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I don’t recall the specifics, but I know I had been at a party. I’m pretty sure it was a kegger hosted by this Staff Sergeant that looked like Jessica Alba, but I can’t be entirely certain. I am, however, entirely certain that I was drunk off my ass that night. So was my lady friend, we’ll call her Ashley. Ashley was an attractive, fit, and somewhat sexually uninhibited young woman. Our sex life was awesome, we tried new things, we were awesome at the old, we did it often, and we did it everywhere; however, she was adamantly against the notion of anal sex.
Now I’m not an anal fiend or anything like that, but I am defiant. The moment she set the rule of “no rear entry” it became my primary objective. I always want what I can’t have. Time passed by and I slowly wore her down. Eventually, she tried it and, to her surprise, she actually enjoyed it. I had taken what I wasn’t allowed and was rather content with myself. I didn’t feel the need to press the matter any longer, so when she brought up the next day that she was rather sore, I agreed that we would only do it on the rarest of occasions.
A few months went by and we found ourselves at the party I was taking about. We were both incredibly drunk, and incredibly horny. No bathroom quickie or cramped closet romp would allow us the pleasures our hearts genitals desired. We made an exit, stage left, and cruised home. Our pace was slow and steady as we navigated the vacant, back road, shortcuts. As soon as we arrived at my house we started stripping, and had initiated the act a little early, in the form of your traditional stand and carry position in the carport. We moved into the house, stumbled through the kitchen, dodged the bar, and bounced off the hallway walls until reaching my bedroom door. “Hey dude, how’s it-oh fuck!” my roommate, Tom, saw my exposed ass as I fumbled with the door to my bedroom.
We ultimately ended up in my bedroom, on my bed, doing-the-do in the more conventional sense. Both of us are still extremely inebriated when I get the idea of trying anal again. I don’t recall exactly how I brought it up, but in my drunken state I’m sure it wasn’t far from, “Hey, babe, let me put it in your pooper.” Regardless, it worked, and she agreed. So I scurry over to the end of the bed, and she starts going through my nightstand looking for the K.Y. Jelly. She finds it and, somehow, between my penis and her ass, uses over half of the bottle. So were all lubed up, and in our positions, and I’m readying the approach. Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Houston, we have lift-uh oh, there seems to be a slight problem. Despite the gallon of oily lubricant that my penis is swimming in, entry is posing rather challenging. I’m pushing, but it’s not going in. I’m trying to be careful, because it is a rather sensitive area, and I’m pushing, and pushing. Finally! I start to penetrate, but the momentum and the lubricant play their evil deeds and, instead of taking it slow and easy, my entire penis slams into her pooper. I mean entire. Balls deep. I know immediately that the situation is ugly, and I don’t move. I’m just standing there, slack-jawed.
Aaaaaaaaaaaannnngggghhhh!!!!!!! She screams.
I scream.
Tom screams.
She screams again.
I scream again.
Tom screams again.
Tom comes rushing to the door, “Are you guys okay?!”
“Yeah, dude. Don’t come in!”
“Are you sure? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing dude, just don’t fucking come in.” I’m freaking out; trying to make sure my drunken Ashley isn’t bleeding all over my bed. She’s curled up, fetal position, bawling uncontrollably. I don’t really remember much after that. I think I passed out. All I know is that was the last time I had anal sex.
There was a time during my stay in Texas that I was on probation. Card carrying member of the Concho Valley Community Supervision and Corrections Department, but how I ended up there is another story for another time. While I was on probation, I had a ton of rules I had to follow. I wasn’t allowed in an establishment that sold alcohol as is primary source of revenue (bars, clubs, etc.), I had a curfew (I think it was 9pm, maybe 10), I wasn’t allowed to consume alcohol (regardless of me being 19 years old, so that’s a double whammy), I had to go visit my probation officer weekly, just a bunch of babysitter crap, the list goes on.
It was your typical Saturday night, we hit up Graham Central Station. It wasn’t the best club I’ve been too, but it did have 5 bars (hip-hop/dance, karaoke, country, tejano, and a coyote ugly knockoff), and it was the only thing happening every Saturday. I had just introduced a new guy into our rather tight knit group of friends. His name was Tom, and he hadn’t done much drinking or partying in his life. Tom had caught a ride with a guy named Brad, and was sitting in his back seat. We we’re parked along a housing development street right off of the loop (See Picture), where Brad was by the curb and I pulled along side him in another car. We’re all planning out our next move, seeing who had gotten invites to after-parties or whatnot, when I see that Tom doesn’t look like hes doing to well. He was fumbling with the door, and then he just went white (noticeably since he’s of Native-American descent, an usually pretty tan). The window made it about half way down when Tom puked all over it, and presumably the inside of the door. Brad and Kenneth started yelling and the two girls in the back with Tom started screaming.
