AUDIO POST
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Manola's Lullaby
Sex in the Garden: Plant Porn
Since the arrival of the vernal equinox, Manola's garden has witnessed masterful acts of seduction and a flurry of frenzied sexual activity!
Here are some photos for your tropical viewing pleasure. Read below to satisfy your kinky desire for plant porn.
According to Taylor's Guide to Orchids, "Orchids have made thousands of bizarre adaptations in order to seduce specific pollinators."
Think birds and insects!
For instance, the orchid that looks, feels and smells so much like a female bee, that the male simulates mating and flies away without ever suspecting he just humped a flower. But he's hot to trot and in a second frenzied mating, deposits the pollen onto "another attractive-looking 'musky'-smelling and yet totally bogus paramour." This process is known as "pseudocopulation."
In human terms this would be called "safe sex with a blow up doll."
Some orchids also use an intoxicant "causing the bee to fall drunkenly into an orchid tank of liquid, where it is rudely awakened into recovery. . . ."
Oh, come on! Admit it! You've never had a drunken one night stand that ends in a rude awakening?
Another type of orchid shoots its wad of "sticky pollen" onto the head of the pollinator.
Ew!
A majority of orchids attract pollinators to "their beautifully patterned or flamboyant lips that act as irressistible landing platforms."
Lipstick or dipstick?
And you thought sex on the beach was only between humans!
Here are some photos for your tropical viewing pleasure. Read below to satisfy your kinky desire for plant porn.
According to Taylor's Guide to Orchids, "Orchids have made thousands of bizarre adaptations in order to seduce specific pollinators."
Think birds and insects!
For instance, the orchid that looks, feels and smells so much like a female bee, that the male simulates mating and flies away without ever suspecting he just humped a flower. But he's hot to trot and in a second frenzied mating, deposits the pollen onto "another attractive-looking 'musky'-smelling and yet totally bogus paramour." This process is known as "pseudocopulation."
In human terms this would be called "safe sex with a blow up doll."
Some orchids also use an intoxicant "causing the bee to fall drunkenly into an orchid tank of liquid, where it is rudely awakened into recovery. . . ."
Oh, come on! Admit it! You've never had a drunken one night stand that ends in a rude awakening?
Another type of orchid shoots its wad of "sticky pollen" onto the head of the pollinator.
Ew!
A majority of orchids attract pollinators to "their beautifully patterned or flamboyant lips that act as irressistible landing platforms."
Lipstick or dipstick?
And you thought sex on the beach was only between humans!
Sunday, March 19, 2006
World's Oldest Profession
Manola's going 360 today!
Move over mismatch.com and edisharmony.com. There's a new relationship paradigm in town, freely available on Craig's List. Affluent men are now soliciting a hybrid multi-tasking indentured servant -- women who are financially desperate and willing to play wife, maid and prostitute on call.
And no, it has nothing to do with BDSM or The Story of O.
from an earlier post:
WANTED: NUDE LATINA HOUSEKEEPER
I am looking for a Housecleaner who is Latina and willing to cook & clean my 2 bedroom and 2 1/2 bath townhouse while in the nude, along with companionship about 2 to 3 times per week, maybe more. Looking for someone that is disease/drug free and dosen't smoke and is very clean. If anyone is interested please feel free to contact me at the e-mail address provided.
This new trend in solicitation is not only disturbing, it speaks volumes on the state of the "union" in our city. It smacks of Stepford Wife Syndrome, without the benefits of a pre-nuptial agreement and insurance and retirement packages. It turns men into soul-mongering thieves and women into saddled beasts. Modern slavery, anyone? Barefoot and pregnant suddenly well-shod and abortion candidate?
Is nothing sacred? Perhaps Manola is old-fashioned, but whatever happened to love? Are these men so emotionally bankrupt, despite the size of their wads? They're the opposite of metrosexual: so unable to take care of themselves and others. What if your little mistress gets a cold, big shot? Are you going to schlep to the corner for some chicken soup?
