COCKTALES III

I saw Tasha for the first time since I graduated high school. She was working at the Hooters downtown. She was my girlfriend of three miserable, but experimentally developing years. Lance and I went to get some wings and shoot the shit before the show that Thursday. Dexter met us up there because he had nothing else to do ever since he quit dancing. Plus, since his car was still having problems and was in his parents yard decorating the weeds that grew around it, he had to wait for some girl he was fucking to get off work and give him a ride.

Lance’s wanted to come here to catch the beginning of the NBA Semi-finals. They had some pretty good wings, too… and some cute girls to look at. Before becoming a dancer, I felt guilty for staring at the waitresses whenever they walked passed. I remember checking out their assess and if I got caught, I’d blush because I was ashamed for staring. But now I realize that it’s their job to wear tight and revealing clothes and flirt with every guy in the joint. Even the fat fuck rednecks that know they have nothing to lose and would say some incoherent shit they deemed clever; “Hey hotness, wanna take a bite of my celery stick? HeeHaw, HeeHaw!”

What I still don’t get is why they call it Hooters when half these chicks don’t have boobs. I know from experience. Three of the Hooter girls I had been with wore extra padded, double bras, filled with gel thingys. So, when we’d get down to business, they’d go from hooters to straight up, bird-chested sparrows. But oh course; I still smashed their guts. What kinda hornball do you take me for?

Anyways, being as good looking as I now know I am, I figured I had more to gain than Billy Bob and cousin-wife-brother Frank and took every opportunity to be as crass and low-life as possible. Plus, again, from experience, I knew these tricks had low self-esteem and had a high tolerance for self-deprivation. That, or they just didn’t get it. Sometimes a waitress either wouldn’t catch-on to my sarcasm or would simply blow me off and just have to deal with it to get a good tip. Or so she’d think.

I had never been to this Hooters before, though. Yet, I knew Tasha worked here through a mutual friend. I told Lance our history of how I did her wrong and cheated on her with her own friends.

Our last argument, she was accusing me of fucking the new girl who had just transferred to our school because she caught wind that I had gotten this girl’s number in health class. I did get her number, but I hadn’t gotten the chance to bang her at that point. I never did actually. Damn it! She had a nice ass, too.

The scene she caused was more of a headache than weaseling my way out of a rumor that wasn’t entirely/completely a lie. We had just left the movies when the girl had walked by and smiled at me. Tasha stopped and had a field day with me in front of all our friends. During her rant, I could only sputter, “C’mon”, “Baby stop”, “You’re exaggerating”, the whole time trying to control my temper. As she drew more attention, I looked around at all the couples and families in the area now looking at us. The other two couples we were with shied away and headed home. Realizing how much of a bitch I now looked like, I took her by the arm (gently) and started speed walking to the car.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she cried.

My eyes felt strained and my brow was burying into the bridge of my nose. All I could think about were the countless times she’d done this before and the countless times Javi offered to negotiate with her to retrieve my testicles back.

I stopped in the middle of the parking lot and got nose-to-nose with her, “Look you stupid fucking bitch, I haven’t fucked that girl but, YES, I plan on it.” I continued on by telling her how fucking ignorant and blind she was not to notice that I had been fucking all her friends behind her back every other night after I left her house. And how she was too fucking worried about me fucking random bitches that she didn’t think about every time she told her friends how good of a fuck I am, in detail, that what she was really doing was advertising me. It felt good to say all that and clear my conscious. You might have thought the cops would have came and tried to get me for some kind of harassment, threatening, whatever bullshit law there was for kids involved in public disputes, except for the fact that I was half-crying through this rant like some punk-ass bitch.

Tasha’s tone changed, “You didn’t fuck my friends. They’re not like that.” She was convinced I was lying since two of the friends I was referring to had just left with their boyfriends.

“Then why don’t you call them to come pick your dumb ass up?” As I marched to my car, she remained standing there, yelling after me, questioning me to prove I had indeed slept with most of her friends and whether I really was going to leave her. I drove off and hadn’t talk to her since. It made it awkward when I passed her in the hallway for the last three months of high school.

Seeing me in a new light, Lance called me a prick and laughed, exposing that bear trap of a mouth. There you are, Sharky. When we entered, I immediately spotted Tasha leaving a table. The hostess asked us how many. I said two as I kept my eyes on Tasha heading to the bar. Lance corrected me; we would be a party of three. I forgot about Dex. Whatever. I was ass-focused. Her ass had gotten really thick. Wow! Like, Coco meets Kardashian thick. I wish I could fuck her, again.

“Can we have a table in that waitress’ section?” I pointed Tasha out to the Hostess.

“Candy? Sure.” The hostess grabbed us some menus. Candy? I guess everyone has a stage name these days. We sat down and Tasha… I mean Candy asked us what we wanted to drink. And then she realized who I was.

“Oh... Hey,” she said mundanely, but kept her phony Hooter smile.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. So you still fucking your girlfriend’s friends?”

Bless her scorned heart. She still hasn’t forgiven me, which only means she still cares. Lance grimaced when she validated my story.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I informed her.

“I’m shocked,” she stated unconvincingly. “You have a hard time being alone. You know, with the fact that you seem to be in love with being in love.”

Ouch. Burn. Okay, I see how this is going to be. Lance giggled his annoying giggle. He has a soft spot for scorned women. That soft spot is in the middle of his bed, where the mattress sinks in, according to him.

“Water is fine. Actually, do you have bottle water? I don’t want you spitting in my drink.”

“No, but I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. I’d rather piss in your beer.”

“I’ll have water too. And is it possible to change that TV to the Semi-finals,” Lance interrupted.

“What Semi-finals?”

“NBA. It’s on TNT. You work in a sports bar and don’t know about sports?” Yes! Lance also had a soft spot for ignorant women, too. He loved any opening to degrade them.

“I don’t pay attention to that shit.”

I was glad that she was outnumbered two to one with assholes like me. Dexter walked up as we were finishing up our drink order. Make that three to one.

“Hey girl, can you bring me a Bud Light?” Dexter asked.

“Is your mama named girl?” She walked away with a fake smile pretending to be unperturbed. At least she stopped at the TV and changed the channel to TNT.

“The fuck is wrong with that bitch?” Dexter asked.

“That’s Alex’s ex,” Lance caught him up to speed. Since I knew she wasn’t going to flirt back due to certain circumstances, I planned to be as sarcastic and rude and offensive as possible. What did I have to lose? Even if she did spit in my food it wasn’t as if I hadn’t had her bodily fluids in my mouth before. More on that later… what? Did you think this story was all cock and no tail?

As Dexter and Lance started talking about the pussy they had conquered in the previous days, I began to think of the first time Tasha and I had sex. She was only my second. Actually, it was the second time I had sex, too. Since my first time was lousy and a fell asleep, I wanted this time to be a little more memorable. I had considered myself a born again virgin. I annulled the first experience.

Tasha and I had met through a friend of mine who was dating one of her friends. Unfortunately, she wasn’t one of the friends I got to fuck. This friend moved before I got a chance to fuck her. Anyways, I told my friend that I thought his girl’s friend was cute and to check if she was single. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and thought I was cute, too. See how easy it was for me not to have to have game?

