And Bob’s Your Uncle or maybe just your boyfriend…. One night last week turned into one of those strange and dangerous nights. It was a girl’s night out evening. Women in groups are much worse than men. I don’t mean about fighting or anything like that but the topics of conversation has many fewer restrictions placed on them. This was one of those nights. You will almost never hear a group of grown men talk about a subject such as masturbation, let alone techniques, but women love this subject. This group of women got through the prerequisite list of normal conversation such as dieting, movies and old boyfriends and rather quickly moved on to talk about their most steadfast of friends; BOB, their Battery Operated Boyfriends. They all had their own favorite, the egg, the rabbit, the dolphin, some generic vibrator/dildo or just the plain old corner of the washing machine on spin cycle. A couple opted more for cleanliness and preferred the tub faucet with a good hard stream of water. Almost everyone agreed that the shower massage heads with an extension hose could work wonders. One of the girls relayed the story of how her mother used to yell at her for the length of the showers that she took when she was a teenager. One of the women, Ms. Chardonnay, relayed the sad story of a dead rabbit. She said that she and bunny were getting along splendidly one morning when suddenly, just as she was about to hit a home run, her little rabbit died. She pulled it out and tried to slap some life back into it. It worked she said as it began humming along once more and then as if it where karma, just moments from nirvana, it died once more. She relayed that she was forced to finish the job the old fashioned way, by hand.
I am always amazed at how as a bar owner / bartender that I do not exist during such conversations. I have always been like this, even long before I owned a bar. One of my nicknames in college was “Father Confessor” because people felt that they could or almost needed to tell me almost anything, a great deal of the time it was way TMI. Maybe I should have been a psychologist or psychiatrist…. No, I think being a bartender is much more fun. There were a few men out on the patio smoking. Whenever they came back into the bar, the girls conversation would immediately change to some harmless topic only to return immediately to the main topic of the evening as soon as the men departed the bar area.
Anyway, back to the story, the women all took turns relaying to each other there favorite ways to find ‘relief’ when their husbands / boyfriends were not around to come to their rescue. Or those sad to say, all to frequent times when their man didn’t quite meet their expectations or needs. When the conversation got around to a girl that I will call Miss Riesling, she rather matter-of-factly stated that she did not need to employ any industrial appliances to get her where she needed to go as long as she had her fingers. This statement brought a chorus of protest from the other women present. While they all agreed that fingers were good, batteries were better, or at least very different from the everyday, humdrum activity of snapping their zippy’s. She persisted with her position that with what her boyfriend did not take care of, she could accomplish manually on those rare instances that he was not around. She just felt that masturbation was not needed all that often. One of the women, Ms. Margarita pointed out that masturbation was not just about getting off but rather was a time when you could satisfy yourself and selfishly not have to worry about making a partner happy. Hmmmm? Well good point Ms. Margarita. ‘Rita’, for short, rather incredulously, quizzed Ms. Riesling about the fact that she had never tried a vibrator or dildo. She replied that while a number of her friends had used the aforementioned devices, she swore that she had never employed a sex toy either with a boyfriend or while alone. Mrs. Chardonnay joined in at this point and stated that getting Ms. Riesling to experience the joys of modern day mechanics was in her estimation about equal to the pursuit of the Holy Grail.
As the girls night out was coming, pardon the pun, to an end, most of the ladies left the bar after paying their tabs. Only Ms. Riesling and Ms. Chardonnay, the owner of the dead rabbit remained with me and my bartender. The bartender departed as quickly as she could after getting her closing chores finished. She was on her way to an after-party that she had been invited to earlier in the evening leaving me with these two slightly intoxicated and considering the conversation of the evening, very horny women. As it was still earlier than the legal closing hour, I sat with the women while they drank coffee and diet coke waiting for some degree of sobriety to return to their psyches. Ms. Chardonnay suddenly had what she thought was an incredibly good idea. As no one else was in the bar, the bartender had already left, she thought it was late enough for me to call it a night and close the bar for the evening. She thought that I could drive the two women across town to a sex shop where she could purchase a replacement for her recently dearly departed rabbit. She also thought that this would be a wonderful oportunity for Ms. Riesling to expand her horizons into the wonderful world of mechanics and electronics. As it wasn't far to the 'toy store' and I had not done anything stupid a the last week or two, I finally agreed after much pleading from both women. It was that or just sit with them for a while. This choice at least seemed more interesting. I locked up the bar and we loaded into my car. The girls both got into the back seat so that they could easily talk back and forth. In a short time, we arrived at the combination tatoo parlor and toy store located a few miles down the highway. I am not sure what time this place closes or if it even does, but in we marched. Now my wife gave me the nick-name of The Visual Pimp some years ago, I never really felt like one until this night. The women immediately went to the toy counter to survey the available implements. Ms. Chardonnay asked to look at a couple different models and rather quickly chose her new companion. Ms. Riesling, while obviously interested, decided not to make a purchase on this particular evening. With the tranaction completed, I loaded the two women back into the car to head back to the bar and their cars. Within a minute or so, a strange whirring and humming sound began to eminate from the back seat. A few moments later, audible moaning joined the mechanical sounds coming from the back seat and as quick as you could say "Bob's Your Uncle", one of the girls, I'm not sure which one, I'm guessing Ms. Chardonnay was experiencing what sounded like a rather mystical experience. A few minutes later, I could detect a different voice moaning from the back seat. Obviously, by now, Ms. Riesling had joined the machine age. I arrived back at the bar with two very content woman in the back seat, by now they were not only happy but sober. I said good night and watched them leave the parking lot. Life is strange, in the middle of the night, it's stranger.