Tom is freaking out so I say, “Dude, hop in. I’ll take ya home.” Before I’ve finished my sentence, Tom is climbing in the car. As soon as his door shuts I drop the clutch and we’re gone. Speeding down this dark street, it’s a scene right out of Gone In 60 Seconds, “Trapped in this suburbia hell.” “What do you mean, we’re lost?” “All the fucking houses look the same!” I know the development is within a square of “main roads” attached to the feeder roads off of the loop, so I just take a left and head down to each road until I hit a stop sign, with the logic that within, at most, 3 left turns I’ll be hitting the freeway. First road comes to and stop, so it’s another left. I don’t see a stop sign ahead yet so I speed up a bit, going about 65 or 70, trying to get out of there as soon as possible. Then I see that the road I’m going on just ends. So I hit the brakes, which pretty much accomplishes nothing. My ABS locks up anyway, and I slide. Curse those damn bald tires! I see the curb coming, and I don’t want to wreck my alignment, so I straighten my wheels and let off the brakes. Bam! We pop up over the curb and stop. Shit. I throw it in reverse and back onto the road, but something feels wrong, “I think I blew a tire.” Probably the front right, since its beat all to hell and has been patched about 3 times already. So I keep rolling to feel it out a bit, hoping its still drivable. It is, and I keep rolling down this street, about 10 mph. I come to another stop sign and go right this time. Why? Because I’m totally fucked up, and for some reason this street looks familiar, and I think the loop is to my right. I had been drinking since about 6pm, mixed drinks, shots, beers, you name it, and my friends we’re slipping me shots and mixed drinks in the bar. It’s probably about 3am right now, so you could say I’m a couple notches above inebriated; completely sauced. As I’m coming out of my right turn I feel the tire start to unmount, and not wanting to ruin my nice wheels, I immediately pull to the curb and stop. Son of a bitch! Okay, center. Figure it out. So I turn on my flashers (soon to be my downfall) and get out to assess the situation.
I see the tire is halfway dismounted and completely flat, with a big tear where one of the plugs had been. No need to worry, I have a spare! I’ll get this bitch changed and head on my way. If only it we’re that simple. I open my center console compartment and look for the key to my wheel lock. Not there. Glove box? Nope. Floor boards? Door pockets? Seat pockets? Trunk? No, nada, zero, zilch. So I sit back down in the car and give Tom a status report, “The tire is blown, and I can’t find the key for my wheel lock.” Tom’s not looking to well right now. He’s half passed out and just kind of reclined on the seat. He just replied with this odd sort of grunt/moan, then lays his head back down. I pull out my wallet and look for my road side service card. I pull it out and give them a call. My drivers license number, registration number, membership number, mothers maiden name, my first pet, where I was born, a sample of my blood, the rights to my first born child, and about 20 more questions later, the lady asks me where I am. I have no fucking clue. “I can’t read the street sign from here, hang on.” I get out of the car and walk toward the sign, and start reading off the intersection to the dispatcher. She says, “Sorry, sir. We don’t have any 24-hour service in that area, we can’t get anyone out there until 7am.” “Fuck me, okay, well, thanks.” I hang up, drop my head and walk back to the car. I get back in and shut the door, look up and see headlights coming up behind me. They seem to be getting closer to my side of the road instead of going around. Maybe some kind passerby is going to offer some help. Then the blue and red lights come on. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Shit just went from bad to worse.
