Category: college

You want a blowjob?

March 2, 2013 / / 0 Comments

“Hey… you want a blowjob?”

This happened about ten years ago. I was still in college, and I was going into Kmart to check my hours for the upcoming weekend. Apparently I was looking particularly in need of oral sex as I walked across the parking lot, because a rusty rattletrap of a car slowly rolled along the fire lane in front of the store and stopped directly in front of me. An unshaven man in his late forties stared at me from the driver’s seat. He looked sick, or at least in very poor health. He may have been drunk.

I couldn’t possibly have heard that sentence correctly. He had quietly mumbled the words, barely making eye contact with me.

“What?”

Turns out I had heard him correctly.

“You want a blowjob?”

“No!” I yelled. “Get out of here before I call the cops!”

Without saying another word, he turned to face forward and took off at the same creeping speed. I stood and watched him go, walked into the store, checked my hours, told a few coworkers the story, got a few incredulous laughs, and headed back to my car.

My imagination, spurred by my vast knowledge of criminal behavior (gleaned from TV crime dramas), started niggling at me at this point. What if this part of an escalation of behavior? What if he starts going further with this? Could he be a rapist? What if he is already?

Damn it. I guess I should call the cops.

I called and gave them a description of the man, his car, the time, my location, and so on. The dispatcher asked would I mind giving a statement to a police officer, and I said no. I waited for twenty minutes, and finally the cop arrived.  I started to give him the same story I’d told the dispatcher. As I was midway through my description of the man’s death trap rustbucket, I saw a familiar car drive onto the lot.

“That’s him,” I said, pointing. “That’s his car.”

“Him?” The cop seemed surprised and confused. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy!”

The cop told me to wait, hopped into his car, and began a no-speed pursuit. He followed the car at the same leisurely pace.  No lights or siren. I’m sure the guy knew what was going on by then, but apparently thought better of going above 15mph.

I sat back down on my hood and waited. The cop slowly followed the car out of the parking lot, out of sight, and then came into view a few minutes later.  They rounded the very large commercial block of the Kmart, maintaining their weirdly sedate pace. I suppose the cop was running the car’s license plate and getting info on its occupant. They once again drove out of view. Eventually, a second cop drove onto the parking lot and walked up to me. They’d pulled the guy over on a side street close by, and would I feel comfortable IDing him? Sure.  No problem.

The second cop apologized that I couldn’t be allowed to sit in the front seat of his cruiser, and opened the back for me. I was disappointed–I wanted to see all of their cool cop toys–but got in and sat on the hard plastic bench. As he drove us less than a block, he explained that I shouldn’t say anything to the guy. Just walk up, confirm it was the same guy, and come back to the car. The second cop let me out and I walked up to the stopped car, feeling slightly nervous despite knowing I was safe.

It was past dusk by this time, and the red and blue strobes from the two squad cars made the man look even more haggard than he had in the parking lot. I remember that he didn’t look angry, or even scared. When he looked back at me, he just looked miserable, sad, and defeated. I walked back to the second cop’s car and confirmed his identity. Someone who read the local paper’s police blotter told me that he was charged with disturbing the peace, or disorderly conduct, or some other generic charge.

Was the guy creepy? Sure. Offering blowjobs to strangers in a Kmart parking lot is a weird thing to do, and I hope the experience scared him enough to not repeat it. But in the end, I just feel sorry for him. I can only assume he was gay and deeply closeted, and thought his idiotic ploy might work without anyone ever finding out. I hope he’s either come out of the closet by now, or is at least anonymously fucking strangers from Craigslist. I certainly hope he’s offered his last parking lot blowjob. Being closeted does terrible things to people.

Jumper

March 1, 2005 / / 1 Comment

I was in Las Vegas a few years ago for Spring Break. While I was there, my roommate decided that he wanted to bungee jump. Vegas has the tallest bungee tower in the United States–seventeen stories. Being a bit of an adrenalin junkie myself, I decided to join him.

We tried to go on several different days, but the wind was too strong. For obvious reasons, the company discourages jumping when there’s a possibility of customers being blown into the tower. Finally, the last day that we were there, we decided to go anyway. Because of the wind, we weren’t allowed to dive the full seventeen stories, and we needed to be harnessed around the chest. Usually, bungee jumpers harness their feet and dive head-first. Our chest harnesses let us bounce around with our heads still upright. According to the wild-eyed Australian running the show, this results in a ride that is nowhere near as good. To compensate, they offered us a free video of the event and a T-shirt at half price.

