The CuisinArt

New from Shea, the satyric scribe from San Francisco…
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This here’s a tale about a virgin.

A virgin who came to Disney to ride the rides, and stayed behind to ride a woman.

There are some who might call him a hero, and others who’d call him a fool, but then again the line between the two has never been but a hair thin.

His story doesn’t get told too much. Common lore favors instead the tale of the virgin woman. Wherein man is cast as the hornet: a savage insect who rends a flower’s virginity with multi-pronged perforation pistil, spewing white-hot trauma inducing poison. The myth is so injurious that unassociated third parties still trouble to craft consistent pollination metaphors.

Yes. His story is less told. But it is replete nonetheless with its own unique mortification.

To frame his story, let us take the aforementioned metaphor, polish it a mite, and turn it on its axis. Viewed like such, we see that long before he became the hornet, man began his sexual journey as the carpenter bee—incommodious, oafish, cumbersome, spending more of his day in congress with the wood surrounding the nest than the nest itself. A life spent fluttering six inches from the bull’s-eye.

Yes, a carpenter bee has wings and a man has a penis but neither is too sure what to do with their given extremity. Still, the man was willing to brave this uncertainty for the opportunity to understand the mysteries of the fairer sex.

Many people talked about it. The Juniors spoke frequently. The seniors spoke more. Even the occasional sophomore hinted at an understanding. He wanted in, and Disney seemed as fitting a place as any to gain membership. Look hard enough, the innuendo is there: Mickey; Minnie; phallic train cars penetrating dark, cavernous tunnels.

By day the man trolled the parks; by night he trolled palm-lined walkways of his resort. Orlando was rife with young vixens. Blondes. Brunettes. The occasional redhead. The man would have been happy to cast any as the willing damsel in his tale. But there was one he hoped for above all the rest.

A brunette, with eyes of a deep, snakeskin color, and a porcelain face that reflected a mastery of symmetry. She was the type of woman who made flowers bloom as she passed and wilt in her wake. She bore the figure of an hourglass, and not only in her curves, but in her ability to effect time. She had unrelenting nipples, and wore only that which would highlight such an anatomical curiosity. She was anthropometric perfection, the Sandwoman who dwells only in the wettest of dreams.

With her he always kept it innocent, hanging back to watch her from afar. He’d like to think he did it out of common decency and respect for the chase. Hazard instead it was the flimsy stitching of his bathing suit and a hair trigger erectile response that stayed his course.

Came the day he happened upon a bar. Virginity, they say, loves company, so he ordered a Pina Colada without rum. He nursed it conservatively, and a steady influx of adolescent males soon turned the pair of virgins into a crowd. Perhaps they came to the bar to find women; but perhaps, too, they came unconsciously to avoid them. If so, they picked the appropriate joint. Most of the night the bar remained estrogen free. Until she arrived.

The woman blew in as a wayward ship run aground by an invisible tempest. Her spandex framed camel toe, and halter-top accentuated cleavage had no business in a place of boys dressed by their mothers. She nursed her cigarette in front of a no-smoking sign, and through the puffs the man could see snakeskin eyes, which until that very moment had been but a mirage.

The man felt the sudden pull of his erection. Fate, it seemed, had put him in this very bar. His mother, however, had put him in a pair of triple stitched cargo pants. No hard-on short of an immaculate erection could defy the durability of those seams. And it was a good thing too. Because she was headed his way.

Cut from the impending adolescent flirting and flash forward to room 24-17-B.

Prostrate naked upon pastel sheets, ass angled at 15 degrees, with two fingers reaching behind to explore various curiosities laid the woman. Framed in the doorway, wearing an XL Gap sweatshirt with no pants, double palming a sweaty erection stood the man. A look of confusion etched upon his face as he struggled with both the vision before him and the unsettling fact that his pants lay ruffled 12 feet away yet his sweatshirt remained upon his shoulders.

He always knew his impending sexual performance would be abysmal. He had only hoped that his relationship to the girl in question might lessen the mortification. Given an equally nascent virgin, for example, shared ignorance might have negated inexperience. Or if he were to meet a soul mate, a sense of cosmic destiny and overarching synchronicity would nullify the need for any kind of carnal fulfillment.

But the truth of the matter was that he was a carpenter bee lost in a place carpenter bees have no business being. The jungles of Disney grow thick and arboreal, and the flowers are unforgiving.

He would have to stall…
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Tune in tomorrow for Part 2…