How to even start a blog post about this.. Did you ever have a time when you were a kid and you decided to do something, and more than likely there was brainstorming involved, because you never think of shit like this on your own. you have to have someone prompting you, pushing you along on the road to ridiculous. As a matter of fat I’ve had quite a number of times when that happened, but more likely than not I was the one with the idea, and the perpetrator would be someone (anyone) else. But this time I was the perp, and I think it was my ill conceived idea as well.

So I was about maybe eleven years old, or for the sake of round numbers, I’ll say twelve, and me and my younger brother Chuck were in the basement of my parent’s house in the burbs. I realized that I had to take a shit, but didn’t want to be inconvenienced by the trip upstairs to the bathroom. What’s a guy to do? Choices choices choices. Walk one flight of stairs and take care of what you need to, or find a corner and crap on the floor? Well, I wasn’t that disgusting (at that moment) so I figured out the only normal logical alternative. I will find a paper grocery bag (actually I don’t think plastic was really a choice back in the seventies) and I’ll just shit in there.

Anyone who has ‘worked’ with brown paper grocery bags knows that you have to fold down the edges to make them stay open. The fold should be fairly regular, about an inch is optimum, because then you have the maximum capacity for whatever you are storing in there. Let me tell you, if someone would need that capacity for a single dump, that person would probably definitely set a record for the largest single deposit ever made by a human at one sitting. Seriously that would be a lot of shit. I was not going for the record.

So there was logistics to consider. I needed to be hidden, just in case Mom came down the stairs. The only real locations where in the furnace room (way too hot) or in the closet. I chose the closet while Chuck kept watch. Not like I wouldn’t have heard Mom coming down the stairs. She was always very loud when she was coming down the stairs. (Ok, that was wrong to say, but so much of what I write here is wrong to say, so there, I said it)

So then there is the squat. You don’t think about this so much when you sit on a toilet, or when you shit in the woods, but if you are trying to hit a target like a neatly folded brown paper grocery sack, you have to think about your squat and especially your aim. Most certainly very important, especially in a basement closet, where you don’t want to have to explain later to Mom why you are cleaning shit off the concrete closet floor. So Chuck did the alignment as I copped a squat. It’s not easy holding still and copping a squat, while grunting out a deuce, but by god I was determined to do this and do it well. And so it begins.

And suddenly I realize that it is not so easy to poo if you don’t want to pee at the same time. It really is a complex musculature challenge. You don’t have any idea until you try this. It may be like giving the Vulcan “life long and prosper” hand sign. Either you can do it or you can’t. Maybe with practice, like kegel exercises. Anyway it’s tough. A paper bag is unlikely to be water-tight, I mean urine-tight, so I had to really make a serious effort. But I am a champ. I succeed where many other people dare not even consider the possibility. I excel in absurd conquests, most of which never even get press coverage. (like this one) I triumphed people. I shit in a bag in a basement closet with no pee whatsoever. I may be ready for the talk show circuit. (Or maybe “How it’s made” in a bag)

So then there’s step two after doing number two. What to do, with the poo? This like most things never crossed out pre-teen minds. We are in the basement looking at a steaming deuce in a bag and really don’t know where to go from here. The challenge had been raised and met, but the aftermath, well, the aftermath stinks. It is anticlimactic.

After winning the Indy 500, I’m sure the first thought isn’t how are we getting the car back to our garage. Probably the winning driver is so busy drinking the milk, that he (or she) doesn’t even consider the car getting back to the shop. Likewise, glowing in the rewards of a job well done, I hadn’t considered what to do with the finished product.

The trash can in the garage is an obvious solution, but my Mom is like a Sherlock Holmes and Charlie Chan combined. (I’m talking Basil Rathbone, not Robert Downey, Jr as Sherlock. I like RD Jr, but Sherlock Holmes is a cerebral character, not an action hero. What the fuck is up with that new version? I mean what’s next Galileo using a telescope as a ninja fighting stick to beat some sense into the Pope?)

