Brie: It's What's For Breakfast

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Tragedy in Pole Dancing Class

I was just about to leave my office for the evening and head to the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge for an evening libation when I heard their voices.

“I can’t believe you did that to me!”

“I didn’t do anything to you. You did it yourself!”

“Ladies, please,” a male voice interjected. “Wench won’t like it if you are screaming at each other. Let’s just talk to her about the situation.”

Agincourt? Sir Agincourt Finsbury-Pikestaff? Was that the voice of my trusted, loyal operator of the Satellite Virgin Training Academy on the Moon? I wasn’t expecting him, and it seemed he was bringing a problem to me. Usually his assistant, Teri the Boopster, handled routine matters. This must be serious!

I opened the door to my office just as they approached. Yes, there was Agincourt. I couldn’t help but smile to see him. He’s my brother, you understand, and I adore him even if he does quaff a few too many pints now and again.

“Agi!” I exclaimed, holding my arms out for the requisite hug. Instead of the big squeeze he normally gives me, he stopped and gave me an exasperated look. I was startled, to say the least. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked, eyeing the two trainees accompanying him.

One, a tall, slim blonde, clearly had been wearing her long hair in a ponytail. That ponytail no longer looked very neat, though. It certainly wasn’t a look we encouraged out Virgins to display. Great hanks of hair stuck out at odd angles from her head, and red streaks that looked for all the world like claw marks decorated one of her cheeks.

The other, a small brunette, had high color in her cheeks and a bloody nose. A bruise on one of her upper arms was darkening before my eyes.

Agincourt was talking.

“It seems that there was a bit of an accident during the zero-G pole dance exercise,” Agincourt began. He was clearly upset and more than a bit aggravated with his two charges.

Before he could continue the brunette interrupted. “Accident! It was no accident! She pushed me!”

“I was spotting you, not pushing you!” retorted the blonde.

“Ladies, it seems we might need to calm down before we discuss it further.” One thing I had learned in my year of operating the Virgin Training School was that angry Virgins needed to be coddled and soothed. Only after tempers cooled would I be able to make sense of the situation.

I led them into my office. They were grumbling and snarling at each other. I sighed. My daiquiri and the Twisted Wench were looking like a fond dream at this point.

“Wenchy, dear, I am so very sorry to bring this situation to you,” Agincourt said as I brewed a tisane loaded with herbs of comfort and calming properties.

“Hand me that small box of valerian root?” I asked Agincourt. He passed it to me. As I added a large dose of it to the mixture, he started to tell me about the situation.

“Not yet,” I said. Let’s give the girls some tea and let’s us have something a little stronger, shall we?”

He grinned at me. “You know me well,” he chuckled. I was glad he could smile. I was beginning to wonder if this dispute wasn’t taking its toll on him. I poured us both a healthy serving of a lovely, smooth Irish Cream. We took our first sips as the kettle whistled. I poured the water over my herbal recipe and carried the pot to the conversation area of my office. One trainee sat on each sofa, glowering at the other across the gorgeous marquetry inlay of my antique Italian coffee table.

Agincourt again began to speak, but I shushed him. I poured the herbal concoction for the trainees, setting one cup before each of them.

“Drink,” I ordered.

I had them empty one cup and start on another before I let them speak. The silence was difficult at first, but finally the warm drink and its herbal contents did the trick and the two young women began to calm down. I could tell by their slower breathing and the way they sipped slowly at their second cups that my concoction was working.

“Now,” I said. “I would like to hear first from Sir Agincourt. After he tells what he understands the situation to be, you each will have a chance to add to his explanation or correct it as you see fit.” The trainees nodded.

Agincourt cleared his throat. “As you know, the trainees practice the pole dance in zero-G on the Moon. Cyndi has appointed several of the more advanced trainees as assistant instructors.”

“That’s me,” the blonde broke in.

I shot her a warning look. “Sir Agi first, then you will have a chance,” I murmured. She settled back into her plushly upholstered cushions.

“Yes, well, erm…” Agincourt took another sip of his Irish Cream. Finding a bit of determination from somewhere within his glass, he continued. “After demonstrating the move she was teaching, the assistant instructor allowed the student trainee to attempt the move. Unfortunately, the trainee wasn’t quite properly balanced …”

“I was perfectly balanced! She pushed me!” the brunette declared hotly.

“I most certainly did not,” the blonde assistant stated emphatically. “I was spotting you and attempting to adjust your balance and you fell.”

“I fell, all right! I fell right on my nose. If it swells up and no one will offer camels for me, all this training will be for nothing!” She glared across the table at her erstwhile instructor.

“Unfortunately,” Agincourt continued, “After the fall I’m afraid the two got into a bit of a fight.”

I shook my head in disbelief, wondering if “Deportment” would be yet another class we would have to add to the curriculum.

“Why in the world would a fight have ensued?” I asked. I looked at the petite brunette, who I expect swung the first claw.

“Because she pushed me!”

“I did not!”

“Ladies, ladies. Please. Agincourt, were there any witnesses?”

My gallant brother looked uncomfortable. “Well, erm, yes.”

I waited.

“I was filming the class at the time. I was the one who separated them, and then, of course, got them down here to the school for you to deal with as Head Mistress. Have you any Guinness?”

The subject change was meant to distract me from the fact that a male had been watching my Virgins in training. It was meant to distract me from the fact that my brother had been watching them.

“Oh, Agi, what will I do with you?” I sighed. Both Virgins had fallen asleep by this time. Good. The valerian root worked.

Agi and I watched the video. Here it is. Tell me if you believe the trainee was pushed, or if she fell. Then, in the comments, tell me what I should do about Agi, and recommend to me suitable disciplinary measures for the fighting Virgins.

November 5, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Yahoo 360… Again

Two of our Yahoo 360 bloggers have managed to get through on the telephone to Matt Warburton, the Yahoo Community Manager who announced on the Yahoo 360 Team Blog that the service would “transition.” Although they didn’t get more detail from Warburton, the sense I get from the reports of their conversations is that Yahoo really has no idea what direction a blogging or social networking site will take, or even if they will retain the services as part of their suite.

This is not good news for us. It means that Yahoo is committed to shutting down Yahoo 360, but that the company has no plan, as yet, for what it will do next.

Our blogging colleague Mr. E spoke with Warburton, and apparently talked in detail about what went wrong with Yahoo 360. Warburton mentioned the plan for a universal profile, the same thing referred to in the Yahoo Team blog and in Jerry Yang’s blog. Jerry Yang is Yahoo’s CEO. (Instead of blogging on Yahoo 360, he maintains the official Yahoo blog on How’s that for confidence in and support of one’s own product?) Mr. E pointed out that Yahoo 360 was supposed to have been the universal profile, and hence the name “Yahoo! 360.” Warburton, who only came on board with the company in April, was unaware of this.

Mr. E got information out of Warburton that I felt was significant. He said that there would be a transition to another blogging platform within Yahoo and possibly tools to export a 360 blog to third party providers.

Tools to export blogs to other sites is definitely good news for those of us with a lot of blogs. There are some who have 600 or more blogs. Moving them one by one to another site would be horrific. However, moving the blogs with comments intact is another issue entirely.

Many of us want to be sure to preserve the comments. Lively debate, story lines, and just plain old conversation took place in the comments to our blogs, and we want to preserve that as well. Some of us regularly get in excess of 50 comments on posts. Losing the discussions that take place in the comments is almost worse than losing the blog itself – that’s where things often get heated and interesting.

When our blogging colleague Carl spoke with him, Warburton made it clear that there was no question but that Yahoo 360 was closing. There is apparently no plea, no argument, nothing that can persuade Yahoo not to close 360.

Carl concludes that Yahoo may realize that the manner in which they announced 360’s demise was not handled as well as it might have been. Apparently they are well aware of the displeasure among 360 users. A check of the 1100+ comments to the Yahoo Team Blog clearly indicates cries of outrage, grief, and outright panic by 360 users, so if the team reads the comments they certainly should be aware of it. We, the customers and users of the Yahoo product, the people Yahoo’s advertisers want to reach, are in the dark.

The situation is frustrating. It is difficult. Yahoo has blown it. Yahoo’s disorganization, and yes, its lack of a plan to fulfill the vision outlined in Jerry Yang’s Yodel Anecdotal blog post October 16, affects us all in a negative way. Change is hard enough without the change being to the complete unknown and unknowable.

I’ve been advocating that we stay put, maintain our social network here in Yahoo 360, and wait to see what Yahoo rolls out next. I’m still of half a mind to do that. With every new dribble of information, though, I’m more and more inclined to throw in the towel.

I take that back. If I’m to hitchhike out of here, I need my towel. I’m going to I don’t need a babelfish to understand the platform, and it offers everything 360 does and even includes some of the features we’ve asked Yahoo to provide.

I’m going to be in both places for the foreseeable future. The foreseeable future isn’t very far away, since Yahoo plans to close 360 by early 2008. Until then, though, I will stay here. I will blog here. I will also be on Multiply and WordPress, and I may get active again on my account, just because I like Google products.

