I'm Just So Totally Syked

I don’t know how you arrived here, but I’m glad you did. This is a project I have intended to start for quite a while and I’ve just never had quite the right opportunity. Probably because I am an alcoholic and drug addict and I put everything off as long as I can. But don’t worry– I am fully committed to confessing all of the bizarre things that I’ve experienced in my thirty-something years.

You will read stories of drug addiction, cocaine-fueled parties in Costa Rica, hookers, transvestites and oh so much more. I am not a proud man.

I hope you enjoy it! As of today, I am still setting up the basic blog itself.

How do you like my creepy eye by the way? Pretty cool I think, but then again I did just get totally baked while I worked on the damn thing for about three hours.

There will be no rhyme or reason for the way this baby flows. It’s just going to be a stream of consciousness…and as far as that goes, I don’t even know if I spelled consciousness correctly. That’s how hardcore I am.

Please visit my sponsors and buy funny ass t-shirts. I need to get paid something for spilling my guts. Plus, they will likely improve your charm a great deal and possibly get you laid. It’s important to let others know how you feel by displaying messages on your chest.

Enjoy!

I hate this fucking story, but my memoires simply would not be complete without it. I really struggled with whether or not I should post it. But fuck it; here we go.

When I was sixteen years old, I worked for the Days Inn on Scottsdale Road, Scottsdale, AZ. (My bosses name was Sven. I’m only putting that out there in case he Googles himself or something.) I remember that I really liked my job and had a lot of fun while I worked there. For the most part anyway. They had a pool bar, tons of hot chicks lying around that very same pool, and they allowed employees to drink there when they were off the clock. Of course, I wasn’t old enough at the time, but the bartender still served me. So it was cool. I felt like I was on vacation when I worked there. I earned $5.25 per hour and that came out to less than $175 per week when all was said and done. So I might as well have been on vacation; I was barely squeaking out a living wage. But I bought tourist-chicks tropical drinks and I would get occasionally get laid for it. Broke as hell, but you can always fuck girls on vacation.

I don’t have anything against homosexuals, but at that time, I worked with a particularly annoying drag queen who used to brag– every single morning– about whatever gross shit he did the night before. As it turns out, Martin (pronounced mar-teen) worked as a prostitute in the evenings. He called himself “Ms. Panama” and he actually wore a sash that declared as much while he stood on the corner. He was quite the character. I only found out about the sash and the prostitution because one morning the police showed up with Martin, handcuffed and in full drag.

“Does, uh, Ms. Panama belong to you?”

They had pure contempt and weren’t amused when I doubled-over and started laughing until the tears flowed. Ms. Panama! Fucking classic.

So that was how it all started. Once the police exposed his other “job”, it seemed like he became even more gay and loved to taunt me every single day with stories of dick-suckery and ass-pounding. This always made me really angry, but not in the way that I wanted to beat him up or anything. I’m not some knuckle-dragging Wyoming Republican or anything.

Truth is, Martin was probably pretty tough anyway. After all, this guy worked the streets with his dick taped to his asshole every night and a straight-razor in his purse. Ironically enough, he was probably one of the toughest motherfuckers I’d ever met– in or out of a frock. And I sort of liked him; the way you’d like an unsufferably annoying little sister.

One night, I decided to pick up a real hooker (one with a vagina that is), and then tell him Martin all about it the next morning. Like I said, I was 16 and I was pretty much constantly horny. I had no fear or trepidations about picking up a disease-infested street walker. I guess my upbringing in Detroit kind of helped to build that part of my character.

Now for anybody who knows anything about Phoenix prostitution, one knows that all of the hookers pretty much hang out exclusively on Van Buren Avenue.

One night, I was burning a joint and cruising the bad neighborhoods for a ten-dollar blowjob. You don’t want to drive up and down, up and down, because it is more likely that the cops are going to notice you and pull you over for “cruising.” So the thing to do is to drive from 32nd Street westbound to Central, make a right, drive a block, and make another right on McDowell. Cut back to Van Buren via 32nd Street, and hit Van Buren again. Of course, this doesn’t actually fool the cops and if you do it enough times, you’re going to get nailed anyway. However, there are always a couple of morons who flip fifty u-turns and drive back and forth down the avenue and it’s a fact that the cops are going to nail those morons first. You are definitely breaking the law cruising for hookers, but you want to be last on the list to be pulled over. It’s a numbers game. At 16, I was a real pro.

