So there I was, my testicles super-glued
to my Fruit of the Loom briefs in the tropical Florida weather, when she
pops the question.
"Mfffffmmm my pussmmmfffffm?" she mumbles.
I remove my penis from her mouth, which is poking through
the zipper of my ladies' stretch jeans I'd purchased on Fourteenth Street, and ask
her what she said, this time without her mouth full.
"Mfffffmm my pussmmmmmffffffm?" she asks again.
I'm about to ask her yet again what she was saying, but
then I remember that "I Need Lunch," off the Dead Boys album, Young, Loud,
And Snotty, is blaring through the Archer stereo system of my Datsun 610
station wagon.
I reach over She-Who-Can't-Be-Named's beautiful brown
hair and turn the fucking thing off.
promotion
I can now hear her with her throat clear and the Dead
Boys muted. "Munch my pussy, man."
I'm stunned.
Here I am, with this beautiful woman in my newly purchased
Datsun 610, with only 150,000 miles on it, and this rocker chick who has her
own band and everything wants me to perform oral sex on her.
I'm in heaven.
Finally, my new car is going to get broken in. The seats
will get that wet vagina smell that I can place my large nose against anytime
I feel lonely and horny while traveling down I-95.
I lift her sun-flowered dress and quickly try to remove
her furry brown underwear.
"Ouch," she snaps at me.
With a small fistful of pubic hair, I tell her I'm sorry,
and that I didn't realize she was naked beneath her dress — well, naked
except for that.
She kind of giggles and forces my head ever so gently
with her left hand down toward her vagina.
But let me back up a bit.
The University Of Florida rocked for me. While I was barely keeping a D-average,
I was getting all the carnal knowledge I needed
All I could think was, "If only that poor guest sofa knew what was about to hit it."
(or could handle). Plus, I was
in the process of learning just how much alcohol my liver could stand before
becoming toxic.
It was a charming, beautiful and innocent time in my
life.
I was also the guitar player and lead songwriter in the
state's only hardcore punk-rock band, Roach Motel. Anyway, one day we were asked
to open for this hippie band with a female lead singer. I think. Or we may have
just been there for the free beer.
No matter.
The point is that She-Who-Can't-Be-Named was the lead
singer. Years later she would become really famous and end up talking to David
Letterman and everything. While watching her stride confidently out toward Dave's
desk, all I could think was, "If only that poor guest sofa knew what was about
to hit it."
Back to the night in question. She-Who-Can't-Be-Named and I are talking between
sets, and the next thing you know, I'm making out with her, this beautiful brunette.
And I mean beautiful. Silky brown hair, skin as soft as a baby's and a mouth
with a full set of teeth — a rare find in Northern Florida.
As I'm squeezing her ripe melons behind her van, she
tells me to stop playing with the fruit she'd purchased for her band at Pic N'
Save and pay some attention to her.
The next thing I know, we're in my new used Datsun and
she's giving me a blowjob.
Well, sort of.
She keeps sliding her head up and down the shaft, but
she won't use her hands to keep the rhythm going. I think about asking her to
do this, but then I remember that if she does it this way with me, she must do
it this way with her husband too, and he wasn't complaining, so why should I?
Plus, it really didn't matter that my groin area had
turned into Niagara Falls. So what if there was so much saliva running down my
shaft and pooling in the car seat that I'd have to get the vinyl buffed?
Finally, she's squirming in her seat, and asks if I'll
go down on her.
She asks this mid-blowjob.
I reluctantly accept.
This is after I have to tell her not to talk with her
mouth full.
And that's when it happened.
As I throw the clump of pubic hair out the driver's side
window so as not to mess up my green shag carpeting, I make my way down to her
"Oh my God," she screams as I bathe her vagina with used nachos and beer.
pulsating womanhood with the help of her left hand
upon my head.
It's a good, strong push, by the way, as if she's used
to plugging up leaks.
Anyway, very soon I realize there's trouble in paradise,
which explains her surprising forcefulness.
When my nose is about three inches from her vagina, a
smell begins.
You know, the one you notice on overly hot days in New
York City when the garbage men are on strike? Or the one your dumpster-diving
pals develop after visiting the bin behind Red Lobster when it's over a hundred
degrees out?
That smell.
My arms begin to flail wildly, and the surprisingly strong lead singer is still
holding me down there. I try to take deep breaths, but that just makes me feel
even sicker. So I decide that maybe it's just a smell and that her vagina tastes
like wine and roses.
As my tongue makes contact with what can only be described as
rotting Brillo, I feel little hard things begin to fill my mouth as I graze.
It feels like sand.
Being the trooper that I am, I search through the wild
bush to find Charlie, who must be hiding in there somewhere. While managing not
to breathe, I finally find that wet crevice and my tongue follows the slippery
slant all the way to that glorious opening where I'm hoping the roses aren't
dead and the wine isn't Thunderbird.
Instead, my tongue finds something that feels like a
hard-shelled crustacean, and I feel it crawl from the back of my tongue to the
inside of my right cheek. As this happens, I manage to hurl into the hippie's
hole.
"Oh my God," she screams as I bathe her vagina with used
nachos and beer. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I try to tell her I don't feel so well, but end up puking
even more onto her thighs. As I do so, she reflexively snaps her legs tightly
together, causing the vomit to pool in her lap.
Thinking quickly, I leap out the driver's side door and, in one motion,
slide over my hood to the passenger side, and in another, pull her out of my
car to safety.
Safety for my car.
While jumping over the hood, of course, I catch my penis
on the car's antenna and rip open some skin.
A few months later, She-Who-Can't-Be-Named and her band show up in town again
and I go to their gig. While she sings from the stage, she spots me in the audience
and glares at me.
After her fine set, I find myself alone with her in the
women's room I'd followed her into, planning to apologize.
"You can't come in here," she says in one of the meanest
voices I've ever heard.
"You're telling me," I mumble, and make my way out of
her life forever.
n°
George Tabb grew up as one of the few Jews in Greenwich, CT, which became
the subject of this first memoir, Playing Right Field: A Jew Grows in
Greenwich. He writes for the New York Press and
Maximumrocknroll, among other publications. He's recently divorced
and now lives in the New York City area with his Yorkshire Terrorist and
best friend, Scooter. Visit his website at www.georgetabb.com.