I encourage everyone on my friends list to follow me to As of today, about a third of you already have. I hope to see the rest soon. I want us to be able to stay together.

Tomorrow, I promise, I won’t post more of this news. Tomorrow, Wench’s Virgin Training School has news of its own to announce….

October 20, 2007 Posted by | News, Virgin Training School, Yahoo 360 | , , | 5 Comments

The Recalcitrant Virgin


I was humming a little tune and adding a bit of water to the bouquet of six dozen pure white roses Tyme Traveler had sent me when the knock came on my office door.

“Come on in!” I called, turning to water the bouquet of six dozen blazing red roses my … ahem … sponsor, Ze Baron had sent me. ( I still haven’t taken delivery of the Partridge Family Bus, so he doesn’t completely own me yet.) I heard the door open and then close, but whoever entered had not said anything. “Yes?” I asked cheerfully, my back still to the door.

When there was still no answer, I turned around, hoping I wasn’t about to get Shanghaied by some angry Samoan father. I was relieved to see Susan, but my relief immediately changed to concern when I saw her trembling and noticed a tear plunging down her cheek.

“Oh, no!” I put the water pitcher down next to the six dozen pristine yellow roses Sir Agincourt had sent me and crossed the room to Susan, giving her a reassuring hug. “What’s is it, dear?” I asked, steering her by the elbow to the fainting couch near the window. She began to sob in earnest and I quickly mixed her a Margarita. “Tell Wenchy what’s wrong,” I encouraged, handing her a delicately embroidered, soft, linen hanky.

Susan’s sobs turned into sniffles as the Margarita began to work its magic and she was able to catch her breath.

“Oh, Wench! I’ve done the most terrible thing a Virgin can do!”

“Now, now, Susie.” I said soothingly. “You were one of the very first students to matriculate here at Wench’s Virgin Training School. You know there’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Inexplicably, she began sobbing again. I patted her shoulder and mixed my student another Margarita. I also went to the phone on my desk and called for Sherry and Silly. If anyone knew what was wrong with Susan, they would.

Sherry arrived first. “Uh-oh. I was afraid this might happen,” she said when she saw the shape Susan was in.

“Clue me in, then,” I requested. I was worried. Susan was inconsolable.

Silly arrived just then and drew up short. “What did that man do to her?” she exclaimed.

“Man?” I cocked an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. “No man has been authorized to have access to Susan.”

Silly’s eyes widened and she slapped her hand over her mouth. Sherry shook her head sadly.

“Susie, may I tell Wench what’s going on?” Sherry asked. Susan cried harder but nodded her permission. I looked at Sherry expectantly. Sherry sighed. “Mind if I have a Margarita? This isn’t going to be easy.”

I nodded and indicated the pitcher of drinks already mixed and waiting. Sherry poured one for me and one for Silly, then gulped one herself. She refilled her glass, sighed again, and began.

“Susan met the Encore Shooter a month or so ago, and the sparks were instantaneous. He’s asked her to move in with him.”

“Move in with him? But she has a home! Her FEMA trailer is gorgeously and tastefully decorated, and her SEALs are so devoted to her they’ve even done spectacular landscaping around it!” I was utterly mystified. Why in the world would Susan want to leave the school and her home? And then his name hit me.

“Wait a minute!” I yelped. “Encore Shooter?”

Sherry and Silly both nodded.

I dashed to my desk and began rifling papers. Aha! There was the letter I wanted!

“Encore Shooter wrote me last week asking if I would consider taking payment for a Virgin in some medium of exchange other than camels or oil wells. I nearly threw it away but kept it for a good laugh. I had no idea he already had a particular Virgin in mind!”

“He has had a particular Virgin in more than just his mind,” muttered Sherry.

“Excuse me?” Susan was sobbing so loudly at this point that I wasn’t sure I had heard Sherry correctly.

“They’ve been seeing each other in secret,” Silly offered hesitantly.

“Seeing each other…?” I was stunned. Dumbstruck.

“Unchaperoned,” confirmed Sherry with a tight nod of her head.

I gasped.

This was disaster. If one Virgin was going over the fence at night, what kind of example would this set for the others? Susan may be one of my favorite and best students, but this matter would have to be dealt with swiftly and firmly. Once again I picked up the telephone on my desk. I dialed the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge. When Mad Diane LeDeux answered, I simply said, “We have a Situation. Please come to my office immediately.” The line went dead in my ear, but I knew Mad Diane was on her way.

“We obviously need to get this man here so we can discuss a price,” I said decisively to Sherry and Silly. “Do either of you know how to reach him quickly?”

To my chagrin, Susan actually was able to cry harder and louder. I rolled my eyes. Susan’s reaction to my question could only mean one thing. “Silly, go to Susan’s FEMA trailer. Have any men who are there, including her SEALs, come here to my office at once. And find Basser, too.” Silly ran to obey, the colorful silken veils of her harem outfit flapping behind her.

I turned my attention to the still-sobbing Susan. “Susan, pull yourself together. I’m going to deal with this situation, and it isn’t the end of the world. Have another drink.” I handed her a freshly topped-off Margarita. She gulped it and hiccuped.

Sherry sat beside her on the fainting couch and patted her had reassuringly. “Sus, I told you Wench wouldn’t get mad if you just told her the truth.” Sherry scolded her friend gently, and offered her a hanky that wasn’t nearly as sodden as the crumpled mess Susan was holding. Susan blew her nose loudly.

While Susan calmed herself I mixed another pitcher of Margaritas. Dealing with this situation was going to take much fortitude, and tequila is chock full of fortitude. Sherry and Susan murmured together quietly.

I settled myself comfortably on the divan across from them, drink in hand, and addressed Susan, who was still hiccuping but calm. “So tell me how it happened,” I commanded.

She glanced at Sherry for support and took a deep breath. “We actually met before the Virgin Training School opened. Just once, and in a crowd. There was nothing compromising about it at all. But then one day when Silly and I were shopping in the open-air market, I bumped into him again. Bumping into him was what did it. That physical contact….” A dreamy look came into her eyes.

“Obviously that one instance of physical contact isn’t what has you so upset,” I pointed out.

“Well, no. He asked for my phone number. Silly warned me not to do it, but I gave it to him. And he called. We met for dinner, and for a picnic, and more.” The dreamy look was back. “He’s so handsome, and so kind, and so funny, and so wonderful…”

I could tell that the adjectives would just keep coming ad nauseum, so I was relieved when Silly returned with Basser and Susan’s two assigned SEALs. A nice looking, tragically American man was with them, too. The SEALs appeared to have him in custody.

I stood and extended my hand for a kiss. “Encore Shooter, I presume?” He looked flustered, but knew what to do. Susan had either briefed him well or this man was indeed a true gentleman. I suspected the latter based on how quickly he seemed to assess the situation in my office.

“Mistress Wench, I have taken shameful advantage of Susan and I want nothing more than to make things right,” he said.

I was impressed. With his first words he had assumed responsibility and was offering compensation for the damage he had done.

“I’m listening,” I said evenly.

From his pocket the man produced a small box. He opened it. Inside was a gorgeous diamond ring. In spite of myself I let out a breath of awe. I am not easily awed by jewelry since I own some of the most sought-after jewels in the world. Nevertheless, the sparkle and brilliance of the stones, enhanced by a setting that would put Cartier to shame, amazed even me. I was about to reach for it when he turned and presented the ring to Susan.

“My darling Susan,” he said, falling to one knee, “I had intended to give you this ring in a different place and at a different time. I hope you know that it is the first of many rings to come. Will you be mine?”

Susan began crying all over again and fell into her swain’s arms. The SEALs started toward Encore Shooter but I waved them back. Basser and I exchanged a knowing look. Susan and her friend might be in a little trouble, but so were the SEALs, who had allowed a Virgin to be unchaperoned with a man. Their dereliction of duty seemed to have cost us one of our most valuable Virgins.

“Basser, I think your SEALs also have some explaining to do.”

Basser nodded. “Yep. They do. Boys, how’d you come to let a man into Susie’s FEMA trailer? I mean, Homeland Security is gonna come down on us like the Fred Murrah Building for this! What if he’d been a terrorist? What if he is a terrorist?” I could see that Basser was about to get really wound up, and I really wanted answers. I interrupted.

“Gentlemen, the reason we allow SEALs here at Wench’s Virgin Training School is to prevent men from entering the campus and stealing away our Virgins. It seems that a man has entered campus and a Virgin is about to leave with him. The Virgin in question was your responsibility. Please explain.”

Both SEALs turned a bit pinkish. The younger one hung his head. The older one cleared his throat. Just then, though, Mad Diane LeDeux arrived. The Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins had made excellent time coming from the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge.

“Diane, thank you for coming so quickly. I’m afraid we have an rather unusual disciplinary problem on our hands.”

Mad Diane grinned. She fondled the flogger she always carried in a special tool belt attached to her corset.