“Tom, dude. Sober the fuck up. Now! The cops are here.” I bark at Tom. Alright, deep breath, focus your chi and shit. You need your a-game to get through this one. I sit and wait, until the officer approaches my window. She flashes her light around and asks, “How you doing tonight?” Bam! Instantly sober, “Well, to be honest, not that well. I have a flat tire and my roadside service can’t make it for 4 more hours.” She smells alcohol, “Have you had anything to drink tonight?” “No, ma’am. I’m on DD slash babysitter duty tonight. My friend here isn’t handling his vodka very well right now and he kind of thew up on my earlier.” “She kinda of laughs and says, “Well, can I see your license and proof of insurance?” Hey, I know what she means now. Haha (see Don’t Mess with Texas). I oblige and hand her my Driver’s License, Military I.D., and registration card. “I’ll be right back,” she goes to her car. “Dude, you okay?” Tom’s pale face is starting to get some color. Just the wrong one, he’s looking kind of green. He leans forward and drops his head in his hands. She comes back and asks me to get out of the car. I walk a line like I was raised by Barnum & Baily themselves, and the tight rope was my headline performance. I stand on one foot like I’ve been doing it my whole life, and I touch my nose with deadly accuracy and elegant grace. She pulls me off the road and over by a fence, away from the lights. I get asked to follow her stupid little light back and forth so she can look for nystagmus. Oh yeah, gotcha bitch. Bet you didn’t think I’d know all about that one, eh? I “follow” her light back and forth a while, keeping my eyes totally unfocused and just generally pointing in the direction she wants me to look. I just breathe slow and stay relaxed. Eventually she becomes convinced that I’m sober, smiles, and asks me to wait there, “I have to go back to my car.” Hell yeah, got her wrapped around my finger. Hook, line, and sinker. I’m so golden right now. Then I see another cop car round a corner about 3 blocks down. Fuck me. Things go from worse to even worse… er. Level 3 shittiness.
So, you remember how I mentioned earlier that I was supposed to visit my probation officer ever week? Yeah. I haven’t been in over a month. I hated going. I didn’t deserve to be on probation, and I wasn’t doing my community service. I didn’t want him to bitch at my for not doing it, so I was always coming up with excuses as to why I couldn’t make it to his office. The magnitude of the shit I’m in starts to sink in. The fact that me just standing there was breaking about 10 terms of my probation was enough to put me in jail for about a year, no questions asked.
“Ma’am.” “Yes?” “Let me be completely honest with you. I’ve had a few beers tonight. Three, but it’s been a few hours. I’m kinda skating on thin ice back on base right now, and if I get in trouble I’m done.” I muster my best pouty face and puppy dog eyes. “Alight, I’ll do what I can,” she smiles again, and turns around to meet the second officer. Let’s call him Captain Asshole. She brings Captain Asshole up to speed of the situation, and continues to her car. He comes over and starts interrogating me. Your Silver Screen quality Good Cop/Bad Cop. This guy is a total tool. Probably one of those guys who got shoved in a locker in high scool, so he became a cop to exact his revenge. He asks me if I hit something to blow my tire, and I keep claiming it had a few leaks and that it was just its time. He threatens me, “So, if I drive around, I’m not going to find anything broken, or ran over?” Nope, I assure him. After fighting off his bullshit for a minute or two, the nice lady comes back and motions him over. “Alright, I’m going to ride around and look for where you wrecked.” They talk a little more, and he gets in his car and leaves. The lady asks me some more generic questions, and asks Tom if hes okay. He just kind of nods his head yes. A few minutes go by and Captain Asshole shows up again. He and Nice Lady talk for a while, then he moves over to my car to check on Tom, who’s still got his face in his hands. Since I’ve been pretty much pulling everything out of my magical ass thus far, I’m a little nervous that Tom might say something to jeopardize my, already fragile, spiderweb of white lies. When under pressure, I completely sober up. Tom has the opposite reaction, and gets even more drunk. Doing about the best thing I could ever hope for, Tom opens the door and starts barfing uncontrollably. Need a minute? Grab a Twi- fuck it, just puke your guts out. That’ll keep em busy. Score 2 for Team Belligerently Drunk!
The nice lady cop asks me to go through some more gaze nystagmus tests. Since she knew I had been drinking, she was wondering why I passed the test. One can be naturally well-coordinated, well balanced and surefooted, but even at low BAC levels your natural nystagmus is affected. I pass again, and once more before Captain Asshole shows up. He says something along the lines of having the intention of taking us in. Fuck me. I’m going to have to bite bullet and call my supervisor (a total man-hating bitch) to see if she can get me out of this one. She won’t let me live it down but it’s better than jail. I suggest, “Could I please call my supervisor and have her come out here and pick me up? She can take me in and be accountable for me.” The nice lady pipes up before Captain Asshole has a chance to shoot it down, “If you don’t think she’ll be bothered that you call her at 3 in the morning.” I pull out my recall roster (this stupid piece of paper that we had to carry around. It showed a flowchart of all the offices of all the sections of my squadron, complete with name, rank, and phone number). I point to my name, and hold it out so they can see it. Sweet! I move my finger up one more slot, and above me is SrA Patrice Williams (my forever-pregnant co-worker, not my supervisor). “That’s my supervisor.” “Okay, give her a call.” So I walk over to my car and call her up, “Shit Patrice, you gotta save my balls on this one, I’m in some pretty deep shit.” She gives me a piece of her mind, then assures me she’s on her way. Woo Hoo! Score 3 for Team Belligerently Drunk!
