panda6.net

I am aware of the problems with Comments and Archives. Hopefully things will work again soon.

Update: Things seem to be working again.

1. Be thankful you’re not dressed as a turkey like Captain Cumpuddles there.
2. Eat some turkey and stuffing and all that wonderful crap.
3. Watch three of the worst football games of the year all in one day.
4. Drink a lot.
5. Call your grandma, parents, or one of those people who send you cards for your birthday.

Chapter 16: A Shameful Walk Home

I woke up in the bathroom at Mark’s for the third time in a week. Someone had thoughtfully covered me with a towel while I slept. Urine splatters were drying on the exposed sleeve of my favorite shirt. Denny had given that shirt to me for my birthday, which was the day before he left me. I found the whole situation deliciously funny, but couldn’t laugh because I was sure I was dying.

One of my wings was stuck in the hinges of the cupboard under the sink. I thought about cutting it off, but that was the hangover talking. I was curious about the night before, but didn’t really want to know. I bit my lip to stop the slot machine of iniquity tumbling through my head. Did I kill anyone? Did I sleep with someone? Were drugs involved? Jackpot.

I needed to get over Denny. This can’t keep happening.

The guys made breakfast. I felt the air for signs that something bad had happened, but Mark was worse off than I was, and Fittie was busy smoking himself back to sleep. Fittie was an interesting guy. He was always present, but never there. For example - one day Denny, Mark and I were talking about how great our meal was the night before. We had gone to a nice restaurant down in the warehouse district, got dressed up, and spent a ton of money. I had a chicken Caesar from heaven. Anyway, when we told Fittie he should have been there, he pointed out that it was his birthday dinner and he paid for all of us. We felt bad and then he got us all very high to cheer us up. How about that?

I suddenly remembered I had about 20 places to be that day, folded up some bacon into a pancake, and dipped it in my coffee mug. That last step was not well thought out, but it was edible enough and soothingly warm. Mark stopped moaning and pulled his head out of his eggs just long enough to grab my jacket and mumble “nuh uh”. Shit.

There went the slot machine again. I hate that feeling because it’s not you that gets to pull the lever.

“Ugh,” fell out of Mark’s mouth and he rocked back in his chair. “Remember the taco stand?”

“Nope.”

“Alright…remember kicking over trashcans outside of the bar?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus.”

Mark explained to me that I suddenly, and violently, decided it was time for tacos, and bid them a good evening by kicking the stools out from under them and spitting in their drinks. They wrapped up their tabs and escorted me outside, telling me that they were indeed going to help me find tacos at 1am. Fittie said that every time I heard the word ‘taco’ I purred like a cat. I can see myself doing that.

“Oh yeah, at one point you threatened to ‘break my face’ and ‘fill your pockets with my teeth’,” Mark pointed out.

Somewhat unexpectedly for the guys, we came across a small taco stand almost immediately. This was fortunate for everyone involved - I would, presumably, shut up and purr myself to sleep with an armful of tacos, and they could stop apologizing to the strangers I insisted on talking to. I ordered something like a dozen tacos from the older Mexican lady, and then sat crosslegged directly where I had just been standing.

In one of those weird drunken states of incredible perception, I responded to a conversation happening above me, even though I didn’t realize it was even occurring.

“So we were arguing with the taco lady about why she doesn’t have a credit card machine in 2001, and her son came up to half translate and half protect her. He must have weighed 90 pounds, and looked like a pencil wrapped in a napkin with his huge apron on. His mouth was unusually large.” Mark shivered. “Then, out of nowhere, you yelled ‘Hey lady, I’ll fuck your kid for 10 tacos’.”

“Oh, wow. But everyone knew I was joking, right?” I asked, partially terrified, and not sure if I was joking at all.

Mark walked into the bathroom and returned with a neatly tied plastic bag and said, “you didn’t even eat them.”

I decided to stop drinking for a while. I noticed that someone was sleeping on the couch way off in the corner. It turned out his name was Andre. He was sleeping in the fetal position with a pillow between his knees. “Maybe he’ll give you a ride home when he wakes up from his sex coma,” Fittie suggested. I had a lot to think about on my walk home.

