Getting high

Being suspended between two buildings in the middle of the city is one of the scientifically proven ways to stimulate foreplay.

No, really. 

You see, my three female readers, I have been domestically incarcerated — quite blissfully I might add — to my wife for the past five years. And I have absolutely nothing to complain about (I say that without any mental reservation, as per my prenuptial agreement).

However, sharing our marital bed blissfully with our four-year-old princess daughter, our one-year-old 300-pound Buddha baby boy, their respective yayas, my yaya and my yaya’s yaya poses a challenge to our relationship that was not existent in my pre-incarceration days (the challenge during those days was my lovingly omnipresent soon-to-be father-in-law and his sidekick, a rusted chastity belt).

Given these six forms of Church-approved birth control, there are times when you need to jumpstart the intimacy in your marriage. Sometimes, it takes more than an intimate dinner date (while the kids are running amuck in the restaurant and taking the head waiter hostage). Sometimes, it takes more than showering together (to save time because you are both running late for meetings and your kids are still hogging the other banyo). Sometimes, it takes more than hiding underneath the bedsheets watching online porn while sharing earphones (so that the kids don’t wake up and so yaya doesn’t make you sumbong to your father-in-law).

Sometimes, it takes getting high. Getting really &%*@%-ing high.

As if being a grown man with an irritable bladder and two yayas and a self-deprecation complex (I often deprecate all over myself) has not been enough for me to qualify for counseling, I still willfully subjected myself to being strapped into a harness and sent hurtling down a 250-foot long zip line.

Yes, yes my cojones and I have zip lined before. And I have miraculously survived those rides with almost clean underwear. But I’ve usually zipped along a 100-foot zip lines that were only about 15 feet above a field of grass or a body of water. I imagined that if my harness gave way and I fell from that height, I would only end up with a few bruises, broken bones, and cojones that resembled Humpty Dumpty.  

However, at the Tower Zip in Sky Adventure Experience in Crown Regency Hotel, Cebu, I would be zipping across what felt like a gazillion-foot long line 500,000 feet above the ground strung between two buildings that traversed a busy street. The mere idea of zipping across this line presumes that you have the cojones the size of coconuts (and if you had cojones that size, their weight might put undue stress on the zip line). If ever my harness gave way and I plunged to the ground, I might not end up with just a few broken bones. I might end up as a street ornament.

So this raises the question: Why subject myself to a possibly life-threatening situation that could reverse the effects of my hair-loss prevention treatments? According to science, thrill rides such as these can boost my sexual attractiveness like no thong underwear, Brazilian wax or dietary supplement can.

In a 2003 study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior, a journal that I subscribe to merely for the fashion ads, researchers discovered that the thrills of roller coaster riding boosted one’s sexual attractiveness (although it is unknown if the researchers conducted similar studies with other thrill rides such as Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds and car rides along EDSA during flash floods).

 

This study examined the effects of residual nervous system arousal on perceptions of sexual attraction. The researchers approached individuals at amusement park rides as they were either waiting to get onto or just getting off a roller coaster ride. Participants were shown photographs of average looking individuals and asked to rate the individual based on their attractiveness, dating desirability and facial hair (or lack thereof). After the thrill ride, the participants were shown again the same set of photographs and voila! Their attractiveness ratings and dating desirability shot up faster than a DOM’s blood pressure in a KTV (however, I turned down their request to use my superior-looking picture for their study or else the results might have been skewed. I’m sorry, what did you say? Yes, how did you know that I hear voices in my head?)

Apparently, the psychological explanation for sexual attraction in thrill rides is called excitation transfer — that’s what happens when people who are physiologically aroused (such as racing heart or sweaty palms or cojones caught in throat) mistakenly attribute those feelings of fear and anxiety for sexual attraction. This is the reason that I regularly take my wife to join me on thrill rides at amusement parks or to watch horror movies or to invest in dubious get-rich-quick schemes — so that the excitation transfer will continue to bolster my sexual attractiveness to my wife, especially when the gayumas start to lose their efficacy.