We all met up one night at my house to watch some movies. My friend and her friend started making out. So I took my queue and told her to come upstairs because I wanted to “show” her something. I hadn’t planned on pulling the brakes on her in particular, just the next girl I’d end up “making love to.” I had replaced the 75-watt light bulb in my ceiling fan with a blacklight, in the weeks past, I had made a mixtape of the sexiest R&B songs. This was back in the mid-90s. So think Color Me Bad and early Blackstreet. I had it ready to play in my tape deck strategically placed on the stand next to my bed. I also had baby oil next to my bed on the floor for said occasion. I occasionally used it to jerk off, but I usually preferred going raw hide. I have soft hands.

When we got to my room I flipped on the switch and we started to kiss. Her white shirt glowed under the black light. She had full, soft lips and I was focusing on kissing her for a long time. I was nervous and still fresh to this sex with someone-other-than-myself game, so I didn’t know exactly when to make sub-sequential moves. I eventually got her to the bed and began to undress her.

I let her take my shirt off and I helped her with my jeans after she had unbuttoned and unzipped them. I hit the play button. “Knockin’ Boots” was the first song on the tape. I started to kiss every corner of her body, massaging her breast and licking her nipples. I was a novice so it was more like slobbering. As I worked my way to go down on her, I thought to myself, I had never eaten pussy before. However, I had watched enough porn to get the gist of it. Except I thought I could add more class and sensuality to it rather than the dagger tongues from “Hardcore Mother Fucker 7.” I don’t blame them; I wouldn’t want to eat porno pussy, either… though, I’ve seen some puckered starfish assholes I wouldn’t mind tongue drilling.

I remembered a trick I had read about in one of my dad’s Playboy when I was like 9. I snuck two fingers in and slid them in and out as I twirled her clit in a counter clockwise motion, and then clockwise, and then the alphabet, and then numbers. I started spelling my whole birth name, and then hers. I only knew her first name at the time, so I went back to the circles.

My first impression of having some snatch sandwich was that pussy tastes kind of metallic. It was interesting. I was expecting it to be a little salty, bitter even. Kinda like sucking on a thumb… that had a slit on it… that secreted thick liquid stuff… and was eerily close to an anus. I knew I impressed her because her back arched, pushing her vag further into my mouth.

I spread her roast-beef lips and continued sliding my fingers deeper inside. I thought I had reached the back of her uterus when my fingers bumped into a blockage. I pushed harder to get a reaction out of her and when my fingers slid in, up, and deeper, she gave a loud moan. Aha! The G spot. I found it on my first try!

Her pussy gushed and I felt her wetness splash around my mouth. God it was so disgustingly wet. I heard in too many movies and songs that women aren’t always being pleasured enough in bed. I ate her out for 30 minutes. And I didn’t spit out the juice. I didn’t know the cunnilingus etiquette and back then, I cared about a girl’s self-esteem.

“Let’s Get It On” was now playing when my jaw locked. I moved my way back up her body. She grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me towards her. She started kissing my neck and I reached for the drawer of the night stand and pulled out a condom, that I had already torn the corner off of in advance to eliminate any awkward pause, to fight opening the wrapper right before sex. I felt the wetness around my lips drying up now. It felt sticky. So, while I slipped the rubber on, I found her thongs next to the pillow and wiped my mouth. I didn’t think it’d be too polite to make her kiss her own vagina smoothie.

After the condom was securely fastened, I entered her slowly. She moaned again. She was tight. Her last boyfriend probably had a small dick. You ever stuff a hotdog down a straw? I felt that good. She felt good. I felt good. I started to think about the ugliest football players I’d ever seen to avoid cumming too early. Mean Joe Green, Dick Butkus, Decan jones, a lot of the older players from the 70s. I thought it was strange to think of grown men during sex, so I tried multi-tasking. I fondled her titty and tugged at her hair. I nibbled on her lips and sucked on her neck.

The whole time I pumped away, feeling her moistness all over my sack. It felt better than that time I had smeared half a tub of Vaseline in between my mattress and boxsprings to see how it would be to fuck a virgin. Hey, I used a plastic bag for a condom; I practiced safe sex.

We went at it for the whole length of the A-side of the tape. I stopped for a second just to flip the tape while I was balls-deep inside her. We resumed. Marvin resumed; “Sexual Healing” was now sailing through the room. Classic. I bet she was thinking I was a natural Don Juan. Either that or she thought I had done this many times before.

I came during “Twisted” by Keith Sweat. His nasally wine interrupted my concentration and I focused on how wet Tasha continued to be. I thought she must have came three or four times, easily. She sure arched her back a lot and I felt her constantly squeezing my waist with her legs.

We kissed for a few more minutes before I rolled off of her. She noted that she felt dirty since this was the first time we hung out. I said the only consoling thing I could think of, “It was meant to be.”

She asked me to hand her her thongs, which were somewhere strewn on the floor, smeared with snot and panty gravy. I reached for the lamp on the nightstand next to the small Casio. I found her thongs peeking from under the bed. I handed her her bra that I fished from the foot of the bed, as I walked around my bed to my dresser to get some shorts.

I looked at her through the mirror with her back towards me as she pulled up her pants. I looked at myself again to study my after-sex glow. This was a moment I wanted to remember forever. I felt great; I had stayed awake, pleasured her well… many times, and I found the G spot, which caused her to flow more than Niagara.

I looked at my hair first. I needed to wet it and comb it. After pulling on it so hard, she had it standing up to the point I looked like Kramer. And then, something on the bed caught my eye.

“What…the fuck?” I muttered.

I turned around and saw the sheets had reddish-brownish stains on them. It was blood and it was all over the bed. It was concentrated in the center where we had just laid. My bedroom went from a capsule of sensual loving to looking like a crime scene. How was I going to wash that shit out?

I looked at Tasha, who was curled up on my black, leather beanbag in the corner of the room. She was holding her stomach. Even then, I still thought I had banged her guts out nicely.

I didn’t know exactly how, but I asked, “Are you.. on your… period?”

She turned away towards the wall. “No.”

I sensed I had offended her, but I didn’t give a fuck. It looked like something from Interview With a Vampire up in this motherfucker.

“Where did all this blood come from?” I asked as if I was expecting her to say her hangnail had ripped off in the heat of passion. I was also expecting to hear that I was so big that I scarred a few uterus tissues.

“I never did it before.”

The fuck is she talking about, I thought to myself. I turned and examined myself again. I didn’t really know what “it” meant, although we all knew what “it” referred to when we were pre-pubescent hornballs.

“I was a virgin,” she confirmed.

This brought a slight smirk to my face. It would have been a full-blown smile, except that as my eyes adjusted to the light, I could now clearly see that around my mouth there was dark reddish staining. Blood red.

Banana Hammocks - Chapter 3

"On the Prowl"

For some reason, I thought it was sexy to crawl onto the stage like some sort of sex-crazed panther. Hidden behind the speaker, none of the ladies saw me until I stood up. After an awkward pause, I smiled. They cheered. I didn’t think it would be sexy to prowl down the three steps that led to the dance floor so I just shimmed my hips and made my dong jiggle a bit.

