IF YOU WANT TO KISS A WOOKIE...I CAN ARRANGE
When I was forced to attend officer basic
course in Ft. Gordon, I was in for a surprise.
My first goal, as always, was to find a woman. Luck was with me that day,
and I saw another Lieutenant standing in line at the Post Exchange, waiting
in line at a Robin Hood restaurant, one of those Army eateries that I had
yet to try. “Is this good?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she smiled. “I haven’t eaten here yet. Are you new
here?” We continued with the normal perfunctory banter, and I found out her
name was Rosalie, she was from California and she used to be a model. She
sure as hell acted like one, I'm not a big fan of her state, and I knew damn
well that there were no long-term possibilities for a wife with a future
name like Rosalie Rozendaal. So, if I was wise, I would have ended it
there. But, I'm not, as past experiences show, and she was fucking
She needed to go to the housing office to get her room, so I drove her
across post to the proper building. She ended up getting a room
directly below mine. I informed her of this, and we made plans to go
to the class welcoming party together. I showed up at her door in full
cowboy regalia and saw her own extreme attire. She looked fine, but
was definitely a Paris Hilton clone. Wacky ass dress, doggie purse
(which cost $400, I found out in the course of the evening) and sunglasses
at night. I hate that fucking song, too. I suffered the
consequences of breaking my no-Army chicks rule, once again.
To end this part of the tale, we'll fast forward two months. I stopped
hanging out with her because all she ever did was watch Top Model, bitch
about her boyfriend and whine about inane shit. Like my friend Amy
told me once, "Sometimes, the novelty of a person just wears off." It
did, so I ended it quick. Too bad, too. Because some other
married dude took my place and started fucking her about a week later,
reportedly the night she broke up with her beau. Great timing there,
The new class was coming in. I saw a really short, petite gal moving
in across the hall. She was a butter face, but she had a nice body,
and I absolutely adore short women. I've probably said this before,
but, being a tall guy, I have this penchant for tiny gals. I know, for
one thing, that I'll tear them in two, ravaging them. Also, I think
that I want to help them out, on a subconscious level, passing on to their
offspring the genetic gift of height. So generous, I am.
Her last name was Glasscock. We all had a good laugh over that one.
I was a foreign exchange officer's sponsor, and my Honduran padawan, Mario,
my newfound friend Peter Murphy and I were all sitting at my table drinking
the Naranja Profunda, the Deep Orange, a drink I made up consisting of
vodka, orange juice, pink grapefruit juice, peach schnapps and grenadine.
Mario had Pete and I almost spew alcohol out our noses when he finally
started laughing uncontrollably on the floor when we explained...and he
understood...our nickname for her - Crystaldick. Ah, they grow up so
I offered to help her move in, but she informed me that she was finished.
She left her door open, so I kept mine ajar. Then, I played Craig
Morgan's "Almost Home" on my computer and began to sing. She came into
my room, told me she loved the song, and that I sang well. She asked
me if I wanted to go down to the next class' welcoming party with her.
Our class had to set up this particular shin-dig, so I insisted on some
Karaoke. We had it, and it was a smashing success. Much better
than our luau, or whatever the hell it was. I sang a song, which
Crystaldick loved, and she proposed a duet. I agreed, once more.
Which was a mistake. To quote Zorak, "I've blown better notes outta my
assophone." Luckily, it was the last duet. Ever. I had to
work my ass off to come up with excuses, but I kept our vocal careers
She kept hitting on me and hanging out in my room, but I never made any
attempt at an advance. I still had four months in Ring Hall. She
lived right across the way, and I feared that progressing the situation any
would cramp my style. There was a GORGEOUS gal on the first floor I
was desperately trying to shag. Unfortunately, I am white, and she was
black, and my African-American friends tried to tell me it was a pipe dream
with HER, but, alas, I was living the fantasy.
Anyway, one night a friend and I were watching football in my room.
Someone knocked at the door. It was Charlie Delta, as she was now
known due to name mutations, and she came into the room and sat on my lap.
Andrew got up to leave after about half an hour or so. "See ya, man.
I'm off to bed."
"Already?" I asked, perplexed. "It's only 9:30..."
"I know, but I'm tired. See ya tomorrow."