Yes, Susan has been allowed to leave with her man. I hear she has painted his living room “Buffalo” or some such color. The SEALs are unlikely to allow any more men on the premises just because they aren’t leading camels. Basser has made the SEAL training more rigorous, and fortunately we have escaped closer inspections by Homeland Security as a result.

Mad Diane had a wonderful time wielding her flogger on those four upturned bums. I couldn’t just allow Susan to leave with no punishment, after all, and her noble consort volunteered to undergo the same treatment when he saw how the punishment was administered.

Diane was rather rough with the SEALs, but it’s my understanding she took them back with her to the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge after the experience, where they were each issued a Hot Bottom Wench in a standing position.

May 5, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

London (Mis)Adventures

London (Mis)Adventures magnify

It’s Monday, and here we are in London.

Whose bright idea was it to take an overnight flight, anyway? What idiot thought we could sleep on the plane? In COACH no less? By the way, in case anyone is curious, those seats in coach in even the largest of airplanes are meant for people who are smaller than I am. A five year old might be able to sleep in them. When Jack was 10 we flew to Ireland in the back of a plane. I suppose five years is enough to make the memory fade. I do recall that after that trip I swore I’d never again fly across any body of water wider than the Mississippi River in steerage class. Like labor pains though, the memory must have faded. When business class seats weren’t available, I didn’t postpone the trip until summer. No, I bravely (read: foolishly) decided that the agony of sleeping sitting up wasn’t all that bad and we could fly in the main cabin of the plane.

On the trip to and from Ireland in 2002, my ten year old son slept in my lap for the most part. He sprawled across his seat and my own. No, I did not get a wink of sleep heading either direction. But at 15 Jack was unlikely to want to cuddle with Mommy on a long flight, so I figured the comfort level would be better. For someone with an IQ as high as the experts claim mine is, sometimes I can be downright DUMB.

Jack folded his long, skinny 15-year-old body in half and put his head down on the tray table and slept for about four hours. Jealously, covetously, I glared at him the entire time. What evil gods have played such a trick on me that I am not only wider but rounder than I used to be? I’m not that big, really. I’m downright short, when it comes to that. But the circumference thing (not to mention the fact that I’m old and I just don’t bend that way any more) made it impossible for me to mimic the origami of my son’s body. I leaned my seat back as far as it would go. I dozed. I awoke within 15 minutes, my head lolling steeply to one side and the muscles in my neck screaming for relief. In the interest of keeping with the laws of physics, I allowed my head to loll steeply to the other side. Equal and opposite reactions should have nullified the screaming muscles, right? Wrong. It meant that he muscles on the other side of my neck kicked up a major ruckus within the next 15 minutes.

This went on for a couple of hours as my resentment escalated toward my peacefully sleeping offspring in the next seat. Then I gave up and watched Walk the Line. I listened to my iPod. I tracked the plane’s progress across the Atlantic. I watched Dreamgirls. I finished my book. I wrote in my journal. I listened to the man seated next to me snored. I wished someone tall, dark, handsome, and accommodating was sitting next to me so I could put my head on his shoulder and sleep. Yes, I was fantasizing.

We arrived Saturday morning and fell gratefully into our beds in our hotel room by noon. I slept a couple of hours then started trying to wake Jack. I thought we could go to Piccadilly and wander around. Jack loves Times Square in NYC, so I thought he’d feel comfortable there for his first night in port.

I couldn’t wake him. This child of mine, who selfishly slept most of the way across The Pond, refused to rouse himself no matter how I begged, pleaded, threatened, or bribed him. “Can’t we just get room service, Mom?” I’m so glad we traveled 4500 miles to eat in bed.

So Sunday dawned early. The UK went on Summer Time (The equivalent of Daylight Savings) while we slept, so we were an hour late getting started. We made our way to Victoria Station where we met our bus tour and climbed aboard the double decker. Two stops later was the Hard Rock Cafe, so we were forced to disembark.

I guess I should explain that compulsion. You see, Jack has an uncle who lives in Southeast Asia. Ever since Jack was a very little guy, his uncle Matt has made sure Jack has Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts from every place Matt’s been. Jakarta, Taipei, Beijing, Tokyo, Singapore, Manila, Bangkok… the list goes on. It also means that now Jack has to hit the Hard Rock whenever we travel. It’s a requirement. We might as well set it early in the itinerary because if we don’t Jack will agitate about it until we get there. Even if we go to Memphis, which is just two hours away from home, we can’t leave without stopping by the Hard Rock on Beale Street. London was the site of the original Hard Rock Cafe, so we make sure to see the guitars Eric Clapton and Roger Daltry donated to start the collection. It feels like a pilgrimage every time we go to one of these restaurants, but this one, the original one, felt like arriving in Mecca itself.

So we ate and bought a couple of t-shirts and a pin then climbed back aboard the tour bus to see the rest of the main sights without debarking. “We’ll come back and see the real sights tomorrow,” we agreed. Upon arriving back at the hotel after the day on the bus, we both took a nap. A couple of hours later I was once again trying to rouse my son and failing miserably. Finally I gave up. I played online and even managed to visit the 360 pages of a few friends. At midnight Jack woke up and was ready to go. I laughed at him. “Go to sleep,” I said. He did. Can any creature sleep more than a teenage boy?

Now Day Three of our trip has unfolded as the day in which Murphy’s Law has reared its ugly Irish mug and interfered with us. I woke with a migraine and had to take a shot of Imitrex to banish it. I also had to nap a bit after taking the shot to make sure it worked. I wasn’t able to go anywhere until I did. What did Jack do while I was recovering?



He slept.

At noon I roused him and we headed to the Tower of London. It’s the one place Jack knows he wants to see other than the British Museum. While we waited for the bus, we went into a Starbuck’s near St. Paul’s Cathedral to get nourishment. Outside again at the bus stop Jack looked at me strangely. “Mom, I don’t feel so good,” he said.

He sat on the sidewalk against a wall. His face was a ghastly white and dark circles appeared under his eyes.

“I’m going to get sick,” he said.

Hoping his nausea would pass with a little nourishment, I encouraged him to eat the cinnamon roll and drink the white mocha he got at Starbuck’s. We boarded the bus headed for the Tower and had a wonderful conversation with a gentleman Londoner about politics, imperialist world dominion (both British and American), terrorism, and tourism, then received an admonishment not to miss the Crown Jewels at the Tower. I love talking with natives!

Once off the bus, Jack’s nausea had not dissipated. He threw away what remained of his coffee. We found a bottle of water and a quiet corner where we sat for about an hour hoping the nausea would pass. He finally asked if we could please get a cab back to the hotel. I felt terrible for him. As often as I get migraines, I know what it’s like to have wonderfully exciting plans interrupted by headaches and nausea. What was touchingly sweet was how he kept apologizing for feeling bad. I do the same thing whenever my migraines interfere with plans I have with someone, so I know where he got the notion that he had to. He didn’t have to apologize to me, though. If anyone can empathize with how powerless he felt over his traitorous body his mother can.

Thankfully we found a cab very quickly and are at this moment back in our hotel room where Jack is (guess what) sleeping peacefully. If he feels better later we’ll try for Piccadilly Circus again. For now, I’ll just watch him sleep. I won’t try to rouse him. Not yet, anyway.

There’s a Virgin Megastore at Piccadilly. Evidently I’m not the only one in the world who sells Virgins. I can’t wait to see the selection! I hope it’s better than the one I went to in Orlando a couple of years ago. Despite the name, all that Virgin Megastore had to offer were books and music. What a disappointing bait and switch operation!

March 26, 2007 Posted by | Children, Health, Humor, Travel, Virgin Training School | Leave a comment

Angry Samoans


I was working on the Virgin Training School’s books just before the corporate tax deadline last Thursday. The accountant needed some details clarified. The enormous amounts won and lost by Spy and Silly on their trip to Monte Carlo last December included odd expenditures, and to avoid questions during an audit, the accountant wanted me to be sure.

I was burning the midnight oil when the phone rang. Absently I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Wench? Hey. It’s Tyme. How’s business?”

“Tyme! You’ve been out a long while!”

“Yeah, and I’ve had a good run this trip. Listen, my ship has 300 island girls on board, minus the 35 Ze Baron traded for that are consigned for delivery to him. All the rest are headed to your virgin school.”

“Trainees! Yay!” Looking at my bottom line for last year and paying the inevitable taxes made me eager for new Virgins to train and distribute among our Eastern brethren. I mentally tabulated the value of 265 virgins times 6 camels apiece. I liked that bottom line!

The Tyme Traveler’s voice crackled over the line again, interrupting my calculations. “So where do you want them?” he asked me.

“Park them in the empty FEMA trailers.” Somehow the Virgin Training School ended up with all the temporary homes that never got delivered New Orleans after Katrina. They made excellent dorm rooms for our trainees. “How far out are you?”

“Just a couple of hours.” Tyme sounded a little strained. He was tired, maybe.

“Should I fire up the hot tub for you and your crew?” I asked. A good supplier like Tyme needs to be treated right.

