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Getting Physical


Submitted by michael on 2004-02-15 | Last Modified on 2006-12-10

Rating: 12345   Go Login to rate this article.   Votes: 2 | Comment: 1 | Views: 6468

Monica Making Us Gasp TWENTY-TWO MEN collide in blood-soaked violence over the dead carcass of a pig and the FCC wants to censor Ms. Jacksonís metal encased breast. Iím at the crux, a first ascent with softballs popping off around me, and my partner has twenty feet of slack out thanks to a busty gym rat who decided to bend over and tie her shoes. Now, Iím no prude and have been known to cannonball naked in the hot springs all in the name of impressing a girl, but what is it about two mounds of fat with nipples on them that makes boys feel the need to perform? Or a stack of abs that make the girls giggle?

As a rabbit-horny bunch living in a pheromone swill mixed with adrenaline and cheap wine, weíve reverted to the primal scream. Forget Viagra, a woman slamming gear on a trad lead cures erectile dysfunction. Have a dry spot in the panties? The boys will bare their chests while stabbing at a mono. Increase the rating, increase the dosage, and meet around the campfire later. After all, what happens in the mountains, stays in the mountains, unless you have pictures you can e-mail to your friends.

One neuron between the ears and we have a choice, make the next move or replay the audition for Hooters. If a sport climber, then replay Chippendales. Everyoneís taking a whipper these days, and itís time to knock it off. Weíre addicted kids. But to what, climbing or sex?

The first step to recovery is admitting a problem. Admission here is granted upon checking the mirror and seeing whether the person staring back is a Yabo, or a Tad.

Like the man of legend who once soloed 5.12 to the brink of extinction in order to please a woman, the Yabos dance to the organ grinderís tunes to land a new monkey. One and all weíve seen them at the crags: men screaming their banshee wails while aiming for a set of jugs; women made-up in the latest PrAna, delicately wrapping their manicured nails on phallic knobs. All of them seeking a vertical rhythm.

My first sighting of a Yabo was among the sandstone cliffs of Red Rocks. There we were, lounging after a day of extended horror-shows in the canyons, clipping bolts and soaking rays, when Bubba showed up with his entourage. These fine southern specimens shoved us into the bleacher seats as Bubba tied in, while Billy Bob the Bearded Belayer and Vincent the Video man set up their gear accordingly. No entourage is complete without a campfire groupie pushing up her melons, and Cissy was a D-cup rhinestone cowgirl with matching saddle and perfect nails.

Locked and loaded, Bubba took off, and in no time managed to scream, curse, and fight his way up to the fourth bolt twenty feet off the ground. Prepping for his next amazing move, Video Vic proclaimed that another take was needed to properly capture the moment. Bubba was a Lycra god, and had no problem unclipping to do the move one more time. Billy Bob however, missed the meeting and left the excess slack on the ground, stepping squarely into the viperís pit to help Cissy wipe an errant grain of sand from her ample bosom.

Bubba scowled at the crowd, winked at his girl, then screamed his Tarzan best and dynoíd the three inches to his hold. And missed.

Billy Bob found his eyes yanked skyward as his rope-wrapped foot flipped him squarely on his back. Video Vic was knocked unconscious as Bubba gave himself a lensrectomy, then landed flat-footed on the ground, sending a shock to his nervous system that had him twitching towards the exit ramp. The camera of course landed perfectly and recorded the entire event, including the laugh track from the peanut gallery.

At the other end of the spectrum lay the Tads. Named in honor of a curry-cooking genius who always had a new leggy vixen in his van, the Tads have retrained their instincts to mount Mother Nature first, Motherís Milk second.

I can remember one morning barely waking up, having been the prior nightís designated drinker. Unfortunately the Irish genetics failed, and a variety of color-coordinated yawns filled the yuccas near my landing zone. Partners being what they are, a gallon of water over the head replaced the alarm clock. A photo session was on, and this one was special.

Three pints of coffee sloshed my gullet as I stumbled my way to a remote area of Joshua Tree, where there before me stood a tall sip of Texas wearing a cowboy hat, climbing shoes, and nothing else. I looked for Alan Funt, and then realized dreams do come true. You only live once, so off with those pants. Standing in my Uggs and nothing else, I was less than impressed when the rest of the photo crew showed up.

It was somewhere between watching another woman spray Texas with rubbing oil and our gripping her in our mitts, lifting this naked beauty up to higher holds that a sudden warmth from within arose. Here we were, in the middle of the desert performing a photo shoot that would make Playboy blush, with a naked woman flush from the sun and exertion of performing for the camera. Only one thing remained.

Tad and I moved her out of the way to scope the moves of an unsent boulder problem.

I can distinctly remember the moves we attempted on a body-tightening sloper, only to be thwarted when a splash of oil, flirtingly tossed, ruined the key mantel hold. We all laughed, then moved that naked lass further to the left, where we could see a perfect incut edge that allowed us to finish the problem.

Now Iím on the edge of another problem, watching the touches between a young couple in the middle of a road show of their own and I canít help but chuckle. Iíll always be a Tad. Who are you?

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 jrox
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 2006-11-25
3 out of 5 stars I'd have to say I'm a Tad all the way. The rock is the addiction, you can find sex anywhere. I always avoid the "cool" climbers with all their North Face gear that they're unfamiliar with.

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