She had a clump in her pants.

It was outrageous. I couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t a camel toe or moose knuckle either. Perish the thought. No, she wasn’t a he. No, I’m not gay for lingering on it.

When you spot something odd, what do you do? You investigate. You try to find the reason why the odd thing is where it doesn’t usually show up. That was the case in the sauna. A young woman (oh, don’t get all wadded up; she was older than twenty) entered wearing a bikini and something was out of place. I used my peripheral skills to no avail. Then, I tilted my capped skull down far enough to keep her from seeing my eyes and, yep, there it was: a clump. No, not a clump of fur. A clump–a clit lump. This maiden had a calamari-ring-sized clit.


OK, so I’m a pervert. Look, I didn’t poke it. I’m just sharing a story. What if one of my readers had a clump? Wouldn’t she want to know? I hear marathon runners put band-aids on their nipples. Shouldn’t the clump keepers wear a pad or duct tape? Then again, I wasn’t offended by it. There was, perhaps, a bit of curious stimulation as I envisioned tongue-jabbing that flesh bulb while she hummed the theme to Rocky.

Gosh, I need some serious therapy.

I do prefer the clump to the slice. The slice, especially when clean-shaven, is creepy. It’s kind of Barbie-ish. There should be puffy outer lips, pliable inner limps, and–sure, why not?–toss in a clump for good measure. That would make it easier to find and, thus, a happy Phil.

I’m fifty. I need cheaters. Wearing cheaters to bed is not sexy.

And, please stop with the bleaching of the balloon knot. It’s supposed to be as it is and, unless you’re on channel 3952, no man should see it under bright lights. Leave it be.

Fine. I’ll stop staring and move on to the treadmill.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.


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