Last night, I ran into an acquaintance at one of the neighborhood bars. I was there to get my drink on before heading over to Manhattan to hang out with some of the fellas. I sidled up to the bar and tried my first no-sugar mojito. I’m cutting down on salt and sugar for a while. (Yeah, yeah – the sugar is in the alcohol, dumb dumb!) Let me tell you it was a shock to the system. Mojitos without sugar are bitter, minty and refreshing. Not bad, but not what I was used to. I’ll have to try that again to see if it’s an acquired taste or just an undesired taste.
When I rolled up to the bar, the conversation between my acquaintance (Kendra) and her girlfriend (Janet) was in full effect. They were talking everything from funerals to football to boyfriends. Janet even asked me if a ring she was given by a friend (which she wears on her ring finger) might be mistaken for a wedding ring…ya know – scaring off the men folk. It turns out that Janet is seriously interesting in returning to her “most favored cootchie” status as a bottle blonde. It seems that the fish don’t bite as often or as deeply when the tresses begin a slow fade to brown.
The conversation wound around to masturbation. No, I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t even really further the cause, much. Kendra and I were, however, extolling the virtues of a little self-indulgence when we were both snapped to attention. Janet says, “Sure, I do it, but I never touch myself.” Say what? “I never touch myself. I just think about it.” Kendra said, “I think that’s the root of all your troubles.” There wasn’t much for me to say after that, except, “Have you tried the Rabbit?”