During the summer last year, I worked as a sales rep for a small time narcotics dealer who moved here from Philly back in ‘87. It was a pretty cushy job - I’d wake up at about 9am, roll over and start the car to get the A/C going and put on my Def Leppard mix tape to get me amped for the day. I’d then park in front of the elementary school down on 2nd Ave until the fuzz started giving me awkward looks.

My actual job consisted of driving around a few specific neigborhoods and giving people the in-the-know double head nod. If they responded with a similar double head nod, or in some cases an inverted peace sign, I’d run my sales pitch. I accepted cash mainly, but occasionally I’d get an offer too crazy to turn down. Poor people often use the barter system.

Then I’d go back to the elementary school until the parents started arriving to pick up their kids.

This one particularly balmy day, I was doing donuts in the cemetery while waiting for a client, AJ Jazzymitts, to return with his “fly ass trick” whom he planned to use as payment for a good ball of cakey pearl. I’d seen the women J took back to his mamma’s house, so I was pretty excited. So excited, in fact, I almost flipped my Trans Am when I hit a smaller gravestone (Sorry ?????????y McArthur - I shattered half the stone, so I couldn’t get the whole name). I was also railed to the point that my nose was running through my eyes instead of my nostrils.

AJ Jazzymitts rolls up on his questionably aquired blue Vespa, with his payment in tow. He introduced the whore as Bubbles. It’s worth mentioning that Bubbles was a 6′6″ tall black man dressed as a circus clown. He had one eye, which was strangely arousing. I thought about killing him.

Bubbles got in the back of my car, and I did a few more donuts to get him in the mood. He mentioned he plans to be buried in that graveyard. I jokingly said “how about right next to something-the-fuck McArthur!”. Bubbles didn’t laugh. I didn’t either.

The kinkiness begins as I parked my Trans Am behind the recently closed for business Jiffy Lube on Montague Drive, back by the Taco Bell and K-Mart complex. I ask Bubbles if he’s comfortable being used as payment for a small coke deal, and he says he doesn’t really know what the fuck is going on, so do whatever I want. It turns out he was midly retarded and had been eating vicodin all day.

I sensually remove his red foam nose and use the nose like a powder puff, pretending to apply makeup to my face, as if I myself am becoming a clown. He laughs when I tickle his neck with a Milky Way I found in the parking lot. I then undo the frilly muffler around his neck with my teeth, and throw it in the trashcan outside the broken rear window. He wants it bad.

I’d never had sex with a man, a clown, or a retard before, so I was growing quite anxious. This would undoubtedly be different than the hookers I used to pick up after cashing forged checks at the Check and Go.

But as I whispered sweet words in his hear, I noticed a tear fall from his only functional eye. Bubbles was crying. I had been kneeling on his genitals due to the diminutive size of the rear seat. His speech impediment made it impossible for him to juggle the feeling of pain and the act of speaking simultaneously. I’m used to my sexual partners crying after the act, not before. I was confused.

It was at this point my raging hard on had pushed through the fly of my borrowed BVDs. I had lost my jeans in a bar fight the night before, so it was difficult to hide. I realized it would be impossible to maintain this fantastic feat of engorgement for much longer if Bubbles the mildly retarded clown continued to cry, so I opted to take care of myself elsewhere. I pulled the red curly wig from his head, put it on mine, and licked him on the forehead before wriggling out the window. I then opened my zippo, which I kept in my sock, lit it and threw it in the car. My erection pulsed.

I ran directly to the Denny’s on Second, hoping to find the woman I had been in love with for the last fifteen years. I walked in, hid behind the pick-up-a-toy-with-the-little-crane machine, and watched for her. A family walked in and saw me, and threatened to call the police. I kicked the father in the upper thigh, although I was aiming for his crotch, and ran out the emergency exit. Luckily for me, my love Nell was having a cigarette and a tall can out back. I walked right up to her and said “I think you know what to do with this”.

She told me the restraining order was still valid, and she pulled out her mace, as usual. But I looked her in the eyes and said “baby, I killed a clown for you tonight, can you please consider giving this man a hand job?”. Those golden words sealed the deal. I ended up fucking her in a dumpster.

I went back to get my car, but it was gone. I never saw Bubbles again, but I assume he survived, since I threw the lighter into an unupholstered area of the floor, where it was, in retrospect, unlikely to cause a fire.

That was probably the second kinkiest sexual experience of my life.