And what of the woman who turned this new useless man into a cynic? Somewhere in his past he dated a woman who huffed and puffed about being a feminist who doesn't "do" dishes and so instead he became a dead-beat lover who doesn't want to face the real responsibilities of love and commitment. This pay-as-you go man opted to hire an immigrant without a green card who just happens to look like a fashion model and who just happens to be willing to spread her legs after she cleans the soap scum off his bathtub.
Talk about Sun Pass. Better easy, breezy drive-through fucking than having to stick hands into pocket looking for quarters. Love is a such a slow-down hassle!
Now, the rest of us: ladies, remember when you were in love? You didn't think twice about straightening the crooked frame on the wall, did you? You did it out of LOVE and he didn't even have to pay you for the gesture. Men, remember when you were in love? You didn't think twice about taking your lover to the ER, did you? Not only were you her lover, you were also a decent human being.
Even more frightening: these pathetic johns who pay for love are the men you might casually meet while standing in line at the coffee shop, walking the dog or shopping for produce. These are the men who give the rest of men a bad name. These are the men who think they have a constitutional right to leave the toilet seat up, expecting you to clean their shit after they fucked you up the ass.
Manola would rather slip on a banana peel while wearing her Manola Blahniks on Lincoln Road, than come within a foot of such repulsive monsters.
To be fair: No woman should ever clean her lover's house without wearing a cheap French maid outfit and clear heels as part of a mutually-consentual game. Who are you kidding? Things will get dirty before they get clean, honey!
Thanks, Rick: Stuck On The Palmetto: Roommates With Benefits
Original Post: Sex and the Job Search
Move over mismatch.com and edisharmony.com. There's a new relationship paradigm in town, freely available on Craig's List. Affluent men are now soliciting a hybrid multi-tasking indentured servant -- women who are financially desperate and willing to play wife, maid and prostitute on call.
And no, it has nothing to do with BDSM or The Story of O.
from an earlier post:
WANTED: NUDE LATINA HOUSEKEEPER
I am looking for a Housecleaner who is Latina and willing to cook & clean my 2 bedroom and 2 1/2 bath townhouse while in the nude, along with companionship about 2 to 3 times per week, maybe more. Looking for someone that is disease/drug free and dosen't smoke and is very clean. If anyone is interested please feel free to contact me at the e-mail address provided.
This new trend in solicitation is not only disturbing, it speaks volumes on the state of the "union" in our city. It smacks of Stepford Wife Syndrome, without the benefits of a pre-nuptial agreement and insurance and retirement packages. It turns men into soul-mongering thieves and women into saddled beasts. Modern slavery, anyone? Barefoot and pregnant suddenly well-shod and abortion candidate?
Is nothing sacred? Perhaps Manola is old-fashioned, but whatever happened to love? Are these men so emotionally bankrupt, despite the size of their wads? They're the opposite of metrosexual: so unable to take care of themselves and others. What if your little mistress gets a cold, big shot? Are you going to schlep to the corner for some chicken soup?
And what of the woman who turned this new useless man into a cynic? Somewhere in his past he dated a woman who huffed and puffed about being a feminist who doesn't "do" dishes and so instead he became a dead-beat lover who doesn't want to face the real responsibilities of love and commitment. This pay-as-you go man opted to hire an immigrant without a green card who just happens to look like a fashion model and who just happens to be willing to spread her legs after she cleans the soap scum off his bathtub.
Talk about Sun Pass. Better easy, breezy drive-through fucking than having to stick hands into pocket looking for quarters. Love is a such a slow-down hassle!
Now, the rest of us: ladies, remember when you were in love? You didn't think twice about straightening the crooked frame on the wall, did you? You did it out of LOVE and he didn't even have to pay you for the gesture. Men, remember when you were in love? You didn't think twice about taking your lover to the ER, did you? Not only were you her lover, you were also a decent human being.
Even more frightening: these pathetic johns who pay for love are the men you might casually meet while standing in line at the coffee shop, walking the dog or shopping for produce. These are the men who give the rest of men a bad name. These are the men who think they have a constitutional right to leave the toilet seat up, expecting you to clean their shit after they fucked you up the ass.
