I'm strapped onto a man I've just met not thirty minutes ago. Shoulder, waist, hips, thighs, and a little too close to my pink parts I might add. And he keeps pulling them tighter! Feel OK? He asks. What the hell am I supposed to say? He's the boss and Lord knows I've never done anything like this before. Yeah, it's good, I say. So here we are, my new master strapped to my back and that huge monstrosity strapped to his back. If he were any closer to me, he'd be in front of me.
Next thing I know, he's thrusting me forward, inching me along until we're right at the point of no return. I'm so freaked out; I can't even find my voice to ask if anyone's ever backed out? What's our safety word? But I know there's no backing out now. God, I hope he knows what he's doing. I mean, he's done this enough, the freak of nature. At least that's what he told me when I met him. What's his name again? What's mine, for that matter? Don't worry, he assures me, this will be better than any sex you've ever had before. Just keep your legs bent around mine and keep your back arched. Fall back and enjoy the ride, doll.
And with that, we count to three and jump out of the plane.
Out of a plane? What am I, f**king crazy?
The power of being sucked out of a plane and into oblivion which is the baby blue sky - so innocent and peaceful - until you're torpedoing down at a speed no less than 120 miles an hour - renders me speechless. The skin on my face is being pulled back so tight that for a moment, I'm afraid I look like one of those society ladies on New York's upper east side who've had a one facelift too many.
And I have the sneaking suspicion that I have forgotten to do something - what could it be - ah, yes, BREATHE! Although, come to think of it, how am I going to do that? I'm plummeting to earth!
Suddenly, some crazy ass frogman pops up from literally nowhere and he's wearing a huge camera on his head, aimed at me. I realize, like an idiot, I paid this guy to jump out of a plane as well and shoot video of me falling to my death. Maybe they can play it at my funeral.
But the beauty of his presence is that I am too inherently vain to look terrified and I can't smile and be scared sh*tless at the same time - I'm not that good of an actress - so his camera suddenly takes my mind off my impending splatter waiting for me on the ground and I strike a pose, blowing kisses and acting like I'm some diva starlet at a premiere, waving to my fans. A pose 13,000 feet above ground! Who knew vanity would come in so handy?
I can't help but feel these harnesses are pretty damn loose. I may just fall out at any minute. What was this guy thinking? And he calls himself a sky diving instructor? Speaking of, my human backpack is now holding my wrist in front of me as if that is supposed to tell me something. But what? What am I supposed to do? And what is that little thingy, that shiny object sort of watch like contraption I'm wearing again?
Just then, he gives up on me and pulls the cord. Ah yes, it's coming back to me now. That whole when I hold up your hand to read our altitude-d thing, then you pull the cord speech he gave me earlier. Somehow, it just slipped my mind for the moment. Or perhaps it fell out of my brain when I fell out of the plane. At any rate, I'd like to believe that I would have remembered to pull it before we bounced of the Earth like human ping pong balls.
We shoot back upwards as if out of a gun. Well, that's what it feels like when in actuality, the parachute has opened and we just stopped shooting downwards. It's smooth sailing from here on out. He wasn't lying that the parachute would open. I buy a bridge in San Francisco from this guy right now, I love him that much for not letting me die.
And now what do I hear, what's that? Why, it's nothing, my friends. Not one sound. Pure, unadulterated blissful silence. And it's beautiful. Like being deep underwater but 10,000 feet above sea level. And the view. Those little patchwork pieces of earth, farmland, cities, lakes, all toy-like, resting silently, completely motionless.
Which is my cue to scream like a little girl on a three day candy binge. Oh yeah, my friend. That's right. I have forgotten that I am a sleek, chic woman of 40. I have morphed into a squealing psycho six year old with a five hundred dollar a day Ritalin habit and a belly fully of skittles and Hershey's kisses. Oh, the unearthly rush of it all, baby. There's nothing like it.
I am now officially flying. Well, soaring. OK, I'm actually slowly floating towards my desired destination: the ground
But first, Mr. Man Attached to my Back is taking the controls of the parachute (who knew it had a steering wheel?) and with a tug to the right; he spins us around like a tornado. I think I see Dorothy and her little dog too. Auntie Em, Uncle Henry! It's a twister! It's a twister! The squealing continues. I have to admit, I'm kind of digging this whole jumping out of a plane thing... a lot.
And then, as with most men, we finish a little too quickly for my taste. I could have stayed up there a bit longer. We land on a grassy knoll. I'm exhilarated and ready for a cigarette and I don't even smoke. He was almost right, not many sexcapades can top this experience. Is it possible to have multiples? Is he ready to go again or do we have to give his parachute a rest?
But I'm hooked. I've fallen for falling.
The moral of the story is two fold: a.) You don't need to be a man to have a pair. And b.) There is more than one way to get the big "O", if ya know what I mean.
Happy Birthday, George H Bush.