Friday, November 30, 2012

Tina the Trollop

Chapter 1



I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.” 
 Steve Martin


 “Hahahaahha, ok sugar buns, what’s a cutie like you doing HERE right naw, what are you into?”
                I quickly replied, “Mostly bag ladies I meet at truck stops or state parks.”

               I arrived home at my house in Capo Beach; it had been a long hard day at work.  Two grueling and miserable hours of bong-toking in the middle of suburbia, teaching kids rock and roll.  An additional eleven minutes of questions from parent’s I did not know, and answers I knew less about.  The time moved at glacial speed and I was in no mood for anything other than strong smoke or pale ale.  I had received a text message, in typical bad Mexican spelling and even “worser” Mexican grammar.  It was a warning from Juan, my roommate:

“Wiley, I’m gonna make a party 2 night, it will be more later, the new heina will be there…her name is Jenny.”

                I always hating being called Wiley, Rylie, Wolly, or Dick Face; but having an Irish name is often confusing to the delicate tongue of the foreigner.  That means that he saved it in his phone book as Wiley, thus further reinforcing his ignorance.  What’s this about a Jenny?


                As I ascended the steps toward our apartment, the air became permeated with the unmistakable scent of clove cigarettes.  I sensed new blood, and had no idea what to expect based on Juan’s previous spoils.  I often referred to Juan’s perpetual sexual conquest as “going hogging,” as he always had his beer goggles on when making those kinds of decisions.  Upon first glance, I saw a mildly attractive, pleasantly plump, hybrid of a creature.  A mutant? A freak of nature?  Was it possible for a mixed Jewish-Scottish man to fuck a bullfrog and then dress its offspring up in clothes from some Goodwill clearance pile?  Be nice, she’s got huge tits and and a pretty face.  She greeted me while simultaneously applying her 16th layer of “Le Skanky Blue” lipstick.  I noticed that she had not extinguished the lit clove, but just dropped it in a bucket full of garbage, cigarette butts, and other combustible materials. 


“Hey your Wiley right?”  Wiley….we were now officially off to a bad start.

“It’s Wylie.”  My tone was cold and dark, and I was eager to get into the apartment and bong it up in my room.  Her jaw was visibly vacillating, back and forth, the tell tale sign of a tweaker.

“Haahhaha ohhhhh, immmmmm soooooo sorry….Listen, do you…..you……., do you or,  or… somebody you know have $160 I can borrow tonight?  And I need that TOOO—NIGHT!”

I just stared blackly into her eyes searching for divine inspiration, how to answer this question when I’m in such a rotten mood…..and in the spirit I prayed!!

 “What the fuck did you just ask me???”

“Oh its nothing, I just got a BIG storage bill.”  The animation in her facial muscles did not match her tone or her content.  It seemed as though she was forcing herself to appear more human. 

“Were you living in your storage unit or something?”  I concluded at this point that she was either a tweaker, a rich girl from a far away state, or a combination of the two.

“Yeah, and now I’m living here with Juan, he told me about you and Adam.”  She could remember our names and even knew of Adam, our other roommate.  All the baggage she carried with her, both figurative and literal, was only enough to score a 3/10 (NOTE: YOU CAN NOT BECOME a 9 or 10 UNLESS A POLL IS TAKEN AND 75% OF THOSE SURVEYED VOTED YOU AS 9 OR 10).  She does not meet the minimum requirements for entering my house by my standards, but since Juan’s Mexican, I’m sure his standards fall a little short of mine. 

                This long awkward greeting was beginning to remind me that I really needed to puff.  I dug around in my pocket fishing for my keys or some mace, and only finding dental floss.  I noted while, fishing through the other pocket, that this careless member of our dysfunctional family was eye fucking me.  Typically, short bar whores with gonorrhea are not my type of woman, especially when their makeup reminds me of Mimi from the Drew Carey Show.  But her big supple tits, those were worth-it for a least half a night.  What kind of games does this one play?  What’s the score here?

                “Wylie…I really need to pee, can you PLEAAAAASE open the door?”

Accepting the fact that NOT unlocking the door, and NOT allowing her and her four garbage bags full of crap into our apartment would be rude, wrong, and just plain fucking weird after all of that.  I hesitantly obliged.  I always believed that when I could, I should help a soul out, especially when they are clearly coming down of speed and reek of lonely vagina, Jack Daniels, and Bali Hi cloves.  I opened the door while she stared at me, empty handed, as if implying or expecting that I should help.

                “Welcome to our home, Juan is staying out on the couch, so I guess that’s your room now, enjoy yourself…I got to handle some shit!”

And with that, I abandoned the poor little groupie at my front door, to pursue what ailed my spirit that day (and most days at that time in my life).  Our house was a cesspool, due mostly to Juan, being the original lease-signer.  In less than two months, he managed to transform a mint condition apartment into what looked like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina-or better yet, some 3 day music festival like Woodstock 98 or Burning Man-complete with used syringes, blood stained-walls, and half-consumed bottles of booze that doubled as piss buckets when the fifteen-foot distance from the living room to the bathroom was too large an ordeal to undertake.  Let the wine-o be warned-DO NOT assume that the half filled bottles contain potable alcohol, though I can assure you there is some alcohol content left in all of them, mostly by trace. 