Manola would rather slip on a banana peel while wearing her Manola Blahniks on Lincoln Road, than come within a foot of such repulsive monsters.
To be fair: No woman should ever clean her lover's house without wearing a cheap French maid outfit and clear heels as part of a mutually-consentual game. Who are you kidding? Things will get dirty before they get clean, honey!
Thanks, Rick: Stuck On The Palmetto: Roommates With Benefits
Original Post: Sex and the Job Search
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Tropical Sex Tips
"Dear Manola 180: I'm really disappointed with the 'warming effect' of KY's new product line. What do you recommend?"
Nutmeg oil from the isle of spice -- Grenada -- is hot, hot, hot. Add a few drops to KY and see the sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight!
"Dear Manola 180: How do I trap my man?"
Well, Manola NEVER recommends trapping anything, including fur. However, if you must, nothing attracts a man through his stomach and nose like a woman's scent, according to Caribbean folklore. Squat over a pot of rice and let the steam create a one-of-a-kind aphrodisiac. Serve this "sweat rice" warm and garnish with hibiscus flower.
Good luck!
Manola 180
Nutmeg oil from the isle of spice -- Grenada -- is hot, hot, hot. Add a few drops to KY and see the sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight!
"Dear Manola 180: How do I trap my man?"
Well, Manola NEVER recommends trapping anything, including fur. However, if you must, nothing attracts a man through his stomach and nose like a woman's scent, according to Caribbean folklore. Squat over a pot of rice and let the steam create a one-of-a-kind aphrodisiac. Serve this "sweat rice" warm and garnish with hibiscus flower.
Good luck!
Manola 180
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Better Than Sex
Manola has been out-cartooned, over-blogged and under-sexed by Sir Hugh, brain child of gaping void ... prepare to have a panty-wetting royal giggle! She passes the torch of keep it real to a genius 'doodler of understatement' living across the pond!
Monday, March 13, 2006
Takes Two To Tango
God almighty, Manola misses Argentine tango dancing like she misses life almighty. No, not the glamorous yet laughable images of yesterday's black-and-white movies.
As a former tanguera, Manola misses not just some ballroom fantasy, but the gritty, nasty reality of awkward oops and bumps with sweaty strangers, not to mention painful bunions, charlie horses, shin splints, psoaz tendonitis and broken ribs.
Manola is an injured, wounded dancer.
Manola misses the perfect imperfection, the brief but brilliant dance between one body and another finding themselves in transit ... in transit to where?
All resting on that delicate skeletal structure that supports the human body, all reacting to electrical impulses depending on chance muscular reflexes, controlled by passion and the urge to express our voices, our souls, our selves, through the magical medium of music.
Tango is the test of all tests, the challenge of all challenges, the lesson of all lessons, of giving, taking, letting go and simply mastering the art of the moment.
Tango is human: controlling and surrending all at once. Imperfect beings held in perfect lingering, swaying balance, soul to sole.
"If you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know," said Louis Armstrong.
And so it goes with tango.
Unlike Louis darling, I'm going to cut you a little dos por cuatro. "If you have to ask what tango is, don't ever stop asking."
Is it possible that Manola is just Malena mispelled, misused and miss ... well, just miss ... miss ... missed what?
Expect a new twist, turn and dip on Sex and the Beach, because the heels of these Manolo Blahniks -- not to mention the feet of this worn-out dancer -- aren't done traipsing down the dance floor.
XOX
Manola B
Warm up a little ... Last Tango in Madrid
As a former tanguera, Manola misses not just some ballroom fantasy, but the gritty, nasty reality of awkward oops and bumps with sweaty strangers, not to mention painful bunions, charlie horses, shin splints, psoaz tendonitis and broken ribs.
Manola is an injured, wounded dancer.
Manola misses the perfect imperfection, the brief but brilliant dance between one body and another finding themselves in transit ... in transit to where?
All resting on that delicate skeletal structure that supports the human body, all reacting to electrical impulses depending on chance muscular reflexes, controlled by passion and the urge to express our voices, our souls, our selves, through the magical medium of music.
