Quote:
Making the e-mail rounds a few weeks ago -- and sent to me by more than one high-profile local sex educator -- was a snarky list of ways to "enjoy Burning Man at home." The list included many observations about the experience, like:
Before eating any food, drop it in a sandbox and lick a battery.
Stack all your fans in one corner of the living room. Put on your most fabulous outfit. Turn the fans on full blast. Dump a vacuum cleaner bag in front of them.
Buy a new set of expensive camping gear. Break it.
Get so drunk you can't recognize your own house. Walk slowly around the block for five hours.
Have a 3 a.m. soul-baring conversation with a drag nun in platforms, a crocodile and Bugs Bunny. Be unable to tell if you're hallucinating. Lust after Bugs Bunny.
Cut, burn, electrocute, bruise, and sunburn various parts of your body. Forget how you did it. Don't go to a doctor.
Pay an escort of your affectional preference subset to not bathe for five days, cover themselves in glitter, dust, and sunscreen, wear a ****** neon wig, dance close naked, then say they have a lover back home at the end of the night.
For those of us who work in the sexual health professions, it's the last bit that seems a bit mild. For while we San Franciscans might make fun of the event and its customers (and be intrigued by its lawsuits), we do love that it's a sex-positive, inclusive gathering that celebrates art and community, and fosters -- even strongly emphasizes -- tolerance among all genders and orientations. But what some of us don't love is the noticeable impact on local STD clinics and call centers when the "burners" come home.
Before eating any food, drop it in a sandbox and lick a battery.
Stack all your fans in one corner of the living room. Put on your most fabulous outfit. Turn the fans on full blast. Dump a vacuum cleaner bag in front of them.
Buy a new set of expensive camping gear. Break it.
Get so drunk you can't recognize your own house. Walk slowly around the block for five hours.
Have a 3 a.m. soul-baring conversation with a drag nun in platforms, a crocodile and Bugs Bunny. Be unable to tell if you're hallucinating. Lust after Bugs Bunny.
Cut, burn, electrocute, bruise, and sunburn various parts of your body. Forget how you did it. Don't go to a doctor.
Pay an escort of your affectional preference subset to not bathe for five days, cover themselves in glitter, dust, and sunscreen, wear a ****** neon wig, dance close naked, then say they have a lover back home at the end of the night.
For those of us who work in the sexual health professions, it's the last bit that seems a bit mild. For while we San Franciscans might make fun of the event and its customers (and be intrigued by its lawsuits), we do love that it's a sex-positive, inclusive gathering that celebrates art and community, and fosters -- even strongly emphasizes -- tolerance among all genders and orientations. But what some of us don't love is the noticeable impact on local STD clinics and call centers when the "burners" come home.
I got a chuckle out of it anyway.