My father had a cliché for every occasion. One of his favorites was “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” I often wondered if that applied to gift pussy, but the old man never said much about pussy. In fact he said so little about pussy that I also wondered if I was the product of a virgin birth.
The events of a cold January night convinced me that never looking a gift pussy in the mouth might not be such a great idea. Those events began as I was approaching my apartment in a small village in southeast Pennsylvania following a nine-hour drive from Columbus, Ohio, where I had spent a delirious weekend with someone else’s wife..
For the last quarter mile down the deserted road leading to my apartment, I had been followed by some fool who was so tight on my back bumper that he must have thought my tailpipe was a glory hole. Tired, grumpy, fucked-out, a bit apprehensive, and greatly in need of a warm piss and a warm bed, I yanked my car into a parking space in the apartment lot and turned the lights off menacingly.
The car that had been stalking me pulled up right beside me on my left. Fortunately, or not, there was my ex-brother-in-law twice removed in the passenger seat with a look that said “wanna get wasted”? He introduced me to his friend, who looked to have an IQ of roughly 85, the product of the number of teeth he possessed multiplied by 5. These gentlemen were looking to hang out for a while, and even though it was 10 o’clock and I had to face down five classes’ worth of middle school fucktards the following day, I invited them in for a smoke.
Two joints later we went up the road to a roadside bar. An hour after that we stumbled out, and I fell into the passenger seat of the picket-fence-teeth dude’s car, which looked like it had come from Deliverance motors. As I lost consciousness, I smiled, thinking I would soon wake up in the parking lot of my apartment and be shed of these miscreants.
I woke up instead in the parking lot of a strange apartment complex just in time to hear the man with the binary-choppers arrangement say, “Youse wait here a minute. If she’s awake, she’ll fuck all three of us.”
I wished determinedly that whoever or whatever she was, was indeed asleep; or, better yet, that she had died in her sleep ten minutes ago. Then I told my ex-brother-in-law twice removed that he was welcome to my turn as I was going back to sleep.
“Thanks a lot,“ he replied. “That’ll give me twice as much chance of catching something.”
Fortunately for the genital health and well-being of all concerned, ol’ gap teeth soon returned with the bad news that the sleeping debutante would not be pleasuring us that night.
I would like to be able to say—for the purpose of a snappy ending here—that I have often wondered, especially when I was blind and invincibly drunk, how the evening might have gone if the jack o’lantern’s friend had been awake and I hadn’t been so squeamish. What epic tales might have ensued—tales involving fruits, vegetables, lit candle sticks, ping pong balls, sardines, litter scoop handles, and Satan-only-knows what else.
Alas, I have never been within puking distance of being that drunk. I have been drunk enough to drive down the sidewalk of a predominantly black neighborhood before dark; drunk enough to pour gasoline into a puddle on the floor of my house then flick lit matches at it; drunk enough to miss the gasoline puddle; drunk enough to throw up three times into my scarf at a Holmes Brothers concert; and drunk enough to do much worse; but I have never been drunk enough not to look that particular gift pussy in the mouth, especially from a safe distance.
(Written in Room 406-1 of the Palace Hotel in Cape May, New Jersey, September 23, 2015, while my wife was asleep, unaware of the sort of man she had married.)
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