“Wish we could stay, but after we unload the cargo we have to skidaddle.”

“What’s the rush?”

There was a pause. Then Tyme apparently decided to come clean. “Well, their fathers are following in dugout canoes, and they are good paddlers.”

“What are you talking about? Why are their fathers coming?” Then it dawned on me. “Tyme, you didn’t exactly take these island girls over their families’ objections, did you?” My mind was racing. How many SEALs were on campus right now? What kind of defenses did the school have from angry fathers of reluctant Virgins?

“They’re in canoes? It’ll take them weeks to get here by birch bark. Their daughters will be freshly revirginated and sold to the highest Arab bidder before then. We can look innocent among our herds of dromedaries.” My confidence was returning after the initial shock.

“They aren’t traveling by birch bark canoe,” Tyme replied hesitantly. “Palm tree, outriggers…. big Samoan dudes…”

“Oh, hell. Well, if they have to cross the Pacific we have even more time,” I said confidently.

“Truth is, they’re about a day out and are closing on me, and I’m under full canvas.”

I yelped. “You’re leading them straight here?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Obviously Tyme expected me to come up with some sort of plan. Fortunately I had one.

“It’ll be ok. I’ll have some of the Western Virgins intercept them and try out the moves from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra. Those big Samoans will forget all about their daughters. I’ll warn the Virgins not to mention your name.”

Tyme sighed in relief. “I knew I could count on you, Wenchie. By the way, my crew needs some diversion. They looking at each other kinda weird.”

I laughed. The crew of the Wandering Wench looks kind of weird regardless of their length of time at sea. “Not a problem. Now, the Samoans won’t recognize the crew, will they? If we clean them up, I mean. We can put them in the hot tubs first then assign Virgins to each one.”

“I don’t know,” Tyme mused.

“We’ll give them all shaves and dye their hair as needed.”

“Hmmm. Blond Africans. It might work.”

“Yeah. The Samoans will mistake them for Maoris.”

“Maoris? You mean Morris? The cat?”

“No, not the cat. Maoris. Like Australian aborigines. From New Zealand. They sometimes have blond hair.”

“I don’t really want to dye my hair.”

“OK, so we can put your crew in African tribal dress and remind them to speak with Cameroon accents.”

“Oh, I like Cameroons. Especially the ones with coconut and caramel.”

“Tyme, those are MACaroons, not CAMeroons.”

“Hey, you got rum?” It was an abrupt change of subject, but knowing Tyme he was trying to cover his mistake. Or he was thirsty. You never can tell about these pirates.

“Of course we have rum! I’m a wench, aren’t I?”


“So back to the problem of the angry Samoans. We can have your guys put on civil war uniforms and say they are reenactors. Or, we can put your crew in NFL jerseys and tell them to act like fraternity boys. The Samoans will think they’re football players.”

“No, lots of Samoans play in San Diego. They’ll figure it out. And I hope you’ve got a LOT of rum if you want to make it look convincing.”

“Other than that I’m all out of ideas, unless your crew want to don harem dress and go through Virgin training themselves. If they do then the Navy SEALs are duty bound and sworn to protect them.”

“Navy SEALs look at each other weird too, have you not noticed? That’s why I left the teams.”

“Well, yes, but they are Special Forces. Of course they’re weird.”

“No, Wench, you don’t understand. They have names like Melvin, Bruce and Chewey. THAT kind of weird is what I mean.”

“Oh. I see.” I didn’t, but it was dawning on me that Tyme and his crew weren’t going to stick around for 300 angry Samoan fathers to attempt to reclaim their Virgin daughters. Tyme confirmed my suspicions with his next words.

“I think I’m gonna get new load.”


“Yep. Need to get load of sheep and sail for Wyoming.”

“Yeah, I hear there’s quite the market for sheep there. We have no sheep. But soon we will have plenty of camels. I guess those boys in Wyoming aren’t tall enough for camels, though, are they?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know. Can camels be stump trained? I don’t think them dudettes will know the difference…. what is that smell? Damn! Wheew!”

“That smell? Oh. Camel dung. It isn’t as bad as swine, but it is a bit stronger than your average sheep. You must be close.”

“Pulling around the bend now.”

“Camels can be stump trained.”

“Are you sure?”

“Actually, most of them come to us already stump trained. Their Arab owners have no women, either.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot.”

“And I’ve done my research, too. I mean, I am a business woman. I’m going to know my products.”

“Yeah? I want to see your dissertation on stump training dromedaries.”

“I didn’t get my Ph.D. in Stump Training! I have a camel-master for that job.”

“Hold on. I got my tongue stuck in a shot glass.”

“Yeah, I thought your voice sounded a little strange. I hate when that happens.

“Most distressful. The thing won’t come loose.”

“You didn’t have to lick it dry, you know. You could have poured yourself another shot and gotten the additional booze that way.”

“Well, I figured it was safer this way. I got it stuck in the keg earlier.”

“Are you running short on alcohol? Do I need to make a run to the distillery before you and your crew get here? I can call the guys in the hills who have their own stills for the signature labels if you prefer.”

“Hell, yes! At midnight I’m another year older.”

“We’ll have to get a cake, then! I assume rum cake is your favorite? I’m not sure which of the girls will be selected to jump out of your cake for you. There is always such competition for that honor. They like it when they get icing on themselves. Someone has to lick it off, of course.”

“Pick me, dammit, ’cause I can lick my own eyebrows.”

“Woo-hoo! The Virgins will be squealing for a chance to get at you!”

“Um, can’t you get in the cake, Wenchie?”

“Awww. Well, I have to supervise the celebrations, as well as make sure the SEALs are on the alert for wandering and invading Samoans.”

“I think the SEALs will be looking for whoever dropped the soap. They’ve been on your island too long, and no recreation.”

These particular SEALSs have been retrained without such activities necessary. We have Virgins everywhere.”

“See? I am right.”

“No, no. They guard the Virgins, and the Virgins use them in training, so their activities are all heterosexual. Well, except for the orgies, of course, when anything goes.”

“Ogres are such ugly creatures. Where do you keep them? I suppose you have those gnomes, too.”

“No, no, not ogres. Orgies. It’s a different thing entirely. And we use midgets, not gnomes. Unless they choose to dress up like gnomes, of course.”

“Midgets? Those really fast li’l race cars? I rode in one of them once. Got sick.”

“Um, well, not exactly. Think Munchikins without the big lollipops.”


Tyme? You ok?”

“No, the shot glass is dangling off my tongue, and I just bonked myself on the forehead with it!” He wasn’t that articulate, but those are the words I deciphered from his odd manner of speaking with a shot glass stuck to his tongue.

“You really must have that tongue bronzed when you die. It will be an inspiration to Virgins everywhere.”

“So are midgets Munchikins by proxy? Kinda like Dillinger, coroner whacked his 12 inches clean off.”

“That must’ve hurt. Munchikins by proxy are those sick little fuckers that are just short.”

“It’s in a jar at the Smithsonian.”

“I thought that was Rasputin’s that was whacked off and put into a jar.”

“No, no. His is in the Kremlin. It hit Gorbachev in the noggin, hence the big bruise on his head. … uh-oh.”


“Do you hear that…? That be the drummer for the 7 1/2 boatloads of Samoans. Their lead canoe.”

“They’ve caught up with you! What shall we do?”

“Hide me under your skirt. I’m telling the crew it’s every man for himself.”


“I will latch on to you, like a leech. I swear.”

“We could whip out Dillinger’s or Rasputin’s former parts and tell them that the Samoans we cut it off some guy, and that he works here and he’s really pissed off…”

“A eunuch?”

“Yeah. We can tell them we have some really bitchy eunuchs. Like, they get PMS and everything.”

Tyme didn’t answer. He had left his ship and was headed for my ample skirts. The Samoans are rounding the bend now, and the Navy SEALs are all on other duties.

Who will save us now?

March 19, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

Panty Raid!


They just won’t leave Wench’s Virgin Training School alone, will they? If it’s not the likes of every Mohammed, Achmed, Hakim, and Hadji, then it’s the Dirk Diglers and other Giant Cocks of the world.

That’s right. Dirk Digler. I said it.

Dirk was hanging out at the Virgin Training School last Tuesday night with Judge Hanna M. High, who was showing him what she had learned in her revirginification classes, when suddenly Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf, wheeled up in his Whale accompanied by a crew of revelers in RVs, a motorcycle with a sidecar, and various other vehicles.

Now, we all know that Guy is the Spiritual Advisor to the Virgin Training School. Naturally the Virgins welcome him with open … ahem… arms when he comes. So when the guys tumbled out of all of those vehicles intent on a raid, why, we Virgins hardly knew what to do.

It was not just any raid, my friends. It was a panty raid the likes of which have not been seen since most of us were in college, if even then.

I have it on good authority that Ted scored no less than a dozen thongs in different styles and colors. Doug, being somewhat less discriminating, absconded with everything from bikinis to one very large pair of white cotton granny panties. Guy himself had two hands full of silky underthings when he burst into the room where the Judge was demonstrating her moves to FBI Agent Dirk Digler, a former Navy SEAL who had been recruited to help with special training.

