Almost an Israelite

In the past when I had found long standing platonic female friends sitting on my chest in their bathing suites or with their faces inches away from my penis, it had usually marked one of the last acts of the friendship. But in the case of Robyn, who had assumed both positions within five minutes, it was quite the opposite. A surface description of the situation paints a lovely if entirely inaccurate portrait of the situation:

I was half naked, on my back, in a beach bungalow, after a vicious party, with an intelligent and attractive woman; bonds were being formed, friendships strengthened and all involved, especially the woman, knew that there was a serious J.O.B. to be done. And guess who got to sit back and watch?

It was Robyn's drunken commitment to the job I most appreciated.
"Isss okay Brannan....were gonna get yer dick unstuck from your zipper."

It was the night of the Pre-Full Moon party on Ko-Pha Ngan, a tropical island off Thailand's long SE coast. In the late 1980s a psychedelic mushroom birthday bash on Hat Rin beach was such a success that the Full-Moon parties became a monthly tradition. The party grew in scope and reputation through the nineties and was at some point usurped by the most vile cadre of tourists who turned the event into a revolting hedonistic bash that ranks up on the scales of guilty pleasures next to watching a video of Sarah Palin pleasure her self with the barrel of a shot gun. Realizing the economic upside of the festivities, the island's business' and communities responded in a US Military industrial complex like fashion. As it is almost always good for the economy to be at war, it is always good for the economy to be throwing a party. Full Moon pre-parties, Full-Moon after parties, half-moon parties, the-moon-is-still-up-their-oh-my-god parties, and just about every other occasion you could imagine that involved the moon and a hyphen became a reason to party. Remarkably enough, sacrificing the South Eastern peninsula to the ghastly masses had a pee-trap like effect. The bad stink stayed down and the rest of the island managed to hang onto some charm of a backwater.

But back to my dick...

After retreating from Hat Rin, lame people, and bad techno the post-card perfect beach by our bungalows and almost full moon was just too inviting, and the buckets (yessiir, that says buckets) of whisky too inspiring. I went Directly from the pick-up truck taxi to the beach and found my self splashing naked in the crystal blue water, enjoying my self way beyond the ability of simple words to describe. Once my tree hugger whims had been fulfilled I hastily jumped back into my shorts, giving next to no thought to the fact I didn't own a towel, and headed for the Bungalow to change into clothes for sleeping. That's when the troubles started.

The stiffness of the zipper was not at first a problem that I thought would turn into a two hour ordeal. When I realized what was hampering the action of the medal clasp it was just a little humerus. Little bit of penis, little bit of humor...big part of penis...well, I didn't think it was too funny any more. After a half hour of fighting the medal teeth in the bathroom it became obvious that my struggle was about to become a group activity and I called to Robyn to bring the drugs. I had planned on turning my nose up (probably right after taking) at the over the counter Valium purchase. But now it had a brand new significance in my life, pants, nose, and blood/brain barrier. In my new and much more agreeable state, I leaned back and let Robyn go to work. While she slowly pulled, assertively yanked, and aggressively ripped around my groin, I shrieked along with my i-pod to the White Album. May I say Rocky Raccoon and his tribulations seem far less traumatic than they once did.

As an hour and a half passed, the sun came up and no progress had been made a new tactic was a must. Robyn vanished and reappeared with a small sword disguised as a knife. This was my cue to re-involve my self in the process. No doctor, Moyle or regular person had ever been close to my penis with a sharp instrument and I could not think of any good reason for that streak to end. I took the knife and slowly started to cut the material between the zipper and shorts. After about ten very careful minutes, Free at last Free at last!!!!

The damage assessment was quick:"I can't handle this I am going to sleep." In the morning however, there was a 3/4 inch scar that looked like a splotch on the highway where a car tried to stop too quickly. The smell of burning rubber was oddly present too.

After a week or so the physical scars have done a remarkable job of healing up, the jury is still out on the emotional.