Tango is the test of all tests, the challenge of all challenges, the lesson of all lessons, of giving, taking, letting go and simply mastering the art of the moment.
Tango is human: controlling and surrending all at once. Imperfect beings held in perfect lingering, swaying balance, soul to sole.
"If you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know," said Louis Armstrong.
And so it goes with tango.
Unlike Louis darling, I'm going to cut you a little dos por cuatro. "If you have to ask what tango is, don't ever stop asking."
Is it possible that Manola is just Malena mispelled, misused and miss ... well, just miss ... miss ... missed what?
Expect a new twist, turn and dip on Sex and the Beach, because the heels of these Manolo Blahniks -- not to mention the feet of this worn-out dancer -- aren't done traipsing down the dance floor.
XOX
Manola B
Warm up a little ... Last Tango in Madrid
Friday, March 10, 2006
Thursday, March 09, 2006
South Beach Randomary, Part II
1. OH MY GAG. Now I've heard it all. I can officially pimp a ride on that spaceship to sanity. Rescue me!
8th and Ocean ... a reality drama about models trying to make it big on South Beach. Whoa! Slow down! A REALITY DRAMA about South Beach? A REALITY DRAMA? HELLO! Am I the only one to note the oxymoron?
2. Um, what's an oxymoron? A dumb ass who adds bleach to the laundry during the spin cycle. Um, what's a spin cycle: the number of revolutions of a tricked-out hubcap.
3. Speaking of tricks, actual quotes from Euclid Avenue:
a) REAR WINDOW
"Hey dude, remember that apartment across the alley where the water was running from the faucet for weeks? Well, now there's a hazmat crew cleaning up the place."
b) GET A ROOM
"Hey, dude! You will not believe this! It's 1 AM and there's a couple having sex in plain view on the sidewalk. Not the swail mind you, the SIDEWALK!"
c) TRICKS ARE FOR KIDS
"Hey dude, I just bumped into my neighbor. He was butt naked! 'My trick is freaking out on me,' he said. Next thing I know, 'trick' is coming out of the apartment upstairs, fully clothed and completely composed!"
"Dude, who says 'tricks' nowadays? That's SO seventies!"
(What is truly disturbing about these conversations is not the actual sex and death on public display, but the fact that the interlocuters were concerned about things like hazmat, swail and whether or not the words "haz," "swail," and "tricks" are actually fashionably popular. You know, we just love that proverbial elephant in our own parking lot. Can't see the crime scene or the couple having sex from the palm trees, that sort of myopia.)
5. Speaking of worn-out words, there's a verb born every minute. Our friend at FANLESS puts a whole new spin on fashion-forward vocabulary.
The verb "stank" is not only the past participle of "stink," but the new black this season for your ho-lingual wardrobe. Don't even think about sauntering down Ocean Drive without edible candy panties (available at Riviera Liquors on Collins and 24th as a point of purchase item) and hollering "stank" off your pierced tongue! It's the mot juste du jour!
6. Speaking of edible panties, our friend at FANLESS just recently experienced a close encounter of the yuck kind:
"This morning I was returning to the office after buying a can of Monster energy, and as I walked in, some model dropped her iPod. I kneeled down to pick it up for her, and she kneeled down too. When I looked up to hand it to her I was greeted by her beaver, prominently on display for the whole world to see, thanks to her very short denim skirt."
Folks, in days of yore, women would drop their handkerchiefs to arouse the attention of a gentleman. But today, flirtation of this sort is dangerous. As our medical correspondent, Doctor Suck Mygupta explains, "this is how 'chick flu' spreads. Next time you sit down in that trendy, outdoor café, make sure you wipe the seat with clorox. You just don't know what skank ho saddled down on that chair, exposing her twat to the world, vaginal and anal excretions freely flowing onto the chair and dripping onto the sidewalk."
7. Speaking of excretions, since when is outing your beaver all the fashion rave? I mean, showing the thong-rash on your butt crack while wearing low-rider jeans aint enough? Girls, leave something to the imagination, please!