When he saw Dirk and the judge working on certain techniques from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, well, Guy went a little crazy. He grunted and screamed wordlessly and headed for Dirk, who in self defense placed a feather pillow between himself and the monster that Guy had become. Guy attacked and feathers flew everywhere.

Agent Digler was so disconcerted he felt he had to do something. Fearing bad press, he pretended to arrest Judge High. It was the only thing that calmed Guy down. Guy finally quit yelling wordlessly, and Steve and Ralph led him away after speaking to him in strong words of one syllable or less. Apparently, Guy was in no shape to listen to reason although he took commands from the fellows quite well.

Somehow the whole debacle was reported in the news as being a scandal. The article claimed that Judge High was arrested in a bribery scandal and that there was a great deal of money in the room with her.

Folks, the money that was found in the room was part of the props for the lap dance the judge had been demonstrating for Dirk. When she tried to explain that to the High Priest of Meatloaf he would have none of it. He threw money of his own at the judge and yelled wordlessly, “Nnnnnuhhhh! Uuuunnnnnhhhh!”

Poor Judge High has been forced to resign from office. Because I represent Sherry’s daughter Katie in the Giant Cock Baby Chick controversy, the Giant Cock’s lawyer, Ze Baron, demanded that Judge High be removed from the case and the proceedings be put on hold. It’s not as though the Virgins and the Baby Chicks are related interests, even. Humpf.

Thankfully, though, a new judge has finally been appointed. Judge Bugeyes Billy, known affectionately among many of us as OhBilly, has graciously agreed to preside over the case. He has assured Ze Baron that he will remove himself at the last impropriety, so the case is in good judicial hands indeed.

Judge Bugeyes Billy has ordered all of the parties to Dr. Emma’s page on Wednesday, March 14, for DNA testing. Dr. Emma told Ze Baron it would take several days for the results to be known, so we will sit with bated breath awaiting the outcome of the paternity testing. Those poor, fatherless baby chicks are being tended by their foster grandfather, Len, while Sherry and Katie are in New York on urgent business.

We fervently hope that this tawdry paternity matter can be adequately addressed in the very near future. Those chicks are becoming expensive for my client to maintain. Sadly, there is talk that some of the chicks will have to be sent elsewhere to live because they are becoming too large for their pen.

It’s those Giant Cock genes.

March 13, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Lawyer, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

Prostitutes or Virgins?

I am distressed to report that I have to reevaluate the whole Virgin thing.

I have recently been directed back to the series Blogging the Bible, and a rather upsetting thing was brought to my attention in the entry on the Book of Hosea. According to David Plotz, the author of the series, God’s first instruction to the prophet Hosea is to go forth and marry a prostitute.

WHAT? I got whiplash on that one. A whore? God told his prophet to marry a WHORE? You gotta be kidding me.

Then Plotz reminds me that there are lots of prostitutes in the Bible.Tons of them. Gobs. Plotz says, “There’s scarcely an unmarried woman in the Bible … who isn’t a prostitute, or treated like one! There’s Tamar, who turns a trick with her father-in-law Judah. The Moabite women, who whore themselves to the Israelites. The Midianite harlot who’s murdered by Phineas. Jacob’s daughter Dinah, whose loose behavior sparks mass slaughter. No wonder they call prostitution the oldest profession—it’s the only profession that biblical women seem to have.”


Where are the Virgins? I thought the men of the Lands of the Bible were into Virgins! What’s the point of the Virgin Training School if we aren’t going to be trading camels for our Virgins? I thought I had an entrepreneurial opportunity here!

I mean, I guess I should have realized something was up when the last time I blogged about the Virgin Training School Neither Habib Aktar nor Hachbar Vinmook showed up. Habib has found his Virgins and evidently returned to Cleveland or wherever, and Hachbar must still be in the Land of Bigfoot and Unicorns. Neither of them show up to hang out with me any longer.

I’m desolate.



I have gotten all revirginated. I have studied the Pop-Up Kama Sutra and I have practiced the positions with my anatomically correct Virgin Barbie and Camel-Rider Ken dolls. I have danced the Dance of the Seven Veils until the silk chiffon has fallen to pieces from over-use. I have listened carefully to the critique of my assigned Navy SEALs. I have diligently practiced getting the 69th comment on the blogs of as many friends as possible (without making it look obvious, of course).

Where have I gone wrong?

Are you guys interested in buying my Virgins or not?

And where the heck are Hachbar and Habib?

March 3, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, Humor, Religion, Virgin Training School | Leave a comment

Wench’s Virgin Training School – Again

Wench's Virgin Training School - Again magnify

I am thrilled to report that Wench’s Virgin Training School is quite popular. Enrollment numbers are quite encouraging and the Camel Endowment is quite large. Ahem.

Please allow me to make a full report to our Trustees, Students and Sponsors.

In just three months of operation, the school has enrolled 19 female revirgination candidates. They are, in order of enrollment, KimberKat, Cyndi, Lisa, Silly, Sue, Sherry, Shira, Catherine,Blue, DWMeowMix, SweetP, Selinda, Gypsy Firecracker, Lia, Susan, Jen, Cherish, Bobbie-Lynn, and Melissa.

We are still waiting for 7 more students: Free, Juls, Red Carol, Tricia, Superbitch, JeniT, and Nancy . You may remember that these potential virgins were contacted by either Habib Aktar or Hachbar Vinmook (and maybe by both) to be members of their harems. Their admissions applications have been approved but they have not yet picked up their copies of Virgins for Dummies or the Pop-Up Kama Sutra, nor have they appeared for class. If anyone knows where these truants are, please have them report to me immediately.

We have a Winter Dance coming up soon. We couldn’t have a Christmas Dance because…well, Hachbar and Habib don’t exactly celebrate Christmas. We need volunteers to decorate the gym with the appropriate tissue garlands, incense burners, and silk rugs. One exciting feature of the Winter Dance will be the BookChick, Cyndi’s exhibition performance of the Dance of the Seven Veils. She is our Dance Instructor, and classes in both “Advanced Seven Veils” and “Belly Dancing 101″ are being offered in the spring term. (“Seven Veils” will only be available with Instructor permission based upon an audition, as “Belly Dancing 101″ is a prerequisite for it.)

We’re going to have a fundraiser and sell chocolate bars and gift wrap. It is necessary for the school to raise enough money to repurchase Ohio. Our dear friend and champion, OhBilly, traded Ohio for the honor and virtue of one of our students when Habib had her on the run. Also, Basser has passed me a letter from the National Security Advisor that if we do not reinstate Ohio soon, Habib may be considered a terrorist for having caused Ohio to secede from the Union involuntarily. We have to buy back Ohio, and that may take a little doing. Texas was also traded for one of our students, but apparently the government doesn’t much care about that.

We have a special ed student, proving the accepting and inclusive nature of Wench’s Virgin Training School. Sherry’s 504 plan is in place, and Mad Diane LeDeux,, who is our Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins, handles special education instruction at Wench’s Virgin Training School. Unfortunately, Mad Diane has had to wield her whip a few times. We are sad to report that we do have disciplinary issues with some students. Shira is in the habit of sleeping behind her veil and Silly keeps showing up for class naked. For some reason Mad Diane is particularly enthusiastic about Silly’s floggings.

In a related matter, Blue has asked about cuff and stick training. It has been determined that this class shall be an elective for advanced students, except for those who Mad Diane believes need the extra discipline. Mad Diane will be the class’s instructor, of course.

Hachbar has become quite a benefactor for Wench’s Virgin Training School. I am pleased to report that he compensated me with much livestock and health insurance. Because of his generosity, I am able to concentrate on the school full time.

Hachbar also wants to sponsor a new building on the campus of Wench’s Virgin Training School. He has directed that all virgins shall use their feminine wiles to lure contractors to build the new school. This will indeed be a test of our revirgination program because of course, the contractors will not be allowed to touch the virgins. Hachbar has decreed that the penalty for touching virgins is death by camel humpy. What Hachbar doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though. If virgins get touched, all they have to do is go back to Virgins for Dummies, Lesson 1, and start the revirgination program all over again.

Habib has not been seen around the school very much. Hachbar informs us that Habib had a delicate operation called an “addadictomy.” I thought all that facial hair was proof certain that Habib already had a Y-chromosome, but Hachbar insists that Habib was missing from many of the opening festivities of the school because of that surgical procedure. Habib hotly denies this, and we can certainly understand why he might be a bit embarrassed about it. One simply does not discuss one’s elective cosmetic or prosthetic surgeries in polite company.

Shortly after Wench’s Virgin Training School opened, we received a dire warning from Basser.It seems that US intelligence operatives somehow got the idea that our school is an Arab Training Camp! According to Basser, Homeland Security was tipped off by an undercover inside informant. Homeland Security has now put the country on Yellow Alert because of this misinformation. Navy SEALs stealthily infiltrated the bushes behind the school and began monitoring us. When they saw Silly was naked, they even began filming!

