A Common Pornography Part 8

My cousin Tana gave me a key to her apartment and I often stayed at her place when she was gone. Her fish needed to be fed.

Yvette and I eventually tried to have s.e.x in Tana's bed. It almost seemed too planned out and it was hard to get excited. Yvette said she wanted to do it, but we couldn't make it work for some reason. I was nervous and started to have performance anxiety. Her v.a.g.i.n.a was slick but felt like a wall. Her hymen would not budge.

I didn't see her for about a month after that. I knew it wasn't working out without her having to tell me. But I saw her one last time at a party in East Pasco. It was at some DJ's house-the kind with weeds and dirt in the front yard instead of gra.s.s. Some raw homemade-sounding hip-hop was blaring out of the living room stereo when I came in. Everyone looked at me suspiciously since I was the only white person there. Yvette led me to a dark bedroom and we went in. I couldn't see a thing but I could hear her breathing hard. She reached into my pants and started jerking me off. My pants fell and I could sense her moving down my body as I stood there, surprised and unsure of what to do. I touched her head softly and felt her short blunt hair until I came.

Bas.e.m.e.nt

Right before I moved out of my parents' house to live with friends in Richland, I relegated my suitcase of p.o.r.n to the bas.e.m.e.nt, a narrow dirt-walled s.p.a.ce that had been there since before the fire. I tried to bury it under some saggy boxes and moldy clothes, but my dad found it later. I claimed not to know anything about it. I said it probably belonged to Mark. moved out of my parents' house to live with friends in Richland, I relegated my suitcase of p.o.r.n to the bas.e.m.e.nt, a narrow dirt-walled s.p.a.ce that had been there since before the fire. I tried to bury it under some saggy boxes and moldy clothes, but my dad found it later. I claimed not to know anything about it. I said it probably belonged to Mark.

The Stilts

My first apartment was at the Stilts, the cheapest housing in the Tri-Cities, in uptown Richland. I lived there for two short months. The first month I was living with three other guys who had decided to move out right as I was moving in. I was the only one there for the second month. The one thing I remember about the Stilts was that it used to be an army barracks or something. There were six rooms in each apartment, with a small kitchen and bathroom. A lot of kids just out of high school lived there and there were always parties. was at the Stilts, the cheapest housing in the Tri-Cities, in uptown Richland. I lived there for two short months. The first month I was living with three other guys who had decided to move out right as I was moving in. I was the only one there for the second month. The one thing I remember about the Stilts was that it used to be an army barracks or something. There were six rooms in each apartment, with a small kitchen and bathroom. A lot of kids just out of high school lived there and there were always parties.

It was a period of time for me where I tried to exact revenge on the ghost of Pam. I still resented the fact that she was my first real girlfriend. Initially blinded by my p.u.b.escent desperation, I eventually realized she was simply a dullard. I regretted all the time I had invested in her, only to have her cheat on me. She instilled in me a precedent that I would constantly rehash-seducing people and then cheating on them. I was guilty of using bodies as I recorded sound bites in my brain-little quotes about how much of a nice guy I was, how cute I was-that I played back in my head to somehow validate my actions and make myself feel good. I was taking advantage of anyone I thought was as weak as me.

Holly

Holly was sixteen when I started going out with her. I was nineteen and trudging through my one and only year of community college in Pasco. I met Holly at the Palace and I was attracted by her combination of toughness and innocence. On the surface, you'd see a leather jacket, torn jeans, wrestling shoes, and jet-black hair spiked into a Mohawk. But she also had the sweetest dimpled smile and she would write mushy love letters to me and invite me to do stuff with her and her mom. She was also a big girl. when I started going out with her. I was nineteen and trudging through my one and only year of community college in Pasco. I met Holly at the Palace and I was attracted by her combination of toughness and innocence. On the surface, you'd see a leather jacket, torn jeans, wrestling shoes, and jet-black hair spiked into a Mohawk. But she also had the sweetest dimpled smile and she would write mushy love letters to me and invite me to do stuff with her and her mom. She was also a big girl.

I feel bad saying this but I'd feel worse if I lied-I initially went out with her because she was very large-breasted and I wanted to feel her up. A month or so into the relations.h.i.+p, we were ready to have s.e.x. Then I learned that she was a virgin. I knew from my own unfortunate experience with Pam that people usually fall in love with the first boyfriend or girlfriend they have s.e.x with. But I was such a horndog that I decided not to care. The first time happened in her bedroom when her mom was gone. I wasn't too far removed from my virginity either, so it didn't last long. After that, we would have to sneak around different places to have s.e.x and sometimes we'd do it in my Volkswagen Rabbit somehow, once in the parking lot of the community college. When I decided to break up with her a month later, I was suddenly the sc.u.m of the scene. All of Holly's friends at the Palace sneered at me, called me an a.s.shole, or just put their noses in the air when I walked by. Holly ignored me as well, but she did so with a face full of disappointment and regret.

