Years ago I had a girlfriend who house-sat. Not as a profession or anything, she just got called when these friends of her parents were out of town. It was a sweet gig. The houses were amazing – two different childless married couples with all sorts of fancy food and booze and tech stuff. I would stay over and pretend I wasn’t having to work three part-time jobs to stay afloat. Nope, those days were far, far behind me. I was a respected member of the community. A gentleman with a taste for the finer things in life. Hey, I worked hard, I wanted to appreciate the fruits of my labor.
Some weekends she’d have to work, and I’d hang out in these houses alone. I’d turn on their expensive stereo and play my crappy records (one of their speakers probably cost more than the entire recording budget of most of the records I played over them), take a lap in the pool, then relax in the hot tub while drinking a gin and tonic. This was really living, I’d think, as a Misfits bootleg screeched over the outside speakers. Sure, I should be listening to that one Mozart song they always play to denote class, but I didn’t want to forget my roots. No matter how awesome my home here was, I was still a punk rocker at heart.
Maybe after another couple laps I’d watch Dolemite on the wide-screen.
One night while cooking dinner my girlfriend casually mentioned something about her friend finding the owners' porn stash.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, there’s tons of it over there by the TV.”
How the hell did I miss that? Was that whole pile of videotapes porn? This was like a Pharaoh’s collection of dirty movies.
“You want to watch some? They're kind of weird.”
Wow. Watching porn with the girlfriend. No way could this end up as anything but awesome. And it’s weird porno! This night just got awesome.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, hoping I’d put just the right amount of casualness in my voice. Man, this was gonna be great!
I put the first tape in. This fat, bearded biker guy was spanking this skinny methed out looking girl with a riding crop in the back of a limo. It didn’t look like anyone was really having a good time. I fast-forwarded a bit. Nope, still a bearded guy spanking this girl all bored, while she just sort of squirmed around a little.
“I dunno, let’s try another one.”
Next tape was a different fat bearded biker guy spanking a different skinny methed out girl, this time in a crappy motel room.
Next one was another fat bearded biker guy distractedly spanking another skinny methed out girl. I forget the location.
Same with the next one. My fun, sexy night was taking a nosedive, fast.
Who were these people? Were they friends of the homeowners? Was this stuff legal? Could the FBI tell that we watched it?
“Hey, you know what,” I said. “I think I’m done.”
“Yeah, I told you they were weird.”
We probably watched Dolemite after that and went to bed.
Couple weekends later I investigated the porno pile a bit more thoroughly on my own. They couldn’t all be homemade biker spanking videos, right? Bingo! After some investigation, I found a good one, one where attractive people looked like they were having a good sexy time and were all excited and everything. Alright, now we’re talking!
I put the tape in and started to watch. Well, almost. I was really distracted.
“I wonder if this is a trap,” I thought. “What if they have cameras hidden here somewhere? Would they send out some biker guy to lazily spank me in the back of a limo to punish me for watching their porn? I really don’t want that.”
I put the tape back into the mountain of videos and went outside to take a couple laps. Maybe I’d watch Dolemite again. Yeah, nice, safe Dolemite. He wouldn’t let some biker spank me.
Showing posts with label creepy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creepy. Show all posts
Friday, February 3, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Great Balls of Fire
Being older isn’t really all that bad. Sure, there’s annoying stuff, like constantly being on patrol for ear and nose hair, but on the whole it’s not as awful as I thought it would be. Actually, I never really thought about being this old. As a kid, and probably up to my 20s or so, the whole length between 30 through 70 just seemed sort of boring, a vague halfway point between kick ass young adult-ness and the time when it would be acceptable for me to wear a white suit and give out long winded speeches about the old days to anyone who would listen. And yeah, before you comment, I realize that’s what I do here, but I don’t wear a white suit while doing it, so it’s totally different.
Luckily, I’m incredibly immature, so mentally and emotionally I’m about the same as I was in my 20s, with maybe a bit more self-confidence and knowledge tossed in as seasoning. Physically, I can probably do more now than I did back then; while this sounds awesome, like I’m Jack LaLane, or one of those senior citizens waterskiing on commercials, it’s more a comment on how sedentary I was in my 20s. After running track and cross country and skating daily in high school, about the only strenuous activity I regularly participated in was drinking King Kobra malt liquor, being an obnoxious loudmouth, and taking long showers.