The second tip set of the night was already a song in and other guys had already been out for a few minutes by the time I made my debut that Saturday night at Center Lights. One by one, the girls noticed that the new guy, Rico, was now stripped down to a sky blue banana hammock and black construction boots. I felt rather naked (figuratively); I hadn’t bothered working on my tan and felt extra pale under the lights. I hadn’t shaved my chest in two weeks and had unsightly stubbles. To top it off, my razor burn had just started going away. I felt cold as the air blasting from the vents up above gave me goose bumps and caused more stubble to painfully push through my pores.

The music was blaring, the guys were making their rounds about the roped of dance floor, collecting dollars. The women were hollering, and the DJ was fumbling through his CD book looking for the next guys act CD. The DJ, Tommy Ray, was an aging alcoholic. He looked like the love child of Wolfman Jack and Rosie O’ Donnell. His voice was made of gold, if gold rusted under whiskey and cigars. He had the sharpest tongue on the club circuit, and despite his looks, the women loved him.

My awkward feelings wore off when I made eye contact with a girl shaking a five in her hand, waving me over. I walked with a stride over to her, bobbing my head to the rhythm, trying to hide my discomfort of not only feeling nervous but the cramping in my foot from wearing boots three sizes too small.

An hour earlier I had helped set up the props readily available beside the DJ booth, which was a giant jukebox on the stage, standing tall above the black and white checkered dance floor. I made sure to grab the waters and ice from the kitchen, made sure we had bar towels for when Lance would spray whipped cream all over himself… and the dance floor at the end of his act, and I checked with Leon if there was anything else I could help with before the show started.

“So you ready, Rookie?” He asked.

“For what?” I acted confused. I was still reluctant to shake what my daddy gave me.

“To get out there and dance. You can dance right?” He continued.

I had only been to four shows at this point and hadn’t purchased my bottoms yet—I was able to get away with mankinis at The HotBox. I didn’t even have dance boots or my knee pads like the other guys did.

“Yeah, I guess. But do I just go out there with my shirt off? I didn’t order my bottoms yet. I figured I’d be ready in like two or three weeks.” I confessed.

“I got some clean ones you can buy off of me for 10 bucks,” Bryan chimed in.

“You sure they’re clean?” I asked.

“Trust me,” he assured me as he dug his Sicilian schnoze deep into the crumpled bottoms in his fist.

“I don’t have money on me right now.” I was avoiding going out to dance in between acts when I hadn’t planned on it. Besides, I found it rather odd for a man to offer another man a piece of cloth that he had previously drained his dick sweat in, for God knows how many times…months, maybe. And Bryan was rather sickly looking. I didn’t want to contract Hepatitis or whatever else had lurked in his crotch.

On the other side of the doors, Tommy Ray’s voice boomed over the speakers with the hot seat rules: “Ladies, what you see before you is what we call the hot seat. Throughout the night, you’ll have a chance to put yourself or one of your girlfriends right here in this seat. Who’s celebrating a birthday or bachelorette party?” I heard a few sections cheer. Tommy Ray continued on with his fast talk, “This is a perfect time to give that special girl a memory of a lifetime. We’ll start the bidding at $20 and go on until there’s one lady left standing… or sitting… or lying in my bed, whichever’s more clever for you, darling. But there are some rules. First rule, ladies, there is no touching of the dancers. Somebody say ‘Boo.’”

The women obeyed his command. “When you’re in this seat you have to keep your hands and feet inside the ride.” The ladies giggled, some cheered. “Throughout the night, the guys will be dancing up to you on these ropes you see here along the dance floor. This is for tipping. If you are not tipping, we ask you stand back so the lady behind you can have a chance to enjoy some dick swinging, too. But tips must go from your hand to the dancer’s hand. Don’t try to stuff it down their pants or make them fish it out your bra. ‘Cause they won’t go get it… I will, but they won’t. Also, ladies, there is no flash or video photography allowed AT ALL. If we catch you, we will confiscate your camera and you’ll be escorted out.”

I don’t think the women were listening after he said, “Say ‘Boo.’” From what I learned about women, they love talking. They hate being talked to. Tommy Ray finished up his spiel, “Last and final rule, ladies; the more noise you make the more they take off. So somebody make some noise in here!”

As the walls in the bathroom rumbled, Bryan and I finished up our dick-sheath transaction. “You can pay me at the end of the night. I’m sure you’ll make a few bucks.” He tossed me the bottoms from across the bathroom that dubbed as our dressing room.

Guys that came to the club during ladies night had to come in from the side door of the club because half of the dance floor would be sectioned off with an aluminum garage door that came down from the ceiling. Often, if they hadn’t been to the club on Saturday between 7 and 10, they would open the door and usually bumped into one of the dancers with a look of shock. It’s not every day you walk into a nightclub bathroom and see about six half naked men in Speedos and wonder if you hadn’t walked into the Blue Oyster from Police Academy. They either asked if this was the staff bathroom or tip toed around all the clothes sprawled out on the floor to go about pissing uncomfortably in a urinal—that would also dub as a coat rack. I’m sure they all squeezed their ass cheeks from shear homophobia.

The bathroom was no longer than a Buick and just as wide. It was suppose to be big enough to allow seven guys to change and get ready for acts and tip sets. Five headliners and two trailers; trailers are the newer guys earning their spots for an act. Tonight it was Alvin and Angel. Alvin was Leon’s cousin, a short Hawaiian cat, who only trail danced when he was short on paying his bills. Angel had just started a few months ago and had yet to have an act idea. His hobbies were long walks on the beach, looking at himself, going to the gym, and juicing up on ‘roids. There was no room in there when the guys’ bags and suitcases full of props and costumes flooded the pissy floor. You had to be careful not to put your head in the urinal when bending down to get something out of your bag or bump your bare ass against another guy’s during costume changes.

“I don’t have boots, though.” I mentioned, still trying to find my escape route. All I had were my all white Nike Air Force Ones and calf high socks. I’d look ridiculous.

“I got an extra pair of boots,” Ricky commented. “What size are you? I’m 9 ½.” He glared down at my feet. I was a size 13. The last time I tried a pair of shoes smaller than that was an 11 ½ and my toes smashed against each other the minute I stood up. “Do you think you’ll be able to fit these?” Ricky persisted.

“I can try.” Although I was eager to show these clowns some rhythm, the idea that I would sacrifice myself to be judged by a bunch of women; short, tall, fat, skinny, sexy, trashy, classy, hard-to-look-at, flawless, toothless, you name it. I had already had enough rejection with the XX chromosome gender growing up. I was doing this to one-up the ghosts of bitches past, not to revisit them and create new ghosts. But I didn’t want to punk down from what I took as a challenge from Leon. I’d have to psych myself up real fast.

“Good. You can go out on sets whenever you feel you’re ready. But I still need you to be the runner after acts to help clean up the mess,” Leon continued. Translation: “Blah, blah, blah. I am punk bitch who dances for gorillas to earn dollar in G-string. Hear me roar, bitch boy… and I have a tiny penis.” That’s basically what I took out of conversations between Leon and me.

The guys went out for the opening act, each catching a final look before strutting towards the stage. I started to undress and focused on not focusing on being focused. I figured I’d lose the nerves after just getting up on the stage and getting it over with. Kinda like my first time doing sex. I was shaking like a leaf in a tornado while I put my condom on. Three minutes into being rode by the neighborhood slut, I fell asleep. After that, I figured sex wasn’t so scary and looked for more sluts to fuck me to sleep. I like naps.