In a recent ho-hunt expedition to Lincoln Road, Manola spotted -- in the spell of two hours -- a handful of seriously disturbed anorexic women wearing short denim skirts and walking chihuahuas as big as their clitori. Here's an idea: why not limit public pussy pandering to your next appointment at the ob/gyn?
8. Speaking of medical exams, boys, you're not off the hook. The buck doesn't stop at beaver. Please, gay fellas, we love you, but don't ride your bike down Lincoln Road at 250 mph, ass lifted high off the seat, wearing a speedo. The hospital gown worn at the proctologist's prior to a colonoscopy is more discreet.
9. Speaking of anal probes, our sex therapy correspondent, Dr. Sue Yankyourchainon, agrees with Manola that those men who prefer the path of poop over the path of puss should simply stick their dicks where the sun don't shine, and obviously, the sun IS shining on many a puss-in-heels in South Beach!
10. Speaking of sunshine, Manola would like to move to Philadelphia. It's the only place where she received a decent compliment from a man on the street. "Hello, sunshine!"
See, cocks and dolls, while you're showing your genitals to the world, the art of flirtation is threatened with extinction. Sensuality is not about show. It's about tell.
xox
Manola BBB
8th and Ocean ... a reality drama about models trying to make it big on South Beach. Whoa! Slow down! A REALITY DRAMA about South Beach? A REALITY DRAMA? HELLO! Am I the only one to note the oxymoron?
2. Um, what's an oxymoron? A dumb ass who adds bleach to the laundry during the spin cycle. Um, what's a spin cycle: the number of revolutions of a tricked-out hubcap.
3. Speaking of tricks, actual quotes from Euclid Avenue:
a) REAR WINDOW
"Hey dude, remember that apartment across the alley where the water was running from the faucet for weeks? Well, now there's a hazmat crew cleaning up the place."
b) GET A ROOM
"Hey, dude! You will not believe this! It's 1 AM and there's a couple having sex in plain view on the sidewalk. Not the swail mind you, the SIDEWALK!"
c) TRICKS ARE FOR KIDS
"Hey dude, I just bumped into my neighbor. He was butt naked! 'My trick is freaking out on me,' he said. Next thing I know, 'trick' is coming out of the apartment upstairs, fully clothed and completely composed!"
"Dude, who says 'tricks' nowadays? That's SO seventies!"
(What is truly disturbing about these conversations is not the actual sex and death on public display, but the fact that the interlocuters were concerned about things like hazmat, swail and whether or not the words "haz," "swail," and "tricks" are actually fashionably popular. You know, we just love that proverbial elephant in our own parking lot. Can't see the crime scene or the couple having sex from the palm trees, that sort of myopia.)
5. Speaking of worn-out words, there's a verb born every minute. Our friend at FANLESS puts a whole new spin on fashion-forward vocabulary.
The verb "stank" is not only the past participle of "stink," but the new black this season for your ho-lingual wardrobe. Don't even think about sauntering down Ocean Drive without edible candy panties (available at Riviera Liquors on Collins and 24th as a point of purchase item) and hollering "stank" off your pierced tongue! It's the mot juste du jour!
6. Speaking of edible panties, our friend at FANLESS just recently experienced a close encounter of the yuck kind:
"This morning I was returning to the office after buying a can of Monster energy, and as I walked in, some model dropped her iPod. I kneeled down to pick it up for her, and she kneeled down too. When I looked up to hand it to her I was greeted by her beaver, prominently on display for the whole world to see, thanks to her very short denim skirt."
Folks, in days of yore, women would drop their handkerchiefs to arouse the attention of a gentleman. But today, flirtation of this sort is dangerous. As our medical correspondent, Doctor Suck Mygupta explains, "this is how 'chick flu' spreads. Next time you sit down in that trendy, outdoor café, make sure you wipe the seat with clorox. You just don't know what skank ho saddled down on that chair, exposing her twat to the world, vaginal and anal excretions freely flowing onto the chair and dripping onto the sidewalk."
7. Speaking of excretions, since when is outing your beaver all the fashion rave? I mean, showing the thong-rash on your butt crack while wearing low-rider jeans aint enough? Girls, leave something to the imagination, please!
