Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent The rest of my time at college was relatively serene, uneventful. I’d considered changing my major or transferring schools, being rather unhappy with living in Tennessee. But I decided to stick it out, and things improved when I found a tiny rickety old house, with a huge backyard, near the school to rent at an amazingly cheap price.
The backyard was big enough for me to play golf, and I’d putt, drive balls. It was great fun, especially golfing when wasted.
I found better friends, less violent, more chill hippies. And through a student union devoted to music, I linked up with a group of Black dudes from Memphis, who liked to smoke weed and were cool as fuck.
Upon leaving, I did feel sorrow, regret, that I’d stayed in Tennessee, not gone to a school in another area. Even though the remaining time was alright, still, it was tough living in that place. Being of darker complexion, I got many stares and dirty looks, and many were unkind to me when they’d hear my “yankee” accent.
My luck with the ladies there was abysmal, too. I just couldn’t get anything going.
I dated but didn’t have a serious girlfriend the entire time. I did date a few memorable girls, however. Maybe the most memorable being this wild and wacky part Korean, part White girl.
She was a prison chick, had been in jail for selling coke. And I posit that prison chicks are fucking hot. Back when I was a kid, in addition to hair metal and horror movies, I confess that I’d had an affinity for chicks in prison movies. Like any movie featuring chicks in jail, I’d watch. I don’t know why. But I loved chicks in prison movies. And, like hair metal and horror flicks, I remain a liker… So it was rad to meet a genuine prison chick. The realization of a dream…
She was cute, too, this girl. Funny, outgoing. She had a round face, dark, warm eyes, and a tight, petite body. The most amusing thing about her was her Southern accent, though, which was a hoot coming from her package. Not what you’d expect from an Asian girl, but it only made her cuter, and I sort of liked her…
We’d met at a mutual friend’s house, where she’d gone to sell weed. I’d noticed her staring at me and struck up a conversation with her, got her number. A couple nights later, we met and went to a local nightclub, a big place with three packed
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent dancefloors, flashing strobe lights and a great sound system with teeth rattling bass. Most of the tunes they spun were crunk, dirty south hip-hop hits of the time. Think Lil Jon and Ludacris.
We were there, in a booth, drinking beers and shots of Jack Daniels, when she suddenly winced and got stiff as a metal pole after spotting her ex-boyfriend, who used to sell coke with her. Her face crimsoning, she nodded in his general direction, and I shifted in my seat to have a look.
Dude appeared like a local roughneck, the type you’d see in bad action movie, starting a fistfight in a bar. And, unfortunately, here we were, in bar…
He looked like a douchebag, and walked with a cocky, swaggering gait, and bumptiously smirking, high-fiving assorted clubgoers. His appearance struck me as sort of like a shorter, mini Matt Damon, but rougher, like the lost Matt Damon brother who’d been in jail and the media never mentioned much about it. Dude had barbed wire tats and this messy fop of dark blond hair that obscured most of his eyes and wore tight fitting blue jeans and a pink polo shirt with an upturned collar. Given his look, it was hard to be that afraid of him. Although I probably should have been.
He was with a friend, an even shorter fellow, I was slightly unnerved by. The little stocky dude had a shaved head that was slightly too big for his body, making his face look as if it were painted onto a hard-boiled egg. Even more discomfiting were his lightning eyes that flashed of rage and burned at me with a trail of fire when he peered in our direction.
It wasn’t reassuring either when the girl whisper-yelled to me over the blasting music that the badass egg had been released from five years in a federal prison only a couple days prior. And the ex-con didn’t seem as if he hadn’t totally adjusted to life outside. It was more as if he was still mentally in the prison chow hall, plotting to shank a motherfucker. He had that aura, the prison psychopath aura, a jutting look of evil, and I could see him returning to jail pretty soon. He was the sort of person who probably needed to be in jail.
The pairs of toughs had noticed the girl, laughed, and then looked over at me as if they’d wanted to kill me. There was blood in their eyes.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent They sauntered by, said an awkward hello and then sat down at an opposite booth from ours. The booth was dimly lit, but I could see from the shadows that they were giving us the evil eye. I could picture the angry egg dude sharpening a toothbrush under the table, readying to shank a motherfucker. And I could feel an uneasy tension in the air. There’s a certain pheromone released before violence, before a rumble, a riot, or a fight. It’s a sense that can be detected, a scent that can be smelled in the air.
It was certainly there.