I digress (again) Mom was a detective who investigated the trash. All sorts of clues to what young boys are up to can be found in the trash. This is a note to all the young mothers who are regular readers of this filthy blog. Check the trash. You will learn about your children and what shenanigans they are up to. My mom once dug a jock strap box out of the trash that I had hidden a pair of shitty underwear in.  (Apparently that time there where no trash bags around for me to shit in, so I just got a head start in my tighty whities) She made me scrub those tighty whities out in the toilet. That’s just the kind of mom she was.

What did we do with the bag? I think we took it out into the woods and burned it. That was our typical answer to unsolvable problems and the way we hid things from Mom. (Kids who read this filthy blog take note. Avoid the trash. Burn things instead.)

I’m certainly not proud of this one. As a matter of fact I really didn’t want to document this at all, but unless I include everything, this whole endeavor doesn’t have the completeness that I am striving for.

So during a period of time after my divorce I was getting set up on blind dates by my well meaning babysitter. She basically set me up with all her single, divorced and widowed friends and I fucked them all. It wasn’t totally my intention to do that, but one thing led to another and, let’s face it, I was a catch, so these women were throwing out all the stops to make their best case. I don’t say I was a catch out of any sense of bragging, just that I am fairly attractive, although not very, but maybe a bit above average. I also didn’t smoke, didn’t drink much, didn’t do drugs (maybe the occasional joint, every other month or so) and I made a good buck and owned my own house. Yeah, a catch for some women.

So I got set up with this blind date and met her at Gilligan’s Bar. First I found her sitting at the bar and from across the room she looked cute. Short blond hair and blue-green eyes, but as I rounded the corner and saw her from the tits down, pear shaped and as I got closer, small breasts and sorta road weary, if you know what I mean. She was nice, but not really my type physically. I like curvey brunettes and they have to be somewhat smart. Somewhat is hard to define, but above average at least. I read somewhere that unless a man and woman are within 20 IQ points the relationship ends up subservient. The lesser IQ can’t compete, so they just complete. (Tasks and whatever the other tells them) And I am smart – around 135 IQ or so.

Anyway we make small talk and she’s nice. It’s very platonic, but she’s touching me occasionally to make a point, to emphasize something she’s said, and I know she likes me. I am sort of looking around and feeling awkward. You know. Like I feel that people are looking at me and thinking, does she have some blackmail item on this guy? But she doesn’t of course, I’m just being polite.

So I follow her back to her place – why exactly I don’t know, but she offered a drink at her place, so I went. And we get back there and she makes us drinks and kind of leans into me. I’ve been a gentleman all night – more out of not wanting to be seen as a ‘couple’  in public, but in private, well, I decide to just go ahead with it. Not very nice of me, because I know this is going nowhere after this evening. But it’s been a while and I am horny. Yes, I was a dick. But still that night I was nice.

She was tearing off her clothes and I was helping. She says “oh. My, what’s come over you? You acted so differently at the bar.” My reply, “I’m not into public displays.” Which is true, mostly, and it covered my lack of forwardness earlier. So we had sex sort of half dressed with her small tits pulled out of her bra, but the bra is still on, so you have that picture in your head? It was weird, and quickly it was over. And that is weird, too. Like I usually last at least five or ten minutes for a first time, longer later in a relationship, but this was quick like a couple minutes only, and then there is the real awkwardness.

I’m trying to make my escape and don’t know how to do that exactly, because I’m never in this exact situation. Somehow I get out of there, and get to my car and home. Shelly, my babysitter asks me the next day how it went and if I’m going to call the woman and I say it was alright but she’s not my type and I don’t think I ever call her. Later on she’s talking to another one of Shelly’s friends, comparing notes on how well or how badly I fuck and she gave a report like I was the worst lay she ever had (which may be true) and she was glad I never called because she would have given me the brush off (probably not true) and that I was an asshole. (also true, from her perspective and about this situation)

I’m really not like that, but we all get in these odd situations sometimes where we wear the mask of ‘the strangter’ (at least according to Billy Joel) but maybe that’s just an excuse or a line or whatever, because I think inside all of us is an asshole that occasionally sees the light of day. How good a person you are is the determined by how well you can control that asshole and keep him locked up. Woman have the same damn thing. I’ve been treated like shit a few times and used more than once, so I guess what goes around comes back around.

