I had a breast orgasm today. Yes, a breast orgasm. And, now I suspect every part of the body can orgasm, under the right conditions. I also realized that the enthusiasm I used to bring to performing on stage, singing, hosting, or talking to archangels at the seashore...is the same energy and presence I should show up for in every moment of my life. Every moment should be making love to the universe. See, if I were French, pulling down my sunglasses to stare into your soul, wearing a sundress with geometric patterns and smoking a cigarette in a holder, in black and white, with subtitles, that wouldn't sound cheesy one bit.

In other countries, people's lips and mouths make love to words. We have puritan lips in America. Pensive, reserved, tight, afraid-to-be-engorged-with-blood-lips. So, people get injected with collagen, so their lips can be in-heat for them. What kind of poetry does a mouth make with a cow's ass?

After teaching class tonight, I felt like my car was floating on a lotus flower all the way home. Better than the time I ate mushrooms in Joshua Tree, and had to use my vagina to drive us back to the hotel. That was hard work, and I didn't think we'd make it. So, I revved it up, and put my engine is hyper-speed. Anyone ever drive one of those all-terrain vehicles up over a clusterfuck of boulders? They made it look so fucking easy on the commercial.

My husband was laughing at the Gods, his mouth wide open like a Mayan hieroglyph. Turning into a cosmic Bandito with a tattooed face mask, his eyeballs doing acrobatics, he leaned into me. His dimensions colliding with mine. Hypnotizing me with his aura, sucking me into his Dutch angle batcave-existance. "You're part skeleton girl. Half of you is completely dead already. But you already knew that." "Dusting off old barfly-gothic-tripper pick-up lines? You still know we're already married, right? Get thee back to thy Batcave." "Not a problem," he said wide-eyed, before peeling with laughter, his tongue eating the stars through the invisible roof.

We were in the backseat, while my curvy, Blonde-haired, Amazonian pal grew four arms and four hands. For a woman who had never grown extra appendages, she was doing pretty good. We were driving between the lines, and seemed to be in forward motion. Better than the first attempt, when the car wasn't actually on. She's the kind of lady with a Navajo peace mantra quilted into her soul. Like a matrioshka doll, a home to her sisters. But, this was New Years Eve and not the best time to be observed driving far below the speed limit. Her boyfriend's frenetic mad scientist yelps, were like hysteria wrapped in bemused self-awareness. He was very zen, with his geeky glasses, his gaunt macrobiotic cheekbones and balding head. Bucking in his seat and jerking his body, he birthed pithy oracular ramblings. I felt like I was at the Salem witch trials. So, that's when my yoni decided to drive us back.

Ever seen the Sci-Fi show "Farscape"? In that show there is a living ship, a fusion of plant, animal, and machine. I pictured my uterus growing, enveloping the sports utility vehicle and becoming one with it. My pink wet labia turned inside out, wrapping around the car tires, sprouting cactus thorns for tread. As my friend began freaking out that her many hands were turning numb and becoming immobilized, the car slowed. Uh Oh. With each revolution of my labia propelling us closer and closer to our destination, we gradually accelerated and reached the speed limit. We may have entered into a vulva portal on our expedition, traversing a wrinkle in Labia Minor. "It's working! My vagina is driving the car guys!!" "Really, I thought I was?" "Hallelujah, we're gonna make it after all!"

Now, that's taking backseat driving to a new level. Soon, we were back in the parking lot in front of two glass doors leading to our elevator. Of course, no one knew how to park the car. No one wanted to get out, but I had to pee really bad, so I bolted. No vaginas were harmed during the transformation, but every now and then, when the moon is full, I can sense that my vagina wants to take a ride through the desert. Well, that would be one way to deal with a vagina that's like Ms. Pacman.

More on the breast orgasm later...it involves stimulating the circulation-sex meridian.