Tuesday, June 5, 2012


My top three favorite whores include heavy historical hitters Fantine (Les Miserables), Rahab (The Holy Bible) and Newt Gingrich (Grand Old Party). Each of these hormonally charged harlots have carved out a name for themselves through their illustrious careers with multiple sexual partners. Fantine lost her life to her career, Rahab found wealth and power in her work place, and Newt has an impressive record as a champion lady leapfrogger in his job. But none of these iconic lovers could have prepared me for today's adventure.

The exterior buzzer to my apartment screamed throughout the empty unit, startling my slumbering self. The maid was scheduled to clean the space this morning and with blurry eyes I buzzed her in. As I pulled the door inward into the house, a lurpy character posed awkwardly in the door frame. This lanky limbed lad cruised right past me into the living room, looked my body over with an aggressive appetite and said, "Where are we doing this?"

I stared.

Thinking that this must be the new maid, I said, "I think the kitchen would be a great place to start."

He stared.

With no inkling that this scrawny soul was not our maid, I continued to list off places in the apartment that needed special attention.  "The living room needs your services for sure. The bathroom is a top priority for me, it sees a lot of action. And do you do patios? Because mine is filthy," I innocently chatted. The hungry look in his eye started to ebb as the blood emptied from his face. Confusion replaced lust in his countenance as he slowly surveyed the scene. "How long do you think it will take?" I asked the silent man.

We both stared.

The muted man broke the awkward silence with a shuttered, "You're not Sean, are you...?" Without saying a single word, my eyes became huge and my head slowly began to sway back and forth. It was at this moment that I noticed the lavender fingernail polish adorning the well kept nails of this man, the cut off denim shorty short shorts and the heavy scent of Shalimar dripping from his tight tank top. He gracefully turned himself around, found the door and with a backwards glance that screamed apology, he was gone.

In the stillness I stood; a man befuddled, a man speechless. A male prostitute had just been in my living room. And although it may be your dirty fantasy to have a few extra services around the house, I have no need for a face to face with Fantine, a rowdy romp with Rahab, or for Newt Gingrich to try and make me his fourth wife.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

The Woman from Whose Womb I Woke

As each great nation from the dawn of time until our current age has been dominated by a leader with a platform of governance, the Cannon household has been gloriously ruled over by Nancy since its formation in the early 1970's. With the iron fist of motherhood, Nan P. Can indoctrinated her children with three truths: Neil Diamond is our family's favorite Jew, the Cannon family only watches Mormon church films and Charlton Heston films on Sunday, and that her choice of punishment involves a pair of very stiff slippers.

The aforementioned slippers only come off when one of the angels known as children are particularly uncouth.  One such occasion presented itself on a cloudy Sabbath evening of my youth. An untimely cheeky comment that my mother's aging ears interpreted as coming out of my saintly mouth, stirred the brimstone within her warm eyes. I knew the line had been crossed. My time had come.
I bolted towards the staircase in hopes of escaping the wrath of the Slipper.  Slow motion filming overtook my young body as my head circled around to check on the status of my forbearer's castigation. With well hidden agility and secreted elasticity, the foot flexed, the knee bent and the slipper in question found the familiar warmth of my mom's hand.  I had safely reached the first stair as the wooden sole of the Slipper felt the gentle fingers of my matron aiming it at my head.

With immaculate precision, the woman from whose womb I woke hurled the Slipper from a horizontal position. Three stairs down the case was the fleeting progress of my body when the Slipper passed through the lathed banister. A triumphant Slipper clashed with the side of my head; a better strike could not have been orchestrated by President Obama himself.

The Slipper sat motionless next to me as I lay prostrate on the linoleum.  The simple words, "Are you okay?" came from the sofa where the victorious matriarch was comfortably arranged. Such affection, kindness and love has never been crooned out of the lips of Neil Diamond.  Charlton Heston's Oscar award winning performance pales in comparison to the epic devotion that my mother has shown me and each of her children.  I will forever be in debt to this woman for her unfathomable loyalty, steadfast example and for being the architect of my childhood.  I love you mom.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Love Thy Neighbor

The thunderous knocking pulled me out of my subconscious dream world with a start. With the blurred vision of slept-in contacts, I stumbled to the front door yawning away Neverland. The cold brass knob at my fingertips did little to wake me as the door swung open, revealing my next door neighbor. The nonchalant words that came flying at me from her mouth snapped me back into the living world, "Can I borrow three condoms?"

There we stood, frozen in time, as I processed with a dumbfounded glory her request. Who borrows condoms? I could understand asking for a cup of sugar, but why would she need three condoms? But neither of these logical questions passed my lips. Instead I blurted, "Pearl (name changed for my naughty neighbor's sake) It's the Sabbath!"