13th SupCom

I told part of this story in another entry, but there really wasn’t much detail to it, just the overall situation, which was tagged on to the end of a post about something else, so here is the ‘rest of the story’ as the old saying goes. I always got along well with the soldiers who were in my squad at Fort Hood. This particular situation came about while I was in the 13^th Support Command.

I was in a unit that rebuilt tank transmissions and engines. Actually it was general repair, but we specialized in transmissions and were ‘the place’ to get that done. I think separate transmissions may have been shipped from all over the world for us to repair, but that isn’t really relative to the story, except to say that the tech supply area was huge and had lots of parts and that was my area. And, as is common, there were a lot of African-American troops in the supply area, which was alright with me, but it just ended up that I hung out with those folks after work and partied with them some. That was what led to this.

Sammy was one of my guys (and actually a white guy) and he was having a big blowout party at his place. He had a somewhat small apartment and it was packed. Lots of people there and loud music. It was mostly hip hop and rap sorta stuff going on, which isn’t really my bag, but I can hang and enjoy it with the right folks around, so I was having a good old time. I caught this one girl looking at me and smiling. This really was abnormal for me. Usually I had more difficulty with women, but I guess by this time (late 80’s) I was finally sort of coming into my own. More confident and not worried and I guess that came across.

I went over and introduced myself and she said, “I really like white guys” which was a pretty big clue for me. She was about maybe 5’ 6” and nice and curvy. A healthy girl, but not fat, ya know? Which was pretty much just my type. I hadn’t ever dated a black woman before, but I was willing to give it a go. After about twenty minutes or so, she told me she had to go to work, which struck me as odd, and then she asked if I wanted to go with her. She worked at a bar, so I thought she was a bartender, and I’d be getting free drinks all night. Well, the show was better.

something like that

We got to this club (after stopping at her place for her to get changed) and it was a strip club. Well, I am not a big fan, honestly, but have been in maybe 6 clubs like that in my life. This one was different than the others. It had a bunch of small stages like islands with chairs around them. As it got busier a new island would open up with a new girl and people would move around island hopping I guess, to see different women. Other clubs I’ve been to have had one stage that would have multiple women, and they rotated new girls in and out, but this was a different arrangement.

My “date” came out and started dancing and I was the only one at her island. She was pretty buzzed, but was putting on a show mostly just for me. After one song she went back to the dressing room, I guess to change costumes or something, and the manager came over to me to tell me to take her home; she was too drunk to work.

She came out in her street clothes again, but just wanted to go to a hotel, not home. I wasn’t arguing. The whole dancing for me had gotten me a bit heated up. To paraphrase Tina Turner, she was my private stripper dancer.

The scene and the exercise at the hotel was pretty standard, and by this time I was sort of questioning my sanity. She wasn’t Einstein, and had a dead end job, and eventually I snuck out of the room and went back to the base.

I never heard from her again. I asked Sammy about her, but he said he never saw her before and had no idea where she came from. I didn’t remember where she lived, either, so I guess that’s the end of the story.

This is pretty strange, even for me. While in the air flying to Texas from Germany I had an epiphany. I decided that I was tired of being known as Roger. The name was just too common for my generation. Go into a room and yell, “Hey Roger” and odds are that a half dozen guys would turn their heads. And I just didn’t really like the sound of it.

Is there anyone out there who can relate? I mean anyone. I would guess if your name was Gaylord, or Percy or Marion, you could relate a bit, but well, a name like Roger is already masculine and all, so what was my beef? I really don’t know, but I knew I wanted a change. But what?

In Homage

So here’s the story, I was driving to NYC after my youngest brother’s wedding. Tommy, my drunken older brother (who I lived with in Chicago earlier) was driving me to the airport. We were sorta out of our minds a bit. In other words, lots of Budweiser. Lots. He got in a huge amount of trouble with the law on the return journey, which somehow my Dad bailed him out of the mess by throwing a bunch of money around. (money he probably didn’t have, but that’s another story)

I spent a lot of time with Tommy, and we had this thing about the Blues Brothers. (this included a trip to Joliet, Illinois to see the prison where Jake and Elwood were incarcerated) We would roll around in our car, which resembled the blues mobile, and had the shades on and all that happy shit, and I was into the blues. Not Tommy, but I was.

