Boink, page 7
He laughed. Then leaned over and kissed me again.
When he pulled back, he was smiling. I think I was too. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight?”
I reached out for his collar, pulled him towards me and kissed him. Eyes shut.
She Was a Hot Truck
by JASON
PRIVATE COLLEGE
THE NIGHT BEGINS INNOCENTLY ENOUGH. Me and two close friends from high school going to visit another old buddy at Marlborough College on a Friday night. One is a white Armenian we can call Armo, the other is a black stand up bass player we will call Smoov. The kid we are going to visit is somewhat of a ladies man, so we will call him Gigolo. Anyway, I round up Armo and Smoov, we buy a bottle of Gordon’s Vodka with my fake ID, go by Mickey Ds to get some dinner and soda to mix with our Gordon’s, and then set out on the forty-minute drive to Marlborough, sipping on our McDrunks.
Now, we are going to see our friend at Marlborough under the pretense of seeing Dead Prez concert. For those of you that don’t know, Dead Prez is a militant rap group famous for their hardcore rhymes espousing black power and blaming the white man for society’s ills. You might know them since their most famous song is the theme from Chappelle’s Show. Armo and Smoov are crazy about them. I only know one song, but any excuse to get some of my buddies together and hammered like old times is a good enough excuse for me. Plus it’s free to get in and I’m Jewish. Perfect.
When we get there, I am at that point of buzz where your body and brain together start to just say “yup” to just about anything. Another beer? Yup. Another shot? Yup. Another shot chased by beer? Yup. You rolled a blunt? Yup...Anyway, you get the picture. We are so anxious to get to his dorm and start pounding ’em back that we literally run up the stairs. Right as we get to Gigolo’s floor, I hear breaking glass.
Smoov: Shiiiit.
Armo: Smoov, did you drop the Gordon’s?
Smoov: (silence)
Me: You fucktard, you can handle a bow like fucking Robin Hood but you can’t hold onto a bottle of booze?
Smoov: Fuck you man.
Minor set back. Beers and blunts await. We forge on. When we get to Gigolo’s room, we spend a good five minutes exchanging “HEEEEEEEEEEEEEY’s”... and “YOOOOOO’s.” You know, the drawn-out noises that guys make when they meet up just before a night of heavy drinking. It’s like some ritual, like “WASSSSSSUUUUUUUP” of Budweiser fame.
Beers are supplied too all and our goal is to get as wasted as humanly possible. We are college sophomores after all. There is only one speed at which underclassmen guys drink, and that is 0 to 120 in .8 second, break-the-drunk-barrier-type speed. We take huge swigs, we all chug at once, we rip shots of gin, and we are quickly becoming a drunken mess. Rookie, Gigolo’s freshman neighbor, strolls into the room. Rookie seems to think he can drink. Rookie is in for a surprise. I chug against him, me out of a can, him a glass. I still win. He acknowledges my drinking prowess. This puts me in a good mood.
He calls Gigolo Gladiator. I guess one time Gigolo wore his lacrosse shit and looked like a gladiator from that Russell Crowe movie and the froshes dubbed him that. But he obviously looks up to Gigolo. He whips out some pot and says, “You guys wanna roll a blunt?” Rookie makes a quick jump in class; before he was just another rookie bitch, now he is a rookie bitch who is useful.
We get blunted and ride.
After a few more beers, we are in peak form to go hit on some Marlborough sluts. Now Marlborough is not a University of Florida or UCLA. This is a northeast school out in the woods of Southeastern Massachusetts. You can guess the type of hippies and fat asses that seem to be everywhere. However, I have a knack for finding honies there who are not only fuckable, but attractive (maybe by a long shot, but still.)
* * *
Beers are supplied to all and our goal is to get as wasted as humanly possible. We are college sophomores after all. There is only one speed at which underclassmen guys drink, and that is 0 to 120 in .8 second, break-the-drunk-barrier-type speed.