The next year, Holly went to her prom with Chuck, a guy I was sharing a small trailer with. It felt like a taunt to see their picture-her standing in front of Chuck, his arms around her chubby waist-displayed on the shelf next to our small TV. This was my punishment for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g over a virgin.

Taternuts

This is how I learned about c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s from a policeman's wife and became a legendary fryer at the same time. I learned about c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s from a policeman's wife and became a legendary fryer at the same time.

First off, I was a graveyard waiter at a place called the Top Hat. It was an all-night diner in Pasco, just down the street from where the prost.i.tutes walked around. They'd sometimes come in with their johns and I had to serve them coffee and pie.

On my way home from work, I stopped at a doughnut shop called Taternuts. The reason being, of course, because it was there. And because it was open, which many places weren't at five thirty in the morning.

A man wearing an Ocean Pacific s.h.i.+rt and graced with a mustache as thick as Gene Shalit's was strong-arming a blob of dough on a floured surface near the entrance. I checked out his action over the plastic sneeze guard.

"Whatcha up to?" he asked me. I was wearing a tie and probably looked like I had been out all night drinking.

"Uh, I just got off work. I wait tables. The Top Hat. Graveyard." I moistly chewed out the words, amid cake doughnut debris. "These cake ones are awesome," I said.

"They're called spuddies," he enlightened me.

"What the-"

"We don't make doughnuts here. These are made with potato flour mix. The cake ones are spuddies and the raised ones are taternuts." He folded up the flattened dough three times and then plopped it atop a machine that fed the dough into a cutter-type roller. "This is taternut dough. It has yeast, so it rises in here." He opened a metal door and showed me some hot racks near his feet. "The spuddie dough doesn't have yeast, so it stays cake." He let me think about this. "Want a job?" he asked me.

A few days later, I went from graveyard-s.h.i.+ft waiter to early-morning taternut fryer. It was closer to home, there were free taternuts, and the pay was better. The man I worked with was called Big K. He was about thirty and built like a tight end, about six-three, 240 pounds. Big K's sister was a large woman named Debra and she was real bossy sometimes and real funny at other times. Whenever we got busy, which we did a lot it seemed for just a doughnut-I mean taternut-shop, Debra would say things like: "Shake yourself" and "C'mon Kev, you want me to take over back there? Gotta get crankin'!"

It was easy to get p.i.s.sed at her but she knew how to make you work harder. She would have made a great basketball coach. Maybe it was the fact that she was getting married to a cop who came in all the time. You know, it's funny; I never really thought about it until now: a cop marrying a woman who runs a doughnut shop. I mean taternut shop.

Most of the people who came into the taternut shop were people who worked a couple of miles down the road at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Also there were lots of teachers, sundry retired folks, suits, and a.s.sorted early risers. It seemed like a requirement to like sports if you were a regular. And if you were a regular that also meant having the same thing every day. If Debra saw you coming from across the parking lot (even at a snail's pace) she'd shout out, "Sedale, chocolate taternut and a decaf for Joe. Quick." If a customer came in and his usual diet wasn't set up at his everyday spot there must've been something wrong somewhere. We were a well-oiled machine.

Sports were the reason I became known as Sedale. Big K was a pretty goofy jock kind of guy who was always making funny noises and doing silly pranks. I was mostly into music at the time, but I still had a pa.s.sing interest in sports clinging to me from my days as a statistics-h.o.a.rding football freak in junior high. Big K and I went out after work a few times and played some playground basketball. His stiff but powerful inside play reminded me of Robert "the Chief" Parrish of the Celtics, while my quick, slas.h.i.+ng drives and hustle earned me the alias Sedale Threatt, who was a backup point guard for the Philadelphia 76ers.

So we'd be working in the midst of some mad rush and our pace is faster than the taternuts can fry in the fryer and just to keep the mood fun for all, K would shout out my nickname in an exaggerated PA announcer voice: "Sedaaaale Threeeeeeatt!" and then I would go "The Chieeeeeeeef!" All the customers seemed used to these outbursts and even our occasional and random animal noises.

Some customers were also special enough to receive trumpeting treatment. Murphy was one. He was a slouched sixty-two-year-old whom we'd greet by announcing: "It's the Armeeeeenian!" Other regulars were Ray, Coach, Betsy Baker, Danny Boy, Ozzie, and Miss Missy. Random terms were rotated for folks we weren't familiar with. Tags like Old Man, Big Dog, Chi Chi, and Buster.

