R: 5/27/03

Work Diary, 5/27/03

Currently I am in Vail with my old friend, Jean. Jean herself is not
old; she's my age, actually. But we've known each other half our lives,
which is sort of depressing when you think about it in a
what-have-I-done-with-my-life type thing. If you're over the age of
thirty, you know what I mean. If you're not, just wait.

Anyway, Vail is one of those towns described as "nestled in the peaks
and valleys of Colorado's magnificent Rocky Mountains." It's a rich
person's place, part ski resort and part chi-chi catwalk. But the
rabble has a definite presence, as evidenced by the Wendy's burger
joint and the beat up Toyota Corollas with bumper stickers that say, "I
live to ski, I ski to live." We're on the seventh floor in a
condominium owned by my friend's friend, who is rich and cute and
generous. I'd like my friend to marry him, if only because I'd like to
have access to a place like this more often.

Jean - my friend - has told us many stories since she showed up a few
days ago. Jean is a good storyteller, which is to say she knows no
boundaries and is willing to tell anything. Specifically:

1. One of Jean's roommates in Boston is becoming a doctor. During a
gynecological internship, the roommate discovered something called the
"Whiff Test." Basically this is a procedure in which the doctor sniffs
his gloved fingers to try and detect any unusual odors not normally
found in the vagina. Apparently it's a standard practice, though Jean's
knowledge ended there and she wasn't able to answer my questions: What
if the doctor's never smelled a vagina? Do they get scratch-n-sniff
cards in med school so they know what to look for? Is the whole process
quick, or do they stand there inhaling like those people in oxygen
masks coming out of burning buildings? I'm not female but I can
guarantee you that if I lifted my head and looked through the stirrups,
I'd damn sure want to know why the doctor's hand was so close to his
face.

2. One of our other high school friends, "Betty," needed cash, so she
started her own massage business. Betty is big-breasted and cute and
kind of functionally autistic (and, as everyone knows, there's only one
letter difference between "autistic" and "artistic"). Betty has been a
stripper, a waitress, a Chinese medicine student?the list goes on and
on, but for the purposes of this story she was a masseuse. As men are
generally pigs under the artful hands of a good-looking woman, Betty
was faced with many a pup tent when her client's rolled over for their
frontal work. Some were brazen, asking Betty if she'd "finish them
off." At first, Betty refused. Massage is therapeutic and why prove a
bunch of pent-up housewives right by acquiescing? But whether it was
the promise of easy money or simply her sympathetic nature, Betty
finally gave in. And in. And in. During a routine finishing, a client
inquired if he might insert one - just the one! - digit in Betty's back
door. "Why not?" Betty thought, and positioned herself accordingly. At
the end of this tripodial act, the client presented Betty with his
finger, now decidedly darker than his Caucasian roots. "Oops," Betty
said.

3. Jean and I have yet another high school friend, "Tina," who was
deemed the "Head Queen" due to her uncanny ability to?well, perform
fellatio. Why Tina earned this distinction is obvious. Tina herself was
relatively discreet but - as these things are wont to do - rumor became
fact and fact became reputation. Tina didn't seem to mind (god bless
her). Jean and her boyfriend were well aware of Tina's proclivities,
and offered Tina the chance to test her skills. Jean's boyfriend
unzipped, shifted, and lay back to enjoy the ride. Jean watched. Each
participant was immersed in his or her own role and didn't hear the
front door unlatching; they only noticed when Jean's stepfather said,
"Hey, kids." The boyfriend rolled over, his rear-end a beacon in the
dimmed light. Jean sat frozen. Tina stood up, drew the back of her hand
across her mouth, and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Miller." Tina's
manners were always impeccable.

Ah, stories. Can't get enough of 'em. I think - no, I'm sure - that if
I had the chance, I really would come back as a fly on the wall,
soaking up all that absolute absurdity. Did you know the military is
developing a fabric that mimics its background, a fabric of
invisibility without the need to pause and change outfits?

I'm in.