Chapter 6 ~ I am kidnapped by lesbians.
By: Lee Zimmerman
True story. Ever been to Nelson, B.C.? Incredible. Beautiful, lush little village, surrounded by mountains, peopled with hipsters. They shot the film “Roxanne” there. They also produce Canada’s finest marijuana in those hills. The richest folks in town are the growers, known locally as ‘shrubbers’. Everywhere you look you see long-haired, classic-rock-lovin’, dirt-munchin’, tree-huggin’ Druids and scores of gays and lesbians. The demographic of the place is skewed just perfectly for my show and every time I did my thing, I got a huge response. Inexplicably, all the lesbians kept coming out in full force for every show. Word of mouth, buzz, I have no idea why, but for some reason, every show I did had more and more really enthusiastic shrub scouts in the audience.
The transportation coordinator and I really hit it off. She was heavy into music, a part-time DJ, very sweet and great fun to be with. Just as I’m finishing my Saturday afternoon show, she and her girlfriend show up with another lesbian couple and start packing up my gear without so much as a word. I never let anybody do that, but they just insisted. They were all festival volunteers, so I knew that I could trust them when they rolled my road cases away to stash them in the green room. They seemed pretty determined to get me somewhere without being specific as to where that might be….and there was something else going on between them, but I couldn’t quite put my finger in it. The worm on the hook they dangled was pretty direct and as usual, the perfect bait for catching Lees. Off we went to smoke a joint.
We jumped into the back of a jeep and headed out of town on a bunch of twisty back roads. This was mid-July in the mountains…the air was clean and felt so good as the overhead trees intermittently blocked and then revealed the sunlight on our faces. I remember thinking how perfect all of this was but, why aren’t we turning around? We’re cruising away from town in a topless jeep, but with the loud music and whooshing air, there wasn’t a lot of talking. I had really long hair at the time and it’s just whipping up on my face oh-so annoyingly, but they were all smiles, just as happy as clams. I began to feel as if they were all in on some private homo secret, yet to be revealed. “There it is.”
The sign said “Glacier Lake.” Now, I have no swimsuit, just the sweaty show clothes I’m wearing. “We have to be careful, but it’s sort of an unofficial nude beach.” Huh? And where do I fit in? Literally. And then it dawned on me. I be ‘represent-in.’
In a few moments I’ll be opening up the deli, unfurling the flag, revealing the rabbit…in the company of four women who don’t especially like to look at men, let alone nude ones, in a freezing cold lake. Do the math.
I was about to become the unofficial ambassador of male nudity for these women. I’m sure they know the basic terrain and I didn’t expect them to convert or anything, I mean we weren’t on Cinemax, but I didn’t want them to gaze upon my shrinkage thinking, “Sheezus. Yecch. My Tonka penis is way more impressive and at least it vibrates.”
So as I strip down, I’m mentally trying to chub up. Four women getting naked in front of me would normally do the trick, but I’m trying to be respectful; these are my hosts. So, instead I try to summon up my go-to “Porn Room” memories. All men keep a library of memories and fantasies in their head for…just such an emergency. ”Welcome to the Porn Room. Now showing, this week: the check-out chick at Walgreen’s.”
Then I step into this cold-ass water. Turtle Man. Actually, more like Turtle Boy. “Whistles! Bells! Alarms! Klaxon horns! Blooooop. Picture filling up a New Year’s Eve noisemaker with air and watching it roll back into itself like the Wicked Witch of the East’s legs. My freezing brain screamed, “Just get all the way down in the water, Stumpy!” Even though the water was teeth-chatteringly cold, I just get right down in it, all the way up to my shoulders, my nipples practically jumping off. Well, I may be hypo-thermic, but at least I don’t look like I was born with an ‘innie’.
Now, I turn around to see my companions wading in. The sun was hot and so were two of them, but I averted my eyes…as best I could, anyway. Heck, if I was a chick, I’d be a lesbian. I’d be the lesbianest lesbian that ever scissored a sister. I would just traipse through the briar patch day and night with the glee of a giddy school girl. In a gleefully giddy school girl’s outfit, no less. So, I stole a glance. Or three. Did I mention they were naked? One of them, by and large, appeared to be Bi…and large. And she wasn’t fond of razors. It kinda looked like Larry from the Three Stooges was trapped between her legs. She was the only one who had watched me strip and as she dips into the water, she’s staring directly into my eyes. Intently.
This is when I find out why they favored me. “Is it true you’re married to a Playboy Playmate?”
Ach! I get it, now. “Yeah…amazing, innit?”
That was it…that’s all they wanted to talk about for the next fifteen minutes. After a while, we got out and sat down on the edge of the water. They asked if they could see pictures of her. I loved my wife. I never went anywhere without a few pictures of her in my wallet; getting married by Elvis in Vegas, a photo of her from our first date and a few of her Playboy trading cards. See, I keep a Porn Room on me at all times. Can’t rely on the ol’, rusty puppeteer’s imagination; gots to have me some hard copies when I travel.
They passed the photos nakedly between themselves, sunning on the rocks, every card handled with a slow, focused reverence. It was fascinating, like being a fly on the wall at Vassar. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie,” an inside man on the team that is women. Now, I knew why they took me in as one of their own…we had so much in common!
And for that one swollen, glistening moment, I truly was the King of the Lesbians.