Dating a service writer comes with a lot of perks. For instance, you might get to sleep in a $60,000 bed someday, which will then spoil you for all other beds for all of time. But Justin Rocket Silverman’s girlfriend got kind of the short end of the stick, we think. The Post writer convinced his girlfriend, who is anonymous here but probably recognizable to Silverman’s many hundred Facebook friends, to come to the Orgasmic Meditation Center the Times wrote about a couple of weeks ago so that he could finger her while a bunch of culty hippies looked on. She acquiesced, because, he says, she’s “a stunningly good sport.”
Dude: No. Do not call your girlfriend a sport. Also, while we’re at it, there are some euphemisms for vagina that you should never, ever use. Such as this one:
I’m supposed to tell Layla exactly what her honey pot looks like.
And then! After all is said and done, Silverman candidly admits he’d rather be elsewhere.
“Indeed, after just a few minutes of OMing, I feel a most unusual sensation. Not the kind of excitement you’d feel if Adriana Lima and Bar Refaeli invited you to share a hot tub, but more like throwing back five shots of bourbon and then going for a fast run around the block.
Ouch. We imagine “Layla” closed her eyes and thought of Robert Pattinson’s smooth, hairless chest, but at least she had the good grace to not tell hundreds of thousands of readers about it.
TOUCH-AND-GO SITUATION [NYP]