He’s playing his balls like he’s strumming an electric guitar.
I’m at an art gallery opening with Lee.
We’re standing in a room with an installation piece projecting full-frontal male nudity.
On the other side of the room, I notice a very cute girl. She’s artsy and dressed to the nines.
I walk away from Lee and go over and stand next to her, looking at the projection.
“We’re relying on you to explain the meaning of this to us,” I say to her.
“I got nothing,” she says with a smile.
“What? You look like the expert.”
She laughs. “I have no idea what’s going on there.”
I look at her. “You have no penis… guitar playing experience? ” I look back up at the video.
“Not my specialty. I’ve never done that.”
“No. Have you?”
“Hey,” I say, “what guy hasn’t strummed out a few power chords on his penis?”
She laughs again.
“So I take it this isn’t your piece here?” I ask.
“Oh no. I don’t have any pieces here.”
“You’re just observing?”
She tells me that she’s here supporting her friend. She tells me a bit about how she knows her friend.
“You strike me as an artist as well,” I say. “Wait, don’t tell me what you do, I’m gonna guess. I’m really good at this.” I look her up and down.
I hold her hand and say, “Send me some psychic waves.”
She closes her eyes.
“Nothing dirty,” I say. “Keep it clean.”
I let go of her hand. She still has her hand out. “Okay, you can put your hand down now,” I say.
“I was still sending you waves,” she says.
“Oh yeah? It’s a very complex thing that you do. You’re a dolphin trainer.”
“I wish,” she says. “I do scuba diving, so maybe that was the vibe you were getting.”
“You’re a fashion designer,” I say.
“And now you’re done with that,” I say.
She tells me she designs prints for textiles. And that she’s going to be a yoga instructor.
“You didn’t pick up on the yoga, did you?” she says.
“It was the glittery shoes that threw me off,” I say. “You teach?”
“I teach my first class on Monday,” she says, beaming a smile.
“Are you excited?” I say.
“I’m really pumped.”
“You’ve never taught a class before?”
“Are you nervous?”
“I was nervous last week.”
“Now you’re done, you’re over the nervousness?” I ask.
We talk a bit more about yoga. It’s time to turn the conversation to me.
“So guess what I do,” I tell her.
Eventually I tell her I’m a writer.
“What do you write about?” she asks. They always ask.
“I like to tell stories-but true stories. Stories about my life. I feel like very few people can tell a good story. When one person tells another person a good story, it’s like their brains are having sex.”
“I get that,” she say.
“Are you good at telling stories?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” she says.
“Or you prefer to be on the bottom,” I say.
“I prefer both. Switching it up,” she says.
“You got a good story?” I ask.
“What if I gave you a topic?”
“Maybe..” she says.
“I’m not gonna say penis guitar-playing, because that would be too easy.”
From there, the interaction winds down. We exchange contact info and she contacts me later that night.
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