Whenever we had the dough rolling through the cutter, Big K and I had to stand on each side and gather up the uncooked taternut shapes. They'd then go into the warm racks where they would rise, then we'd plop 'em on a wire tray and stick 'em in the fryer, where they cooked in the oil. All the extra dough was rolled into a little football and thrown around the shop when it wasn't busy. For a little joke, we'd sometimes plant a small piece of dough on the ground where we knew that someone would step on it. Stepping on one of these things felt like you were stepping on a small squishy t.u.r.d. K and I would casually watch over our time bombs and make ticking sounds. Whenever Debra or whoever would step on it, we'd laugh and congratulate each other on our treacherous achievement.

At some point during this job, which I held for a year and a half, Debra started to ask me about my s.e.x life. This was right before I started to see Daphne, and then Elvia. I was getting around, as they say, and sometimes girls would come see me at work.

Debra wanted to make sure I knew a few important things-tools for life-such as the mysterious and tribal-sounding ritual known as "eating out a p.u.s.s.y." All the photos of oral s.e.x I'd seen in magazines were of women giving it to men. I had no idea that oral s.e.x was such an equal opportunity activity. The first time a girl asked me to give her oral s.e.x, it was a one-night stand with a sixteen-year-old devil-wors.h.i.+pping runaway. We were making out and I had her s.h.i.+rt off. I began licking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and she asked: "Will you eat me out?" I thought about it for a second, knowing I didn't even know the first step, and politely answered, "No, thanks."

My mother and I had too much of an age gap to have s.e.xual talks. I think she knew something was up in regards to my s.e.xual blooming, but she never pried. Mostly she stayed in her sewing room and listened to Nat King Cole as I wrestled with my p.u.b.erty (and p.e.n.i.s) in the next room. I'm sure that some of my family thought I was gay. The Scotch-taped photo of Ralph Macchio on my wall could have been cause for alarm.

Big K was possibly my best bet for s.e.x advice from an older, more experienced person.

"Gotta grow yourself one of these first," he pontificated, sticking his mustache out as far as the tip of his nose. I decided to cut my losses and not explore his wisdom further.

After work that day, Debra cornered me in the back room. "You want me to just tell you how to do it and save ya some time?"

I tried to think of something funny to say, but settled for: "Sure, if you want to."

She explained several things: the taste, the l.a.b.i.a, the c.l.i.t, the secret b.u.t.ton, the ca.n.a.l. She mapped out certain methods: the vibrator, the fingers, the tongue, lips, teeth, etc. And finally, she soberly gave me a few warnings: yeast infections, periods, pubic hair in the teeth, gagging on excess pubic hair, pubic hair that seems to be either absent or shaved.

I didn't ask her about how the cop did it to her. Actually, oral s.e.x may have been against state law for all I knew. I made a note to be careful in case it was.

The results were: I loved it!

Even despite close calls with yeasty girls and others who looked like they had Jimmie Walker's head sticking out of their groin, the giving of oral pleasure was high on my priorities list on every date. It was indeed one of the most valuable things anyone has ever taught me. Thanks, Debra!

Soon after these lessons, I was preparing to quit my job and move to Spokane, where I would go to broadcasting school. It was time to hang up my ap.r.o.n and retire from the taternut biz. My last day of work was a tearjerker. "You were a legend in the fry zone, Sedale," reflected Big K on my eighteen months of fabulous frying.

I was glazing up a batch and doing my best d.i.c.k Vitale, "It's SHOW TIME, baby!"

Big K splashed water on his face and wiped faux tears from under his eyes. "We're gonna retire your ap.r.o.n, man. It'll hang from the rafters."

I looked at my early-morning work companion with respect.

Murphy rattled through the door. "It's the Armeeeenian," I announced.

Murphy stopped for a moment and asked over the sneeze guard, "This is your last day, isn't it?"

"Yeah, off to the medium city, old man."

"Well, you make one heck of a taternut, kid," he said. Then he paused to let me prepare for some wisdom. "Just remember," he started, "when you get there and get settled, you can't come home again."

Interruption

Before I moved to Spokane, Pam came over to my parents' house to see me one last time. She said she saw my car in the driveway and wanted to say hi before I moved. We went to my old bedroom and I tried to figure out what it was she wanted. She said she heard that her little brother had beaten me up at the mall and that she was sorry. to Spokane, Pam came over to my parents' house to see me one last time. She said she saw my car in the driveway and wanted to say hi before I moved. We went to my old bedroom and I tried to figure out what it was she wanted. She said she heard that her little brother had beaten me up at the mall and that she was sorry.