The crew weighed us, fitted us into to our gear, and soon we were riding a rocket themed elevator to the top of the tower. The rocket theme bothered me for some reason, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on the reason. It wasn’t until later, when I watched the video, that I found out that the tower hadn’t been built with bungee jumping in mind. It had been built in the 70s as some kind of observation tower. The cheap, faded plastic bolted onto the elevator car had only seemed cheesy and completely unrelated to bungee jumping: now it seemed almost malevolent. Wait, I thought to myself, You mean that in the fifteen or twenty years since this place changed hands, no one bothered to remove the silly crap that the previous owners had slapped on the elevator? Am I lucky to be alive? What the hell kind of place was this?

I was nervous. I’ve always had a bit of a fear of heights. As I a kid, I’d sometimes freeze on the monkey bars during recess. I’d stare at the ground, unable to shake the fear-induced paralysis until someone shoved me out of the way. Bungee jumping was part facing my fears, part proving to myself that they were groundless, part feeding my desire for idiotic behavior.

After about three or four jumpers, my turn cane up. The crew guys securely hooked up all my lines safely away from the open edge of the platform, and herded me to the drop-off.

“Hands up!” The Aussie ordered cheerfully. Dutifully, I raised my arms out in front of me as the elevator-ride video had instructed me. I carefully matched up my heels over the chipped and worn painted half-footprints at the edge, looked down….

I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase, “the mind reels.” It’s an explanation for an actual physical sensation that can’t really be described, only experienced. It’s similar to “having your blood run cold” in that respect. Until you’ve actually felt it, they’re only words. You may say them, but you have no full understanding of what it is that is being conveyed to you.

…and my mind reeled. I stared down, struck dumb by the one hundred and seventy-one feet between me and the ground. My lizard brain informed me in no uncertain terms that what I was about to attempt was suicide. There was no possible way that what I was about to do was a good idea, and that I needed to turn around and run right now.

But, wait… I thought, How long have I been standing here? I searched my mind frantically. I had no clue. It seemed as though I hadn’t heard anyone speak for days. But surely, in all that time, someone must have said something. There must have been some sound. For all I knew, I might have been standing there for five minutes, lost in the terror of the drop, oblivious to everything around me.

Well, one way out of this, I suppose. I knew what I had to do. I didn’t really want to do it, but I had no choice at this point. Turning back now would make me a coward and an idiot who had just wasted a good chunk of cash. I tried to leap off the edge of the platform with gusto, a wild man, the raving nutcase that my friends believed I was… but my body wouldn’t obey me. My knees held fast in their position, unwilling to give even the slight bounce that would send me off.

With my knees gone AWOL, I did the only thing I was still capable of doing: I collapsed. My knees buckled underneath me, and my outstretched arms pulled me forward instead of straight down. I fell screaming into space.

I only vaguely remember the jump itself. It was terrifying, and I spent most of the jump desperately clinging to the cord with both hands, wanting nothing more than for it to be over with.

The thing that I remember most, and will always remember, is the sheer instinctual behavior that the jump brought out in me. As a member of a more or less civilized society, I’ve learned to ignore my instincts in favor of more socially acceptable behaviors. Sniffing at crotches and peeing on rocks to mark territory may be fun, but they will also get me arrested. For most people today, it takes something like a seventeen story fall for your instincts to pick you up and shake you by the shoulders.

Two days later, when I got around to watching the video of my jump, I got a fairly amazing surprise. In the video, I walk to the edge of the platform, extend my arms, and jump off the edge without hesitation… and screaming in what is quite obviously real terror.

So would I do it again? I’m not sure. I really didn’t enjoy it, and it scared the living hell out of me. Which are probably very good reasons not to repeat the experience. But it really bothers some part of me that I couldn’t just ignore my fears and enjoy it anyway. I think the only way to really get rid of your fears is to confront them.

Maybe I’ll take up skydiving.

How to Throw a Party

December 7, 2004 / / 0 Comments

I’m sure many of you have been wondering, as I once was, “How do I throw a party?” Well, I’m here for you.

First, select a date a couple weeks ahead of time so that people have time to plan around coming. Fridays and Saturdays are best, obviously.