                 Juan’s typical behavior consisted of going to work for a few days at a time, acting as the poster boy for responsible behavior, then promptly fucking it off on payday for beer, speed, and typical Mexican soap opera drama, where everyone cheats on each other, but the man is the one who cries about it.

The redwood-stained hardwood floors, now just shit-stained and turned to softwood, had dishes scattered like landmines across the decaying floor.  Like Easter egg hunting, you could do the same thing here and find many unique things -car keys, half eaten burritos, cigarette buts, fishing equipment, a copy of June 1996 Hustler magazine, the list goes on.  I often wondered, did Juan at one point in this very room, in some kind of Aztec drunken rage, swore off Georgiana Vasquez forever after she took his kids back?  Had he been so distraught that he pissed on the very planks I had to walk over day in and day out? 

                I was relieved when I finally had made it to my door.  The sounds of Jenny’s voice had faded into white noise, like falling asleep on Channel 1.  The sanctuary of my room was to be cherished.  I could hear the distant squawks of “You’re not going to help me with my stuff?”…fading like an echo as I closed the door behind me.  My mind wandered now to how the other room mates would deal with this.  My mind then drifted to fear of hearing the now dual couples simultaneously fucking in stereo while I pondered the ironies and tragedy of my universe. 

                Adam and Shelly would get drunk, then snort lines and be loud about such unspeakable lewd acts.  Most of the time the TV was on at full blast, so we didn’t have to hear them fucking (Adam would yell many strange things during sex, and many truths were learned in this manner) but when Adam hit the pipe and drank a 1/5th of Whiskey, he’d either leave to door opened so we could hear, pound on the wall and yell “Do you want some? COME AND GET IT!!!”, or come outside and narrate a reenactment of his bedroom antics, really loud, so everyone in the room could clearly understand everything he was talking about, in the most graphic and vivid white trash detail imaginable.  Many truths were ALSO learned about Adam in this way.  He was a triple Virgo, God gave him the best 4 inches on earth to work with, and if he ever met the hamburger helper guy, he’d "fuck him up for not making a Chinese flavor".

                I had met Juan sometime in late March of that year, at a bar called “The Swallows Inn”-the only bar in San Juan Capistrano, Jewel of the Missions.  It was here the same year that your humble narrator staggered in one night with a head full of Xanax and a pocket full of change to meet the hardworking (hard at work drinking) Mexican he would later be renting with. 

                Juan was short, even short by Mexican standards.  In fact, the only place Juan was considered tall, was at an Asian club, and being miles away from Irvine, CA, left Juan in the same category as a midget to most.  He had the build of a pit-bull, the beard of Abe Lincoln, and the Alcoholism of Ulysses S. Grant.  I had seen Juan floating around the local punk rock circuit before, and had a vague memory of seeing him at the very same bar a few years prior.  The Swallows was ubiquitous with country western, southern hospitality, and biker crank.  I ordered a double red bull vodka, with a Sierra Nevada chaser.  This was by no means my first drink of the night and I had just popped half of a “Xanny Bar”.  I made a b-line straight for the pisser.  This was no easy task on this night.  The Swallows was notorious for its capricious nature, and in order to effectively circumambulate the place, I had to be on guard, a wrong move would spell disaster. 

                The local denizens, who were indeed cowboys from hell, were doing the electric slide in every conceivable nook and cranny of this rotten pub.  To witness 70 some odd cranked out middle aged Southern Californian’s, with a Tex/Mex identity complex was scary enough, to witness them all performing this fell incantation in unison under the influence of biker dope, was not only categorized as cruel and unusual punishment in most states and commonwealths, the very act itself made Chinese Water torture feel like an organism with a case of clamitia, only mildly irritating.

                 Hells Angels were telling war stories while extorting the locals.  Angry marines were hard at work seducing their future ex-wives and cum dumpsters, while crazy cowboys were snorting bumps from their poison rings.  The local gangsters were kicking back shots while looking for rivals to gangbang, and the tourists were acting like naïve idiots while the college frat boys were enjoying their first taste of adult fun with their fake ids.  Despite the fact you could easily provoke someone at this watering hole with so much as a “cross look”, fights, stabbings, and shootings were all in good fun at the Swallows.

                I plotted my course coyly.  One step to the left, three paces forward, a quick sidestep to the right, a lookey-loo to the back.  There were 4 middle-aged woman sitting at the bar stools by the restrooms.  The dark environment concealed most of their flaws, but each time a cigarette was lit, the fire betrayed there true identity.  These were not women at all, but foul wildebeests, lined up ready to eat alive any man who hesitated for just one second to long within there linear perspective.  Don’t panic, remain calm…..like the Sirens of the sea who swallowed Odysseus’s ship whole, these man eaters were going to make a Costco sample snack out of me.  Think Wylie think.  I timed my move with the utmost care for detail.  All four of these floor hags had to simultaneously be distracted while I made my way to the bathroom, or one of those wildebeests were going to charge me.   One wrong move, and her thick leathery hands would be all over me and then promptly piss off her jealous and twacked out Hells Angel boyfriend (I am never going to fall for that one again).  Sweet God, you better help me.