After equipping her with three Japanese Tie-Dye condoms that I had received as a gift several years ago, Pearl went on her nymphomaniac way. I thought my non-sexual relationship with Pearl had reached a peaceful harbor, but the textual bombs were only beginning to be dropped at my door step.

"Hi LeeLee, look out and tell me what you think of the guy who is leaving my house! QUICK!" read the first text. Not fully aware of the consequences for my actions, I looked out of the entry way and saw a middle aged man with remnants of blond hair and a tummy that looked tired exiting Pearl's abode. I texted back, "He creeps the hell out of me. Reminds me of my old Boy Scouts leader. Why?" In less than 10 seconds my phone chirped in announcement as Pearl's victorious reply arrived, "I JUST DID HIM!"

Over the next 3 days, I received similar texts from Pearl informing me to peer through my peep hole and give her feed back on the men that she was romping with. An Asian disk jockey, two blond lumber jack types, a bearded man who wore Teevas, a elfish looking critter with chicken legs, a middle school History teacher, a mechanic named Rusty, a mid 50's gentleman who drove a silver Buick Park Avenue and a very large ginger all tumbled back into society after experiencing Pearl. 

Diagraming the battlefield's pros and cons of each encounter has become my latest hobby, and like most addictions, my heart begins to race when I hear the excited tone of a text message from Pearl. Thank you, Pearl, for reminding me that it doesn't pay to be a whore.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

The Extra Inch

An inch is 2.54 centimeters, one thirty-sixth of a yard, half the length of an average french fry.

I entered the aircraft with all the fan fare of a coach seat ticket holder. The flight attendant greased a grin across her faded face as I passed into the rear of the plane. My seat was located on the very last row, tucked in the corner next to the soon to be rocketing restroom. As I wedged all six feet and 2 inches of my body into that cramped cranny, I caught sight of my row mate's dark eyes gazing at me.

His brown eyes verged on the spectrum of black, his skin was far more bronze than any tanning bed had hopes of making my own, and his turban was tied tight: my neighbor was an inch by inch specimen of a Middle Eastern man. Every piece of post 9/11 propaganda flooded my mind as I ignored my open minded and accepting upbringing. In conditioned ignorance, I began plotting the epic film script that would depict my lion-hearted rescue of the hijacked airplane. My heroic thoughts turned into dazed dreams as I laid my head on my lap, slipping away into slumber.

I woke suddenly, quite unaware of where I was. My legs were bound in place, my head was held captive against my knee and everything around me was dark. Memory raced back to my last conscious thought and my heart began to panic. Without a moment's more hesitation, I began screaming, "Help!" and a few far more colorful explicitives. But the man who had reclined his chair directly infront of me, pinning me in place, was in his own dreamland. All I needed was a little wiggle room, but this snoring giant would not spare me an inch.

As I lay, squished between my own fleshy thighs and the padded backside of the lowered chair, I was reminded of a meeting I had been in some months prior. As the executive leadership of Utah was gathered around a conference table discussing the needs of our diverse company, an argument was raised about the cost of a smaller product versus a larger product. I calmly stated, "I don't care who you are, it's always worth an extra hundred bucks for that extra inch." My response may have been inappropriate at the time and whorrish, but the message rang true as I was jammed in that jet next to a harmless new friend.

An inch is 2.54 centimeters, one thirty-sixth of a yard, half the length of an average french fry.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

By Invitation Only

In a letter written from the Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King Jr. scribed, "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." Today, I experienced the stinging blow of segregation. The justice that I once lived for, fought for, slept with; was stripped away from me like Anthony Weiner's dignity.  Perhaps it was the hue of my skin, the girth of my thighs or the Buick that I drove that erected an invisible barricade between me and the rest of the population.  I will never know why I was blocked out, but in a flash of spandex I was pushed aside by a film crew recording an exercise video at my gym.

Apparently this workout video was a "by invitation only" segment featuring awesome people having an awesome time drinking awesome shooters and then sitting around and soaking up each other's awesomeness. I was not up to their awesome-esque standard obviously and did not receive an invitation to participate in the sweaty soiree. Poor choice.

I proceeded to place myself in the background of every shot of said movie. Whether it was a graceless pair of cartwheels or the walk-by-body-scratch, I found every opportunity to make my mark on the silver screen. A floundering foot found its way into the ranks of the steamy society, accidentally tripping into an outlying female. Grunting became the name of the game as I clamoured on top of a near by treadmill to adjust the overhead fan. Next, the sultry songs of Neil Diamond began pouring from my pouted lips. When they motioned for me to be quiet, I held my hand up to my ear and mouthed the words, "I can't hear you, sorry buddy." The most glorious part of this engagement was that I did not have earphones in. Oh the price one pays when Lee Cannon is not invited to play.

I have a dream that one day I will be featured in the foreground of a low budget exercise video. Today, that dream was fulfilled. I took justice into my own hands and handed the crew my contact information, letting them know where they can send the invitation for our next perspiring production.