But you know what’s really weird about getting old? Realizing that whole crowds of people are younger than you. Football players, sexy actresses, politicians, business owners, cops; all sorts of people that were always older than you are suddenly young enough to be your kids, if you started young enough.
But you sort of accept this, or at least don’t really think about it, at least until circumstances force you to confront this fact in the creepiest and most uncomfortable ways.
A few years ago I had a dermatologist appointment. As many of you know, I am terrified of doctors, but I’m OK with dermatologists, which you’d realize if you’d ever seen a picture of me from high school.
My Graduation Photo
This was a regular follow up visit to make sure I didn’t have skin cancer or whatever, and the previous visit took about 5 minutes. No big deal.
Except that weeks earlier I had noticed a little red spot. On my balls. I’m not really a hypochondriac, but this seemed like a good time to start. Was this the beginning of nut cancer? Some sort of weird ball leprosy? It couldn’t be a venereal disease, could it? I was happily having regular sexual activity, and was having a great time doing so. I knew there had to be a catch. But it couldn’t be that. I mean, I was with a regular partner, and we had discussed all that stuff before and besides, we used condoms, so…Oh wait. No, I guess we didn’t really. Shit, I wonder if I got it off some toilet in the library and spread it to her? How would I explain that?
This made for a stressful week before the appointment. I didn’t research any of this stuff on WebMD or any of the other sites geared to hypochondriacs, I knew too many friends who looked stuff up and became convinced they would die within minutes of shutting down the computer. No, better to wait and see what the doctor said.
My dermatologist was an older guy who told corny jokes and did his best to make his patients comfortable. He also played classic rock in the examining room. The last time I heard “The Boys are Back in Town” and “Maggie May.” While “Cowboy Song” or “Every Picture Tells a Story” would have been better jams, it was still nice.
I was early for my appointment. The assistant leads me back and starts talking to a group of young women in scrubs in front of the examining room. One of them is a youngish Asian woman. She is wearing pigtails and is showing off her new braces, both of which make her look about 12 years old.
“Oh, you finally got them,” the women exclaim, as I’m sort of paying attention but mostly wondering what sort of long and painful process they’re going to have to use to scrape this disease from my testicles.
I’m told to strip to my underwear. I notice there is no classic rock playing. It’s very quiet, a nice place for me to contemplate and accept my ball-less future, as I’ve now resigned myself to the fact that they’re both going to have to be cut off. I have a moment of acceptance. You know, what have they ever done but get me in trouble anyway? Things would probably be more peaceful and less stressful as a eunuch. OK. Let’s do this.
The door opens. Naturally, my new doctor is the Asian woman wearing cartoon scrubs, pigtails and braces.
“Wait,” I think. “What happened to Doctor Oldie?"
“OK, stand up, we’re just going to check your skin.”
I swear she giggled. Jesus, how old is this girl? Is this Take Your Daughter to Work Day?
She looks me over. I can’t stop staring at her pigtails and braces. When she left the house this morning did she purposely try to look as young as possible? I just came in to get my diseased balls cut off, not to feel like a pedophile.
“Everything looks fine. Anything new since the last visit?”
“Uh, no, not really.”
Tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her. You can’t ignore this. You have to have this looked at, if for no other reason than to stop freaking out.
“Good, then we’ll…
“Well, OK, actually there is something. Uh..you know, down there. I mean, it’s probably nothing but …”
“Down there? Where, exactly?”
“Uh…my …uh..”
“Your penis? Your scrotum?”
“Uh… yeah…uh… that one. Scrotum. Yep, scrotum.”
“You don’t have to be nervous. I’ve seen everything before. Just take your underwear off and let me have a look.”
Normally, I like hearing women say that last sentence but this time a lot of the sexy had gone out of it.
“Where is the problem?”
“Right …right here. That red spot.”
God, now this braces wearing girl is inches away from my equipment. Am I being filmed or something? I mean, they’d have to see that I didn’t try anything, right?