Homeland Security was disturbed primarily by the fact that because so many women were attending revirginification classes, men could get drunk in bars with no worries about a phone calls demanding they come home. For some reason Homeland Security considers this a national threat beyond even Bill Gates running for president.

The government is now closely watching the school’s banks accounts, activities of students and instructors that occur outside the school, our cable TV bills (searching for naughty pay-per-views, I suppose), breast exam results, and so forth. Under the Patriot Act, the government has access to everyone who deals with us and our virgins. Despite my best legal wrangling with the government’s dark-suited men with their dark glasses and their dark SUVs with the dark-tinted windows, the Patriot Act allows them to violate our rights anytime they want by claiming it is in the best interest of the government. They have specifically asked that our gynecologists check us for Arab intrusion and that our hair stylists check us for fleas. As headmistress of Wench’s Virgin Training School, I find this highly insulting.

What’s even more insulting is the intimation that the government thinks that there are spitters here at our school. Basser said that the SEALs objected to the camels, which stink and spit, and advised me that Navy Men do not like spitters. I was quick to inform Basser that so far as I am aware, the camels are the only spitters at this school, and the Navy men just need to stop playing with the camels. The lip gloss gets in their fur and makes it difficult for Lou’s crew of camel jockeys to groom.
The problem was rectified very quickly, though, when we got use of the FEMA trailers still languishing at Hope, Arkansas (just a few miles down the road from where I live). David (that adorable green puppy!) Reminded us that the trailers were sitting there empty and unused, and naturally we had a great use for them while awaiting our expansion. Each virgin is now assigned a FEMA trailer when she arrives at school, and the Navy SEALs have graciously agreed to leave the bushes and stealth mode behind and take rotating shifts guarding our virgins! There are two SEALs to a virgin on each shift. This has been a great reassurance to Homeland Security and the safety of our virgins is guaranteed.

Before Silly gets too worried (I know she’s thinking about this), let me assure everyone that there is plenty of lip gloss. Our budget has ample funds set aside to purchase lip gloss in 55-gallon drums, and one drum will be placed in each FEMA trailer.

Initially we got wonderful financial advice from that scion of numbers, the Spy Man himself. Thanks to his input, we have established the prices we will charge for our virgins. A virgin in training will go for 6 camels (2 humps preferred), a 12 cup coffee maker, The Idiot’s Guide to Disarming Bombs, and a gift certificate from “BURQAS R US.” A graduate will cost 12 camels, 10 horses, a year’s supply of Glade room deodorizers, a Brookstone electric shaver with the body hair attachment, and an oil well producing at least 500,000 barrels a day.

Of course, Hachbar’s explanation of the livestock exchange rates was very helpful in establishing the virgin prices:

1 camel = 2 horses
1 horse = 2 sheep or goats
1 goat = 1 sheep
pig = worthless

I am sad to report, however, that Spy turned out to be a, well, an embezzler. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe. But shortly after publication of the last blog about the school, he bought an Aston Martin with school funds and headed to the casino in Monte Carlo. He assured me it was to increase our holdings and for marketing purposes, and he even took Silly with him, ostensibly for some undercover work. He left a note, which was found after his departure, that he had purchased a Walther PPK gun with Silencer for $650 and an $1,800 Hugo Boss Tuxedo. He wiped out the remaining funds in out bank account, leaving us with only 23 cents.

He abandoned the Aston Martin in Monte Carlo, apparently, because he took the company Lear jet back to the school. He dodged in and out under cover of darkness, I am sorry to say, and left another note. Our bank account was overdrawn by $150,000, and still he had the temerity to demand reimbursements for mini bar charges of $1,452; a cash advance at the Monte Carlo Casino of $72,000, and entertainment expenses of $33,400! And this was despite the fact that he had won $500,000 playing baccarat! I tell you, the NERVE of some people!

What’s worse is that he swiped money from the school’s coffers and wired it to the bank account of the Young Republicans. They called and thanked me, or I might never have known. I nearly died of embarrassment. Of all the organizations in all the world, he had to choose the Young Republicans! He is now officially known as ”Spy Non Grata,” if his name must be spoken at all. Please use his name sparingly in my presence as it makes my blood boil.

For every bad egg like Spy Non Grata, though, there is a good egg. Feudalserfer, my beloved friend and now my partner, has established the Satellite Academy. That’s right, Wench’s Virgin Training School has launched into space and a campus is now located on the moon! Legal aliens only may apply, though. We don’t want gate crashers.

A huge party in the Feud’s blog celebrated the grand opening in glorious style.

And speaking of blog parties, Billy’s Dusty Springfield Blog, the official 69 training ground for Virgins, has not seen a 69 since Christmas Eve. Ladies, if you want to be considered experts in 69, you had better get busy! I’m just sayin’….

The last official count, on December 12 at 7 a.m. Central Standard Time was:

  • Melissa in the lead with10, with #’s 369, 869, 1169, 1769, 1969, 2169, 2369, 2569, 2769, and 2869.
  • SweetP demonstrated her prowess with 7 glorious 69s. She stole #’s 269, 1069, 1269, 1369, 1469, 2069 and 2669.
  • Silly, the original 69er of the training blog, elegantly stealthed in for 5, #’s 69, 1569, 1669, 1869 and 2469.
  • I scored twice with #’s 169 and 769.
  • Susan captured #469 in a dazzling display of 69 activity.
  • Natalie showed that she is definitely not afraid to get her hands dirty with her procurement of #669.
  • Cherish showed great stamina and a truly adventurous nature in her grabbing of the only 69 worthy of being read the same either backward or forward. #969
  • And Sue bombarded the blog in an effort to grab 2269.

Billy, honey, can we get a current count?

Oh, and you don’t mind the Virgins using you to practice their 69 technique, now do you?

Disclaimer: Please note that all prices and exchange rates either expressed or implied are subject to change without notice. The Wench of Aramink reserves sole discretion in the adjustment, revocation, and/or evaluation of said prices and exchange rates. All sales are final; no refunds and no exchanges. Internet sales are subject to all applicable regional, national, and international laws and taxes. Paypal is accepted. Virgins may be traded on eBay. All transactions void where prohibited.

February 12, 2007 Posted by | Creative Writing, FEMA, Fiction, Foreign Relations, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment


The other day someone noticed one of my feeds that seemed uber-apropos for a self-proclaimed Wench who runs a Virgin Training School: “Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel” screamed the headline from Slate Magazine.

Oh, my, but there are volumes of possibilities in that headline! I’ve written a silly story about it that has very little to do with the actual article. You can read it in a moment, but first I’d like to talk a bit about the article and the series that begat it, as well as some books I recommend to anyone interested.

The article is part of David Plotz’s series Blogging the Bible: What’s Really in the Good Book. Plotz is a faithful Jew who, like many of us who have attended services in the religion assigned to us by virtue of our birth, reached adulthood believing that he knew what the Bible taught and what the stories were. In the article in question he examines the Book of Jeremiah and comments on how Jeremiah spends a good deal of time early in his sermons talking about sex – or at least comparing people’s bad behavior to sexual misconduct. He describes them at one point as “running about like a lustful she-camel.”

In the introduction to his series on the Bible, Plotz explains that at a bat mitzvah for a friend’s daughter, he picked up a copy of the Bible and idly flipped to Genesis Chapter 34 and began reading. What he saw startled him and started him on a new quest to discover the book he assumed he knew fairly well. He is now blogging a book of the Bible at a time and reexamining what the book says. It’s an exercise I have immensely enjoyed following. I highly recommend the series to anyone interested in religion.

Like Plotz, when I find myself unwillingly stuck at a religious ceremony, which is pretty much anytime I find myself at a religious ceremony, I pick up the Bible and idly flip through it. Almost without exception I find something that appalls me about this so-called benevolent God we are taught about, or about the teachings of his Son as explained by Peter or Paul, both of whom I think corrupted the message beyond recognition.

Chapter 34 of Genesis is the subject of a marvelous contemporary literary midrash by Anita Diamant called The Red Tent. When I read it several years ago, Diamant’s interpretation and extrapolation of the story of Dinah, half-sister of Joseph (he of the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) sent me on a quest to discover more of these wonderful novels.

I’m a voracious reader, but the sheer number of midrashim I devoured over the next few months impressed even me. I felt as though there were finally people out there – other, sensitive, questioning, intelligent, appalled people – whose language I could finally understand and to whose thoughts and responses to Biblical stories I could finally relate.

I still read every contemporary literary midrash I come across. I like them. I like the fact that heroes like King David are shown to be petty and mean, like in Queenmaker, by India Edgehill. That’s how he impressed me in the first place. That and arrogant, of course. The same author has written about the relationship between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba in Wisdom’s Daughter.

I like that Abraham comes across pretty much as a schizophrenic dolt, as in Orson Scott Card’s Sarah.

