Pubic Hair

Today is the 70th birthday of one of my friends who wishes to remain anonymous. I took her to lunch at Stone Cliff Inn, in the forest just south of Portland. Right outside the restaurant is a former rock quarry where part of the movie Twilight was filmed. We know this because there are metal placards posted on some of the boulders, like this one, which says, "As the sun hits him, Edward's skin literally sparkles as if embedded with thousands of tiny diamonds. He is magnificent, shimmering, like a statue carved from glittering crystal. He moves toward her."

I haven't seen the film. But laughing at the purple prose on the placard, we climbed among the boulders. I got the camera out, and she said to me, "Don't you dare take any pictures of me! I don't want to be on that Blop, or Bling, whatever you call it." Well, it's her birthday, so she gets her wish. But she didn't forbid me to tell the story, so here's what happened next. She buried both hands in the moss on one of of the boulders and said, with obvious relish, "This moss feels just like pubic hair: thick, wet pubic hair."

Such is the power of suggestion.