“Oh, that? That’s just a blood vessel that burst. People get them all over their body. Nothing to worry about.”
I swear she giggled again.
After that experience, I thoroughly research any doctors I might have to get naked in front of. They have to be at least 20 years older than I am. It’s much less stressful that way.
Luckily, I’m incredibly immature, so mentally and emotionally I’m about the same as I was in my 20s, with maybe a bit more self-confidence and knowledge tossed in as seasoning. Physically, I can probably do more now than I did back then; while this sounds awesome, like I’m Jack LaLane, or one of those senior citizens waterskiing on commercials, it’s more a comment on how sedentary I was in my 20s. After running track and cross country and skating daily in high school, about the only strenuous activity I regularly participated in was drinking King Kobra malt liquor, being an obnoxious loudmouth, and taking long showers.
But you know what’s really weird about getting old? Realizing that whole crowds of people are younger than you. Football players, sexy actresses, politicians, business owners, cops; all sorts of people that were always older than you are suddenly young enough to be your kids, if you started young enough.
But you sort of accept this, or at least don’t really think about it, at least until circumstances force you to confront this fact in the creepiest and most uncomfortable ways.
A few years ago I had a dermatologist appointment. As many of you know, I am terrified of doctors, but I’m OK with dermatologists, which you’d realize if you’d ever seen a picture of me from high school.
My Graduation Photo
This was a regular follow up visit to make sure I didn’t have skin cancer or whatever, and the previous visit took about 5 minutes. No big deal.
Except that weeks earlier I had noticed a little red spot. On my balls. I’m not really a hypochondriac, but this seemed like a good time to start. Was this the beginning of nut cancer? Some sort of weird ball leprosy? It couldn’t be a venereal disease, could it? I was happily having regular sexual activity, and was having a great time doing so. I knew there had to be a catch. But it couldn’t be that. I mean, I was with a regular partner, and we had discussed all that stuff before and besides, we used condoms, so…Oh wait. No, I guess we didn’t really. Shit, I wonder if I got it off some toilet in the library and spread it to her? How would I explain that?
This made for a stressful week before the appointment. I didn’t research any of this stuff on WebMD or any of the other sites geared to hypochondriacs, I knew too many friends who looked stuff up and became convinced they would die within minutes of shutting down the computer. No, better to wait and see what the doctor said.
My dermatologist was an older guy who told corny jokes and did his best to make his patients comfortable. He also played classic rock in the examining room. The last time I heard “The Boys are Back in Town” and “Maggie May.” While “Cowboy Song” or “Every Picture Tells a Story” would have been better jams, it was still nice.
I was early for my appointment. The assistant leads me back and starts talking to a group of young women in scrubs in front of the examining room. One of them is a youngish Asian woman. She is wearing pigtails and is showing off her new braces, both of which make her look about 12 years old.
“Oh, you finally got them,” the women exclaim, as I’m sort of paying attention but mostly wondering what sort of long and painful process they’re going to have to use to scrape this disease from my testicles.
I’m told to strip to my underwear. I notice there is no classic rock playing. It’s very quiet, a nice place for me to contemplate and accept my ball-less future, as I’ve now resigned myself to the fact that they’re both going to have to be cut off. I have a moment of acceptance. You know, what have they ever done but get me in trouble anyway? Things would probably be more peaceful and less stressful as a eunuch. OK. Let’s do this.
The door opens. Naturally, my new doctor is the Asian woman wearing cartoon scrubs, pigtails and braces.
“Wait,” I think. “What happened to Doctor Oldie?"
“OK, stand up, we’re just going to check your skin.”
I swear she giggled. Jesus, how old is this girl? Is this Take Your Daughter to Work Day?
She looks me over. I can’t stop staring at her pigtails and braces. When she left the house this morning did she purposely try to look as young as possible? I just came in to get my diseased balls cut off, not to feel like a pedophile.
“Everything looks fine. Anything new since the last visit?”
“Uh, no, not really.”
Tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her. You can’t ignore this. You have to have this looked at, if for no other reason than to stop freaking out.
