Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.

 

So. Let’s talk about teeth. Maybe we should begin talking about my teeth and go from there. I’ve always had pretty good teeth until age of about fifty-five. Few cavities and very few toothaches. I am a giant pussy when it comes to pain, so after the first time I experienced the dentist’s drill and syringe, I started taking great care of my dentins delicti. Brush, floss, brush and floss again.

But when I hit fifty-five, some of my personal habits started taking a toll on said teeth and causing me considerable consternations. The worst of those habits is clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth—a terrible habit developed by me as a way to assist with enhancing my slack abilities to focus and concentrate. At a quite young age I had determined that a small level of self inflicted pain helped scatter some of my myriad thoughts to leave but a few for my ADHD-addled mental processes to sort through in order to gain a modicum of focus.

Suffering helps me concentrate, a situation that I now realize needs to be discussed with my psycho therapist.

I’ve tried biting my tongue, pinching myself, squeezing my balls, pulling nose hairs and stabbing tiny pricks in my skin with a needle as methods to inflict pain without causing too much injury. I knew a guy in college who cut himself with a razor blade—one of those old timey two-edged jobbers. He’d slide the razor blade across the skin on his arms in bizarre patterns of craziness.

I loved those razors, the way you screwed the knob on the bottom and the top opened up like a set of those little flappy things on the back of airplane wings. Set the blade in its slot and then close the flappy jobbers with reverse twists of the knob.

Me, I loved those razors, but I just couldn’t bring myself to draw the kind of blood that sort of pain set to flow. Besides, cut pain isn’t instantaneous. Unless you cut a nerve or tendon, it doesn’t really hurt until later. I needed to be able to start and stop minor pain at will.

Which reminds me. I was getting dressed this morning and had one of those bizarre deja’ vu moments. I had been slot machine dreaming last night—you know, the kind where your sleeping brain has maybe a dozen different dreams that it totally fucking insists it plays for you before time to arise. Dream a little bit about chasing honey bees across a clover covered meadow while wearing nothing but high-top sneakers in front of a bandstand filled with Dolly Parton look-alikes, and spin suddenly to that time I was back to Tennessee, and Beej and I were visiting over to Chez Squatlo, a wonderful time of frostbite, vittles and sink peeing.

Anyway, I was already confused when I awoke, and somehow managed to get confuseder as I shaved, showered, and to bring us to the having gotten dressed part previously mentioned—I sat on the lid to the toilet putting on my socks while feeling a sense of bewilderment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shithead? You look like your eyes are going to start spinning.”

It was the Squirt and she seemed to have a bead drawn on me. Before I could answer, my head filled with the sights and sounds of an eighth grade assembly back to William B. Travis Junior High School in Austin, Texas. In this assembly we kids were treated to a concert of slave songs and African American authored music sung by the choir from Prairie View College from down near to Houston.

“Did you know that “Cotton-Eye Joe” was a slave song—a witty ditty written to be sung by American slaves to help pass time as they toiled for their masters?” I asked the Squirt. “And can you even get your mind around the fact that we Americans had to fight a bloody civil war with our ownfuckingselves before we could abolish said and same slavery?”

“I’m a dog, asshole. Cats have always hated us and always will. Same thing with some cat people, brainless bigots that they are.”

The little dog was right, and that entire American slavery business is mind boggling. And boggling more it is to think that we still have what might be millions of our populace who would like to see the return of those old times not forgotten. Maybe that should have been “more boggling”.

Me, I hear this Dixieland rhetoric and Stars-and-Bars bullshit and I need to just look away rather than warm up my nose-and-ear thumper. Those silly fuckers are much better armed than a cranky old geezer with extra-strong thumb and middle finger. I can make your nose bleed with one heavy thump, but I’m too slow to dodge bullets.

Enough of your secessionist racism, boys, you lost that war and lost it badly.

So, I was sitting on the commode lid with my tiny brown puppy giving me shit, and I closed my eyes to think about gritting my teeth in concentration. As soon as I did, I was sitting in my seat in the school auditorium, eyes wide open as I watched and heard a few dozen black college kids dressed as minstrels sing and sway to slave songs.