In a recent ho-hunt expedition to Lincoln Road, Manola spotted -- in the spell of two hours -- a handful of seriously disturbed anorexic women wearing short denim skirts and walking chihuahuas as big as their clitori. Here's an idea: why not limit public pussy pandering to your next appointment at the ob/gyn?
8. Speaking of medical exams, boys, you're not off the hook. The buck doesn't stop at beaver. Please, gay fellas, we love you, but don't ride your bike down Lincoln Road at 250 mph, ass lifted high off the seat, wearing a speedo. The hospital gown worn at the proctologist's prior to a colonoscopy is more discreet.
9. Speaking of anal probes, our sex therapy correspondent, Dr. Sue Yankyourchainon, agrees with Manola that those men who prefer the path of poop over the path of puss should simply stick their dicks where the sun don't shine, and obviously, the sun IS shining on many a puss-in-heels in South Beach!
10. Speaking of sunshine, Manola would like to move to Philadelphia. It's the only place where she received a decent compliment from a man on the street. "Hello, sunshine!"
See, cocks and dolls, while you're showing your genitals to the world, the art of flirtation is threatened with extinction. Sensuality is not about show. It's about tell.
xox
Manola BBB
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Strictly Platonic? My Ass!
In a well-known biblical story, a snake offers a woman the fruit of knowledge, which is really a tart and chewy granny smith apple. Being generous, this woman offers a man a bit of the apple she just enjoyed, but he refuses, proclaiming that all hell will break loose. Well, wouldn't you know, all hell does break loose, in spite of best intentions.
As my friend, the buxom Madame BBC, says: "We all have sexual needs and some of us are ready to exercise, huff and puff, jog a hundred miles and live off tofu until we are ready to DIE, but not me!"
And you know what? She's right. It's the skinny health nuts -- who just croak at the mere mention of flu -- who are dropping off the beds of affluent men like flies, not the big fat women with stores of survival in their thighs!
But I digress ... recently, Manola B decided to take a spermtaneous excursion to South Beach at the request of man who, in an ironic twist of role reversal, was bearing the proverbial apple. Manola was willing to risk life and limb, pay for overpriced parking and cocktails, just to meet a certain member of royalty, a descendant from the noble lineage of Tutankhamun, at least in look, if not name.
With the visage of kings who begat our civilization in tow, how could she possibly resist? The dark, well-formed eyebrows, outlined in dusky kohl. The languid brown eyes. The full, welcoming lips. The lanky, yet sensual figure. The long, lazy wandering fingers bearing a hieroglyphic scarab ring. The scent of bergamot from his loincloth. The throne of gold and lapis lazuli.
Egyptian Hunk had summoned Manola's curiosity from his "strictly platonic" personal ad. Egyptian Hunk and Manola are male and female, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola are recovering from devastating heart break, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola each have two overpriced cocktails on Ocean Drive, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola throw platonic out the window, splashing unsuspecting cruisers with buckets full of testosterone and progesterone, respectively.
A predictable formula. Blind dates for blind fools. Men and woman can't be strictly platonic. Or can they?
The evening was doomed to begin with. First of all, Manola couldn't find parking near Ocean Drive, so she settled for a top-floor spot on the $10 flat rate lot. Waiting for the elevator, she noticed a sign next to the elevator door (quoted verbatim):
MONDA_ THROUGH SUNDAY. HOURS OF OPERATION: 7 AM TO _
The elevator on the southeast corner of the lot stops working on Saturday at 10 PM, the busiest time in South Beach in a nearly full lot. I mean, it's raining SUVs, halleluyah! Low-riders are bursting out of the building's seams!
So Manola had to walk in her Manolos down the ramp to the elevator in the northwest corner of the lot because some city official decided to shut down full elevator service during the busiest evening of the week.
It gets better.
Hugging mobile phone to ear, Manola chats with Egyptian Hunk as she approaches his Lair of Not Love. Egyptian Hunk, who has been patiently waiting for Manola to find a parking spot for the last hour says: "Stay on the phone. I want to see you."