“Did he go over the rules with you?” Brett asked.

“No. what rules?”

He smirked and shook his head. “That sorry fucker is always setting people up to fall.”

“He just asked if I was ready to go out there tonight. So just dance and collect money, right?”

“No, no. There’s more. A lot more.”

I listened attentively as the almighty Brett Lee schooled me on the stripper checks and balances, “No touching the girls. Keep an arm’s distance in case the girls get wild. No touching of your nipples or grabbing your crotch. Actually, don’t touch yourself anywhere at all. Don’t pull your bottoms down or jack ‘em up your ass; they have to cover three-quarters of your ass. Take the money and slide it in your hammock or just hold it in your hand. Don’t be pulling your waistline so that the girl can look down and see your dick. If you get down on the floor, only two humps and transition into another move. You can’t simulate sexual acts. Don’t stand too long in front of a girl. We all gotta make money; she’s not here just to see you. Move clockwise at the ropes. If a guy is taking too long when you’re ready to move on to the next girl, pass him at least two girls to his right. If you see the guys bunched up in one place, find another empty spot.”

“Damn. That’s a lot rules.”

“It’s the State’s rules and regulations. There used to be a time when we had to wear Band-aids over our nipples and before that we could only wear biker shorts and cut off T-shirts. We were only allowed to show our mid-section. So if you think you look gay now, imagine having to go out there looking like a WAM! groupie.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Too many years, kid. Since I was 16.”

Brett was taking his time getting ready for his act. He had put on his business pants, button up dress shirt, and was now working on his tie. He was up first and usually the first guy sat out on opening acts since there was no tip set in between to allow for preparation. But Brett hardly ever had to do opening acts. He was Randy’s prized dancer. Brandon had told me he had made $1,000 hot seat the Thursday before I first went into the MIH office. He had been dancing for 15 years with various groups in the area. Whenever one folded, he joined another. Like Randy, he too was a journeyman. Unlike Randy, Brett got with the times and spent more time in tanning beds, hair salons, and the gym rather than getting coked up. He had also done a few guest stints for La’Bare down in Houston and Thunder From Down Under out in Vegas. Next to Chippendales and Thunder, La’Bare was next on the stripper echelon. You had to have an incredible body and soap opera face to even be considered. Brett’s narrow physique didn’t quite match the profile and aside from his linear jaw, he had an average looking face. But with the notorious act he had, he didn’t need bronze. He had creativity.

Two acts and one set had gone by and I had only gone out to clean up customs and whip cream. Brandon was now getting ready for his act. Ricky was after him and then Bryan. Last would be Leon. Leon reasoned that since he was the manager he had to make sure the show ran smoothly throughout the night, so he had to go last. The last spot was usually the best. All the guys knew the real deal. Some complained, but Brett played it cool. He didn’t care if he “Did a show in the parking lot.” He knew he’d make a mint.

The gimmick of having the last hot seat of the night was that any girls coming to see the show for the first time would have been relaxed by then, the regulars and groupies would have been well liquored up and encouraging high bids for the hot seat, and the sugar mamas wouldn’t come in until the last hour to start the auction at $200 through silent bids via the DJ. They knew that the best dancers danced towards the end, so they had until 8:30 or so to get ready and make an entrance. Unfortunately, Leon wanted to try something new and draw names for hot seats tonight. Brett drew the first hot seat spot. Leon was exempt from the drawing.

I still wasn’t ready. “Think long, think wrong, brotha’,” Brett encouraged me as he prepared for the next set.

“I’m going. I just feel stupid next to you guys. I mean, I don’t have knee pads or chaps or a bandana like everyone else,” I confessed.

“Dude, we’re all dancing in our underwear. How much more stupid can we look?” Brett added. “Besides, I the bandana thing is kinda gay, don’t you think? I mean, are we strippers or gangsters?”

“These girls don’t give a fuck what you’re wearing, they’re just horny as hell,” Lance, AKA Sharky, butted in as he strode in late. “Hey, what’s this bullshit I hear about drawing names?” Brett just shrugged.

Lance shook his head and mumbled to himself as he rushed to get ready, sniffing each article of stripper clothing he pulled out of his dance bag. He would follow Brett in the line-up and eventually, his seat would only sell for $50. Brett went for $200. Lance felt he was one of the better dancers and should have gone next to last. Brett was a hard act to follow, so it was no wonder he made far less than the master. I decided I’d go out the next tip set. “You nervous man?” Leon questioned.

“A little. I’m just not sure I can dance the way you guys do. At least not yet,” I said. It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance. My parents use to put me in Salsa competitions when I was a kid. And growing up in an urban-suburbia, I use to go to a lot of house parties where dancing only consisted of grinding on a girl’s booty and copping a feel. I was good at that.

“Look, Rook. Half of these guys don’t have rhythm. I’m one of them. All you got to do is a little two step and you’re good,” Leon said. “Besides, all you need in this business is two or three things out of four: A good body, a pretty face, charisma, and rhythm. I already know you got half down already.” What I took from this conversation: “Blah, blah, blah. Even though I think I’m better than you, I wouldn’t mind going out back one night and comparing flesh swords. How ‘bout it, kiddo?”

I hadn’t talked to the girls in the crowd or the other guys much during the previous shows. So he wouldn’t know if I had charisma or not. I turned my gaydar on and watched myself around Leon the rest of the night. His last comment made my fear resurface. Let me make it clear right now; I’ve never been a homophobe.

I’m very liberal in my ways, but this new culture shock was too much to swallow all at once without wondering which gender was hitting on you the most.

“It’s up to you. But there’s money out there tonight,” Leon concluded. There was indeed money to be collected. After Brett’s hot seat, the girls flooded the dance floor with dollars. It was hard to figure out which dancer it was intended for, so they just grabbed what they could and selfishly stuffed it down the front of their bottoms.

Tommy Ray started the music for the next tip set. “Ladies, get those dollar bills ready because here they come again…and again, if you know what I’m sayin’!”

I just have to go out there, I realized. Just remember the rules, be cool, and make that money. I started to think about having to go back to work for the first time since I returned from the desert. I thought about the bitch who broke my heart in middle school and the slore who ripped it out of my ribcage while I dodged bullets. It was time to take back my nutsack. Fuck it, I’m going out there.

Tommy Ray saw me creeping up to the DJ booth. “Ladies, I want you to make some noise for the new meat…” He covered the microphone with his hands and asked me, “What’s your stage name, jack?”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled slowly. I opened my eyes and looked over at Leon. He watched me curiously to see what my next move would be. I think I saw him smirk. I’m sure he thought I would chicken out. From the crouching position, I looked up at Tommy Ray and said, “Rico.”

“Ooooh. Daddy likes,” Tommy Ray giggled in his gruffy voice. He removed his hand from the microphone before he bellowed, “Ladies, he’s six-foot two with a 13-inch shoe. Coming to the stage for the very first time, give it up for Rrrrrrrrrrrrrricooooooo!”

Awkward Broments - Dap Me Up, Bro!