“Good, then we’ll…
“Well, OK, actually there is something. Uh..you know, down there. I mean, it’s probably nothing but …”
“Down there? Where, exactly?”
“Uh…my …uh..”
“Your penis? Your scrotum?”
“Uh… yeah…uh… that one. Scrotum. Yep, scrotum.”
“You don’t have to be nervous. I’ve seen everything before. Just take your underwear off and let me have a look.”
Normally, I like hearing women say that last sentence but this time a lot of the sexy had gone out of it.
“Where is the problem?”
“Right …right here. That red spot.”
God, now this braces wearing girl is inches away from my equipment. Am I being filmed or something? I mean, they’d have to see that I didn’t try anything, right?
“Oh, that? That’s just a blood vessel that burst. People get them all over their body. Nothing to worry about.”
I swear she giggled again.
After that experience, I thoroughly research any doctors I might have to get naked in front of. They have to be at least 20 years older than I am. It’s much less stressful that way.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Dr. Livingston, I Presume?
Say I commissioned you to create a portrait of a creepy guy. Give him a scraggly beard, greasy hair, a weirdly rumpled assortment of clothing and a knack for ignoring personal boundries. Then you'd have an idea of the guy that came up to the desk last week. He was looking for some sort of information I can't recall right now, something about middle school locations, where to buy used vans and Miley Cyrus tour dates. After a while he stops and says, "Yeah. Yeah! That's it!"
I'm used to exclamations like this from the public, so I let it slide.
"That's who you look like! Did you ever see Sex in the City? You look like that one guy," he shouts.
"No, never really watched it," I said.
"Oh you know, he was in the movie The Office, what's his name?"
"Uh...heh...sorry, don't know."
"Yeah, see, you do that same smirk! Just like that guy!"
Guy wanders off somewhere and comes back with the IMDB profile of Ron Livingston, along with a handsome head shot.
"There, see! Looks just like you!"
I don't really get it, but at least it's not John Candy or something. I've also gotten Bill Murray and that guy who played Mr. Bean before. Nope, don't see any of them.
I'm used to exclamations like this from the public, so I let it slide.
"That's who you look like! Did you ever see Sex in the City? You look like that one guy," he shouts.
"No, never really watched it," I said.
"Oh you know, he was in the movie The Office, what's his name?"
"Uh...heh...sorry, don't know."
"Yeah, see, you do that same smirk! Just like that guy!"
Guy wanders off somewhere and comes back with the IMDB profile of Ron Livingston, along with a handsome head shot.
"There, see! Looks just like you!"
I don't really get it, but at least it's not John Candy or something. I've also gotten Bill Murray and that guy who played Mr. Bean before. Nope, don't see any of them.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
True Tales of Wilderness Survival
I pull into the Baldwin Trail this morning a little before 8. I get all my stuff together and before I start down the trail this guy says, "Hey, mind if I ride with you for a little while?"
What? I come here to get away from people and clear my head. If I wanted people around I'd ride the bus or something.
"Uh, yeah, sure."
So the guy stays with me for a while.
"I've seen you out here before and you're always alone."
Yeah, well that's the way I - waitaminute! Didn't Keith tell me that this place's bathrooms were a notorious gay pickup spot? What does he mean he's seen me here before? I've seen hundreds of people on the trail but I wouldn't remember any of them. Damn these ruggedly handsome good loooks!
The guy looks to be about my dad's age, with a bald head and a moustache. He keeps up with me for a couple miles, talking the whole way while I respond with 'yeah,' and 'uh-huh.' He tells me how he is a home inspector and wait - didn't he say he worked at the bulk mail place down the road?
I wonder what this guy's deal is? He hasn't really said anything sexual, but he's starting to give me the creeps. I suppose if it came down to it I could take him. He's not wearing a helmet, so I could headbut him, then give him a punch or two and take off. Wait, when was the last actual punching fight I was in? 20? 19 years ago? And he probably has some sort of special super pervert strength he'll use to drag me off the trail.
"I saw this thing on the TV last night where that ACORN deal paid this black kid a bunch of beer and wine to vote 58 times for Obama."