I did my first pass on Van Buren and headed one block over to McDowell, to double-back and keep looking, just as described above.

I couldn’t believe my luck. On 13th Street and McDowell, there was about a dozen good looking prostitutes standing on the corner. They were healthy looking and laughing together. They didn’t look like the strung-out, cracked-up hookers one block over on Van Buren. Also, there were no cops around at all. This was too good to be true!

I pull over and motion for the girls. They all started giggling and screaming and waving, but only one actually approached my car. (They must have had a system.)

“My name is Marie,” she introduced, “You sure are cute!”

Man, I was thinking the same thing. She was a tiny little number, about 5′4″ and about 115 pounds. She was wearing a red tube top that kept falling down while we spoke. She had perfect little b-cup tits and a sexy little white mini-skirt. She was definitely a hooker, but not obviously a hooker. Like I said, she looked really good.

“I want a blowjob. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

Now I was originally planning on spending ten, but there was no way this chick would take that. I didn’t even bother asking. I was lucky to get a whore like this in my car, period.

So she gets in and gives me the best blowjob I’d ever had up until that point in my life. Actually, it’s been many years, and I still don’t think anyone topped Marie. She could have suck-started a Harley Davidson.

I pay her, she gets out, and that’s that.

The next day I get to work and immediately start taunting Martin about the incredible blowjob I’d gotten the night before.

“There’s no way you fags can suck it like this chick did! No way!”

“So where did you meet this bitch?”

Martin is practically pouting. I think his little feelings were hurt that I got sucked off by a true female.

“You’re not going to believe this, but she was standing with a group of girls on McDowell, around 13th street. I’m not even sure she was a hooker to be honest!”

Martin was slicing lunchmeat for the upcoming lunch rush. He stops cutting. He turns around with his arms folded and the biggest shit-eating, cheshire grin you’ve ever seen. He starts tapping one foot, because he’s so excited, he’s about ready to burst. He just stares with that grin for a few more seconds before he throws his arms up and screams:

“You got a blowjob from a drag queen! That was a man! You got a blowjob from a man! What possessed you to pick up a hooker on McDowell? You know all of the girls are on Van Buren! Even you know that!”

I didn’t even react. There was no way that this chick could have been a man. Martin was having fun with me. Just no way. He taunted me all day and I just ignored him until…

“Yeah? Yeah you fucking idiot? Well she was wearing a tube top and I played with her tits. And they weren’t fake tits either, so don’t even start!”

Martin just shakes his head and makes a clucking noise in the back of his throat. He was just so fucking pleased with himself.

“Have you ever heard of hormone pills you silly little boy?”

Um. No. Actually I hadn’t heard of hormone pills. Could he be serious?

That night, as soon as I got off work, I drove down McDowell and found the same group of “girls.” I rolled down my window (yes, we rolled windows down back then) and I called for Marie. She was very excited to see me again.

“Hi Honey!,” she greeted me as she approached my window. As she walked, I looked her up and down. No way! No way was this a dude! There was nothing masculine about this chick!

And even though I felt that it would be a major insult to even ask such a question of a lady, I did anyway.

“Marie? Are you a guy?”

She admitted, in a very vague manner, that she was– in fact– a guy.

I just hit my gas and peeled rubber all the way down the street. I was really mad, but I was more upset with myself than I was with Marie. I went home and scrubbed my cock with a green plastic brillo pad. I don’t know why, I had already bathed since the incident, but it did make me feel better…even though my cock was pretty much unusable for two weeks.

I wasn’t planning on writing so much about things that happened to me as a small child, but once my brain juices start flowing on a certain topic, I just can’t stop. So here’s another childhood trauma story. After this one, I am going to jump up to some incidents I experienced as a teenager. Then maybe a few about my twenties. After I get some of those out of the way, I’ll be back with some more of these childhood traumas.

Now, as I wrote in some of my earlier posts, I think I had a pretty fucked-up childhood which– I believe– is what caused me to be such a fucked-up adult. Then again, maybe I’m just scapegoating. You know, like a Republican would do.