For the next several weeks, mention off and on that you will be having a party at whatever date, and that acquaintance X should definitely come. To discern whether this person has any intention of coming, mention the party, the date, but don’t mention where you live. If he or she is actually considering attending, he or she will ask for directions. If not, stop wasting your breath on this person.

Make sure that you invite a disproportionate number of women and men, preferably far more men than women. This will ensure that the men have no chance of getting laid and the women will leave early to find a party that’s not a “sausage fest.”

If you can, invite at least two people that absolutely despise each other. If you’ve done your work correctly, they should nervously avoid each other until the drinking is in full swing, then launch into an all-out screaming match. If luck is on your side, they may even get a furniture-bustin’ brawl.

The day of the party, clean your house top to bottom. It should look its best for thirty minutes before your guests soak it in beer and vomit. Buy lots of beer and hard liquor and stock your fridge.

Now it’s time to reap the benefits of your efforts. Your good friends show up early, and you don’t charge them, as they’re your good friends.

It’s important to begin drinking early. Have a couple shots with the fat guy. (Every group of friends has a fat guy.) Drink a beer while bitching about your job (or lack thereof) with someone who gets paid far more than you.

Wait for more guests to arrive.

And wait.

By eleven, you can safely assume that no one else is coming. You should be drunk by now, anyway, so it shouldn’t bother you much. But it does. You’re reminded of how many people you’ve pissed off recently, and how the guest list gets shorter with each successive party. Continue to drink.

Angrily.

Around midnight, the last straggler has shown up, but your friends with real jobs and futures have already left. At this point, there will be about a half dozen people left in the room, and you should be loudly boasting about your ability to spit fire. Demand to know if anyone has the balls to do another shot of tequila with you. Glare at the people that are still present and treat them with the misdirected hostility that you’re feeling towards everyone that didn’t show up. Mentally curse the non-attendees and silently vow to never throw another party.

Right about now would be the best time to begin dropping beer bottles and lit fireworks off your balcony. Ideally, you’ll be dropping them onto the large and equally drunk rednecks that live in the apartment below you. Continue this behavior until one comes up the stairs and gives you a well deserved beating.

Somewhere between three and five in the morning, drink a glass or two of water in a vain attempt to stave off tomorrow’s hangover and crawl to bed on all fours. Make sure anyone sleeping over witnesses this to ensure you will be the butt of jokes for years to come. If possible, don’t even bother to say goodnight to anyone. Just shamble out of the room and don’t come back.

The next morning, if all has gone as planned, you will have two dozen half-empty beer bottles and cups scattered throughout your apartment. Everything you own will be covered in a thin layer of beer, and you will have a crushing headache. Don’t expect anyone that spent the night to help you, as they will be busy rummaging through your DVD collection. As you mop up the beer on the kitchen floor and the vomit in the bathroom, they will be looking for the next two movies to watch. Attempts to make subtle hints that they should leave will be fruitless. Your best bet will be to convince them to go somewhere for lunch, get them out the door, and lock the door behind them.

Order a pizza with the fourteen dollars and change donated by your friends to cover the hundred dollars of alcohol they consumed.

The rest of the day should be spent doing the following:
– Cleaning the layer of filth from your living space and personal effects.
– Suffering God’s wrath in the form of a horrifying hangover.
– Periodically cringing as blacked out memories of last night’s idiotic behavior surface through your hangover induced fog. At this point, you may need to begin calling up attendees to ask questions such as, “Why did I throw a knife at you?” and “Whose idea was it for me to ride the bathroom door down the stairs?”

By the end of the day, your home should only be clean enough that it would not be condemned if a housing officer were to stop by. Anything more than that would violate the very uneasy truce that you will have worked out with your spinning head and queasy stomach.

You should go to sleep that night early and still slightly hungover. It’s important that you end the night by muttering to yourself that you will never, ever host another party again.

And that’s it. Not too difficult. The next time you have a party keep those simple guidelines in mind and I’ll sure you’ll be arrested in no time.

[ I should point out that everything here–and I do mean everything–is something that I have personally done. I’ve thrown knives at people while drinking, I spit fire, I’ve been beaten up by rednecks, and I’ve broken down my bathroom door and rode the pieces down a flight of stairs. I’m not proud of all of it, but it makes for some great stories. –Marc ]