* * *
We enter one of Gigolo’s girlfriends’ rooms, and as expected, out of four girls, only one, who we will call Slut #1, is attractive. I am drigh (pronounced “dry”) as Gigolo calls it, or drunk and high. I immediately approach Slut #1 and begin seducing her with my drunken charm. I tease and flirt, letting her know I think she is attractive, yet still tease her so she knows that I am the man and can bone whoever, whenever I want. Slut #1 is eating this up. Slut#1 is feeding me shots. I like Slut #1.
Fifteen minutes later Gigolo wants to leave. I complain that I am not fucked up enough to sit through black propaganda music at a predominantly white school. More alcohol is necessary. At this point, Slut #1 begins to fill a flask. She takes said flask and puts it in my hand. Said flask has Slut #1’s name engraved on it and looks silver and expensive.
Slut #1: I am only giving this to you if you promise to give it back at the end of the night.
Me: I’m drunk.
Slut #1: (putting her index finger to my lips) Shhh. Promise?
Me: (what I actually said) Cross my heart and hope to die. (translation) You just lost a flask, bitch!
Ah...the spoils of war.
We leave her room and head back to Gigolo’s room to stuff as many beers in our pockets as is possible. This amounts to roughly twelve. We are off into the Marlborough campus to see what the night will bring, drunk as skunks with a flask and a bunch of beer to tide us over once we get there. We are cruising. On the way there, me and Armo have this exchange:
Armo: Dude, remember last time we were here when I got so fucked up I couldn’t even see, but I had my eyes open and was awake?
Me: Yeah.
Armo: That was awesome!
We stash about half the beers outside the concert behind a shed when we get there and manage to smuggle the rest in. The concert is in an auditorium and the crowd is what you expect when you completely mismatch the artist with the intended audience: kind of sparse. We go to the bathroom and each chug a beer and take a few swigs from the flask for good measure. We come out of the bathroom and believe me when I say we were the drunkest kids there. I am browned out. Browning out is, for those not up on their party terminology, when you are blacking out, but still remember your night in snippets. You somehow manage to remember the more important details, yet can’t remember almost anything else. This frequently occurs when I mix blunts with alcohol.
* * *
I am now in a porno. I have a girl sucking my dick in the passenger side of the huge front cab of the truck that probably transported Dead Prez's stuff.
* * *
Well the next thing I remember, I’m standing alone in a crowd full of people (yes, you can do that) near the front of the stage right at the fault line of black people and white people. The entire black population of Marlborough has crammed themselves together nearest the stage. Standing a good yard or so back were the few white kids who actually came to see Dead Prez perform. There was literally a valley in the crowd.
In front of me is a hot black chick grinding her ass like there’s no tomorrow. It later occurs to me that since she was so close to the stage and in plain view of the group, she was probably auditioning for the title of Dead Prez Groupie.
But I am fucked up and my thought process goes more like this: Round ass...moving side to side rhythmically...never fucked a black girl before... the one song that I know and like by Dead Prez is on. “This must be a sign” I conclude as my hips involuntarily begin to sway and I step closer to her. I slip my hands on her waist, she moves closer, and we have liftoff.
Except we just took off in the Challenger.
She turns around and sees that *gasp* a white boy has his junk pressed against her trunk. Though I see the look of disgust on her face, I am blindsided by the violent shove backward. I look up and Militants are staring back at me from the stage. I have overstepped my bounds, and if I don’t get out of there quick, the fault line is going to slip, and the ensuing tsunami is going to envelop all. I retreat, weaving backwards through the crowd, until I reach the outside where I see two girls smoking butts. Tragedy averted.
I promptly go to our beer stash and quickly suck down a brew to cool off. I then make my way up to the two Chiquita bananas with the cancer sticks. (I don’t smoke...cigarettes.) Slut #2 is cute, Pig #1 is not. Both seem to like my style. Marlborough girls in general seem to like my style. This is not something to brag about. It helps that the dudes that attend this school don’t shower regularly or have any people skills to speak of. I am like Brad Pitt to Marlborough girls tonight. I shoot the shit with them and notice Slut #2 rubbing her arms. The pig looks cold too, so while looking Slut #2 directly in the eye to indicate who I was talking too, I say “would either of you like a jacket to stay warm?” as I take it off and hand it towards the slut. But the pig grabbed that jacket so fast I didn’t know what happened. It was like putting a pie in front of Rosie O’Donnell; that shit was gone faster than I could count to zero.
