In Search of a Glory Hole

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?

One Comment

  • Eucalingus wrote:

    If this isn’t happening, by cracky it should be. And with checkout boy/girls too. (“Oo, the milk’s first on the conveyor belt? Clearly wants some head.”)

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