The entire sight was eye-popping for me as I’d not before seen that many black people in one place except for down to Ruby’s Baptist church. Ruby was the head cook at the chicken joint I worked as a young boy, and the first black woman I masturbated to. And eye-popping more as there was this one girl singer, woman singer maybe, who held the raptest of my attentions at the assembly. The word in my head to describe her in that moment was “juicy”. I remember that I actually salivated with lust for her.

Mrs. Browningwell had separated Streaker Jones and me by placing Susie Ashburn between us as a preferred method to crowd control the two of us. “You are disgusting, Butcher Johnson!” Susie said when I stood up to clap after what I remember was “Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones”.

Seems that my lust for the juicy singer had managed to overfill my pecker with blood flow, which had, in turn, pushed a knob in the front of my ever-so-soft, worn tan cord pants. Suzie never called me Mooner, always using my birth name instead. Suzie and her daddy, Doctor Ashburn, play an important role in my silly fucking book, a handsome tome of some 400-plus pages, and a true by-the-word bargain, which is available by clicking over there =====}}}}} to my bloggie roller.

Ever tried to hide a full-on boner after it’s already been spotted and announced? There was this one kid—Billy something—who’d take his out and wave it at you if you made comment. “Boy’s Not Right” was Billy’s nickname.

I remember this one time at the Junior-Senior Dance—the one whereat I was so stoned I couldn’t feel my feet—when I finally got a dance with Linda Crittendon. Linda was a juicy cheerleader and the subject of many visits to the bathroom with an Ivory Soap bar. Our local school band, The Undertakers, started to play one of those asinine Paul and Paula songs—slow tempo music with lyrics that say, “I can’t wait for you to be sixteen so we can screw in the back seat of my daddy’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.”

Anyway, stoned to the point of having zero impulse control, I asked Linda to dance, and for some reason she accepted. My plan was to simply hold her and touch as many of her important, juicy parts as possible without getting slapped. Linda, on the other hand, wanted to slow dance. In the 1960′s to “slow dance” was as sexual and provocative as a teenager could get in public.

I had this gray sharkskin suit back to high school, made of thin, tough fabric that had a silk-like quality. It would ripple and sparkle with light as I moved. As a stoner, I thought the visual effects quite impressive. Linda and I danced and she had pulled me close and pressed her entire body to mine, and I at first simply luxuriated in the contrasting firm and soft of all her juicy parts stamped to mine. At first, she and I were totally into the dance. And as I was quite a good dancer of the slow dance, and Linda a juicy cheerleader, after a minute of the song other dancers began to give us room, and watch.

I think it was at the “…true love means waiting..” part that my pecker woke up and realized that it was slowly rubbing Linda fucking Crittendon’s juicy mound. Totally unannounced, and without any conscious aforethought on my part, it swelled against the thin fabric of my sharkskin pants and wedged itself between Linda’s juicy legs and against the lower edge of her juiciest part of all.

The specifics of the remainder of the dance are a bit blurry in my mind. I do remember that Linda was drinking vodka spiked Coke with her cheerleader buddies and that explained her mood and willingness to dance with a nobody like me. And I do remember that I wasn’t the only one to moan as my woody rubbed against her. And I do know that she whispered, “Let’s go out sometime,” when the song was over.

But I’m missing the approximately three-minute interval between when Linda whispered in my ear with her juicy lips as the song ended, and the part where most of the junior and senior classes were staring in wonderment at the silly asshole slow dancing with himself as “Louie-Louie” was blasted out by The Undertakers.

My best friend since childhood is that man named Streaker Jones. Streaker Jones is a man of few words and was a boy of the same brevity. When “Louie-Louie” ended, I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes to his face. “Nice stiffy, Mooner. C’mon.”

The most interesting part of all of that is nobody laughed at me and I never was kidded about it. I was never made to pay the price for doing something embarrassing that teens usually extract. Maybe it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that make great scenes in movies. Maybe that was my one best brush with the unattainable.

Makes a person wonder where Linda is today. Would I still find her juicy?

Fuck Walmart, fuck racists of all colors, and we’ll get together manana, y’all.

 

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7 Responses to “Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.”

  1. Squatlo says:

    As KV Jr. wrote about Billy Pilgrim’s large erection while asleep on the airplane, “you never know who’s going to get one”.

