Dear Blog,
I paid to have a Korean lady wearing black lace panties and bra, slough my nude body free of several layers of skin cells. As I lay porcine-like, on the Korean Spa’s slippery vinyl sloughing-table, the scantilly-clad spa-lady gruntingly sloughing, dangerously close to my vajayjay and all I could think of was, “Please don’t touch my vagina by mistake!” and then the mantra became, “Please don’t touch my vagina by mistake again!”
Then the Sloughers, all dressed in black bra and panties, began to chat amongst themselves in Korean and I became paranoid that they were judging me and my imperfect body and simultaneously were appalled at the amount of skin they were sloughing off; and then It occurred to me that this is what it is like to be quadrapalegic or extremely rich; and then I opened my eyes and found myself face to face with the Slougher’s own vagina, barely concealed by her possibly Ross Dress for Less polyester panties. And the Slougher scrubbed my boobs in repeated concentric motions and I couldn’t believe I had Paid to have this done to me; and I thought, “Please stop rubbing my breasts in concentric circles!” And then I realized I was wasting my spa-treatment by not relaxing into The Zone. So I tried to enjoy the pampering, the tactile sensations and considered how dead-skin-free I would soon be.
Then came the Milk Bath. Seriously. My eyes were shut, but I later saw the Black-Panty-Spa-Ladies using actual gallons of milk one might purchase at Albertsons. They poured milk all over me and instructed me, through hand signals, to wash my face in the milk. I complied. Then came the oil-massage rub-down and a cucumber-mash smeared on my face. The oil-massage consisted of a lot more of my ass being vigorously rubbed by a woman who up until now, was a stranger, but she had transformed into someone with a far more intimate knowledge of my body than pretty much anyone in the past month. My breasts were again concentrically-moisturized and frighteningly, Black-Panty-Spa-Lady’s hands repeatedly came dangerously close, by mistake, to the intimate crannies of my imperfect, but freshly-sloughed, body.
At the end, I felt renewed, moisturized and extremely clean. I would probably go back.
Love The UkuLady
PS: Today Victoria Beckham is on the front page of the LA Times. The urgent news demanded of their newspaper by Angelenos never stops.
Showing posts with label Breasts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breasts. Show all posts
Friday, July 13, 2007
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Whore Potatoes & Man-Breasts
Dear Blog!
Tonight I met the ultimate temptress; I call them Whore Potatoes, made with a secret midwestern recipe. I don't know what I mean when I say Whore Potatoes. Are the potatoes the whore or am I? I think it's me who is the whore for the potatoes. Or the potatoes are a fleet of whores, tempting me with their delicious fat-tastic flavor. The Whore Potatoes were also refered to, at the LA Orphan Easter/Pagan Dinner, as Crack Potatoes. Whore Potatoes is a friendlier term, I think. Whores are more socially-acceptabe than crack. Crack is just straightup totally unredeeming, while Whores are kind of sexy, like the Nevada Mustang Ranch whores or the unionized San Francisco whores.
There used to be a streetfood Chicken stand a couple blocks from my house, on historic Route 66. The Chicken Stand was a magnet for whores, who would linger, waiting for potential clients, the drunken chicken-eaters who would (pardon the pun) flock to the Chicken Stand because it was so delicous and open latenight. We always called it Whore Chicken. It was delicious chicken. These potatoes were outrageously delicious. They had cornflakes on top. Whore Potatoes are a once-a-year treat, unless one is interested in a sheath of winter-lard.
Love The UkuLady
PS: My Best Gay Friend is feeling fat these days (he's not) and tonight insisted he was plump and hence, forced to wear a blouse. He emphatically said to me, "I'm so fat, I'm wearing a blouse!". It was kind of true, the blouse, not the fat part. It was a loose-fitting shirt, which I've rarely seen him in. Loose-fitting garments and gay men don't really go hand in hand, unless they are in a show and need to wear something gauzy, billowy or flowy. BGF also insisted that the other day that he felt oddly uncomfortable and realized the uncomfortablity was caused by his breasts making a crease. He is concerned he has an A-cup and needs to wear a sports-bra. This is not the case. He's adorable and not even pleasantly plump or chubby. Man-Blouse and Man-Breast-Crease. Nothing for my BGF to worry about, but he won't listen to me. I'm just the UkuLady, not a hot gay man ready to get down. The word blouse is hilarious when used in the context of a gay man. Same with Breast Crease. Crease is a great word.
Tonight I met the ultimate temptress; I call them Whore Potatoes, made with a secret midwestern recipe. I don't know what I mean when I say Whore Potatoes. Are the potatoes the whore or am I? I think it's me who is the whore for the potatoes. Or the potatoes are a fleet of whores, tempting me with their delicious fat-tastic flavor. The Whore Potatoes were also refered to, at the LA Orphan Easter/Pagan Dinner, as Crack Potatoes. Whore Potatoes is a friendlier term, I think. Whores are more socially-acceptabe than crack. Crack is just straightup totally unredeeming, while Whores are kind of sexy, like the Nevada Mustang Ranch whores or the unionized San Francisco whores.
There used to be a streetfood Chicken stand a couple blocks from my house, on historic Route 66. The Chicken Stand was a magnet for whores, who would linger, waiting for potential clients, the drunken chicken-eaters who would (pardon the pun) flock to the Chicken Stand because it was so delicous and open latenight. We always called it Whore Chicken. It was delicious chicken. These potatoes were outrageously delicious. They had cornflakes on top. Whore Potatoes are a once-a-year treat, unless one is interested in a sheath of winter-lard.
Love The UkuLady
PS: My Best Gay Friend is feeling fat these days (he's not) and tonight insisted he was plump and hence, forced to wear a blouse. He emphatically said to me, "I'm so fat, I'm wearing a blouse!". It was kind of true, the blouse, not the fat part. It was a loose-fitting shirt, which I've rarely seen him in. Loose-fitting garments and gay men don't really go hand in hand, unless they are in a show and need to wear something gauzy, billowy or flowy. BGF also insisted that the other day that he felt oddly uncomfortable and realized the uncomfortablity was caused by his breasts making a crease. He is concerned he has an A-cup and needs to wear a sports-bra. This is not the case. He's adorable and not even pleasantly plump or chubby. Man-Blouse and Man-Breast-Crease. Nothing for my BGF to worry about, but he won't listen to me. I'm just the UkuLady, not a hot gay man ready to get down. The word blouse is hilarious when used in the context of a gay man. Same with Breast Crease. Crease is a great word.
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