That’s right, the brilliant and prolific Orson Scott Card has written three midrashim so far. He is the Hugo Award winning author of Ender’s Game fame, the start of a classic science fiction series that brilliantly combines interspecies space battles and computer video games. This is the same Orson Scott Card who wrote the fabulous alternate history/fantasy series the Tales of Alvin Maker. Alvin, the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, whose “knack” for “making” makes him almost god-like, has interactions with actual historical figures from the time period including Chief Tecumseh and his brother, the Shawnee Prophet Tenskwatawa, Napoleon Bonaparte (exiled in this alternate history to Detroit for his crimes against Europe), and my own distant cousin and President-for-a-White-Hot-Minute William Henry Harrison, he of Tippecanoe fame. Card has written lots more that is absolutely wonderful, but I’ll let those of you who don’t know his work email me for more information if you’re really curious.

Card has written midrashim about Rebekah, wife of Isaac and mother of the twins Esau and Jacob, and Rachel and Leah, the wives of Jacob and mothers of Joseph and Dinah and the twelve tribes of Israel. I sincerely hope he writes more. I really enjoy his work and it delights me no end that he has delved into another genre I love.

Marek Halter, a Polish writer whose family narrowly escaped the Warsaw Ghetto during German’s occupation, has written the Canaan Trilogy which includes another book about Abraham’s wife Sarah, Zipporah, the wife of Moses, and Lilah, the sister of the Prophet Ezra. Halter also has written several other books about the Jewish people including The Book of Abraham, which is not about the father of the Judeo-Christian-Islam traditions, but about a man who lived after the time of Jesus in Jerusalem when the Romans sacked it in 70 C.E.

More books in the genre include Rebecca Kohn’s The Gilded Chamber: A Novel of Queen Esther; Brenda Ray’s The Midwife’s Song: A Story of Moses’ Birth; In the Shadow of the Ark, by Anne Provoost; and Lion’s Honey: The Myth of Samson, by David Grossman. A very funny but poignant look at the missing years in the life of Jesus is the subject of Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, a novel Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf recently turned me on to. I’m here to tell you, if a High Priest of anything advises you to read something about religion, you should.

The books I’ve listed here are just a few of the contemporary literary midrashim that exist. If you’ve read something in this genre that I haven’t listed, please leave me a comment about it. I’m always looking for more.

And please, don’t anyone tell me I’m going to hell for not believing what they tell us in church, temple or mosque, or for not accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Save it for someone who is more impressionable than I am and who hasn’t embarked on an exploration of religion to find out more about it.

Enough of the seriousness. On, now, to my own quasi-midrash: Jeremiah and the Lustful She-Camel. It is not a polite story.

January 13, 2007 Posted by | Book Reviews, Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Religion, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

Further Developments for Wench’s Virgin Training School

Further Developments for Wench's Virgin Training School magnify

Classes are forming and virgin trainees are lining up at the gates of Wench’s Virgin Training School!
I, Anne, Wench of Aramink, wish to extend a hale and hearty welcome to all of my students!

Please let me introduce you to the faculty:

SweetP, the undisputed Queen of 69, shall be teaching a class in – what else – 69! Retaining one’s virginity during 69s is of paramount importance for our virgins. SweetP’s qualifications are impeccable, seeing as how she got not one, not two, not three, not four, but FIVE 69’s on OhBilly’s Dusty Springfield blog! This woman is GOOD! We are so pleased to have her aboard! Her Teaching Assistant is none other than Melissa, who got three 69’s on the same blog.

CFBookChick, is chairman of our dance department. Her exhibition performance of the Dance of the Seven Veils is, of course, the industry standard. Belly dancing, pole dancing, and lap dancing are electives, but each virgin must reach mastery in at least one of these dance areas.

Mad Diane LeDeux, who is our Flogger of Recalcitrant Virgins, handles “special education” instruction at Wench’s Virgin Training School. Already Mad Diane has had to wield her whip a few times. We are sad to report that we do have disciplinary issues with some students. Shira is in the habit of sleeping behind her veil and Silly, keeps showing up for class naked. For some reason Mad Diane is particularly enthusiastic about Silly’s floggings.

Guy, High Priest of Meatloaf and proud owner of the famous Giant Cock, is in charge of Virgin Spiritual Studies. He definitely keeps our spirits high!

Ross D has generously offered his supervisory services for a laboratory practicum for aspiring virgins. The exact details of what will happen in these labs has not yet been revealed.

Queenie Beaudine will be in charge of Virgin Etiquette and Interpersonal Relations. Queenie comes to us quite experienced in the ways of behavior, having put up with her evil twin Cussy’s behavior since before birth. Students may have to bring dictionaries to class, though, because sometimes Queenie uses big words that are difficult to understand, even in context.

And now, a description of the facilities:

Despite Homeland Security’s accusations that the school is an Arab Training Camp, our Navy SEALs are quite devoted to us. Our SEALs, supervised by Basser, provide round-the-clock security in the bushes around the school, inside the FEMA trailers and on the way to and from classes. They make training films of our students and helpfully watch them over and over again to provide us with constructive criticism of our techniques. They even offer free breast exams to our Virgins. I believe that without exception the SEALs are one of the most popular and beloved aspects of Wench’s Virgin Training School!

Everyone is aware that the FEMA trailers left over from the Katrina SNAFU are at our disposal, thanks to David’s high-level government contacts in Hope, Arkansas. Each virgin has been assigned to a FEMA trailer and two of Basser’s Navy SEALs are with her at all times. The SEALs work in shifts, so each virgin actually has six SEALs for her pleasurable protection. These six SEALs are in addition to the numerous SEALs who keep the perimeter of the school secure and who are engaged in conducting breast exams at any given time.

The camels are being kept in a corral and I have plans to ask Lou, who has some experience with large beasts of burden, to be camelmaster. Lou, what do you say? Surely the transition from horses to camels won’t be too much of a challenge, will it?

Spy has offered his services in the realm of financial advice. Since Hachbar Vinmook posted the livestock exchange rate his accounting duties have been made considerably easier. Habib Aktar returned from his stay in the hospital (for the addadictomy) with a huge wad of cash in his pants – boy, was HE happy to see us! – which of course enriched us further. We have some problems with some of our assets, though, because it seems that both Ohio and Texas were at different points traded for virgins. Finding a place large enough to store two entire states has presented us with some difficulties, but I’m sure Spy has things worked out on the accounting side.

And, of course, the Curriculum:

There have been some modifications to the curriculum, and there are likely to be more as we obtain the services of new instructors in different disciplines. There are two required texts. The first text is “Virgins for Dummies.” As soon as that text has been completed, each Virgin begins intensive study of “The Pop-Up Kama Sutra.”

Certification of Revirginification is issued when the Virgin demonstrates mastery of all areas of study and passes her Orals.

Because this school is such a novel enterprise, all suggestions for the curriculum will be considered. Please advise the administration of any ideas you have.

Thank you for your support,

Anne, Wench of Aramink

December 7, 2006 Posted by | Creative Writing, FEMA, Fiction, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

Wench’s Virgin Training School


By popular demand, and because Hachbar left me in charge, I have now seen fit to open a Training School.

This is no ordinary Training School, Dear Readers. It is a Virgin Training School. And there is a valuable and lovely Tradition that has inspired it.  It started on the pages of Yahoo 360.

The Tradition started on or about Monday, November 6, 2006 (yes, a Day of Yore if ever there was one), when our beloved Habib Aktar precipitously appeared on the scene with his herd of camels and his blog message, “I Want for Sex to You.” This is what started it all.

You see, Habib, that happy fellow who looks nothing like a terrorist and who adores Cleveland, comes to the West in search of Virgins. For some reason, he thinks America HAS virgins.

He approached KimberKat at 12:37 p.m., evidently having heard that there were virgins on her page. Kimber was helpless to confirm such an outrage, but Habib played on her page a bit longer. He desperately wanted virgins, and advised Kimber he was willing to trade camels for virgins. Such an offer is almost fatally irresistible, but somehow Kimber held on to her honor throughout the ordeal.

About the same time, Habib miraculously appeared on Bobbie-Lynn’s and Free’s pages. He suggested such activities as camel humping to them. He paused to flirt with Juls. (That evening he returned to Juls’ page, offering to “humpy humpy” with her, and noting that she was in harem dress, and asking her, “How many camels for you?” He appeared to Jen the very same afternoon requesting information about horny monkey sex. That evening, he could be found romancing Natalie, also known as Ms Medic. “Habib like you be in harem. Do you like humpy humpy camel love?” he flirted.

It was uncanny when, the next day, November 7, many female members of the Hornified Sex Monkeys were visited by ahmed s, who was obviously a friend or else a competitor of Habib’s. Once again, Jen got a visit, I got a visit, Kimber got a visit…

But Habib was making his rounds, too. For example, the tnbrneyedgirl, aka Lisa, heard from him.

But November 7 was also a day of great infamy. That was the day we met Virgin, that spicy, delectable bit of woman-flesh that Habib counts as his first true Western conquest.