                I said a quick Hail Mary and moved for the bathroom, when the icy touch of death embraced my arm with a quick yank.  I knew I was fucked. 

                “Ohhhhhh, loooookeeeey here girls.  This here is a man if I seen one.”  In unison, the wildebeests started laughing while simultaneously sucking down their Audios Motherfuckers, a southwestern version of a Long Island ice tea.

                “So there handsome, tell me about your self.  Are you even old enough to drink?”

                “I’m old enough to commit statutory rape.”   The hogs started laughing; this was starting to look bad.  It was time to deliver the message, IM FUCKED UP, YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ME, I continued.

                “Well, I’m a white male, between the ages of 25 and 30.  I have gotten fired from every singe job I’ve ever had, I always lie to girls, and have a nasty heroin habit but don’t worry, I only share my needles with folks that are struggling on the streets and too poor to afford there own.  It’s a corporal work of mercy I believe.”  The laughter continued what the fuck was wrong with these sick fucking bar flies.

                “So what’s a cutie like you doing here all alone?”

                “I’m not alone, there are many people following me.”

                “Hahahaahha, ok sugar buns, what’s a cutie like you doing HERE right naw, what are you into?”

                “Mostly bag ladies I meet at truck stops or state parks.”  More laughs.  It seemed the more I tried to repel them, the more I was actually attracting them, life’s cruel inverse operation.  It was time to take control of the situation.

                “You know what, um Miss?”

                “Peaches”

                “Right, Peaches……you see, I’m actually here to meet my daughter, you see, many years ago I gave her up….shit I had to, I had no choice.  The Persian mob offered me her weight in curry plus $50,000 in unmarked bills.  Hell, they would have tried to sodomize us both; they were already going off about the flavor of butt-sex, which very well might be a Persian delicacy, because that’s all they were talking about.  Anyhow, a sting operation was set up from a mobile command unit 16 blocks from this very spot, and although I was not an informant, the timing was terrible.  The district attorneys office was out for blood, so they made me testify against the members, who all received triple life sentences, and two of them I heard were castrated up in Corcoran State Prison by Charles Manson himself.”

“Manson? THEEEE MANSON?”  Was my plan was working now?

“Ah huh, that’s right.  The only way I could keep my daughter safe was to send her away to a work camp over in Wyoming, where she has remained since, working day in day out for a meager ration of soup and mutton.  Her first and only love was sheep named Benny, who was later shaved and sent to the glue factory.  Can you imagine how lonely she is?  Her mother never wrote to her, because she was in cahoots with the mob, and to this day, runs a kabob deli outside of San Francisco.  So you see, she is VERY emotional right now, and if she saw her father spending time with 4 lovely ladies such as your selves, she would be heart broken.  You wouldn’t want to make her cry would you?”

                “Ohhhhhh, no no no no no hun, of course not.” 

                “Good, now I must freshen up, I’m meeting her out back in 15 minutes.”

                “Well, don’t you want our phone numbers at least?”

                “No thanks, I have a healthy fear of AIDS.”

                “What did you say?” and with that, I made my way to the rest room.
The pungent scent of urine hit me like my bank statement did every Saturday morning, just hours after payday.  The dimmed fluorescent light cast an artificial luminescence on the room, as it randomly flickered on and off at light speed.  The commode itself was one of those novelty cowboy troughs, as if I had entered some kind of western time warp, where outlawry was the norm, whisky and opium run free, drinks and hookers as far as the eye could see...a society governed by corruption and extortion, where your word and your gun were the principals you stood by…and a giant fucking bathtub where you and four other complete fucking strangers, simultaneously piss into a hole.  This was what the establishment had invested in its aesthetics. 

                Oh well, at least the walls maintained that standard.  Every conceivable square inch of the wall in this bathroom, was covered by a ripped out magazine picture, with lewd images exotic and sexy  young woman (and some old), scantily clad and committing such nasty and unspeakable vulgar acts.  Some of these had multiple woman featured, others were using whips…there was even a photo of a woman and a donkey.  As I was wondering about burning in hell…my thoughts shifted over to the beautiful fucking tits above the sink, and I then noticed after looking at the pornographic cornucopia that I had completely forgot why I had walked into room in the first place.

The restroom was relatively vacant, and giving its size, the outlaw biker standing in front of sink with a poison ring up his nose, caught my attention.  This was not just a place to excrete any and all detritus, down a mysterious pipe that eventually drain into the pacific-ocean.  What would the irresponsible, self-absorbed, and avaricious parents think if they knew that origin of the vary waters, they inattentively let their kids frolic in, started with a few Rocky Mountain silver-bullet and a gram of Riverside’s finest domestic methamphetamine, filtered through hepatitis infected livers.

Had I known then what I know now, I would have ignored him all together, but it’s not easy to ignore a piss drunk Mexican, pissing in a plastic tree in the corner of a bathroom, talking to himself, in English…saying things like..

                “All this bullshit because I fucked her sister…her mom gave me more better head anyway..”