Public Relations | 5 August 2021
Rumors of prodigious happenings enveloped the community, some in whispers and others posted on signs warning all who enter. None of the stories were the same, and I wanted to know why.
BNR Response
I pushed open the gate to the quaint B&B we were staying at and pointed to the sign posted there which read, “Conception Weekend will commence Friday evening at sundown and last through Sunday’s sunset! Beware your intentions and be careful the company you keep.” I stopped to read the sign a second time while simultaneously shooting a look of suspicion to my husband. “Ummm, what the fuck is THIS? Some kind of stupid Punk’d home-edition or something?”
Bob shrugged while stepping ahead of me to open the door to the lobby. I watched his schlubbish body lumber through the narrow passage and hoped this was the kind of “traditional” place that put even the most married of couples in rooms with two twin beds. He was always pulling this kind of weird shit and I really wasn’t in the mood. Last birthday it was the murder mystery dinner gone too far, and our anniversary was an ultra-realistic kidnapping fantasy run by former Special Forces dudes in the desert near Joshua Tree. Who has a kidnapping fantasy? Really? Do husbands think this passes for romance these days? I mean, get me a five-star hotel with a pool and unleash me on the spa with a bottomless glass of bubbly and I’ll put out every night. EVERY NIGHT.
I eyed the thatched roof of the cottage as I ducked slightly to walk through the wooden door to the lobby. There was Bob, yucking it up with the elderly couple behind the front desk. She had the face of an apple doll, the kind we made in kindergarten, and I imagined she was likely much younger than her mumsy attire and color-rinse made her appear. He looked like he had just stepped out of a 1980’s lumberjack catalogue, sporting a plaid shirt and suspenders that were holding up his trousers the way suspenders hold up the barrel around rodeo clowns.
“I see you booked the full CW package, Mr. Sweeney. You won’t be disappointed!” Apple Doll’s eyes were glinting as she gazed at my schmo of a hubby. He seemed really into her energy, which doubly creeped me out. It was like watching my man lust after his own grandmother or something. Luckily I caught myself grimacing in visible disgust before any of them realized I was there. I went to stand next to Bob and let my eyes take in the full splendor of this local specimen while he continued to schmooze.
“Of course we offer a money-back guarantee, you know, Champ! All you need to do is, well, *fake cough* and the CW takes care of the rest.” Lumberjack all but elbowed Bob in the ribs while they shared a chortle. What was that on the shelf behind them, was that some kind of huge dildo? Couldn’t be, it was made from wood. It must be rustic…art of some kind? I took a sip from my welcome beverage and winced at its strength. It had a pungent odor and tasted worse than PGA but it sure was taking the edge off the realization that Bob apparently wanted to join a sex cult.
Admittedly I zoned out while continuing to examine my surroundings, with only a few key phrases penetrating my incredulity and shock. The more I looked around at the phalluses made from, um, non-traditional materials (coral, honeycomb, cork?) and Georgia O’Keefe-esque yonic imagery, the more I felt almost prudish. That was a first. I snorted audibly and snapped myself out of the unwanted mental porno. I took another sip from my vagina mug and had to sit down. Whatever these rubes put in this nectar was no bullshit, could it be they also had a moonshine still hidden here in this sex cave?
The room starts swimming and I suddenly find myself oddly into this whole scene. Someone has put music on and suddenly, “Rockytop” is the most sensual sound that has ever entered my aura. I look over at Apple Doll and think, “You know, maybe I can be into chicks after all.” She starts to unbotton her Laura Ashley blouse. Time passes and I find myself laying on my back in a part of the lobby that’s been cordoned off by a curtain. I feel the rug against my bare skin, smiling like a drunken Junior on Prom Night looking up at my Prom King, er, Kings. I arch my back to assist the Lumberjack in pulling my jeans off and unzip Bob’s zipper. I enter a groovy dreamscape and the next thing I know Bob is smiling down on me like I’m a sedated cat and in an underwater garbled sound I hear, “We did it, Champ! CW is guaranteed to give you the baby she wants. We’ll give you a map for the other coital stops in town to amplify your results. Just keep feeding her a steady stream of the fertility juice and you can’t lose.”
As I drift closer to clarity I remember the day I tossed my birth control pills in the waste bin at work, thinking how pointless they were given my dedication to celibacy where Bob was involved. At the same moment the familiar longing for motherhood floods my brain and I realized that maybe the schmuck had finally gotten it right. And I was finally ready to give him a piece of ass.