"See ya," I said. As the door shut behind him, I decided to crack a
joke that wasn't taken as such. "Finally, he leaves," I said, moving
in towards Glasscock's face, as if to kiss her. I pulled away,
because, again, in all seriousness, I was being completely flippant.
She saw this as an opportunity. She kissed me. Oh, shit!
I thought. This is awesome! And, it was. Sort of.
I hadn't made out with anyone for about five months, or so, and I love makin'
out. It's great...for about fifteen minutes. It has to be going
somewhere, though. I like watching previews in the theatre, as well,
but I don't want to sit there for two hours of previews...if you know what
She stopped me and said, "You're a really good kisser."
Once again, I find myself in a position to use the classic line of, "I
She...wasn't so good. But, I don't kiss and tell. Well, maybe I
do. She sucked. It ended up being me, doing all the work.
This continued for a half an hour until she said, "I have to go to bed.
We have formation at five."
She left, but the next day, coming back from class, I walked by her room to
hear, "Seth? Come in here a second, will you?" I did, and she requested,
"Shut the door, will you?" I did, and I started to think about the
ramifications of last night's drunken make-out session. I feared this
may be the beginnings of non-stop stalking. She started making out
with me again, and it was the same shit, different day, but I didn't care.
Nice to have the 'tang on demand, I thought.
All that would change soon, though.
It was a Friday night, which I always reserved to either playing poker with
friends or going out on a night of absolute debauchery. This night, I
decided on the latter and visited a cool Martini Bar I'd been to years ago
while stationed at Fort Bragg. Right next door to Nacho Mama's on the
corner, if one ever finds themselves in the unfortunate situation of being
trapped in August, Georgia. I repeated the night's activities on
Saturday with a purple pimp suit at a Jazz club with me and a friend
consisting of the only two white boys in the place. These two nights
of absolute drunkenness meant that on Sunday, I didn't go out at all.
I was sitting in my room, recovering, when I heard a knock at my door.
Unthinkingly, I uttered, "Come in."
It was the Cock of Glass. "Sethers!!" she shouted, much to my chagrin.
Apparently, that was the pet name I'd picked up from her...it didn't make me
loathe it any less. I finally knew what my brother feels every time I
tease him by calling him Nealis. "What have you been doing all
weekend? Hiding from me?"
As much as I wanted to say yes, I sat there and said nothing. She
detailed her wild account of studying and then moved in to where the action
was. We made out for a while, and then she said, "Stand up."
I rose from my chair, and she pushed me onto my bed. Sweet ass.
Now we're getting somewhere... We were making out for a bit more
when I decided to make my move. I started grabbing some tit, when she
stopped sucking my face. "What are you doing?" she asked. That's
when I opened my eyes and I saw something that would've made Hitchcock
I was staying in a hotel-type room, so, thankfully, I had a fluorescent
light directly above the headboard. This illuminated my would-be
bed-buddy in a way that shone light all around the back of her head.
This light revealed to me with gruesome efficiency..............the beard.
Glasscock had a beard. It wasn't a beard that you could normally see
with the naked eye. It was like the Invisible Woman's beard, if she
had one. But I saw it there, and now I had an eye out for the bastard.
I couldn't NOT see it, at this point, once it had revealed itself.
Making out sucked thereafter, too, because I could feel the phantom hairs on
her upper lip, just waiting for an opportunity to darken.
However, at this moment in time, I was still laying there on my back, with
my hand on her boob and her question in mind. "Nothing," I said.
"I'm...not doing anything."
"It's okay," she said, as she leaned down to kiss me again. I tried.
I really did. But it was this makeout session that led me to finally
feel hairy lips on mine.
"You know," I said, pulling away. "I should really get to bed.
I've had a long weekend, and I need to get up early tomorrow. I think
I'm leading Physical Training," I lied.
"Okay," she said, giving me one last appalling peck.
After that, I spent the next two months in my buddy's room, mastering Hot
Shots Golf! 3, drinking tons of wine and hiding out. I didn't see her
much, made out with her less, and escaped relatively unscathed.
She hit me up on instant messenger months later. I have no idea how
she found out that information. It was even more amazing that she
caught me online with a messenger service. Luckily, one blocked user
account later, and I haven't heard from her since.
I guess the lesson here is: Be careful what you wrap
your lips around.