Follow the Stream Back Up

CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED

“Whilst Man, however well-behaved,

At best is but a monkey shaved.”

—W. S. Gilbert (1884)

What I remember is a bitter January morning wrangling a junkyard transmission into a ‘53 Packard, jacked up on blocks. Richie and I should have been trudging through the snow to classes at the U. Instead, our backs were jammed against a freezing curb, lining up an Ultramatic, biggest I’d ever seen. 

Two cars rolled up. Alan would come upon you anywhere, anytime, and frequently intoxicated. 

“Charlie?” 

“Yeah, what?”

“We got two women and Bunny's pad.”

Alan peered under the car. “Back-to-back racks.”

“Hold it there, Richie. It’s Alan.”

“Not Alan. Fuck no!” grunting disgustedly.

Alan fished a loose cigarette from his jacket and lit it. “The one in the Studebaker has the hots for you.”

I edged out for a look.   

“The one with twenty-four zeroes?”

“Yeah.” 

“No chance.” 

Alan began to hover. “You don’t want to fuck her? Those nipples have to be the size of quarters. Wait'll she sticks 'em in your face.” He shivered a little. “Besides, we’re not getting any unless you're with.”

The transmission teetered.

“C'mon man, those girls won't wait. Make it fast”

Richie and I got the transmission on the spline, went inside and cleaned up, and then out to the cars. Alan took me aside. “If we find out you kissed her, we'll never talk to you again.” 

I was jammed against the fat one, thinking of all the witty things I will say. “Uh, [laughs] I don't want you to feel creepy, but the thing is, I came here mainly because of you [laughs],” was how she began. “I mean, I thought about you all day.”

I should have said nothing. What I said was, “Yeah, [laughs] now I'm here, you know,” squeezing the soft flesh of her shoulders.

“[laughs] Yes, of course,” she said, pressing a boob against me. 

She said more on the way to Bunny's—including personal details about her past—but there was nothing she could say to make up for the thought that I could lose all my friends with a faux pas. 

Snow flurries were filling the air when we arrived. Brian, who had been the burly, myopic guard on our high school football team, was downstairs, waiting. We talked for a second, turned on the music and began dancing. I rocked the chosen one, fondling her monstrous boobs while she swung a bottle of whiskey in the air, taking swigs straight out.

Miss Baun, my old Latin teacher, should see me now!

The party had barely come alive when the cute one dashed out in the snow without any boots or coat. I grabbed Alan. “What the hell is this?” 

Alan gestured wildly. “She got the clap. Afraid we’d beat the shit out of her.”

“She's out in the snow with her teeth chattering? For real?”

“I swear to God.”

I was a little drunk by then. When problems arise, it’s tempting to expect someone else to fix them. Sometimes the only person who can is you. I took the heavy cavalry upstairs to Bunny's bedroom and closed the door. She stood in the dark with a strange smile and put her mouth close to my ear. Her breath, heated by the whisky, was warm on my cheek. “I talk to dead people.”  

Her vast curvature would be a steep hill, but I got my lips on her big ones and managed to slip in after a few false moves. After a near stroke, I tapped the footboard and got back out in the hall. 

Richie was huddled with Brian. From the look on Richie’s face, I know he was thinking: How will I ever find the opening amongst the folds of skin and rolls of fat?

Brian raised his bushy eyebrows. “What’s your problem?”

Richie shifted from foot to foot and whispered loudly, “Her hole.”

Brian squinted out of his coke-bottle glasses: “Have her piss and follow the stream back up!”