So since I was also getting into playing the bass (That was the plan, I actually hadn’t bought my first bass yet) I decided to go with the name Elwood. So that’s what I went by for two years. Most people thought it was my middle name, but it was really just something that I made up. The nice thing (at least my thinking at that time) was that if I got in trouble, no one could trace the name Elwood to me. I mean no official records, anyway.

I told this story to my youngest brother, that my nickname was Elwood, and that I thought it was pretty cool, and he said he would hit someone who called him a name like that. I guess to each his own. although that wasn’t even my own.

A side note. I almost made a catagory of drunken bull shit, but then I realized lots of my ‘adventures’ would fit into it. Too general, I guess, especially for a sergeant. (oh, military humor, wow.)

Most of the time that I lived in Phoenix (the first time) I didn’t have a car. I did have a piece of shit Yamaha for a little while – maybe six months – before that bit the dust. It did beat walking while that lasted, and once I was run over on my bicycle I never had another bike there. Thinking about that now I don’t know why I never got another bicycle. That would have made a lot more sense than walking.

No formal complaint, really.

Or hitchhiking, which caused a few minor adventures on its own. I used to walk the five miles to work most mornings. If I was going in late I could take the bus, but when you start at 5 am the buses only run once at hour, and it was either walk or get to work really really early. Sometimes I would run the 5 miles, but that was only if I was working daylight hours. Running in the dark has never been my thing, but it probably would have been a good idea one morning.

I was walking along in my waiter’s uniform, white shirt, black pants, black jacket – tie in pocket – and trying to speed walk it as I was going to be late. on this occasion I wasn’t even hitch hiking, just trying to make time and a car pulled over and this guy asked me where I was going and if I wanted a ride. I told him a general vicinity of my destination (I wasn’t quite naive enough to say exactly where) and he said hop in. I did. And the blocks started flying by. I was in a better mood and knew I wasn’t going to be late that day.

I was kind of going over my task list in my head and half paying attention to the conversation going on. General sort of thing, what do you do, how long you been doing that, etc. Small talk. And suddenly he says, hey do you want some blow? I looked over and this dude looked wired. I mean he was nervous and twitchy and stuff, and I was dead tired. So I was like, hell yeah, I want some blow and he smiles a little and said, I thought you might. I’m pretty cool and I say, to think I was looking forward to a cup of coffee. He says well this’ll be way better. and we pull into an alley. He says what’s your name? and I told him. He says, I always at least like to know someone’s name.

He reaches over and starts unzipping my fly and caressing my cock. I grab the door handle and jump out of the car. I’m like, “hey man, what the fuck?” he looks confused  and I realize he was asking not if I wanted blow, but did I want a blow. He starts apologizing and stuff, and I am just hauling ass. He yells after me, “I’ll just give you a ride to your work, no hard feelings”  I know he wasn’t into double entendre but that is funny in retrospect.

I jumped over a short wall and at this point am just thinking I hope this creep doesn’t try to follow me or whatever. I was a bit homophobic in those days. I try to listen a bit more carefully now.

Cop Dodgers

One of my jobs with the demolition company was breaking up cast iron. This is beyond a doubt the most boring job in the world. It is not anything to think about. There was a building once upon a time, and it had a basement. By the time I got there, the building was gone and the basement was full of large pieces of cast iron. My job was to make them small pieces.

To do that, I would raise a large block of cast steel to the top of the boom on my crane and then let it free fall into the pit. A highlight of my day would be a dump truck coming by and dumping a new load of big pieces into the pit. I would get to ‘make chat’ for a few minutes, possibly smoke a doobie and then get back to the pounding. I would drop that hunk of steel about 1500 times per day. Raise, drop. Raise, drop.

It got so I could almost do it in my sleep. I started reading during my shift. I could read a page or so in the 20 seconds it took to reach the top, then look up watch the drop and start the process again. Once my brother Tommy climbed into the rear of my crane and was throwing shit over my head. I didn’t even notice until one was timed with my drop.  I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engine (combined with the earplugs) so it wasn’t too surprising to me. He was amazed at my concentration.

