The $25 Hand-job

If crowded rooms freak you out, then the whole party scene can be extremely daunting.

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The past few years have been a compilation of successful social isolation, so when one of my friends told me that last night’s party was an essential event to attend – naturally I caved.

It was a party solely organized for Edmonton’s up and coming movers and shakers – and for the small fee of $25, I felt it was a worthy investment.

I had to look just right – intelligent but not pretentious, confident but not swanky and most importantly – 10 pounds thinner.

After finding – what eventually made the cut – a decent outfit paired with stunning heels ( all heels are stunning, except for the ones with spikes – those ones are scary) I ordered my cab and prepared for a night of forced intoxication and awkward small talk.

I assumed that a party hosting the elite caliber of Edmonton’s secret society of geniuses would be at a hip and trendy bar. You know, the type of place so obscure, it would be cool. The menu would be a tweet and drinks would be unpronounceable. The food would be served in atom form, and the tables would be upside down.

Instead, the driver pulled into, what I’m guessing is the town’s local crack district. The usual suspects were sprawled on the pavement in a non-comital matter. Their teeth were a dentist’s wet dream and their hair a greasy stringy mess hanging off their shoulders. They each looked malnourished, eyeing the other party guests hungrily. I clutched my bag for dear life and silently prayed that I wouldn’t be attacked by someone on bath salts.

There would be nothing more tragic than my half eaten face on the precipice of my initiation into the town’s coolest club.

I know, it’s an unfair assumption that all crack heads are also kleptos and/or flesh eating psychopaths, and for that I truly apologize.

I stepped inside and took it all in – the venue was by no means was a hip and trendy bar, but rather an art gallery.

Even better.

Anyone who is socially awkward understands the great gift of art gallery parties.

The art is always the impartial socialite that has your back.

Got no one to talk to?

Just stare at something (anything) with a glass of white in your hand. You’ll always look fabulously pretentious, and people won’t think that you’re a social leper, but merely a higher level thinker that needs peace and quiet to take in the genius of a painting or photograph.

I met one of my friends at the entrance, coincidentally she was one of the organizers – which also meant she couldn’t baby sit me.

Leaving me to make friends with art.

The only catch is that there is just only so much art you can stare at before you run out. Which meant I had to resort to other “look cool” antics, i.e. fake phone calls, twitter stalking, Facebook scrolling, and calling my husband.

When she finally did peel away from her responsibilities, we met with other phenomenal minds. People shared the big and incredible projects they were working on – it was simple breath taking.

And then it happened.

A certain painting caught my eye.

It was a nude portrait of some androgynous human being, curious at the sex, I looked towards the genital region – only to be further confused by a heaping mess of pubes concealing the answer. It was when I was desperately searching for a penis, when something caught my eye.

Shifting my gaze, I noticed a gentleman sitting in the midst of a friend circle. He had a faded t-shirt on and those earrings that make your ear holes bigger. You know then ones I’m talking about. He was pulling off a simultaneous look of confused hippie meets Call of Duty addict meets Vegan explorer.

Neatly (and conveniently) placed on his lap was an equally faded, hemp made, man purse.

And underneath that was his hand, gently stroking his penis.

My eyes widened.

Could I be mistaken? Could it be true? Was this guy jacking off in the middle of an art gallery party in front of his friends?

It was not an itch and it was not an adjustment.

It was a series of full on, pleasure filled strokes in the adequate succession.

Women know the difference.

Naturally, I needed a second opinion. I yanked on the sleeve of an impartial pal – who also, jaw gapingly confirmed.

I couldn’t stop staring. Was he actually doing this? Perhaps I mistook his actions for being live art, or maybe his act of jacking off was really just a metaphorical message – like he was trying to convey an “I ejaculate all over your capitalist elitism.”

Or maybe he was just a super perv.

More importantly – what would he do with his mess?

My mind was blown.

I just moved from Egypt, where the act of public masturbation wasn’t even offensive, but merely sighed upon.

But to see it here – in the developed world, was the most amusing and disturbing revelation.

My intoxicated state only compelled me to tell anyone and everyone I ran into about the man masturbating in the middle of his friends.

And in their intoxicated state, they all rushed to see if he was still going at it.

Which obviously he wasn’t. Maybe one of my horrified glares caught his eye and encouraged him to stop.

Or maybe he just didn’t have the stamina.

By 10:30 pm I was thoroughly spent both emotionally and mentally.

I needed to go home and cleanse my mind and gauge out my eyes.

I climbed into bed with pizza in mouth and watched the only thing that could cure me – Orgazmo.

Because the truth is – Trey Parker makes everything better.

And for the first time – in a long time, my last memory was of laughter before I fell asleep.

Sweet Dreams World.

P.s. Thank you Imran for the photo.

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62 replies

  1. Okay I had to look and I loved it. You think somewhat like me. You are funny in a lead up to it way.

  2. Haha, wow. Thanks for liking my post. Gotta say, yours is the more interesting of the two.

  3. That was absolutely fantastic!! I can’t even begin to tell you how many similar experiences I have had through the years. Even taking someone home from the hospital one night thinking I was doing a benevolent thing only to look over while we were talking and to find him stroking himself!! I promptly pulled the car over and told him in no uncertain terms to “get out”!!! Now, I keep a taser with me wherever I go!!! Even if it looks like a nice party or neighborhood – absurd!

  4. ROTFL–Wow, I gotta hand it to you (pun intended! ;D). I had no idea what to expect when I saw the title of your post. Sounds like quite the night–and I will remember your solid advice, “Just stare at something (anything) with a glass of white in your hand. You’ll always look fabulously pretentious, and people won’t think that you’re a social leper, but merely a higher level thinker . . .”

    >>>He was pulling off a simultaneous look of confused hippie meets Call of Duty addict meets Vegan explorer.<<<

    Fantastic description, heh.

  5. Great post! LOL “I ejaculate all over your capitalist elitism!” I think hemp man purse dude was using bath salts.

  6. I like your style, its quite bold. I have to be honest, that was all I liked. But style is incredible, and it carried me through. Sometimes it is difficult to tell if you were facetious or dead serious. I will stick around and read more 🙂

    After I catch some sleep…

  7. I’m sitting here, stunned, wondering what I would have done in your place. And other than laugh uncontrollably, I got nothing. Wonderful read. Thanks I needed the giggle

  8. This is actually pretty funny (notice my surprise). I am socially awkward. That’s probably why I became an artist. And I’ll have to admit… gallery events are great places to see nothing… or to get an eye full. Cheers! 🙂

  9. I was at a mental health convention where everyone had to meet in a large auditorium for a lecture. The man sitting in the middle section, one row below where I was sitting in the left-hand section, was very actively engaged in masturbation, using his jacket to hide it, but not well enough. After he finished, he fell asleep. The group of ladies I was sitting with burst out laughing. Men are all the same.

  10. Thanks for stopping by blog.. there is a reflection of depth in your words. Keept at it.

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