    Personally, my pecker always behaves itself on command, but on a few occasions has decided to go into full launch mode completely independent of command central’s control. I was about sixteen and enjoying a conversation with a nice young lady before the start of an algebra class one morning in high school when I noticed movement of a carnal nature taking place under the desk top. The object of my adolescent obsession had showed up for school wearing a button up the front dress shirt, but had the top three buttons open at the top of her blouse. She had leaned over to say something to someone else, I had gotten a glimpse of glorious cleavage in that downblouse moment, and when she’d turned to say something directly to me the launch sequence had started. Def Com Four, open the hatch, activate the missile code.
    Back in those daze we wore jeans that were tight, yet about as yielding as a cinder block wall, so this unannounced growth was a swelling that needed to be hidden under a desk. Problems arose about ten seconds into class when Ms. Harris asked me to go to the chalkboard to handle the first algebraic equation of the day. She liked to randomly select a victim from the class for this humiliation, and I was caught completely unprepared for both the math problem and the fact that my penis had decided to swell up during my conversation with the cute girl of my fantasies.

    I walked quickly to the chalkboard, and spent the better part of five minutes closely facing the wall (chalk dust on my nose close) while I pretended to be struggling with making Xs and Ys equal zero for a woman who seemed to find that the most important thing in my entire educational experience. After several minutes of pondering a math equation I had no intention of solving, even had I been capable of working it out, she told me to take a seat and called on someone else to come to the board. By that time I was merely semi-turgid, and considering the fact that my turgidity wasn’t anything notable at the best of times, I doubt anyone noticed.

    Funny how those hormonal urges hit at all the wrong times when you’re young.

    Wait, you peed in my sink?

    My fucking toothbrush is on the back of that sink…

    (shit…)

  2. Katy Anders says:

    I enjoyed this one, even though I don’t make a habit of talking ab out teeth or boners.

    The teeth thing in particular is something I have issues with. I know they are sort of a necessity and all, but I don’t want to think about it. Dentists… if they could just knock me out and tell me when they’re done, that’s fine. I know that’s a bad idea, because I’ve heard stories about dentists and all, but… concessions have to be made in the name of not thinking about teeth.

  3. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Squat. OK, for starters, “Yes, Virginia, Santie Claus did, indeed, practice his water-savings program while visiting your domicile.”

    As I use more than a modicum of expertise when sink peeing (I’ve years of practice), any splashings onto your toothbrush would have been minimal. Additionally, said splashings would likely have bore you no harm as my blood alcohol levels were in the 2-somethings, and it was so fucking cold that bacteria can’t survive.

    On the Kurt V and Slaughterhouse Five reference, the dogs and I re-watched that amazing movie a couple months ago, and you know where this is going.

    “I need to teach the goat dog to pee on your leg, asshole,” Squirt told me. “Why don’t you love your dogs as much as Mr. Pilgrim loves his?”

    And speaking of boners, I have no more control over my woodie growth than i do my impulses. Hell, I can catch wood watching a woman brushing her teeth on TV. Maybe I’m crazy, but, well, I am crazy.

    Katy, flower of my heart. I’ve recently decided to stop repairing my tired old teeth and start pulling them. I’ll send off to Korea or Russia or maybe somewhere in Africa to get a mail order bride–young lass with perfect teeth. Get her to pre-chew my food for me and I can gum all the right spots for her.

    Which reminds me. I once was performing my best mouth work on one of the exes and got an entire mouthful of pubbies stuck between my teeth. She had long, fine blond drapes and I’ve tight margins between my teeth.

    Ever tried o make it from the bed to the bathroom to get scissors from the drawer with your face stitched to a pubic mound?

  4. Katy Anders says:

    That reminds me of the scene from “Chasing Amy” where they discuss the various cunnilingus-related injuries they’ve gotten over the years.

    Things happen.

    Studies show that more than 45% of emergency room visits in 2011 were cunnilingus-related.

  5. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Katy. I’, thinking that maybe your statistics are slewed towards your desires. Just saying.

  6. Squatlo says:

    It’s dark and lonely work. And no one is ever around to show us what we’re doing wrong…

  7. Squatlo says:

    As Sam Kinison once ranted, “Oh, she’ll tell her mom… she’ll tell her girlfriends… but she WON’T TELL YOU!”

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