Another highlight was that occasionally a large ship would float by. I was near a canal, so once in a while a huge seagoing vessel would go by. Somewhat interesting to see, at least the first hundred times. This brings to mind a story.

This dude Josh who also worked for the company used to like to drink wine and watch the water flow by on the canals. (this was on weekends) He also enjoyed the ships going by. The problem was the cops would hassle him for public drinking (not intoxication, just having a bottle) so Josh noticed people nearby fishing never got hassled by the man. Smart thinking Josh got himself a rod and a license and was set. No one would bother him, but the fish. He didn’t even want fish or to be fishing, but that was his beard, ya know? So he figures this out, he gets rid of the hook and bait. Also makes things easier. But the line wouldn’t stay in the water on a windy day – plenty of them in Chicago, ya know. So he ties a sinker on the end of the line and only has to cast once in the morning and he’s set for the day. Moral of the story, if you want to drink in public have a cover. Josh’s fishing license was really a drinking license in all but name. True story.

I haven’t really written much about my background, and growing up and all that sort of thing, so today’s entry is a bit of background to my oddness. I was born the fifth of six children into a military family. By the time I was four, my father had retired from that, after thirty plus years. (This site is basically turning into a graphic autobiography.)

I was probably the smartest child and that caused some friction. I was reading well beyond my years very early and had an extensive vocabulary by the time I was six or seven.

I distinctly remember finding a book, “Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask” and reading it, around age nine. Interesting stuff there for a nine year old. Wow. Eye opening. But here’s where it gets weird, my mother catches me reading this and slaps me and takes the book away. My parents were obviously very uncomfortable with sex. My next encounter with sexual information from the parents was at age sixteen as I was about to got to the prom. My father said “don’t. You see where it got your brothers.” That was it. (my older brother ‘had to’ get married early as his girlfriend got pregnant. That’s what you did in those days. These days…

I started school early, at age four, because most of the neighborhood kids were just slightly older than me, and probably my mom wanted me out of the house. In their defense, I certainly was mentally ready to start school. Physically, however, I was always one of the smallest kids in my class (including girls) and I think that probably hurt my social development. I was always sort of shy and had no confidence. I’d imagine that’s possibly why I was so promiscuous when I finally did start that portion of my life.

rigorous fail

I didn’t have sex until I was 19. That was two years after I moved out of my parents house. The girl I was with mounted me next to a pool and exclaimed, God that feels good! I was echoing the sentiment, but she never knew she was my first. Shortly after that she told me she was late, and I thought, oh, shit. I reflected on my father’s brief sex talk and knew what he’d be thinking, but what the hell, I listened to his advice for three fucking years. (not that I wouldn’t have done it earlier, but I never got the opportunity.) That first time and the results, made me nervous about repeating the experience. Oh, yeah, I was wearing a condom, but it broke. And it turned out she wasn’t pregnant, thank goodness.

A recent study has found that one of the most common causes of condom failure is vigorous sex. Interesting.

Toward the end of my stay in Chicago (in 1984) things were getting a bit sticky. We decided (and by we I mean Tommy) to move out of the one bedroom apartment off of Rush and Division and move into this living area above the company’s downtown headquarters. That probably would have been Ok if we’d given some warning to the person we were subletting from, but we didn’t. And he was pissed at the short notice and suddenly having to cover the rent and stuff there.

It also didn’t help that he was the son of on of the owners of the company. Not a good person to have pissed at you because he was also somewhat of a dick. Felt he was above it all because he was born with a silver spoon, you know the type.

So we moved into the headquarters, which was free, and this is where Rabbit took the piss off the fire escape, if you are following this blog at all. One night after work we went to a watering hole that was close to the job. We got all gooned up. Drinking like mad, coke, pot, whatever else (memories are understandably sketchy) and I decided I had had enough already. I couldn’t drive and I didn’t know how to get back to the slums we were living in, so I walked (staggered, crawled) back to work. Here’s where I made my mistake, but in that state, I was lucky to find the yard, let alone be thinking straight.