Here is a link to a second funny skit Nick and I did last week. We shot 3 skits in 2 hours. These are a couple starters to determine what direction we want to go in. Hope you enjoy! We will be shooting both short ones like these, as well as in depth 2-5 minute skits every few weeks so subscribe and keep an eye out! They will only get better! www.youtube.com/user/Mrmondayn1ght

Awkward Broments

Along with my writing for blogs, feature film, shorts, books, and everything in between, I've also been writing comedy sketch skits. Check out our recent sketch...

The Latchkey Kid

While Dad was off at one of his three odd jobs and Mom was busy securing the family’s wealth, Carlos was at home playing with bullets. It was the summer of ’93, three summers away from puberty and discovering the pleasures of tongue kissing and fingering eager hormonal-equivalent girls. Carlos’s neighborhood cronies, Justin and Matthew, often came over to explore Carlos’s dusty garage and cobwebbed attic to find antique trinkets of his father’s forgotten past. An old rotary phone, a rusty typewriter, some smut form the 70s stained with rains of yesteryear, anything worth investigating and destroying.
It was the hottest week of that mid-summer when Carlos discovered a moldy cardboard box the size of his father’s abounding leather wallet in the attic.

“Hey, guys! Look what I found,” Carlos whinnied as he climbed down the ladder leading into the attic. When he landed his feet on the concrete garage floor, he opened the lid already falling off the box. The smell of old water and dust filled the boys’ nostrils. There in his hands were 24 shinning 9X919mm Parabellum bullets.

“Awesome,” said Justin.

“Where’s the gun?” quizzed Matthew.

“I don’t know. Go up there and see yourself. It’s too hot to go back,” Carlos complained, sweating through his Los Angeles Raiders grey t-shirt.

“You know if you hit a bullet on the head, it’ll explode?” Matthew informed.

There were only three things that caught boys’ attention back in those days: trading cards, wrestling, and explosions. The boys experimented with the latter in many ways. After watching one episode of Mr. Wizard, Matthew dared Justin to mix Alka-Seltzer in his mother’s birdbath. Justin refused, fearing his stay-at-home mom would see him through the kitchen window and ground him for a weekend.

"Cool!” chimed Matthew and Carlos.

“Too bad we don’t have the gun to shoot it with,” Matthew continued, trying to persuade Carlos to venture back into the 105-degree attic.

“My dad’s got a hammer around here somewhere,” Carlos answered, handing the box to Justin and climbing over the piles of boxes and gardening tools strewn all over the back of the garage.

Justin was a couple years older than Carlos and Matthew, but his portly figure made him an easy target for the kids his age to bully. So, he spent most of his weekends and summers hanging out with Matthew and Carlos. That is when he wasn’t on a Boy Scout camping trip. His father tried to convince Carlos’s dad to enroll him. “He’d be in good hands,” Justin’s dad assured. Justin’s dad was a bear of a man, towering 6-feet 5-inches, enjoying his recent retirement from the Army by growing a thick handlebar mustache. He’d spend mornings on waxing to look like Grover Cleveland. Carlos’s dad always appreciated the suggestion, but Carlos’s family was too broke to afford an inessential organization like Boy Scouts. Carlos’s sister had once joined Girl Scouts, but after Carlos’s parents bought their new two-story home, money was tight and Carlos’s sister lost interest anyway. She now spent her summer skipping her summer job to hang out with her dope-smoking boyfriend her father disapproved of… because he was black.

“Here’s a mallet. Will that work?” Carlos asked, coming back from the rubble.

“Let’s find out,” Matthew replied, running to the back concrete patio.

Carlos took out one of the bullets and stood it upright on the patio as he squatted. Justin and Matthew stood back a few feet back, waiting curiously. “What are you guys doing?” Carlos asked, holding the mallet above his shoulder with his fist choked beneath the mallet’s head.

“Are you a stupid shit or what?” Matthew laughed. “I said it’ll explode.”

Matthew was the slim, blonde hair blue-eyed boy-next-door that parents loved as your buddy. He always said “Please” and “Thank you,” “Ma’am” and “sir,” exhibiting his good upbringings. But when out of authoritative hearing and vision, Matthew was a cursing kid, always coaxing Carlos and Justin into daring feats.

Carlos held the mallet a few more seconds before yelling back, “Well, then you do it! It was your bright idea.” From the back patio, Matthew’s mother called him in for “supper.” In Justin’s house, they ate dinner, in Carlos’s house they also ate dinner. In Matthew’s Southern Baptist home, they ate supper.

“You coming back later?” Carlos asked.

“Fuck no. It’ll be too dark and the bugs’ll be biting by then. See ya’!” Matthew replied as he scampered through the two backyards that separated his house from Carlos’s.

“I better go home, too. I gotta help my dad roll sleeping bags tonight,” Justin complained as he walked in the opposite direction to the house next door.

A few minutes after the boys were gone, Carlos could see their dining room lights come on anf families gathering. He looked back to the windows in his house, which were still dark. His parents wouldn’t be home for another hour and dinner wasn’t usually until 8 at night. As the sky quickly grayed overhead, still squatting, Carlos could see the flashing bulbs of the lightening bugs all around. He looked back at the bullet. He lifted the mallet and gave it a smack.

“So whadya do with the bullets, Chico,” Matthew questioned the next afternoon. Matthew always called Carlos Chico because he was the only Latin kid he knew. He figured giving Carlos a stereotypical pet name was cool, and Carlos didn’t mind.

“I hid them in the hallway closet,” Carlos answered.

The boys had just finished playing kickball after three hours; one hour of actual play and two hours of arguing whose “ghostman” was safe, and whose was out. Carlos ran inside his house and came back with the same corroded box with all 24 bullets incased. “You wanna know what else I found in my dad’s closet yesterday?” Carlos asked the boys. “A shotgun! You think it’ll fire these bullets?”

“You’re a fucking moron. These bullets are for a pistol, a small gun. Why’s your dad got a shotgun anyway? Does he hunt?” Matthew inquired.

“I don’t think so. He did go kill a deer with his friend a few months ago, behind the landfill, but I never knew he had it,” Carlos said.

“My dad goes hunting and bowhunting all the time. That’s why we got all them stuffed birds and raccoons in our den, “Justin confessed.

“Birds and raccoons? That’s not hunting, that’s stupid. Is your dad some kinda faggot?” Matthew teased. Matthew’s dad was an avid hunter, taking trips into the mountains of West Virginia one week a month. He’d bring home deer and bore heads often. Once he even brought back a stuffed brown bear, strapped to the top of his jeep. Carlos thought about the reason his dad had the shotgun. He figured it was for protection considering he had grown up in the rough neighborhoods of Miami; or so he claimed. It would be three years later that Carlos would place that same shotgun’s barrel in his mouth, a few months after his dad’s death, only to find out the lock and bolt were taken out.

“Hey, I asked my dad to leave out his hammer so I can nail some wood to the holes on our doghouse,” Carlos chimed in. He ran back into the house to fetch the hammer. When he came out, Matthew had set up a row of eight bullets standing upright on the patio waiting for Carlos.
“You can try it this time, Justin,” Carlos offered.

“No way, man!” Justin stammered.

