Dear Mandiary,

I hope that the creative community of the world wide web will consider my profound personal experience documented below and theorize what it all means in the grand scheme of my brand identity for my life.

Hula Hoop Sex Therapy:

There was a phase when I was so out of practice I feared I had forgotten how to move during sex.  The hip pelvis motion was always a little awkward for me.  I was air humping one day in front of the bathroom mirror to see if I could detect some rhythm. I could see I desperately needed some practice getting my hips back into the groove when the idea of purchasing a hula hoop popped into my head.  It seemed like a cost-effective solution.  Finding a store to purchase a hula hoop turned out more difficult than expected and took several stores, phone calls, and bathroom breaks. Once home with my purchase, I was concerned what my neighbors would think about seeing a grown man playing alone in the yard with a hula hoop. I had recently purchased a new home and was skeptical of my neighbor. I noticed the old man there was always studying my activity from his kitchen sink window. I decided I should practice my hoop indoors.  I was somewhat torn over the purchase of my new home feeling that as a single man the two story home seemed somewhat excessive.  Now with my hula hoop, the purchase seemed more justified as I now had a private place to practice in the unfurnished bonus room.  With the mini blinds down and music loud, I began to practice my moves.  I was thrilled that the width of this great bonus room freed me to take a few steps in either direction and still avoid hula crash with the slanted walls that always felt as though they were caving in on me.  I will admit the slanted walls did create a certain weight about the room that added to the sexual tension of the situation.  I had made note on the sexual nature of the hula hoop while observing practitioners at a music festival during college.  Years ago at that festival, I recognized a hula hooping girl I had recently made out with at a keg party.   I was happy that she recognized me and that she was excited to see me.  She even momentarily speed her hula thrust and then smoothly flung her hoop back and temporarily give me access into her spin zone for a quick hug.  Without missing a beat, suddenly her hula went down between us and she begin to spin and its radius pushed me back.  I found that trying to talk with this ring of a barrier was a real nuisance. I was able to yell above the live music for a while and maintain her eye contact and attention. Then she seemed to no longer really respond to my presence and instead she just bobbed her head and pulsated her pelvis. She was so into her hula that I might as well not have been there.  I began to get very jealous of the hoop between us.  It was like a gate that divided her into her own little world complete with tiny planets rotating around her radiating body.  She seemed orgasmic within her hoop.  I Iooked out across the field at the patchwork of hippies and their twirling hoops and orgasmic expressions; each of them in their own little worlds, constellations flinging about them in a perfect circle.  The girls ignoring all the guys who noodle danced right outside their circumference, the girls basking in the spectacle of desire they were creating.  The voice in my head screamed, “I thought this concert was supposed to be about unity!  These damned hula hoops are doing nothing but creating division!”  I began to despise all those I saw with hula hoops. There were even a few pathetic men doing the hula.  Brainwashed men in their terrible patchwork pants.  I wanted to kill them.  I thought of starting my own music festival.  The posters would read:  No Dogs/No Kids/No Hula Hoops/No Patchwork Pants you Fucking Idiot.

This experience had a lasting impact on me and it was years before the site of a hula hoop ceased to send me boiling.  It wasn’t until now in desperation 12 years later, I, sexually despondent and disheartened, had hula-therapy come to mind.  In fact, when spending the better part of a Saturday shopping for a hula I remembered nothing of my past judgment of the plastic circle.  It wasn’t until there in the bonus room that I actually flashed back to my last memory of hula exposure. I had suppressed my remembrance for so many years.  Now here in the bonus room I was open minded to facing my past. To embracing change.  To conquering my fears.  To forgiving my judgement.  I began with the hula simply: on my arm and in slow circles.  Once I built up some confidence I switched to my waist. For the first 5 or so minutes I bobbled and it clumsily swirled like a flushing toilet until it hit the ground. And then it happened.  It was almost spiritual.  I realized the power of the hula.  I realized all my judgments against the dirty hippies and how their hula was dividing the music festival that was coined as a weekend of unity was judgment in vain.   I understood that the dirty hippies were actually experiencing unity within themselves and the planet-thus connecting with each other inner-dimensionally.  It was a euphoric sensibility; at one with the air and the sound and everything within and without me, simultaneously. Through this sacred rite I was essentially fucking the air that I breathed.  What could be more harmonious?  I now empathized with the girl who ignored me in favor of the hula.  I understood how it indeed could be more fulfilling than even me.  I felt a sense of relief with my newfound waist companion.  I may not need to get a girlfriend after all.  I twirled harder still.  I felt the sweat beads launch of my nose.  The plush carpet against my bare feet felt like a fluffy cumulus cloud and the slanted walls seemed to open up to the heavens.  Everything was white and the bonus room went on forever.  I looked to the sky light window and felt a warm ray of Sun beaming down into my Soul!  I thrust harder and harder!  I raised my hands to the heavens and shouted with joy!

What could be more harmonious?

-Phil Manilow