I took a short cut by hopping the fence, and staggered out to my crane. Now before you get to thinking “really, how stupid is this guy? He can’t drive, but he gets into his crane?” I didn’t start it up or anything, I just crashed in it. By this time I had been on the job for months, so the area around the engine was set up for lunch time naps, and I slept there. Somehow around 6AM I woke up and went to the locker room and changed into my work stuff, so I was on the job on time, doing my job and no worries, right?

Somehow the guards got wind of my escapades and the boss pulled me into the office and sends me home for not checking in at the guard shack the night before.

OK, maybe I should have done that, but would they have really let me in? And if that wouldn’t have happened, where would I have ended up that night, wandering around a seedy area of  Chicago, drunk and high? I probably would have been mugged or killed. Seriously.

So I was getting sent home for a unpaid vacation, and I got a case of the ass and I quit. For some reason they let me stay in those crappy living quarters until I got my papers and went into the Army. Probably because Tommy still worked for them. Who knows, really?

But the thing is, I had to quit drugs so my urinalysis to get in the military would be clean. So I was stuck in Chicago, jobless, bored and sober. I was also really depressed about the way my life was going, and somehow I got hooked on TV evangelists and became saved. I must have been a pitiful mess at that point. I did get saved, but eventually I got better.

A really sad lowlite of that time was I wrote a sob filled love letter to some girl I knew years before. I never got an answer to that letter; hopefully it never got delivered. Perhaps if I am famous someday, she will surface and that letter will be another black eye. It certainly won’t be a feather in my cap.

I was hit by a car, a truck and a bitch, and surprisingly only the third hit left any scars (and those were just emotional)

When I was only 17 I mostly got around on my bicycle. Not surprising in that my favorite song was bicycle race by Queen.

via videosift.com

I mostly was enamored with the poster that came with the album, at least in its original run. I think I probably masturbated to that poster a few times. It was pretty easy to do. I mean, c’mon, if you could not find a half dozen women/girls on that poster who were your type, you had to be gay. (not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Makes me laugh a bit to think of my now homophobic brother who used to walk around with a blue zipper sweatshirt with a giant gold “Queen” iron on on the back. I was as ignorant about the gay connotation at the time, but he wore the sweatshirt and I turned out to be accepting. Sort of ironic that.  Thinking back, even the sweatshirt without the Queen on the back was sorta gayish with that double white pinstriping down the sleeves.  moving on.

OK. For those of you who don’t know the album (that’s a long playing record made out of vinyl – they had them during the vizioplastic era, which was sometime after the bronze age but prior to the silicon implant age) Kids these days will never know the pleasure of the hidden treasures of the vinyl albums. The posters that came inside the cover. The young pubescent boy who also came inside the cover (almost) when he saw the joyous naked women astride their bicycles, or bent over adjusting their -ahem- tire pressure or something. Oh, and they rang those bells unmercifully.

Not to mention the actual art of the album covers themselves. God, shrunk down now to the size of a postage stamp for your cd or dvd. You can’t capture the glory (hole) of a full size LP cover or the much anticipated double album. Man those were the days of album art. The Queen poster was an example of bum art. (not to be confused with album art)

Why oh why did those gay boys in Queen come up with  the idea of hundreds of nude chicks with bikes? Or how did they convince them to pose like that?  Most of those girls were (if memory serves) very attractive.  Memory does serve and so do mammaries. But not generally for gay men. But Freddy was bi. Mostly leaning towards men. or leaning over in front of them (how would I know? I’m just guessing.) thank you Freddy for whatever reason.

I have totally lost track of the subject of this post. totally.

Ok, re-reading. I was on my bicycle riding home from school one day. Minding my own business, but apparently not paying much attention to anything else. Suddenly out of a driveway a car bumper appears. I eye up the driver. Lovely looking lady and we make eye to eye contact. We both nod and then we both proceed. Luckily she was going slow and I managed to jump off my bike as it goes under her front wheels. She stops, backs up and gets out of the car. Shit. we’re back to mammeries again. I lose myself in a vision of loveliness.

I feel like Ralphy in a Christmas Story(mindlessly nodding at Santa) as this woman asks me if I’m OK. Asking if my bike is damaged. Asking me if I always have drooled like that as I nod like  freakin’  Forrest Gump on a slow day. I am a doggie perched on the dash of a car. my head is attached by a spring and my brain is attached by not a damn thing.