“You guys are faggots,” Matthew harassed. “If you don’t want to do it ‘cause your scared, we can always leave them sitting in the sun. I heard that’ll make the bullets explode, too.”

“Let’s put it in the street. The sun is attracted to black asphalt,” suggested Carlos.

“It’s gotta get real hot though,” replied Matthew.

“You can put them in a tin can,” Justin suggested. “That’s how we warm up our beans at camp so that we don’t have to wait for a fire when we come back from our compass exercises.”

Carlos ran back inside the house.

Matthew stared blankly at Justin. “You’re such a fag, man,” Matthew giggled, punching Justin in the stomach. Justin fell to the ground, winded.

Carlos came back with an apple juice can and slid right next to where Justin rolled around on the grass. “How about this?” Carlos asked Justin. Justin nodded, smiling now, feeling pride over his valid suggestion. Carlos ran into the garage and the boys could hear clanging as he looked for a screwdriver. He came back with holes mutilating the top of the tin can. “Oh, wait,” Carlos scurried back into the garage.

Justin stood up and raised his arms over his head, trying to catch his breath. Matthew shook his head at Justin, feeling almost ashamed to call him his friend.

“I got some black spray paint to make it hotter,” Carlos panted, running back from the rubble. After Carlos spray-painted the can, he dropped three bullets into the holes. CLANG. KLINK. CLANG. The boys took the can and ran to the street, quickly placing it in the middle of the road.
It was almost one in the afternoon and the boys figured it was the hottest point of the day.

“C’mon, let’s go play some football or something while we wait. We’ll know when they go off,” Matthew suggested.

The boys returned to the street an hour later only to see the can flattened in the street. Four houses down, the garbage truck was shaking a trash bin overhead, causing papers and other bits of debris to float aimlessly around the cab like tickertape. “Awh, fuck,” Matthew moaned.

“I’ll get the hammer,” Carlos uttered. The boys ran back to the patio where Carlos pulled out five bullets.

“You gonna bust them all?” Justin asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Carlos said matter-of-factly.

He stood one bullet up and made sure it was stable before raising the hammer high over his head, choking it right under the head and bringing it down with all his force without a second to think, without a second for Justin and Matthew to move for cover. The hammer skidded across the concrete patio, making bright yellowish-orange sparks, jolting Carlos’s arm to the elbow. Justin and Matthew dove to the ground.

No loud pop or bang like in the movies. Only a knick, thud, and clinking sound and the boys were looking around for the bullet.

“Here it is,” Justin said, picking up the shiny copper bullet from the grass between his Doc Martins. “At least you bent it. Must be old.”

“Bullets don’t get old, you idiot,” Matthew replied.

“I hit it on the head, Matt, why didn’t it work?” Carlos questioned.

“You had your eyes closed,” Matthew answered back. “Why don’t you try it again without being such a pussy? Pussy.”

“Here, you try it,” Carlos said, pushing the hammer in Matthew’s gut.

“Fuck right I am. I’m not blowing my arm off!” Matthew shot back.

“Who’s the fag now?” heckled Justin.

Matthew put Justin in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground. Justin was giggling at first, until Matthew’s face gnarled. His teeth clenched and his brow wrinkled to the center of the top of his nose. His face turned red and Justin’s giggles turned into whining, begging Matthew to stop. After rubbing Justin’s face into the grass a few seconds, Matthew let go, pushed Justin over, and stood up. Carlos ignored them and was in deep concentration, trying to figure out how to make the bullets explode.

“Guns don’t fire backwards, right? Maybe I should lay the bullets down and squeeze them out from the side like toothpaste,” he muttered under his breath.

He laid the other four bullets on their side, pointing each one in a different direction; north, east, south, and west.

Matthew dusted his shorts off and started towards Carlos, “What now, Chico?”

Justin rolled in agony for a few seconds before popping up and lunging towards Matthew. He let out a vicious growl and tackled Matthew to the ground. Pinning his shoulders, Justin threw wild open-fisted punches at Matthew’s face.

“Get the fuck off before I really break your face,” Matthew threatened, blocking every other punch.

“Shut…the…fuck…up,” Justin belted out in between sobs.

Meanwhile, Carlos hit the first bullet that pointed west, towards the house. A heavy THUD on the patio, and the same jolting ring up his arm. The bullet only dented.

“Don’t…ever…touch…me…again,” Justin cried out.

Carlos smacked the second bullet pointing south, towards himself. Another THUD, jolt, and dented bullet.

“Stop, faggot, before I really kick your ass. I’m not playing around anymore,” Matthew warned.

Carlos brought down the hammer on the third bullet pointing north, towards the house in between his and Matthew’s. THUD, jolt, dent.

By now, Justin grew weak, continuing to sob, and looking up towards Carlos. Matthew held Justin’s arms, taking advantage of his fatigue as he now stopped swinging. He also looked up towards Carlos.

“Hey, Chico!” Matthew yelled. “What are you doing, man?”

Carlos, frustrated, raised the hammer high over his head. All his thoughts of impressing his friends, his absent family (unlike Justin’s), his lack to be a leader like Matthew, his boredom filled summers and weekends, his inability to gain his parents’ pride and affection, his thrive to be a god of power… all of these thoughts ran through his cerebral cortex down to his heart and jolted energy up and through the hammer. A tear ran down the base of his nose. He held the hammer at its base, aiming for the base of the bullet, the bullet facing east. Towards Justin and Matthew.

A THUD. A jolt. A loud POP!

Missing

Hey Readers,

Sorry for not mentioning there wouldn't be a new chapter of "Banana Hammocks" this week, but there won't be a chapter of "Banana Hammocks" this week. Ergo, there won't be a new "Cocktale" either. Sometimes life happens and you can't keep up with your obligations and responsibilities. Don't worry, I'll continue Alex's journey and mishaps next week.

In the meantime, enjoy a darker commentary inspired by my youth, "The Latchkey Kid". This story was published in Full Sail University's October '10 issue of "The Aviator", the student literary journal. Enjoy...

-O.R.




P.S. - See you next Wednesday when things "heat" up with Alex, Brett Lee, and Men In Heat. And Thursday, come see what other runt of the litter Alex can find, wine, and dine.

COCKTALES II

Mandy was the new waitress at The HotBox when I caught her eye. This was perfect; after three weeks with Men In Heat, it was my first night with a hotseat. I’d be able to seduce her through fantasy. Though, with a cupid act requiring me to wear nothing but a red banana hammock in the end, I wouldn’t leave much to the imagination.

I had thrown a bunch of fantasy clichés together with a few R&B video ideas and things I’ve done in my past when I used to make love to girls. I had white silk sheets spread across an inflatable bed on stage with lotions and handcuffs hidden underneath that I would put on the girl in the hotseat chair as I shimmied around her to intoxicating bass rhythms. I would start out dressed in a white silk shirt and white linen pants. I had six lit purple candles planned to create a runway from the bed to the hotseat.

I didn’t have the best props, only because Leon told me to be ready for a hotseat at the last second. The stipulation being if Ricky had to work overtime for the AC/heating company he moonlighted with. These dudes took this dancing thing way too serious. You’d think dancing would be the moonlighting side gig. Oh, Leon also only promised a spot if enough girls showed up. So hoping for the best, I stopped at the nearest K-Mart and dollar store and collected whatever I could that looked sexy… and cheap.