I walk back over to the two officers, “She’s on her way. She said she’d be here in about 10 minutes.” Captain Asshole tells me to stand next to the fence again, and wants to start another gaze nystagmus test. I’m obviously reeking of reluctance so he says, “Officer [Nice Lady, I don't remember her name] is planning on releasing you to your supervisor, so this isn’t official or anything. I found where you ran off the road. There we’re some black tire marks up that other road. You’re lucky you didn’t hit anything. If it we’re up to me I’d throw your ass in jail, but it’s her call and she’s made her decision.” What a dick. “I just want to go over it with her because she says you’ve had a drink but she can’t tell from the eye test.” “Alright, sure thing.” We go over the damn thing about 4 times. Up, down, left, right, left, right, left, up, left, right, left. Finally he goes, “There! Okay watch this.” The guy has me do a really fast jerk to the left and look as far as my eye can go. Then hold it there and follow his light up and down, while its further than my peripheral vision will allow for. He gets his twitch, and hes happy. I do it about 3 more times while he goes over with Nice Lady what she should be looking for (judging from the way they talk to each other, she’s fairly new to this).
Finally, Patrice shows up and the cops go over with her what’s going on. Tom crawls into her SUV. Captain Asshole gets his last word in, and we’re informed we have to make sure my car gets towed tonight. “I’m coming back here at 6am, and if it’s not gone, I’m coming to get you.” Dick, can’t let me come back in the morning when I find my key and just change it myself. Patrice bitches me out a bit in front of the cops, mostly because she’s pissed I woke her up; regardless, it’s a good show of faith. Nice Lady gives me a number for a local 24-hour tow company, and I call them up. She and Captain Asshole get in their cars and drive away. Patrice asks how I’m doing in spite of my situation, and I tell her I’ve been worse. As a reflex to my imminent jail-time doom, my body had conjured up a massive amount of adrenaline. It all starts fading once the police are out of sight, and like a brick wall at 80mph, the fatigue hits me. I feel completely drunk. And tired, really tired. Patrice tells me to go sit in her car, but I argue that I’ll probably pass out. We wait till the tow truck comes and hooks my car up. Patrice offers to take Tom home for me, and we part ways. I ride in the tow truck back to my apartment and write the guy a check. I go into my apartment and find my roommate, Julio, asleep on the sofa with his girlfriend. He lifts his head and asks what happened, “I just had a rough night dude.” He passes out and I move to the balcony for a smoke with his girlfriend. We don’t really say anything, I just stand there calming my nerves. Whew. I can’t believe I got out of that unscathed. Not so much as a verbal warning.
So, the moral of the story? I don’t really know. Obey the terms of your probation, and don’t stay belligerently drunk; you won’t have to worry about being in this kind of situation. But then again, you wouldn’t have a fun story to tell either. Or maybe it could be: If you’re drunk-off-your-ass don’t speed through unfamiliar back roads. Or if you use wheel-locks, make sure you always know there the key is. Yeah, just pick one of those.
Team Belligerently Drunk prevails once again!
A few nights back, a friend asked me to tell them a story, and I couldn’t think of anything. I said, “Sorry, I can’t think of anything interesting that’s happened to me.” To which I get the reply, “C’mon. You were in the military. You’ve got to have some fun military stories.” I think that’s when I looked back and realized that my life didn’t really start until I joined the Air Force. The earliest one I could think of, at the time, happened very close after getting to my first duty station, Goodfellow AFB, TX.
Goodfellow AFB adjoins the city of San Angelo. No, not San Antonio. San Angelo. No, you haven’t heard of it before now. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and there’s absolutely nothing special about it. Which is why we we’re driving down to Randolph AFB to meet up with some friends from our previous station. When you’re in a place like San Angelo, you go somewhere else, because everywhere else is better. Randolph is about about three hours Southeast, right outside San Antonio.
