About those precious bodily fluids

This is a funny story from beginning to end. Which is why I'm going to tell it ... from beginning to end. (And I'll issue fair warning: It's weird.)

So Friday night, Dr. M had arranged a gathering of rather interesting folks from school to celebrate the end of the term with some kind of "wino" festival. I can't remember what she named it, but I do remember it had the word "wino" in it and thus was quite apt.

At one end of the table -- long before any of us succumbed to what Pablo Neruda lovingly called "the canticle of the fruit" (so, in other words, there's no excuse for our behavior) -- S2 and I sat talking, with Dr. M off to the left, engaged in different conversation. I was telling S2 about a journal I had decoupaged earlier this year. And that is when the following conversation occurred:

UCM: So, essentially it's done. I just need to shellac it.

S2: Shellac it?

UCM: Yeah. You know, cover it with some Modge Podge or something.

S2: God... That's just reminded me. I used to date this guy. He was an artist, and I remember going to his place one time and looking at his art, and he said to me, 'You know, I shellac my art with my own cum.'

UCM was not expecting *this.* But she recovered quickly: Oh, well, that's what *I* should do. Except for I think the collection would be problematic. You know, very difficult to ... uh, harvest ... and very time-consuming.

As S2 nodded in agreement, she said, "When you said 'shellac,' it just reminded me of that. That was sooooo ... ick! But really very funny now that I think of it." Then, sarcastically, she added, "Yeah, you should do it! Why not?"

That would just take toooooo long, I said. And the collection would be fraught with difficulty. I can't even think how I could collect my own bodily fluids in that way.

At this point, something caught Dr. M's attention and she entered the conversation, essentially clueless. "Whaaahh?"

We're talking about how I could collect my own cum for the purposes of shellacking some decoupage.

Dr. M raised an eyebrow. So I added, S2 dated an artist who shellacked his artwork with his own cum...

Dr. M turned to S2. "How long did you date that guy?"

"Oh, twice maybe," S2 said. "Not long, that's for sure. Not after he told me that, anyway."

...So we're discussing whether I should -- or even *could* do the same thing with some decoupage I'm working on.

"Oh, that's simple," Dr. M said. "It's easy! Like milking a python!"

A python? I don't think so!

"Uh, I mean ... a rattlesnake!" Dr. M said. "Just put the fangs in a cup and ... squeeze. Or whatever."

We're talking about *me*! I said. About *my* precious bodily fluids! That is hardly "milking" a snake.

Dr. M's head recoiled, a bit like a snake about to strike. She looked ... disgusted. Then, she recovered with the quick-witted aplomb that I've come to admire in her. "Use a sponge," she said.

But still, I countered, it would take a LONG time.

Dr. M, waving her hand dismissively, said "Ehn..." and issued her prescription: "Try reading Anias Nin's 'Delta of Venus.' It'll take you two or three days tops."

Thus concluded a conversation which I feel certain is unique, truly unique. As in, never have these particular words been strung together before in the history of the universe. (And probably for good reason.)

But that's not the end of the story. There's more....

So last night, I'm online purchasing airline tickets to Hawaii late in the evening. Because I drank too much on Friday night and am suffering from some screwed up sleep as a result, I have just taken an Ambien to force myself to sleep. (Somehow, I think the sleeping medication is related to what happened next.)

As I'm waiting for United to process my credit card and whatnot, I get drawn off track -- as the Internet can do to a person -- and I end up at Amazon.com, reading the first few pages of "Delta of Venus."

I hear the voice inside my head making reasonable comments: Just a few paragraphs, and that woman is already giving blow jobs.... It's been a long time since I read any Anias Nin. It's August. I've got nothing better to do with my time. Why not buy the book?

So I click the button to add it to my "shopping cart." And I see Amazon is tempting me with a Tom Robbins' novel -- "Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates" -- that was destroyed in a flood in my old basement. I see it's available used for $2.98, which is when I think, Shit. If I'm going to buy a used book, I should go to Powell's, so I can check out the quality.

And I notice my head is dipping precariously toward my keyboard, courtesy of the Ambien taking effect. I decide to shut down the computer and go get some shuteye.

Fast-forward to Monday morning. I'd like to say I awaken bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to the sound of birds chirping (which *is* something that's happened before), but in reality, the phone wakes me up. It's 10:40, and I feel drugged ('cause pretty much that's what I was).

As I stumble toward the shower, trying to wake myself up for a hike, I turn on the computer to check my e-mail. There are several. One of them, curiously, is from Amazon.com, informing me of some kind of "delay" with a shipment. In my recollection, there's nothing I've got waiting from Amazon, so I hit the link.

The lingering effects of the Ambien are quickly erased when I see the order that has been "delayed," thanks only to the fact that I hadn't updated my credit card number with Amazon in a while. As best I can figure, rather than adding Anias Nin's "Delta of Venus" to my "shopping cart," I must have hit the button that says, "Buy this item with one click."

And so, thanks to the great ether of the Internet and online shopping, Anias Nin's erotic "Delta of Venus" had (theoretically) been purchased and was already trying to make its way...

... to my dad and his wife.

You can't imagine how fast I hit "cancel." It was like I'd never taken the Ambien. Never had all that wine on Friday night. Never heard anything about using cum to shellac artwork. And *certainly* never considered collecting those precious bodily fluids on my own.

Of course not. None of it happened. None of it.

The author wishes to note that none of the identities have been changed to protect the innocent. Because no one here -- not S2, her avant-garde artist, Dr. M nor your dear UCM -- has any claim to "innocence" whatsoever.