Harrington's Tiger Bomb War Dance

For reasons I’m not really sure, I am reminded of a story from my last and glorious year at University of California at Santa Barbara. It is not a Christmas story per se, but I will try and make it festive.

It was a late afternoon gorgeous sunset over the ocean at my girlfriend’s house she shared with three pretty roommates. We were outside on the porch of their cozy little house on Del Playa, which means of the beach in Spanish. As was our custom, we were enjoying margaritas and guacamole and chips.

As the maggies flowed, so did the conversation. One roommate, who I will call Becky, had recently started dating a guy whom the rest of us did not particularly like, named Harrington. Yes, that was his first name. Apparently it was a family name. Harrington let anyone who met him know that he was from a wealthy family back East and regarded himself as quite a lacrosse player.

Things had proceeded in the bedroom rather too quickly for Becky’s modest tastes, but now they had hit a crossroads. Becky told us that Harrington was becoming increasingly insistent on performing a certain act that she absolutely refused to do.

Yes, that would be in the butt, Bob. Err, I mean Harrington. As far as Becky was concerned, this was a deal-breaker, and she let Harrington know this, but his persistence grew nonetheless.

A little light bulb went off in my head. This was a story I had heard before. So I informed Becky of what a girl on the track team did who was faced with the same problem.

A week later, Harrington’s pleading and begging reached the breaking point, so, much to Harrington's surprise, Becky suddenly acquiesced. She then announced she would retire to the bathroom to prepare. When she emerged, hands behind her back, Harrington looked as eager and excited as a child at Christmas. (See, I told you I would make it festive)

From hidden behind her back, Becky then dramatically produced a very large and medicinal-looking jar.

“What is that?” asked Harrington.

She informed him it was a special lubricant made, believe it or not, just for this occasion. A type of specially crafted petroleum jelly that would make such an act more pleasurable for both participants. She instructed him, per my instructions, that he had to apply the lubricant quickly and liberally, extending it to all areas groin-related. ("Areas Groin-Related" is my new off-Broadway rom-com play)

What Harrington did not know was the alleged sex-lube Becky had thoughtfully provided was actually a type of athletic muscle-loosening analgesic balm called Tiger Bomb I had pilfered from the training room. This stuff made Vicks vapo rub or Ben Gay seem like mother's milk.

As strong as Tiger Bomb was, it was also slow-acting. Kind of like the hottest chili pepper you’ve ever eaten. At first you don’t think it is too strong, then slowly you start to sweat until you think you may have to visit the emergency room.

No kidding, this Tiger Bomb stuff was so strong that if you applied it to the slightest abrasion or sunburn, tears would stream down your eyes until you washed it off. It had a nuclear cinnamon smell that our track meets absolutely reeked of. My brain isn't capable of calculating how much it would hurt if applied, even in the slightest, to Mister Happy and the boys.

As Harrington greedily, frantically and generously slathered on the thick and sticky Tiger Bomb on and anywhere near his especially aroused and sensitive parts, Becky sat back on the bed, smiled and waited for her very own naked Apache war dance she was informed would surely erupt.

She was not disappointed. She said he looked like Joe Cocker getting taze'd.

The moral of the story?

Perhaps poor Harrington permanently learned a proper point in pressing the proposition of popping the pooper prematurely.


(Slow, awe-struck clapping slowly explodes into a tidal wave of thunderous ovation)