This night was my first experience vomiting from alcohol consumption. I blame the ever girlie Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay, Coconut Rum. Now, I don’t know if was because I can’t stand coconut, the smell of it makes me queasy, much less the taste, or it could have just been the brutal amount of alcohol we all consumed, and the equally punishing rate at which we consumed it. But, nonetheless, we had already drank everything else, so the ole captain was our only hope. We drank and drank, and drank some more. And eventually we all passed out.
The next morning, we woke up and said our goodbyes, Jenny and I. Jenny was a friend from Mississippi who lived a few miles south of San Angelo. So, I got in my car, cranked it up, and sat there waiting for Jenny to come out. But something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew something was up. I started to reach for the radio and turn it on, but then I figured it out. I was about to blow chunks. So I open the car door, and expel what looks like a whole carton of orange juice, but smells more like my drunk step-father on a Friday night. Jenny comes out and sees me staring, mesmerized by the splatter paint art I just made in the parking lot, and offers to drive. I oblige.
I drop her off at her parent’s place and hit the road again. Just as I get on the highway my mom calls me, for what was probably call number 1 of 45 for that day (she called non stop when I first moved to Texas). I’m leaned over and talking on my cellphone, and my radar detector goes off. I slow down about 5 mph (since I was only going about 5 over), top the hill, and see the police car coming. As he passes, I lift my first two fingers on the hand holding the wheel, just like everyone else waves in redneck places like North Carolina and Texas. I look in my rear view mirror and see him turning around, so I throw the phone down, and yank my radar detector off into the floor. He hits his lights, and I start pulling over.
Like most people do when they’re being pulled over, I started to get nervous. First thinking to the cellphone I was talking on. Wondering if they’re illegal to use while driving in Texas. Then I remember I just puked my guts out, and I probably still reek of alcohol. Not a good thing if you’re 18 years old and driving a car. So my nervous starts evolving into a downright panic. Then a flashlight wraps my window, “Could you down the window, please.” I do as he asks, “License and proof of insurance.” What? Does he mean registration? I have no idea. Fuck it. Just give him your license, your military I.D., and your registration and hope for the best. So I give him all three, and sit there. “Could you turn the car off please?” So I switch it off. Then I notice the other officer peering around in my passenger side window. Where the hell did he come from? The first officer takes my information back to his car, and the second one stands at the front of my car. I avoid eye contact.
About 16 hours later the first officer returns to my window, “Sir, could you please step out of the vehicle?” What the fuck for? “Sure,” I step out and start to follow the officer to the back of my car, but it rolls forward. “Shit,” I lunge for the driver window, reach in, and grab the emergency brake. “Could you stand over there?” he tells me, more than asks it, and does a kind of carefree wave, to an area somewhere near the front of his car. I try to listen as they hover over my trunk and whisper to each other, “Is there anything in the trunk?” “Uh, I don’t think so”, and I step forward with my key out, ready to open it and show them. You know, since I’m a nice guy and all. “I TOLD YOU TO STAND RIGHT THERE. RIGHT THERE. DO NOT MOVE! GET BACK IN FRONT OF MY VEHICLE!” the guy does his impersonation of my drill instructor from basic training, spitting and screaming, veins popping out of his neck. Woah, what the fuck is going on here? “Sorry-”. They finish whispering and he turns back around, “your registration doesn’t match your license plate, and the plate doesn’t match the car.” “Uh… I don’t know why they wouldn’t” “This car isn’t stolen is it, son?!” again, more of a yell than a question. “No, sir. I just bought it.” “When?!” “About 2 or 3 weeks ago.” “I’m gonna need you to step over here,” the officer leads me off the road, further from his car and mine.
The second one stands guard, looming over me. I just remember dead grass everywhere, and the ugly bulge his pen made in his shirt pocket. So tacky. I stand there, hands behind my back, in the shadow of the second officer. My heart was going about 482 mph, and all I can think about is “I’m going to go to jail for stealing this damn car… when I’m the one getting robbed with this damn car payment.” So I wait. I wait, and I worry, still a little freaked about smelling like rum. Until he finally comes back over and says, “It looks like whoever filled in your temporary tag wrote one of the letters down wrong,” in a way that makes me feel guilty for their mistake. He gives me a few more words of warning, hands back my information, and heads for his car. I hop back in mine, put on my seatbelt, crank the car, and let down my e-brake. I look out of my windshield, and there, about 15 feet in front of my car, is an anti-litter campaign sign. Don’t Mess with Texas.
I guess they don’t fuck around.
