Sure, I guess one could say I have a “glory hole”, a “golden gully”, or whatever other nom de guerre one could think of. But that’s not the kind I want. Well, it is, of course. I like what I have and I wouldn’t say no to someone else’s. In this instance, though, I mean the glory holes men purportively have. There’re even treatises on it and the correct glory hole protocol. Do a search for ‘glory holes for women’ and you’ll find either porn sites or women lamenting the lack thereof for our sex. My turn to whine.
Many years ago I fantasized about it and came up with a rather uninspired fable. Hair stylists, nail techs (id est, those cute gals who do your acrylic nails), and cosmetologists had a system for advertising their other services. And it went like this: Some change would be scattered on the lady’s counter (and it was always a lady—this was a girl/girl fantasy, after all) and if you arranged the coins in an idle, surreptitious way, she would know what particular service you wanted to include in your wash-and-blow-dry. Three coins in a line, standard oral, some finger dipping, clit licking, nothing fancy. Three-two-two in a line, full service.
I, being the pestilent and petty little scourge to society that I was at 19, spread the story around with a free and disingenuous hand. My then friends—those smart and sophisitcated women fresh out of high school—believed it wholeheartedly and passed the wisdom on.
Here’s the part where I ‘fess up and stop laughing at a very private joke. Last week a friend of mine mentioned this stupid and (I thought) forgotten lie and told me a story about a friend of a friend who had found a superb nail girl. The story that unraveled was so familiar I could have told it myself. In fact, I had. Time and time again. Almost word for word. Do I get to pat myself on the back for starting an urban legend, or smack my forehead on my cheap marble-like counter because I have such a dim-witted herd of acquaintances?
So to those out there who’ve heard or told the story: It’s a total fabrication created by a horny and not very imaginative nineteen-year-old who thought it all a grand private joke. To those who scattered change on the counter of an unsuspecting hair stylist who cut your hair for little pay and an even smaller tip: The joke’s on you. To the hair stylist who heard the tale and tried to make an extra buck or two licking cunt but didn’t: Sorry!
And to those who did get it or give it or watch it: Where’s my cut?