I got angry and defensive and told her that he didn't beat me up. In fact, I forgot it even happened that summer. He saw me at Columbia Center and stopped me outside the Bon Marche. A few of his friends were with him and he was obviously putting on a show for them, acting cool and tough. He said something about "f.u.c.king over" his sister and then threw a wild punch at my neck, which I barely felt. There was an angry surge of heat in my head, but I chose to walk away. He and his friends stood there laughing.

Pam sat on my bed and started to cry. I said it was no big deal. "Don't you want to kiss me?" she said, and then she started kissing me. I kissed her back but didn't say anything. It had been almost two years since that night she sat in someone else's car and saw me waiting for her on her porch.

It was dark in my room and even though my parents were home, I locked my door and let Pam get under the covers with me and we took our shorts off. She was on top of me like a wrestler. She had me pinned. She put me inside her and I felt a sad regret. The last thing I ever wanted to do was accept any form of apology that she offered. She would probably feel like we were even now.

The bed was thumping, but I was trying to be quiet. The one thing that would make me feel worse about this whole scenario would be for Mom and Dad to think Pam and I had made up. My doork.n.o.b jiggled and then Dad said from the other side of the door, "Does Pam want to stay for dinner?"

"Hold on a minute," I said.

Then the door opened and Dad stuck his head in, his eyes adjusting to the dark. "You shouldn't lock your door," he said. He lingered a moment as Pam and I lay there frozen. I waited for the door to close, but it didn't. I waited to hear the sound of his feet move back down the hall, but they didn't.

Broadcast School

The first time I lived in Spokane (1988) was pretty brief. I found a cheap apartment next to an old office store that specialized in staplers. It was exciting to live by myself for the first time, but the place got depressing quick. The tiny kitchen had a warped floor and there was a permanent smell of old hamburger. There was a small dirt lot behind the apartment where people from the other seven apartments parked their cars. No matter where I parked, one guy from down the hall would always leave me aggressive notes of complaint. I lived in Spokane (1988) was pretty brief. I found a cheap apartment next to an old office store that specialized in staplers. It was exciting to live by myself for the first time, but the place got depressing quick. The tiny kitchen had a warped floor and there was a permanent smell of old hamburger. There was a small dirt lot behind the apartment where people from the other seven apartments parked their cars. No matter where I parked, one guy from down the hall would always leave me aggressive notes of complaint.

The radio cla.s.s that I signed up for at the Ron Bailey School of Broadcasting was only a nine-month course, but it cost about $8,000. I thought it was only a matter of time before I'd be starting a long and interesting career in radio. I dreamed of the day when I could play whatever songs I wanted and everyone would understand how great my taste in music was, like my days as a kid cranking 45s out my bedroom window.

It was the first time I really tried hard in a school setting. I had perfect attendance and my efforts soared above those of the dozen other students. The instructor was a fifty-something guy with the kind of body language that suggested thousands of hours of overnight DJ s.h.i.+fts and a few divorces in his past. No matter how many cups of coffee he slurped, he still seemed in need of a nap. He wore jeans and denim s.h.i.+rts, like the Marlboro Man. I'm guessing that his bushy mustache hid many frowning wrinkles. But he was kind to me and had a smoky smooth voice. After just a couple of weeks, he pulled me aside and asked me if I wanted to start working weekends at the local AM country station.

I was the first one in cla.s.s to get a job, though it was mostly pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons and reading the weather and call letters once an hour. During the week, I worked as a parking lot attendant.

My old high school friend Maurice called me one day and asked if he could come up and stay with me for a couple of weeks. Ever since graduation, things had been weird with Maurice and me. After being so antidrug, antidrinking during our high school years, Maurice had somehow become a total souse, drinking cheap beer all the time and always pa.s.sing out or getting sick. I felt like I had to let him stay with me. Maybe it would help to mend our relations.h.i.+p.

Maurice mostly stayed on my couch those two weeks, drinking Stroh's, his cheap brew of choice. He would stack the empty cans on the windowsill and never clean up. I drank with him a few times but he always drank faster. As he got more drunk, he got more mean. Even though he had little experience with girls, he would say the worst things about my old girlfriends, especially Holly, who he called a fat cow.

One night, INXS was playing at the Coliseum. It was the height of their popularity and Darren came up from the Tri-Cities to go with me to the show. I had an extra ticket for Maurice, hoping that a nice gesture would make his stay more tolerable. I almost begged him to go with us, even just to get him out of my apartment. "No," he said. "I just bought some beer. I'm going to enjoy myself just fine." He stretched out the last two words sarcastically.