Manola looks up and sees a man standing on the balcony, hugging a mobile phone to his ear. She waves to him and he responds with an even more enthusiastic wave. Manola thinks: "Hmm. It doesn't look like his picture. Oh well. Predictable cheat. Not too bad, though. Nice smile. Anyway, it's strictly platonic, right?"
As she approaches the entrance to the Lair of Not Love, Manola greets the man she saw on the balcony. "Hi, I'm Manola! It's a pleasure to meet you."
Meanwhile, Egyptian Hunk, her true destination, is standing next to the man she saw on the balcony. And then Manola, her pale face turning a very embarrasing shade of rutting pink, realizes that Egyptian Hunk was NOT the man on the balcony. Man on the balcony was simply Egyptian Hunk's neighbor.
To save face, Manola made an about face and extended her hand to Egyptian Hunk. "Can we start over? Hi, I'm Manola! It's a pleasure to meet you!"
It gets better.
Folks, after wading through a sea of tits to ass, dicks to shoulders, walking neck and neck among the hordes of horny humans who have to clog the Ocean Drive sidewalk -- never mind that you can easily walk on the street, considering that traffic moves only a quarter of inch per hour on Saturday night, slower than San Andrea's fault, surely -- Egyptian Hunk and Manola choose a place to get to know each other better over a couple of cocktails. Did you know that two well drinks each will put you $60 in the hole on Ocean Drive?
It gets better.
[Insert your own perverse scenario.] Dear readers, please don't give me shit. [Insert anti-shit zone here.]
Are you kidding?
Manola may be willing to take a bite from the fruit of knowledge, willing to risk her sanity to amuse her readers, but Manola, will never, NEVER be indiscreet. After all, Egyptian Hunk may very well prove to be a strictly platonic valuable addition to her life. Sometimes men and women, respectively, need to evaluate the plumbing, check on the functionality of endocrine systems and so forth, before making a commitment to travel together on the long road of friendship.
So please don't give me shit for deflating a literary erection!
However, it does get better ... slightly.
Take heed: the $10 flat rate fee only applies until 5 AM. And in a random act of kindness, the parking booth attendant, a regular angel, a typical Saint Paul at the gates of heaven, gave me permission to return to the safety, without having to pay an extra $4 at the rude awakening of dawn.
And now, for the climax.
It doesn't get better than this:
As I drove home under the bright blue cerulean crayon sky, sun blinding my eyes, not minding that I left my sunglasses at home, because life had taken an unexpected turn, through a parking lot, a foreigner in my own backyard, and the beach, yes, the beach, would always be there for me.
The freedom of strutting in Manolos in my city. Yes, my city -- I'm quoting myself, as I described home over conversation and over-priced drinks.
Miami Beach, this little sun-drenched imperfect version of heaven.
Hey! Want a bite of my apple? Freedom is delicious.
As my friend, the buxom Madame BBC, says: "We all have sexual needs and some of us are ready to exercise, huff and puff, jog a hundred miles and live off tofu until we are ready to DIE, but not me!"
And you know what? She's right. It's the skinny health nuts -- who just croak at the mere mention of flu -- who are dropping off the beds of affluent men like flies, not the big fat women with stores of survival in their thighs!
But I digress ... recently, Manola B decided to take a spermtaneous excursion to South Beach at the request of man who, in an ironic twist of role reversal, was bearing the proverbial apple. Manola was willing to risk life and limb, pay for overpriced parking and cocktails, just to meet a certain member of royalty, a descendant from the noble lineage of Tutankhamun, at least in look, if not name.
With the visage of kings who begat our civilization in tow, how could she possibly resist? The dark, well-formed eyebrows, outlined in dusky kohl. The languid brown eyes. The full, welcoming lips. The lanky, yet sensual figure. The long, lazy wandering fingers bearing a hieroglyphic scarab ring. The scent of bergamot from his loincloth. The throne of gold and lapis lazuli.
Egyptian Hunk had summoned Manola's curiosity from his "strictly platonic" personal ad. Egyptian Hunk and Manola are male and female, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola are recovering from devastating heart break, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola each have two overpriced cocktails on Ocean Drive, respectively. Egyptian Hunk and Manola throw platonic out the window, splashing unsuspecting cruisers with buckets full of testosterone and progesterone, respectively.