It goes without saying, of course, that my chief jailer has to join me on these panty-dropping thrill rides for the excitation transfer to occur. So God bless her and her batuta — she grew up in a family of professional racecar drivers. They have more testosterone coursing through their pinkie fingers than I have coursing through my entire system. Some of that testosterone has rubbed off on her by osmosis. I don’t mind admitting that my wife has bigger cojones than me. And slightly more chest hair, too.

 

There was nothing that gave away the fact that a harrowing zip line experience was on the 38th floor of the hotel save for the waiver form they made me sign in the queue, the priest offering confession at the entrance of the ride, and the emergency medical team waiting at the exit of the ride. Aside from these confidence-building measures, I still undertook my own confidence-building measures as well: I strapped on two pairs of supporters to make sure all the pink parts would stay in place, plus I prayed the Act of Contrition several thousand times and I wore a red cape. 

(Despite the fact that I make light of this zip line, rest assured it is a &*(%ing scary ride. Just how scary is it? Scarier than waiting for a doctor to give you a rectal exam. Scarier than a single guy waiting for the results of his girlfriend’s pregnancy test. It was so scary that my yaya refused to join me on the zip line. That scary.)

“There’s nothing to worry about, Sir,” the operator assured me as he strapped me and my pea-sized cojones into the harness. “Trust me, it’s perfectly safe.”

“That’s the same thing my stockbroker told me several weeks ago,” I replied. 

“The zip line is designed and built using the highest industry standards and has a redundant system to insure your safety. In fact, there are no humans involved in the braking system for the zip line. It’s a fully automatic braking system controlled by machines.”

“Do you think leaving this to machines gives me any comfort!?” I wailed. “Haven’t you seen The Terminator?”

 â€œYou don’t have to hold on to the harness, Sir. It’s perfectly safe.”

The operator told me that there were three different places that I could hold onto as I made way down the zip line. But the only place that felt completely secure was when I held onto my crotch.

It didn’t matter how much they explained the redundancies and fail safes on the ride; it didn’t matter how many times I had to get off and on the ride to change my underwear; it didn’t matter how many tranquilizer darts they shot at my derriere; there was always that niggling fear that something might go awry midway through the ride. Can the operators account for everything? What if there were unpredictable crosswinds between the buildings? What if there was a sudden downpour? What if Kryptonians suddenly attacked Cebu City? I may have a red cape, but I have yet to develop my flying powers.  

“Don’t forget to enjoy the view of the city from the zip line!” the operator reminded me as he fired a final shot with his tranquilizer gun.

“I’ll enjoy what I can from behind my eyelids.”

After tugging at the ropes one final time to make sure they were fastened snugly, the operator asked, “Are you ready, Sir?”

I took a deep breath, used one hand to grip the rope tightly while the other hand continued to secure my crotch, squeezed my sphincter muscles and squeaked, “Yes.” 

Then I let gravity, momentum, and Papa Jesus take over.

Aaaaaaaand it was over in eight seconds. Eight. Seconds. Eight freaking seconds. Eight freaking seconds that felt like an eternity.

But, hey, sometimes eight seconds is all you need to have a productive sex life.

(No Girlfriends Since Birth Note: Sometimes, it’s all you’ve got.

(DOMs Note: Sometimes, eight seconds is all you’re permitted.)

 

When I arrived at the landing point, there was a little shrinkage in the pink parts, but at least all the parts were still intact. But I felt like Henry Cavill after a $150 million box-office opening.  All that I was lacking was the red underwear.

“Ha! Is that all!? I can do it again,” I bragged as my cojones swelled up to the size of mature coconuts.

“That’s great, Sir!” The operator said. “Because that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“Come again?” I said while testing the limits of my adult diaper. “I can’t hear you too well. My screams are still ringing in my ears.”

“The only way to go back to the entrance is to ride on the zip line. The ride back will only take you… 45 seconds.”

Forty. Five. Seconds.

&*^%()$#!

I have to find a better supplier for my gayuma.

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For comments, suggestions or used underwear, please email ledesma.rj@gmail.com or visit www.rjledesma.net.

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