My folks sent us to Unitarian churches, where everybody was encouraged to be themselves and believe whatevs and wear as much corduroy as possible. Buoy-ring! Everything was so reassured and healthy, you were basically gifted with Garfield stickers for experimenting with twigs up your butt. Masturbate, and you get a big understanding hug and a trip to Pizza Hut. But abstinence was clearly the way to go. Nearby in our hood, was a slowly burgeoning heaven of temptation called Praphadas Palace of Gold. This West Virginian Krsna community attracts the hottest devotees ever who are forbidden to fiddle with themselves.
I think the no jacking off thing releases some kind of ghost fragrance from the dewy pores of their shoulders. You can smell it when you visit the palace--this perfume is like if a penis were like a thousand sweet, warm honeydew melons growing and exploding every 15 minutes. I've driven to the palace many times to lurk, and just as my car approached the crescendo of the hill, I could see a team of kinda crust punky, glistening, gold-toothed fantasy boys working hard on the palace grounds. Many sinewy, caramelly tattooed arms toil, dusty with dirt, draped with saffron robes, pulling at weeds. I wished those yanked dandelions was my hair.
I tried to take my friend Rachel to show her the sexy robed punkers, but we opted to visit on a fasting holiday, so no cuties were to be seen. We just took pics of all the cool spots to get a Krsna kiss. I guess that day was a dumb visit day. Fasting holidays are never that fun and every one's indoors trying to pray away the hunger pangs and watch Home Improvement.