"What? Early voting isn't even open yet. How could anyone vote? And also, they've been looking for voting fraud for years and haven't come up with anything substantial yet. I flipped through the New York Times and the Washington Post online this morning. Seems like they'd mention something like that."
"Yeah, well I just heard it on the radio yesterday."
Wait. I thought he said he saw it on TV. Holy crap. He's got the Jesus fish on his shirt. Republican talking points, Jesus shirt, moustache. Those are the guys that are always caught in rest stop bathrooms with Cub Scouts after railing about family values. Alright, I've been polite too long, it's time to get out of here. What the hell, normally the trail is like Grand Central Station on weekend mornings, now that I'm riding with Talky the Rapist the place is dead.
"Well, you'll understand when you're older, but I've got to go relieve myself. Good talkin' with you. God bless you."
"Uh, nice meeting you."
And with that, he pulled into the little restroom hut thing at the six mile marker, I guess to wait for someone else to molest.
As I got to the end of the trail I remembered that he asked me how long it usually took me to finish. Maybe he wasn't a pervert after all, but using that as a cover to ride back to my car and break in. I doubt he'd want an oxidized Honda Civic with 200,000 miles on it, but I did have my new cell phone hidden under the seat. Shit, I hadn't even figured out to use half the stuff on it, now that dude was going to break in and take it, probably ending up by calling all my contacts and talking their ears off before going to their houses and molesting them.
I made it back to the car in record time and naturally nothing was amiss, but man, did that dude ruin my morning.
What? I come here to get away from people and clear my head. If I wanted people around I'd ride the bus or something.
"Uh, yeah, sure."
So the guy stays with me for a while.
"I've seen you out here before and you're always alone."
Yeah, well that's the way I - waitaminute! Didn't Keith tell me that this place's bathrooms were a notorious gay pickup spot? What does he mean he's seen me here before? I've seen hundreds of people on the trail but I wouldn't remember any of them. Damn these ruggedly handsome good loooks!
The guy looks to be about my dad's age, with a bald head and a moustache. He keeps up with me for a couple miles, talking the whole way while I respond with 'yeah,' and 'uh-huh.' He tells me how he is a home inspector and wait - didn't he say he worked at the bulk mail place down the road?
I wonder what this guy's deal is? He hasn't really said anything sexual, but he's starting to give me the creeps. I suppose if it came down to it I could take him. He's not wearing a helmet, so I could headbut him, then give him a punch or two and take off. Wait, when was the last actual punching fight I was in? 20? 19 years ago? And he probably has some sort of special super pervert strength he'll use to drag me off the trail.
"I saw this thing on the TV last night where that ACORN deal paid this black kid a bunch of beer and wine to vote 58 times for Obama."
"What? Early voting isn't even open yet. How could anyone vote? And also, they've been looking for voting fraud for years and haven't come up with anything substantial yet. I flipped through the New York Times and the Washington Post online this morning. Seems like they'd mention something like that."
"Yeah, well I just heard it on the radio yesterday."
Wait. I thought he said he saw it on TV. Holy crap. He's got the Jesus fish on his shirt. Republican talking points, Jesus shirt, moustache. Those are the guys that are always caught in rest stop bathrooms with Cub Scouts after railing about family values. Alright, I've been polite too long, it's time to get out of here. What the hell, normally the trail is like Grand Central Station on weekend mornings, now that I'm riding with Talky the Rapist the place is dead.
"Well, you'll understand when you're older, but I've got to go relieve myself. Good talkin' with you. God bless you."
"Uh, nice meeting you."
And with that, he pulled into the little restroom hut thing at the six mile marker, I guess to wait for someone else to molest.
As I got to the end of the trail I remembered that he asked me how long it usually took me to finish. Maybe he wasn't a pervert after all, but using that as a cover to ride back to my car and break in. I doubt he'd want an oxidized Honda Civic with 200,000 miles on it, but I did have my new cell phone hidden under the seat. Shit, I hadn't even figured out to use half the stuff on it, now that dude was going to break in and take it, probably ending up by calling all my contacts and talking their ears off before going to their houses and molesting them.
I made it back to the car in record time and naturally nothing was amiss, but man, did that dude ruin my morning.
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