A predictable formula. Blind dates for blind fools. Men and woman can't be strictly platonic. Or can they?
The evening was doomed to begin with. First of all, Manola couldn't find parking near Ocean Drive, so she settled for a top-floor spot on the $10 flat rate lot. Waiting for the elevator, she noticed a sign next to the elevator door (quoted verbatim):
MONDA_ THROUGH SUNDAY. HOURS OF OPERATION: 7 AM TO _
The elevator on the southeast corner of the lot stops working on Saturday at 10 PM, the busiest time in South Beach in a nearly full lot. I mean, it's raining SUVs, halleluyah! Low-riders are bursting out of the building's seams!
So Manola had to walk in her Manolos down the ramp to the elevator in the northwest corner of the lot because some city official decided to shut down full elevator service during the busiest evening of the week.
It gets better.
Hugging mobile phone to ear, Manola chats with Egyptian Hunk as she approaches his Lair of Not Love. Egyptian Hunk, who has been patiently waiting for Manola to find a parking spot for the last hour says: "Stay on the phone. I want to see you."
Manola looks up and sees a man standing on the balcony, hugging a mobile phone to his ear. She waves to him and he responds with an even more enthusiastic wave. Manola thinks: "Hmm. It doesn't look like his picture. Oh well. Predictable cheat. Not too bad, though. Nice smile. Anyway, it's strictly platonic, right?"
As she approaches the entrance to the Lair of Not Love, Manola greets the man she saw on the balcony. "Hi, I'm Manola! It's a pleasure to meet you."
Meanwhile, Egyptian Hunk, her true destination, is standing next to the man she saw on the balcony. And then Manola, her pale face turning a very embarrasing shade of rutting pink, realizes that Egyptian Hunk was NOT the man on the balcony. Man on the balcony was simply Egyptian Hunk's neighbor.
To save face, Manola made an about face and extended her hand to Egyptian Hunk. "Can we start over? Hi, I'm Manola! It's a pleasure to meet you!"
It gets better.
Folks, after wading through a sea of tits to ass, dicks to shoulders, walking neck and neck among the hordes of horny humans who have to clog the Ocean Drive sidewalk -- never mind that you can easily walk on the street, considering that traffic moves only a quarter of inch per hour on Saturday night, slower than San Andrea's fault, surely -- Egyptian Hunk and Manola choose a place to get to know each other better over a couple of cocktails. Did you know that two well drinks each will put you $60 in the hole on Ocean Drive?
It gets better.
[Insert your own perverse scenario.] Dear readers, please don't give me shit. [Insert anti-shit zone here.]
Are you kidding?
Manola may be willing to take a bite from the fruit of knowledge, willing to risk her sanity to amuse her readers, but Manola, will never, NEVER be indiscreet. After all, Egyptian Hunk may very well prove to be a strictly platonic valuable addition to her life. Sometimes men and women, respectively, need to evaluate the plumbing, check on the functionality of endocrine systems and so forth, before making a commitment to travel together on the long road of friendship.
So please don't give me shit for deflating a literary erection!
However, it does get better ... slightly.
Take heed: the $10 flat rate fee only applies until 5 AM. And in a random act of kindness, the parking booth attendant, a regular angel, a typical Saint Paul at the gates of heaven, gave me permission to return to the safety, without having to pay an extra $4 at the rude awakening of dawn.
And now, for the climax.
It doesn't get better than this:
As I drove home under the bright blue cerulean crayon sky, sun blinding my eyes, not minding that I left my sunglasses at home, because life had taken an unexpected turn, through a parking lot, a foreigner in my own backyard, and the beach, yes, the beach, would always be there for me.
The freedom of strutting in Manolos in my city. Yes, my city -- I'm quoting myself, as I described home over conversation and over-priced drinks.
Miami Beach, this little sun-drenched imperfect version of heaven.
Hey! Want a bite of my apple? Freedom is delicious.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
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