But one thing I most definitely did not have was irrational and/or over-protective parents. This is a good thing, because one person can only experience so much trauma and drama. If my mom would have been overprotective, I would likely be even more neurotic than I am today. My mom was actually rather under-protective, now that I give it some thought.

My family had recently moved into a new neighborhood and I had just started the first grade. The neighborhood was actually pretty classy. I can remember the name of the street we lived on, which was Waterview Drive. There was a man-made lake behind the houses directly across the street, stocked with bluegill, lake trout, perch and bass. Our sub was also adjacent to an enormous, wooded park called Stoney Creek, and if all that weren’t enough, there was a Dairy Queen about a quarter mile from my home. It was considered a safe, upper-middle class place to live. I’m sure it still is.

There were woods bordering the subdivision, and of course, that’s where I did most of my playing.

On the day of this incident, I was in those woods, scooping up pollywogs in a little jar. I was playing in some muddy, shallow water, likely created by a big rainstorm or something. I was “working” very intently, scooping up as many of the frog babies as I could. I didn’t even notice when an adult walked up and started watching me. Other than him, I was totally alone in those woods.

“Hey there little guy!”

It’s weird how your brain can save certain incidents, with total recall, if the event is traumatic or fun enough. This one fell into the former category.

I looked up from what I was doing and the first thing I notice is that the guy was wearing some kind of khaki scout uniform. I can picture this freak in my mind’s eye very clearly and he was most definitely a “scout” of some sort. I would guess that he was about seventeen. Are there really seventeen year old scouts? I guess nerdy virgins need something to do…

The second thing I notice is that the dude is not wearing pants or underwear. He had shoes and socks, but no pants. He must have been watching me from the shelter of the woods and decided that removing his pants before approaching me would be totally appropriate.

Fortunately, he was standing about eight or ten feet away, and we were seperated by a whole lot of slippery mud.

The only cock I had seen up until this point was my own and probably some kids at school, while using the urinal. And mine didn’t look like that. Actually, mine didn’t really deserve the term “cock”; it was more of a “pee-pee” at this point.

Mr. Scout had a cock. Unfortunately, he was a fucking Ginger and the carpet most definitely matched the proverbial drapes. He was also uncircumsized, which I had definitely never seen before. Very fucking creepy. His area looked like clown’s hair with a miniature bratwurst poking out. Thank God– he didn’t have a boner, but I’m sure one was on the way.

“I said hey there little guy!”

I stand up and just stare at the dude for a second. I did not speak or respond. I was taking it all in and I thought he was going to kidnap me. (And maybe that really was his intention.) But if this guy wanted to steal me away and molest me, he probably should have eased me into it. You know, like take me to the Dairy Queen first or something. You don’t make the initial contact with your dick dangling. You’ll just scare the kids off.

I turned and ran, as fast as my little legs could carry me, back to my home and the so-called protection of my mother. I looked back as I ran and I saw the guy picking himself up out of the mud. The fucker probably started chasing after me, but then slipped in the black slime. Considering that I was playing in stagnant water, there were a lot of black flies and mosquitos and I hope they bit the fuck out of his doggy dick. I kept running.

When I get home, my mom is eating anisette biscotti and drinking coffee with one of her gaudy Italian cousins. This is what Italian housewives do. They drink coffee and eat pastry with their girlfriends all day long. Blah, blah, blah. Gossip, gossip, gossip. Blah, blah, blah. When they aren’t doing that, they clean the house. Then they clean it again. Yes, I am stereotyping Italians. Sorry, but it’s true.

“Mom! Mom! I was playing in the woods and a guy came up and showed me his weiner! Mom!”

“Really? Well, what did you do?”

“I just ran home!”

“Good. That’s what you should have done. Good for you.”

And with that, she turned back to her cousin and started gabbing again. I was home and safe and beyond that, I guess she really wasn’t all that concerned. I am pretty sure that she didn’t even tell my dad when he came home.

Of course, like many mothers, mine has selective memory. When I bring this story up, she denies it ever happened. She is so convincing, she once almost had me convinced it never happened. But it most definitely did. It is permanently burned into my brain.

Some guy showed me his miserable cock, and nobody even cared.