Wank, dink the pink, purple the nurple, spank the monkey, toss the boss, stroke the salami, juice the joystick, knock one out, choke the chicken, freak the leak, whip the bishop, wonk your donk, fap, jack the sack, manipulate the mango, salute the sailor, shuffle the deck, or plain old digital penile oscillation.
I didn’t care what it was called, but I knew one thing -- I was close to running late for my hot cyber-date with my darling Daisy. We’d been chatting online for approximately 3 months, 22hrs and 43 minutes -- not that I was counting or anything, and I’d yet to see her in person or even hear her voice. The only tangible evidence of my Love’s existence was the photo she emailed me that I saved, printed and pinned to my noticeboard. It was taken during a Christmas party at her work last year and she was glowing and laughing at some kind of apparent joke. I questioned her as to what was so funny during one of our chats, but she said she was rather intoxicated that night and had periods of grain induced amnesia.
I just prayed her drinking wasn’t an issue and I wouldn’t have to stage an intervention at a later date. I lived by the old Hemingway motto, “Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”
The streets were crowded with people trying to get home from work as I impatiently waited at the corner for the green crosswalk sign to light up. I clutched my brand new Batman comic book in front of my groin in a pathetic attempt to conceal the impatient wood I was currently sporting. I was sure the wrinkly old woman beside me was vying for an eyeful; shame she was probably well into the triple digits with bones that would powder like a donut at the first thrust.
Damnit, I needed to get home! Things were getting desperate if I was having kinky thoughts about someone with a scary resemblance to Yoda. As much as Yoda was an awesome little humanoid, he was definitely not spanky-bank material. Now, Princess Leia was another story altogether. The dreams I’d had about her gold bikini would go down as legendary and there was many an ‘Ewok’ bed-set clandestinely washed in the wee hours of the morning.
I was shaken from my reverie when the obnoxious bleat of the siren to signal the blind they could safely walk, went off. I made a mad, peg-leggy dash across the road while simultaneously trying to avoid men in suits like OJ in a Samsonite commercial. They talked incessantly into their cells without a care as to whom or what was around them.
Through the late afternoon heat-waves refracting off the LA pavement, I could see the oasis of the apartment I shared with my best friend Frankie. We met at Comic Con three years ago where I made the mistake of mentioning I had a spare room and high-speed Internet. Frankie moved in the next day and was now firmly rooted in the apartment and my life.
I was making a beeline to the invisible finish line drawn at the bottom of my front door when my cell started vibrating - quite ill-timed - in the deep pockets of my formerly pressed khakis. With every ring it bounced off my left nut and sent a shiver down my spine. Fishing it out, I looked at the caller ID and sighed. The word ‘Mama Ez’ blazed on the screen with a picture of ‘Jabba the Hutt’ underneath her name and number.
I cowardly prayed to all things saintly she’d never see it.
“Hey Ma, bad tim...” I began before being cut off sharply.
“Where in the Holy Ghost have you been? Do you not answer your phone anymore? Do you have any ...”
Mama Esther was my overbearing old step-aunt (no blood relation - we already have enough bat-shit-crazy floating in our gene pool) who had never been known for her easy going attitude. Always one to imagine the worst, she felt it’s her duty to check in on me every day for fear of me being dragged under a bus or kidnapped by a deranged hobo.