The Virgin is ridin' dirty

#13 Never Have I Ever: Ridden a mechanical bull

Foreplay: I don't think anything sticks out like a sore cowboy thumb in fabulously flamboyant West Hollywood more than Saddle Ranch Chop House. If Hell has an afterlife tailored to me, this is probably it.

It's a gimmicky magnet for every goateed tourist wearing Ed Hardy and local parties of women either christening a newly 21 year old or mourning for a future bride. They present Adios Motherfuckers in milk jugs, serve beach ball sized helpings of cotton candy, and have a resident mechanical bull to flaunt machismo and/or mammaries. Need I paint a more detailed picture?

The Down and Dirty: Watching tables of bros demolishing beer towers and listening to late 90s alt rock wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Monday night but here I was, parked on a wooden bench and munching on corn bread. I had a mission: To mount that mechanical bull and ride it for all it's worth (its worth turned out to be $4 per ride).

All was quiet on the Western front until 10pm and then it turned into National Lampoon. Busty boozer after busty boozer mounted the machine only to grind with the motions for a few seconds before the operator compelled the bull to vibrate wildly. The rider would squawk as her bosom shook like seismisms and futilely place a hand over in false modesty. The operator would take this opportunity to toss her lumbering form onto the mats below.

I quickly noticed that women who lacked disclosed cleavage would be spared from the humiliating vibrations but were bucked off quicker than their exposed companions. I looked down at my own outfit: gray jeans, black tank top, slim-fit tuxedo jacket. Aw hell. There's nothing that screams I have A-cups! more than men's wear for women.

I nursed a couple of Blue Moons to treat my performance anxiety before finally stepping up to the gate. I kicked off my shoes and mounted the machine. The operator wasn't as skeezy as I thought and advised me to grip with my thighs before letting 'er go.

Clutching with my left hand and balancing with my right, I rode that sucker like Annie freakin' Oakley. At that point I was thankful for the miracle pelvis-relaxer that is alcohol. The operator refrained from any unnecessary vibrations but cranked up the level once I managed to stay put for more than 10 seconds. An iPhone video of my spin documented that I lasted 32 seconds before finally sliding off.

The Afterglow: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!! Yes, my thighs were sore and I ended up with my legs in the air, but MAN that was the most fun I could have with my pants on in that sort of situation.

My next mission: To stay on the bull for the entire ride. I guess Hell isn't so bad after all -- at least they serve beer.

Giddy up, cowboy!