I had been the bitch boy for the company since the day I signed up for the job. Good thing about it was that I observed; studying all the right moves and getting ideas for my own act. Yeah, and I was stuck picking up the dancers props and cleaning up the stage after they were done with their acts like some modern day Cinderfella. Luckily, I had been in the crowd enough to earn a few fans.

The wildest nights were Thursday nights. Those nights were strictly for the veterans. But tonight wasn’t Thursday. Tonight was Tuesday. Tuesday nights might have well been amateur night. The guys that barely showed up or were here one week and not seen again for another three months while they were on their benders would get a chance to dance… if there were enough girls. In my experience these last few Tuesdays, there was never a show. But Leon kept booking Tuesdays and the guys still showed up for nothing.

I didn’t care, though; this night was my debut as a headliner. I was sure that the stripping gods would have mercy on my schlong swinging soul to allow me to show Leon and the rest of the misfits that I belonged here. I was sure I’d outshine these chodes. It should have been the past week, but Leon had to cancel the show because only three girls showed up. “I’m telling you, Leon will cut a show in a heartbeat if it doesn’t benefit him,” Dexter warned me during our brief introduction that first day I showed up to “apply” for the position.

HotBox obviously wasn’t the cash cow of MIH, but I couldn’t care less. I wanted the world of male dancing to know I was women’s gift from God. A God named Hailey who in one night transformed me into a money hungry attention whore, eager to live out my lie… kinda. And with the advice she gave me when I inquired about her sugar daddy, I was slowly building my clientele and bank account.

“So, Alex, do we finally get to see that ass tonight or what?” One of the ten women in attendance asked between puffs of her cigarette. “Yeah, it’s my first one,” I answered eagerly. “Uh, obviously. And I hope I get it,” she spouted as she began to straighten out her money on the table.

The sight of money and the fact that I’d be up first made me nervous. But I tried to center my energy. I looked around at the other dudes who seemed far to relax to even care. They were used to coming to this dump of a bar for nothing. None of the headliners like Brett Lee ever worked The HotBox. This is where you made your bones as a male dancer. It was really a test to test your dedication. If you couldn’t deal with $10 nights and possible cancellations, than you definitely wouldn’t make it to The Ten Gallon. That was the country rock club down the street. Yet, that was too far into the near future of my success. I had to focus right now, though.

So I did what I always had done when I thought I might be a little scared; I put my confidence in a girl. What I was focused on was Mandy and getting her home tonight. She had the usual club waitress uniform on: tight black shirt and tight black pants. She was a thick girl and her pants were extra tight. She definitely had kids from the looks of her hips and she had an ass you could see from the front. Her breast; DD, 38 I think. And that might be off a cup, I wasn’t sure with the poorly lit club and all. She was mixed Puerto Rican and Dominican with dark brown hair slicked back into a high ponytail that hung to the top of her ass. Her skin was dark olive and had she a fresh set of manicured hot pink and yellow nails with tiny rhinestones glued on. She was the epitome of a Latin girl. She was from the block. And she would be my first piece of Latin ass. (No, I never got it in with Hailey. After the topic of money came up, it was all M.O.P.)

Mandy came into the kitchen, which also served as our dressing room and asked us if we wanted anything to drink. “Just some water will be fine,” Leon replied.

“I’ll have a Coors,” said Lance.

“You’re not suppose to be drinking during the shows,” Leon reminded him.

“Dude, the show hasn’t even started. Besides, this is HotBox.” Lance took any opportunity to disregard Leon’s authority. He’s been taking every shot he could ever since the situation with Dexter. Those two were inseparable. Their friendship was a little beyond bromance, but just short of homoerotic. More like left nut, right nut.

“What about you?” Mandy turned to me and asked. I took a minute to catch my breath. Not because she was that hot; she was about a 7.8. I was winded from blowing up the cumbersome bed. “Water is fine,” I told her.

As she walked away, all the guys stopped rummaging through their dance bags and silenced their side conversations to watch her leave, as she swished her hips. SHWISH, SHWISH, SHWISH, SHWISH. When she was out of sight, Lance rang out, “Bitch got a faaaaaaaaaaaat ass!” Lance gave meathead Brandon a high five as if he just told the best joke ever. This guy must have just lost his virginity when he became a dancer. That or just got released from prison… nah, Lance was to pretty to have survived ass rape. Actually, as I got to know a lot of the guys, many of them reminisced about high school and how most of them had steady girlfriends, half of which had to wait until prom to get some. It was a collection of losers turned gods, according to the way they tell it. Brandon wasn’t impressed but empathetically returned the high-five. Brandon was more laid back. He had a daughter with a stripper, who had left them both a year ago when he worked as a mechanic. He was a good guy in the wrong place… always.

“Come on, man. You telling me you wouldn’t hit that?” Lance nudged my shoulder expecting an answer. Winded again, I looked up after finally blowing up the bed and replied, “I intend to. Tonight,” I answered confidently.

“Oh, so you got game like that, dude? Okay, okay…we’re gonna see.” I didn’t know if that was a challenge, a threat, or a random thought. I was too focused on his teeth when he spoke. He had a mouth full of them…make that two mouths full of teeth. Pointy, too. A bear trap of a mouth. I think I’ll call him Sharky.

Mandy turned the corner of the stainless steal sink where the door led into the smoking session and brought us a 12 case of water for the evening. “Where’s my beer?” Lance cried.

“Leon said you couldn’t drink.”

Lance…Sharky walked up to her until he stood half a foot away, because her breasts wouldn’t let him get any closer. Yeah, DDD, now I remember. Staring down at her he spoke low, “Listen sweetheart. I’m a grown ass man. I would like to enjoy a beer before the show, amongst other things.”

He smirked a mischievous smile at her, careful not to smile too wide, as he rubbed her arm with his hand and caressed her ass with his other hand. “I am not about to get fired tonight,” she confessed.

“By who? Leon? He’s our manager, not your boss,” Sharky reasoned.

She surrendered a smile and slyly moved out of his reach, discreetly shoving his hands off. I’m convinced there was a shortage of dentists in this city because when Mandy smiled, I noticed her front right tooth was chipped at a right angle in the middle. Everyone seemed to have jacked up teeth, actually. I returned my eyes to her mounds and then to her hips. I looked up at her face again. She was smiling down at me now.

“Rookie, get ready. We’re having a show,” Leon informed me as he came rushing from the kitchen door.

As the show progressed, I constantly made eye contact with her when she came to serve tables, carefully maneuvering around them to not shake them with her 48-inch ass. Each set I scoped the room through the stage lights to keep the heat of my gaze on her. Every time she saw me looking at her, she smiled. My act came and went. It was decent. All ten of the ladies were cheering throughout my dance. It was auctioned off and sold for $5. Not bad. I had heard storied of guys performing their first acts here and the DJ having to bribe a lady into the hotseat with free shots. I earned $67 that night, $55 after tipping out the DJ and buying a Corona.

After we had finished the show and mingled with the groupies long enough, I found my way towards Mandy. “What time do you get off?” I asked.

“At 11, why?” She responded.