Maybe she thought that I would fuck her to get the jacket back rather than be rude and just take it. HELL NO.
Me: I’ll take that *yoink*
Pig #1 and Slut #2: wha...?
Me: Later.
Back into the ghetto gun show, I wade into the fray. Now at this point, my memory fades out again, but the last thing I remember was that all the white people had spread out into the gym leaving the die-hard fans to huddle by the stage. I move right into fuck-me dance mode, a mode that either gets me laid or slapped, sometimes both.
I know I danced with lots of girls, but the ultimate retelling was done by Smoov later that night, who was a witness to the whole thing:
Smoov: Yooo...so you were dancing with a few girls, and then all of a sudden two of ’em were all up on you. They were both bangin; a blonde and a brunette, but the blonde was fine. Yoooooo...I tried to set the groove on her, but it was like they were fighting over you.
Me: What was I doing?
Smoov: Man, you had this blank look in your eyes but you were dancing, man, you were busting a move. So then I backed off and me and Armo were just chillin, watchin. Then all of a sudden the brunette got aggressive, started feeling below the belt and shit, and the blonde backed off. Then you were both gone.
Consciousness returns, and I’m outside with said brunette. We will call her Slut #3. And you know what they say about three; it’s the magic number. Or it’s a charm. At least one of those applies here. I go to put my hand in my pocket and lo and behold there is something shiny and metallic inside. I pull it out to reveal a flask. SCORE. In this state, I have no idea where it came from. It is too dark to read the engraving that says “Slut #1” and I am too drunk to remember. All I know is that it is filled with liquor, and at this point I thank the god of libation for bestowing this wonderful gift upon me. We share a swig or two, and then things really get interesting.
Me: See that truck?
Slut #3: You mean that huge one?
Me: (It was a semi) Yeeees?
Slut #3: What about it?
Me: Wanna check if it’s open?
Slut #3: I guess we could do that...
Guess if it was open.
I am now in a porno. I have a girl sucking my dick in the passenger side of the huge front cab of the truck that probably transported Dead Prez’s stuff. Sucking leads to fucking, and as drunk as I am, I’m still amazed that I am being straddled and ridden by this hot little brunette who magically appeared on my arm, not to mention the flask of hard liquor that surfaced just minutes earlier. Then she says...
* * *
He begins to get into the truck, I feel her shiver with fear. I try to open the door and run, but I am glued in the seat. This is not happening. He looks up and sees us; hot, naked and glistening with sweat.
* * *
Her: (Mid fuck) You’re just like Gigolo...
Gigolo, if you remember, is the person we came to see in the first place.
Me: Oh you know him? He’s my boy from home.
Her: Um yeah, he introduced us. You don’t remember?
Me: (no recollection whatsoever) Uh...sure.
Her: I used to fuck him all the time. We just recently stopped being exclusive.
Implying they still fuck. Bitches are fucked up. But even though I feel some remorse, I’m in too deep to stop now...figuratively and literally.
Me: (changing the subject because I am drunk and don’t want to deal with sex-ruining drama) Oh baby you’re good, yeah just like that.
Moaning ensued as I applied the jackhammer and coitus was back on, but only for five more minutes, when the worst or perhaps the funniest thing that could have possibly happened did. You be the judge:
While both of us are buck naked, the driver side door opens, and I see a backwoods-looking trucker below me (front cabs are raised up high). He doesn’t see me though, but what he does see is the slut’s boot. I stop fucking. She then notices the bad man, and buries her face in my chest of man fur.
Trucker #1: What the fuck is this...a girl’s boot?
As he chucks it over his shoulder behind him and begins to get into the truck, I feel her shiver with fear. I try to open the door and run, but I am glued in the seat. This is not happening. He looks up and sees us; hot, naked and glistening with sweat, INSIDE HIS TRUCK. I imagine a few things he might say before taking action. “Jackpot” and “Whooeee! We got a live couple sumbitches for the basement back in Kentucky!” The image of the gimp from Pulp Fiction flashes in my mind making me almost gag on the spot.
