Reading the news this morning, I could begin to feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. The US is becoming a police state; those things that people accused “liberals’ of being alarmist about are actually happening: people being beaten for simply speaking up. Just as I was ready to stop reading I came across a headline: “Canadian CDC Recommends Glory Holes For Sex Amid COVID-19”.
Despite the lack of relevance sex articles have to my–unintentionally–celibate life, the anthropologist in me was as curious as he could possibly be. “The British Columbia Centre for Disease Control advises the public to use barriers, like walls (e.g., glory holes) that allow for sexual contact but prevent close face-to-face contact”. Hmmm…glory holes, eh? I imagine the impact this could have on our world. Or, perhaps more importantly, on my imaginary sex life.
I begin by asking the landlord if he can send our maintenance guy (Paul) to install a glory hole in my bedroom door. Why the bedroom door? Well, I thought about the bathroom door but remembered how much I value poo privacy. And the front door…well that’s kind of out of the question, isn’t it?
Paul comes in to make said glory hole. Watching him, I can see quite clearly that this isn’t his first rodeo but, in the interest of good taste, I resist the temptation to ask. Then, once the glory hole is complete, Paul leaves with a very inspiring, “Good luck with that, buddy”. Good luck, indeed. I stand there with a sense of satisfaction. Well, I’m ahead of the curve on this one, aren’t I? Smugness. Smugness interrupted with a concern, “How do we know if the size is right?!” “Measure twice and cut once”. That’s how the saying goes. You didn’t even measure once, Paul!
Goddamit. Is it too big? Too small? (Here my readers might be worried that penis jokes are coming. Rest assured, I am too BIG of a man to make juvenile PENIS jokes). I gingerly approach and breath a sigh of relief. Well done, Paul! It works. It’s like your telepathic about penises! I can stand here with my penis sticking through this very well made (and thankfully, very well sanded) glory hole. But wait…it’s a little too high. I have a real calf strain going on here. The saying is an understatement–apparently one need measure a couple of things twice before cutting something once (four measures for one cut) for a cozy glory hole.
Trifling matters! I step back. Big smile. Rubbing my hands together. Tapping my foot. Beginning to hum a little melody. Well, on with my day, I suppose. But no….wait!!! Hold your horses! This has implications for my dating profile!
I being to wonder how to communicate this. “Glory hole friendly!”? “Have own glory hole!”? “I practice safe (glory hole) sex!”? The exclamation points are vital for communicating my passion and vast knowledge of glory holes. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a glory hole virgin (or wait…I should probably rethink that). Before I can even edit my own profile I realize I’m not so ahead of the curve as I thought. I see on the other profiles: “Into guys who can build their own glory holes” (goddamit! your needs for boyfriends who are handymen even leak into this glory hole era!); “glory hole empowered”; “not into faces, anyway”. Okay, I got this. I’m ready….
It is then that my fantasy comes to a sudden and rather disillusioning end. Weeks have passed. Despite the trending glory hole mentions on the dating profiles, I get pinged as infrequently as before the Brave New Glory Hole World. Occasionally, I pass by my glory hole with that sad Charlie Brown/Snoopy music playing in the back of my head. I curse the Canadian CDC and then quickly take my curses back when I remember that they have universal health care.
I awaken from my daydream, sad but grateful to have gotten a break from the devastating world news that I had been embroiled in just before. Glory hole or not, thank you for your glorious tip, dear Canada. Thank you, indeed.