“Good that’s in 17 minutes. Maybe we can go get a drink,” I continued. GO get a drink? It sounded cool, but the only place I’d be able to buy her a drink would be if I bought it from her. Maybe I should have asked her out to coffee and a cosmetic dental appointment instead.

“I don’t drink.” Good, I was off the hook.

“Then we can just hang out and talk,” I persisted.

“I’d have to make sure my babies’ father can watch them the whole night.” Baby’s? Or babies’, I wondered. We talked while she finished busting tables. She told me she had two kids, as I suspected.

“Babies’ father or boyfriend?”

“No, just babies’ father.” To me that just meant that her pussy was out on loan. Oh, well. I don’t mind a loaner snatch. I told her I’d wait for her in my car and went outside.

I exited the club and instantly could smell the cigarette smoke oozing from my clothes. I was starting to hate that about working in bars. You always left smelling like an ashtray. So I reached in my pocket and pulled out my menthols. I lit my cigarette and inhaled. I felt the warm cloud filling my jowls. I sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. I looked around the gravel parking lot. I didn’t see any of the guys’ cars around. They must have left quickly, not scouting anything worth chalking up inside.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Mandy surprised me.

“I know. Just a bad habit I picked up at my last job.”

“You ready?”

“Did you already call your man…babies’ father I mean?” I joked.

“Yeah, I told you it was cool.”

“You gonna leave your car here, or we riding together?”

“He dropped me off, I don’t have a car.”

“Let’s go then.”

On the ride home, both of our clothes flooded the car with the stench of nicotine. I drove on the highway the windows cracked. It was humid for a late spring night and I didn’t want to turn off the AC. I hoped her nipples would get hard. We talked a little about where we grew up; where our parents were from, spoke in Spanglish showing off our bilingual skills, getting formalities out of the way. I really can’t remember a whole lot of what was said. The whole ride to my house, I kept thinking about a porno I’d seen that had won a Porny award for best script:

Woman: “Blah, blah, blah. You wanna fuck?”

Man: “Blah, blah, blah. Why yes I do.”

(Cue the funky 70s guitar rift and cheesy sex faces.)

When we got to my apartment I turned the TV on and handed her the remote. I wasn’t planning on watching, I just had to keep her occupied while I changed and went to the bathroom to rinse my taint. I hope she sucks balls.

I returned to the room wearing only my mesh basketball shorts. I didn’t want to make it too difficult for her. “It’s hot in here. Don’t you got AC?” She questioned.

“Yeah, but I don’t like running it when I’m not home. I’m always out and about so that’s why it’s hotter than Hades in here.” Not even 10 minutes in and she was a whiny little bitch. Why? She knew what time it was, but she kept talking about something. I can’t remember. It sounded something like:

Mandy: “Womp, Womp, Womp. Blah, blah, blah.”

Me: “Blah, blah, blah. Just take off your clothes if you’re so hot.”

Mandy: “Blah, blah, blah. *giggle, giggle.* Womp. Ok. Blah, blah.”

(Cue snaggle tooth smile and Romper Room chimes.)

It took her a while to peel her shirt over her voluptuous breasts. One covered boob popped out after another the way you’d imagine fish eggs coming out of a fish twat. I licked my lips. She was wearing two bras, a black bra underneath with lint balls on the straps and a powder blue sports bra on top. Okay, make that E or EE or F; I don’t know. She definitely had more than a mouth full. Bless her children’s hearts.

Yanking her pants off around her hips and rounded ass was even more of a task. I couldn’t wait too much longer so I started helping her. I thought about getting the PAM from the kitchen to speed up the process. She had gray boy-cut Champion underwear on. I didn’t know whether to take the remaining items off or take her jogging. I turned the lamp off because while she wrestled with her one-size-fits-most apparel, I noted she had dimples on the side and back of her thighs as if she’d been hit with a sack of nickels. She also had stretch marks webbing on the sides of her torso that made her look like Google Maps. This didn’t bother me much. I wasn’t planning on caressing her, anyways.

(Cue panty dropping here. Proceed to her taking of my basketball shorts. Lower bodies to the carpet, and… ACTION!)

She straddled me. She was a little heavy and her thighs smothered my hips. I helped her out of her bras and felt her breasts flop warmly onto my chest. I caught a glimpse of them through the moonlight that sleeked in through the venetian blinds in my living room. She had some big, dark areolas.

(Cue funky 70s guitar rift.)

Fast Forward 15 minutes later. Missionary position--

Mandy: “Blah, blah, blah. You feel so good”

Me: “I know… I know.”

I woke up early the next morning, sweating. Not because of the night of passionate sex, but because she produced a lot of body heat. We had pulled the throw blanket off of the couch and were spooning underneath. My right arm was stretch out underneath her head. My bicep was now asleep and tingling. I lifted my arm and her head plopped onto the carpet. I had drool on my forearm. Nice. Her hair still reeked of bar smoke. I’m sure I smelled of roses, myself. I hopped up and put my shorts on. The ass part stuck to my ass. I forgot I blew my load into them. She wasn’t a swallower. Bitch. And to think, there are children starving in Cambodia. I started for the kitchen.

“Oh shit!”

Javi was at the kitchen counter eating a Pop-Tart. “What the hell are you doing here? You scared the shit outta me,” I whispered out.

“I still have the key.” Javier had crashed at my apartment for a few months towards the end of my deployment when he wasn’t getting along with his girlfriend. I had given him a key before I left so he could check my mail and drop in on my place every now and then. He also used it for his own personal sexcapades. I know because he had left my camcorder hidden in the plastic fichus tree by the window. I should’ve turned it on last night after I washed my sack.

“Who’s that?”

“Some girl that works at the club I worked from last night.”

“Oh yeah, how’d you do?”

“Made about 50 bucks.”

“That’s cool. What’s her name?”

“Mandy I think. Or Amanda. Maybe Amy.”

“Mandy… Amy… baby! Baby is her name. That’s what I call them when I can’t remember their names.”

“So, what the hell?”

“I didn’t go home last night. I just came back from some girl’s house.”

“Word!”

I walked past him and opened the refrigerator. I gulped down the last third of orange juice in the carton. Javi was staring at Mandy who had managed to yank the blanket it off. She had rolled over onto her stomach and was spread eagle with her feet facing us. Did I mention she was stark naked still.

He continued to chew with pastry. “You’re gonna have to go to the room until she wakes up,” I told him. He turned around with a disappointed look. He grabbed his keys off the counter, jingling them loudly on purpose, and headed to the door.

All of sudden, the earth shook. FRAAAAMP, FRAAAAAAAP!

It sounded like a Mack truck hitting the Jake break. Javi pasted himself against the wall and I ducked, still suffering from PTSD and thinking we were being shelled. Mandy had started to stir. After our pulse returning to manageable beats, Javi began to suppress a laugh. He covered his mouth, but he couldn’t help but to burst out into a monkey of a laugh before he ran for the door, slamming it behind him.

I was flabbergasted; my jaw hung low. Mandy stirred harder before waking up, squinting her eyes and scrunching her nose. She took two quick sniffs. She turned around and looked at me with blood-shot eyes. I looked back at her, still shocked and still squatting.

*Fweep!* A tiny fart bubble escaped my sphincter. She looked at me with pure, honest disgust.

“You’s a nasty dude, yo. Take me home.”