I open my mouth but no words come out. Uncertainty hangs in the awkward silence. “Awwww shit, I’m sorry,” he said.
An apology? Is this a trap? What in the...
“You two kids go ahead and take your time.”
And with that he shut the door. No exaggeration.
No fucking way. I am at a complete and utter total fucking loss. At this point, after checking to make sure I didn’t shit myself, I burst out in laughter as the slut dismounts.
Me: Hey!? Wait!
Slut #3: Are you kidding me??
Me: (it was too easy) But he said take your time!
While I thought this was brilliant, she did not and was dressed before my hard-on could even begin to shrivel. Her boot was missing though. I knew that she wasn’t going anywhere without her footwear, and she sure as hell wasn’t talking to that trucker to get it. I dressed and got out.
Me: Hey man, sorry about that; we’re really drunk.
Trucker #1: Shit man, don’t worry about it. I wish I was hittin’ that.
Trucker #2: (who must have been beckoned by Trucker #1) Hey son, were you fuckin’ in there?
Me: Well...uuuh, yes sir...
Trucker #2: Well I’ll be damned! (laughing) That is the coolest thing I ever heard.
Me: um...Thanks?
Surreal. I grab the boot off the ground and make off with my little trucker slut. As we walked away, I hear the parting shot.
Trucker #1: Hey man! You fogged up my windows! HAHAHAHA.
Fits of laughter pierced the night sky, and I couldn’t help but snicker a little. And although she wouldn’t admit it, the slut had a smirk on her face too.
Epilogue: Slut #1 never saw her engraved flask again. And seriously, who the fuck cares? I still drink out of it and use it as a conversation piece. Right after the truck fiasco Slut #3 and I walked across campus. Then she forced me into a situation where I was supposed to remember her name. Of course I couldn’t. She feigned anger. But I ended up fucking her doggy-style in her room and busting all over her ass and back about an hour later. Mid sex, my Motorola beeps in and Armo is wondering where I am. Without missing a stroke, I inform him that I am performing ungodly acts at the moment but will be with him shortly. After finishing, the slut and I go back to Gigolo’s room, and Gigolo is not very amused. Apparently Gigolo had been fucking her regularly. Like yesterday. We go to my car where I pass out and Armo drives Smoov and I (snoring) back home. Gigolo eventually gets over it and is still one of my best friends. God bless him.
Pussy
by EVAN
FOREIGN UNIVERSITY
JESSICA AND I HAD a friend named Dan in common. At least, we did until he stopped calling her.
That day, I met Jessica in the Mission for a burrito, and she was wearing what she usually wore: faded jeans and her black-and-white Adidas jacket, a glittery scrunchy holding a ponytail above her slick, dark-brown head of hair, her white teeth striking in the plump chocolate oblong of her face. She was no goddess, but quite pretty, and she had the traditional Latina-zaftig thing going on, so I could appreciate why Dan had a crush on her.
We ordered and sat down at the mustard-yellow tables, under the loud mural of La Virgen on the wall.
“He was such an asshole about it,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, I always had a good time hanging out, and I thought he was having fun too. I just don’t like him like that, you know? And now I guess he doesn’t want to see me anymore if I’m not givin’ it up for him.”
* * *
“Why are guys like that? ” she asked. “Why is it always about the pussy? ”
* * *
I nodded, actually much more focused on the al pastor tacos that had just arrived in front of me, but what she said next really got me to thinking.
“Why are guys like that?” she asked. “Why is it always about the pussy?”
It was definitely a fair question. It was more than fair. It was damn good, and it hit a nerve with me, because the night before I had been in bed (or rather, on top of it) with a slim redhead named Nicole.
Nicole and I also had history, but not like I had with Jessica, who I had known since seventh grade, felt up once at a dance, and never had any romantic feelings for since. Jessica subsequently had been the longtime girlfriend of one of my best friends during which time she and I had also become close.