At first, we Hornified Sex Monkeys were a bit nonplussed. You see, Habib figured out that Juls lived in West Virginia, which he thought meant “Western Virgin” or something. He was very excited. Both Kimber and Juls found Habib to be somewhat of a pest, and threatened to call Orkin. However, Virgin informed them that Orkin would not be necessary, because she was in high heat for Habib and would be taking him off their hands.

Habib wasn’t pesky to everyone, though. Gypsy Firecracker admitted the next morning that she had had one of “those” dreams about Habib the night before. Now every time she calls Tech Support she gets excited thinking she’s talking to Habib. Lisa traded herself to Habib for merely 4 camels, not realizing that she would be a bargain at any price and despite having already been sold to Liam for 100 goats. Two days later, Virgin put out a call for a catfight. Green-eyed jealousy had trumped brown-eyed Tennessee, and Virgin was mad. Fortunately, OhBilly immediately translated it into a snowball fight to diffuse the stemming violence. Meanwhile, Habib was trading recipes with women whose virginity he sought. Sue remarked in conversation with Kimber, “Habib said I could have some of his cockloaf, but only if I move to Virginia! He says it tastes just like chicken (or camel).” That crazy, culinary Habib!

On Saturday, November 11, Habib reported sadly that he had found no new virgins. Shortly thereafter, though, he was seen haunting the pages of Red Carol.

When Sunday, November 12 dawned, our beloved Virgin was distraught. She had lost track of Habib and was looking for him. For some reason she thought Habib might be hanging out with Jen, but no. He wasn’t at Free’s. He wasn’t at Juls’ place, either. Nor was he to be found on Tricia’s or Kimber’s or Natalie’s pages. She had no luck locating him at Gypsy’s or Bobbie-Lynn’s, either. Habib was looking hard for other Virgins to fill his harem, and had not had time to spend with the lovely virgin Virgin.

But Habib was not the only Arab Action in Our Town of 360 for long! No, Hachbar Vinmook appeared the night of Monday, November 13, and immediately began throwing his weight around. “Habib served walking papers. New Sharif in town. Hachbar take all virgin.” read his comments on the Jen’s page.

Habib was worried.

Hachbar warned Kimber, “You come to Hachbar. Habib Bad!”

Virgin, of course, took issue with Habib’s profession of love for Kimber. “Don’t listen to him Kimber, those missile launchers are STILL in front of our tent, and I told him to move em a WEEK ago! … and what’s this about love??? You got some ‘splennin to do chicky.” Another catfight was in someone’s future.

Appalled, Habib responded quickly. He was being forced to retaliate. “Habib only bad to you Hachboob,” he said.

“Keeemie no listen to lumpy bumpy camel humpy. You know Habib love you,” Habib declared to Kimber.

“No listen to Hachgoobers Jen. You help Habib find many virgins to bare Habibi-babies.” Then, showing his improving mastery of English, he corrected, “Habib mean bear not bare. No need have naked babies running all over.” Habib has been hanging out in Cleveland long enough to pick up the vernacular.

Habib’s desperate plea went out to Red Carol and Free: “Habib need you help to find many virgins.” Clearly, Habib was desperate.

Just after midnight, Habib notified Juls of the sad turn of events. “Habib need your help. Send many virgins to Habib. There is new Funny-Muzzy name Hachbar trying to steal Habib’s womans.”

“Habib have big plans for you,” he reminded Natalie, obviously hoping she would not defect to Hachbar’s camp.

Hachbar continued looting and pillaging throughout 360. On Tuesday the 14th, he hit on Superbitch, Sue, Gypsy, Lisa (he even offered to trade Texas oil wells for her!), and SweetP.

Hachbar didn’t stop with hitting on women Habib had already touched, though. No. He said to Shira, “You make good virgin. haboob old news. my harem small. no waiting.” He flirted with JeniT and for some reason thought she would be obedient to him (shows what he knows about Jeni! Ha!) He also hit on Nancy and Sherry.

It was with Hachbar’s entry into the emerging virgin market that I, the Wench of Aramink, recognized an entrepreneurial opportunity. Donning a harem costume, that afternoon I quickly penned a missive to Sue, Natalie, Shira, Browneye, Jen, Gypsy, and Juls. “I will train you to be a virgin for Habib and Hachbar. They pay me many camels to do this.”

Shira remarked with some amazement, “You can train me to be a virgin? All right! I’ll make a lot of money that way . . . er, I mean, Habib and Hachbar will be SO pleased.”

Hachbar WAS excited. That evening, he told Jen, “You make good choice, come to Hachbar. I see you have man so I tell Wench to give you good job somewhere pleasant. Maybe she need assistant training virgins.”

Gypsy suggested training Habib and Hachbar to be virgins for each other. They were both rather lukewarm to that idea, so revirginification is limited to women for the time being.

Since then, the ranks of my students have been swelled by Sus, Tricia, Selinda, and Sherry.
Although she claimed to Hachbar that she was a good cook, Jen hasn’t applied for an assistant virgin trainer position. I had planned let her do a work-study program as a lunchroom lady. But I have added other staff members who have agreed to work-study, or even full-time positions, in other areas.

I have been very pleased at the enthusiasm with which my virgins-in-training have taken to their studies. For example, Gypsy Firecracker noticed that Shira had cheated and read Lesson 3 already – something she would not have known had Gypsy not also cheated and read Lesson 3.

Now, it seems, just as Wench’s Virgin Training School is getting off the ground, I have competition. This Sultana Saibabie person has invaded the lives of the school and its students. “I understand you are one of Wench’s virgins. Come to me, instead. I will gain a higher camel price for your virtue than she will,” Sultana said to Sherry, Sus, Lisa, Kimber, Gypsy, Natalie, Juls, Shira, Jen, and Selinda. Sus and Sherry defended me nobly against this upstart tart, who somehow has managed to get MANY of our favorite men on her Friends List! What is she leading them around by, anyhow?

She seems to have gotten to the men before any of us women knew about her. David flirted with her as early as last Tuesday, which means she has been around almost as long as Hachbar. And just today, that Old Salt Jack Tar suggested that he take Sultana’s virgins for a test drive, while DavidT (no relation to JeniT) thought it looked as though Sultana might have put on a rather enjoyable party. Humph.

Hachbar saw through Sultana immediately, I am pleased to report. For instance, he contacted my dear friend JeniT, and told her, “Jeni. Hachbar say go to Wench. Bring many bull who hate red.” Gotta love that Hachbar. He did so well that he wooed Lisa “Browneye” away from Habib with the romantic words in his Blast!

Meanwhile, Wench’s Virgin Training School continues to organize and revirginate. The school has officially adopted “Like a Virgin” as the school’s alma mater and “Midnight at the Oasis” will be the theme for prom.

The curriculum so far:

Lesson 1: Establishing a Man’s Desires
Lesson 2: Dress Pleasing to Men or “Showing Weenus”(Kimber and Gypsy have made Dean’s List for their mastery of this particular lesson)
Lesson 3: Camming for Quarters in Qatar

Oh, and I almost forgot. Mad Diane LeDeux, who claims no interest in being revirginated, has graciously accepted the position of Flogger of Recalcitrant Revirgins. Her place of Public Punishment at the Twisted Wench Daiquiri Lounge hasn’t been getting enough use lately since she’s threatened to turn those who cross her into zombies.

Matriculate NOW!

November 18, 2006 Posted by | Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor, Virgin Training School, Writing | Leave a comment

An Applicant for Virgin Training School

I’m going to start a Virgin Training School.  There are so many Trolls and Troglodytes online that seem to need the services of just the right woman.  They want women to get on webcams with them, to have cybersex with them, to talk to them despite their lack of command of a common language. I get several instant messages a day from them, whether I’m invisible or not.
This person, whose sex I don’t know, started this conversation with me this morning.  Yes, this is his real ID. I could be circumspect and not publish the IDs of these losers, but frankly, why not?  They are the morons who behave so incredibly inappropriately.
I know, the obvious question is why I even bother to talk to these jerks.  To be honest, sometimes it amuses me to toy with them.  They have no idea that they are engaged in a battle of wits and are weaponless. 

kaansalefe: hello
kaansalefe: virgin?
Aramink: why, yes. How did you ever guess?
Aramink: In fact, I train other women to be virgins
kaansalefe: ur profil nicee
Aramink: Thank you very much
kaansalefe: would u like to talk to me on the mic?
Aramink: No, I’m sorry.  My mic does not work.
kaansalefe: ur cam?
Aramink: no, the cam and the mic both are out of order
kaansalefe: wanna show u my virgin p*ssy
Aramink: how kind of you.  Are you seeking admission to my Virgin Training School?
kaansalefe: see my p*ssy and tell me the truth about mine
Aramink: Well, I can’t really tell just from pictures over a cam.  I would have to have you go through  rigorous medical examination conducted by our Medic.
kaansalefe: ok
kaansalefe: f*ck u
kaansalefe: bye
kaansalefe: sorry
Aramink: ROFLMAO

November 16, 2006 Posted by | Humor, IM, Virgin Training School | Leave a comment