Darren and I walked down to the show, barely speaking a word. I looked at the extra ticket in my hand and couldn't believe that Maurice had elected to stay home and drink by himself. There was a strange sad mood in the night air, like a close relative had just died.

Good-bye Soap

On the very last day of broadcasting school, I wasted no time getting out of Spokane. I decided I was going to move to Seattle, where a few of my Tri-Cities friends had moved. There was a Ron Bailey school there too, so I thought they could help me get a radio job. last day of broadcasting school, I wasted no time getting out of Spokane. I decided I was going to move to Seattle, where a few of my Tri-Cities friends had moved. There was a Ron Bailey school there too, so I thought they could help me get a radio job.

I packed up my car with the few things I owned at the time (the furniture stayed-it was a "furnished apartment"). I gave the place a quick clean and left my key on the kitchen counter. It was just after midnight, but before I could leave for good, I decided that I would finally leave my own message for the guy down the hall, the one who always complained that I was parking in his spot. I took a bar of soap and wrote some nasty things all over his car. I did it quickly and nervously. I scrawled something like: COME SEE ME! APARTMENT 4. And then I quietly rolled out of there with my headlights off. When I pulled into the street, I turned on my headlights and eventually began to laugh to myself as I got on the freeway to Seattle. I was having some sweet revenge. Too bad no one else could see it.

Seattle

When I first moved to Seattle, I was living with about five other guys in a mess of an old house. I didn't have my own room so I slept in my friend James's room, in his walk-in closet. I was seeing a girl I knew briefly from Spokane. She had worked at a vintage clothing store where I bought a leather motorcycle jacket on layaway. I must have gone through a phase where I had crushes on anyone who looked like a famous actress-this girl looked like Rae Dawn Chong. Her parents were Jehovah's Witnesses and she wasn't allowed to see me, so we snuck around. One night, when her parents were out of town, I went to visit her. She was living with them until she could afford her own place. I was nervous the whole time I was there and kept waking up through the night. There was religious stuff everywhere and photos of the family. Her large black father and her humorless-looking white mother sneered at me judgmentally. I couldn't deal with the stress and eventually broke up with her. moved to Seattle, I was living with about five other guys in a mess of an old house. I didn't have my own room so I slept in my friend James's room, in his walk-in closet. I was seeing a girl I knew briefly from Spokane. She had worked at a vintage clothing store where I bought a leather motorcycle jacket on layaway. I must have gone through a phase where I had crushes on anyone who looked like a famous actress-this girl looked like Rae Dawn Chong. Her parents were Jehovah's Witnesses and she wasn't allowed to see me, so we snuck around. One night, when her parents were out of town, I went to visit her. She was living with them until she could afford her own place. I was nervous the whole time I was there and kept waking up through the night. There was religious stuff everywhere and photos of the family. Her large black father and her humorless-looking white mother sneered at me judgmentally. I couldn't deal with the stress and eventually broke up with her.

One night, while I was out on a rare barhopping night with friends, I met a girl named Erin. She was skinny and boyish and we joked around a lot, her whole mouth opening with every bright laugh. She was nineteen but had a fake ID that looked nothing like her. Her laid-back hippie demeanor intrigued me and made me feel like I didn't have to impress her-at least that's how I perceived it, being someone who never knew any real hippies. We danced to Fun Boy Three and then went home together. She played Cat Stevens the next morning and made coffee on a stove. I stayed wrapped in her blankets, on the futon on the floor.

I felt right away that I could openly express myself with her and I cried the first morning we spent together. For a while there, I would cry at anything. Songs. Letters. Movies.

(My crying jags would become an initiation for any girl I dated for the next ten years-we'd get to know each other, sleep with each other, and then I would start using her pillow as a handkerchief.) Three months later, I moved into an apartment with Erin and her best friend, Mary. I had a scooter at the time and Erin and I would ride around at night when we couldn't sleep. She was a very restless sleeper. She even had a strict rule for us in bed. She didn't want to feel my knees touching her, my feet touching her, or my b.u.t.t touching her. She said the sensation of those body parts felt cold and foreign, like they were dead fish or something. This rule simply became: NO KNEES, NO b.u.t.t, NO FEET (NKNBNF). But I was not annoyed by this. I was charmed.

I also learned that she became easily jealous. She made me burn a pile of some of my old photos one night. We precariously made a bonfire of my past girlfriends on the ledge of our window. She blew the hot ashes into the air as the images melted away.

Clinic