I tell her my bike and I are fine and I ride away with my wheels bent like something out of a cartoon. My wheels wobble, but I don’t fall down. fuck.

Yeah, I get home, and my brain kicks in and I kick myself in the fucking wobbling head.

I am too bent out of shape to even talk about the truck hitting me, and the bitch hitting me was just made up to complete the trio in the title of this post.

I have already talked about visiting the local nude beach, which was located at a small lake outside of Darmstadt, but what I didn’t go into was that the lake was also often the scene for bonfires and such late at night.

bow to me

I remember one party in particular. A friend of mine, Sgt Reigh, was celebrating his 25th birthday and had somehow gotten a GP small tent and erected it halfway into the woods. As it turned out, that was not the only erection of the evening. For the uninformed (which means non-military) tents were classified into four groups, first there is the shelter half, which is a one man pup tent thing – basically you need to pair up with a buddy  and your half and his half make a whole pup tent. Small tent, barely room for two people and their gear, but you must make due.

A GP small is usually used for a platoon headquarters. You can probably fit about 20 people in the tent (standing) and usually in a military sense, there would be a stove, a couple cots and a field desk. (GP stands for general purpose) GP medium slept about 20 people on cots (maybe) and a GP large was like a circus tent damn near.

So Sgt Reigh got a GP small and it housed the kegs, cups and whatnot. don’t ask me if we had permission to be there – I doubt it, but no one really cared back then about a party in the woods. It was public parkland and we cleaned up afterwords.

We also built a huge bonfire and were cooking dogs and s’mores and all that sort of Americanized crappola. There were lots of locals there as well. We had invited the whole gang from Smuggler’s Inn and a bunch of those folks showed up to drink and have fun. It was across the fire I spotted a girl from the club. We had made eye contact a few times at the club, but I was a shlub, and had no courage to approach her, even with a few beers in me, but tonight was different.

I went up and said hello, and was shocked to find out she was American. She pouted and asked why I had never talked to her before and considered me a flirt with no morals – teasing girls with locking eyes and then never following through. I was a bit flabbergasted. She told me there would be no teasing allowed tonight and she leaned in and planted a long deep kiss firmly on my mouth.

I may have been a shlub, but I certainly could take a hint and this was much more than a hint. I have to admit though, this was a bit awkward, because I was supposed to be meeting another girl at this party and she hadn’t shown up yet. But a bird in the hand is better than holding my own bird, which was generally my fate, so off we went.

We ended up in the woods not too far from the party and I spread my jacket on the ground. it was a bit chilly out, otherwise I wouldn’t have had even that. We both then started simultaneously undressing and making out and groping and caressing each other. My god, the girl wanted me as much as I wanted her. Nice feeling. She also was very curvy and had great large breasts, which I had to check for firmness. They passed the grip test.

We soon were “at it” and we each had twigs and roots poking out arms legs, backs, front, etc. She had to deal with one more poking than I did, but all in all it turned out rather well. Once we were done she started talking and telling me about her boyfriend, who was getting ready to ship out back to the states again in a few weeks and how she hoped we could get together again soon. That kinda freaked me out a bit, cause I thought she was single, but honestly that whole conversation wasn’t happening prior to the horizontal rumba. She then threw out another shocker – her father was a sgt major. Yikes. I could be getting in over my head.

So we strolled back to the fire and I was making every excuse in the book to excuse myself. I still had another girl to meet, and I needed to break away.  I think her boyfriend was wandering around too, so she wasn’t planning on hanging out with me that night anyway.

Luckily that was the case because pretty much as soon as we parted ways, the girl I was supposed to meet showed up. The guys in my squad were razzing me pretty good about all my juggling, but they were subtle. (or out of ear shot mostly)

I ever did hook up with that other girl and by the next time I saw her, the first girl was sorta mad at me for ditching her that night. Not enough to not want to date, but she was interested in a serious relationship, and that just wasn’t in the cards, so our one night in the woods ending up being a one night stand. A one night tree stand maybe.