day may live longer. I’m Wolf Blitzer and FU be shooting a load off with the rest of the world tomorrow.”

*

The fat man led Janie out of the bar and down a narrow alleyway. “I’m Rush.” He was breathing heavily from just a minute of walking.

“I’m Janie. Where are we going?” They turned down an isolated alley and her murder fears kicked in. He was so fat she knew she could outrun him, but he could be hiding a number of weapons in those flesh flaps.

“Right here, actually.” He stopped in front of a door marked NO ENTRY. He was about to knock but hesitated. “You might not like what you see."

She nodded. She hadn’t liked what she’d seen since he sat down.

He knocked, and an attractive woman in her sixties opened the door. The woman glared at Rush and Janie through frameless glasses. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders like sleeping squirrels, and she smelled of wet fur and dried blood. Her face triggered an old memory.

“Oh my God, you’re Sarah Palin.” Janie was stunned.

The former vice-presidential candidate ignored her. “Rush, I told you it’s over!”

The grotesque man flinched instinctively. “I think I might have left my pills here.”

Palin looked Janie up and down. “Fine. But hurry, it’s almost midnight."

Janie stumbled behind Rush into a dimly lit warehouse. She was still reeling from being in the presence of the aging maverick. Once the star of the Republican Party, Palin had faded into public obscurity in the last ten years. After a photo of her posing nude with a semiautomatic standing on top of a decapitated polar bear failed to make it into the NRA’s 2017 calendar, she seemed to give up. But now she stood fiercely in front of the biggest tower of vibrators Janie had ever seen. The rainbow-colored hive was forty feet high and buzzing with fresh battery power. Sarah guarded the stash like a lioness.

“Go on and get your pills, Rush. You might have left them by those vibrating eggs.” Rush darted out of sight, leaving Janie and Palin alone.

Janie’s mind raced to think of what acceptable small talk she could offer. “I like your lipstick.”

“Thank you, it’s called Pit bull Gingivitis.’ It’s a new line that I created. Tested on animals and real Americans.” Sarah’s eyes bored into her skull. “You a real American?”

“Um, I think so.” She wasn’t even sure what that meant, especially coming from a woman hoarding a warehouse full of dildos. “May I buy one of these vibrators?”

Palin’s eyes narrowed. “For what? World Masturbation Day? That’s socialism at its worst. Big government does not tell me or anyone else to twiddle my twat!”

Janie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This unhappy blast from the past was squelching her future orgasm. “But I need one.”

Palin let out a cackle that could recrack the Liberty Bell. “Well, you I have to make a diddle wand out of would as and should as, because I own them all... and they are not for sale!”