Jerk Off Into the Sun

 "Go jerk off into the sun."

My face involuntarily turned into the furrowed-brow, cross-eyed, slack jawed expression of incomprehension so characteristic of Tucker Carlson as a dull "wut?" escaped from my lips and nearly splat upon the floor.

"You heard me," Jane, the line to my squiggle, spat.

"Jerk off into the sun?" I managed.

"Jerk off into the sun," she confirmed.

I stood perplexed as she spun on her heel and left the bar.

"Jerk off into the sun," I repeated, no closer to enlightenment. I looked to the bartender. She raised an eyebrow and rubbed her fingers together - a reminder that I owed money for the beer in my hand and the beer on my sweater. I took a sip of the former.

I whispered the command to myself a few more times as I fished in my pockets for my wallet and extracted a credit card. I extended the card toward the bartender. She extended her arm to point at the large "cash only" sign to her left. That, at least, made sense.

The acquisition of cash was a process to be sure - finding an ATM, remembering my PIN, not getting mugged in a less-than-stellar neighborhood - but it was something I could handle. Still soaked, I handed a reasonable amount of money to the bartender, who in turn didn't even offer me change. I'll grant I fucked something up.

"Go jerk off into the sun." It was my mysterious mantra as I made my way home. Sure, I'd been rejected badly - I got that. Sure I'd been humiliated. But something about the phrase stuck in my mind. It rolled around in my brain like a coin in one of those charity funnels one might find in a mall as I cleaned myself and my clothes, went through my usual routine, and lay in bed. I fell asleep no closer to an answer.

The next morning I awoke before dawn.

I faced the east.

I jerked it.

No closer to an answer, I cleaned my window.