Sensing it, I shouted to the Korean chick, over the “YEAH-YAH” of the music, that we should take off, and we did. I retreated in a cab, back to my house, where I passed out soon upon arrival, having sank too many shots of the Jack.
Later I found out that her ex and his prison friend were involved in a melee at the club, involving rival thugs, club security. The police had come, made several arrests, and as I hypothesized, the little angry egg dude found himself back in jail.
Needlessly to say, I was happy to have left before all that. Not exactly the ideal night out.
(That nightclub, itself, too, turned out to be shady. The lady who owned it also owned a bail bonds service directly across the street. The cops would lay in wait outside, near the parking lot, pull over and breathalyze those exiting. When they were booked for DUI, guess which company would be recommended for bail?) I guess things were doomed from the start with that Korean girl. We had an initial attraction, at least, and had initially hit it off when we first met. It seemed like an auspicious match. She said she’d liked my “yankee” accent and was giving me the vibes, running her hand up on my arm a lot and laughing at all my jokes.
I’d liked her Southern twang and, though I didn’t have an “Asian Fetish,” I have always found Asian women to be very beautiful, and I thought she was certainly very pretty.
But then the first time we hang, I nearly get caught up in a fucking melee, involving her ex-boyfriend and some crazy prison dude.
Maybe I should have stayed away after that. I mean, hell, she was a prison chick after all. Sure, they’re cute in the movies, but when redneck thugs start trying to
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent stab you and kill you, it’s suddenly not so endearing. But still, she was funny, easygoing and attractive. She had killer weed too. So, against my better judgment, I saw her again.
She came by my house, at night, alone, with a bag of eye-poppingly pungent, crystal-coated red-haired weed. We sat in my living room, on the couch, and I noticed, in talking with her, that she had mannish mannerisms, sort of talked and acted like a dude. Seemed more like a bro than a lady. Still, she was looking nice as we smoked the ganja and watched the show “Frasier,” which she’d been obsessed with, surprisingly.
Fuck, her juicy yellow thighs on full display and her tight round ass in her hot pants were hella ripe…
Looking at the TV, high, and seeing Roz and Daphne and sitting next to this cute Asian prison chick, I started feeling horny, my cock hardening. Then, randomly, she mentioned how she liked to suck dick and that the first time she’d done it, in high school, by a dumpster in an alley behind a roller skate rink, she’d immediately thrown up afterwards, but now she’d developed a fetish for it. (A fetish for oral sex, not vomiting- if I remember right…) I was waiting to finish the blunt before jumping on top of this girl, and I definitely would have, if it wasn’t for what she said next, her next random graphic proclamation, something I never thought I’d hear emitted from the lips of a woman. Something severely off-putting.
She told me, verbatim, while puffing on a blunt, that she had IBS and after every meal she ate, she had to take a huge, nasty shit.
Not that I don’t know girls shit. Everyone shits. I accept this. But like I’d understand a girl I was dating not needing information about my bowel movements, I as well didn’t require such information, such a graphic depiction.
(Am I an asshole for this? Love should be unconditional, right? Love me, love my dog, love my IBS? I don’t know…)
Once I heard that, I couldn’t shake the thought of her dropping massive logs, her just squatting and shitting everywhere, like a wild animal.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent And I couldn’t bring myself to be physical with her. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her that night, and she fell asleep on my couch, untouched by me, and I went back to my bedroom, alone, and crashed soon after. She then left early the next morning, before I woke up, to go to her day job. (She’d been working as a beautician, doing electrolysis, hair removal on women’s bodies.) We again had drinks, met at this hick dive bar that was adorned with rebel flags and Tennessee Vols football memorabilia. Place was dead but still played ear-splittingly loud alternative rock music of the day. Think Puddle of Mudd.
Then we went back to my place and were again sitting on the couch, smoking weed. She inched closer to me, with a look of expectation in her sexy slanted eyes, her long fake lashes fluttering. She was anticipating a votive offering, that I’d put the moves on her, I guess, and I swung my head, met her expectant gaze.
Part of me wanted to kiss her. But I was unable to do it. Because all I could think of was her on the toilet, squeezing out stink cables.
She cocked back her head, squinted, and then asked me, in an interrogator’s tone, if I was a virgin. I said no. I couldn’t bring myself to disclose the real reason for my reluctance to touch her. Awkward silence ensued. We ripped a few more bong hits, watched “Fear Factor” for a bit and she grumbled at the sight of the fame-seeking contestants drinking donkey piss or whatever and gathered her things, got up, said her goodbyes, and left with a look of disappointment, her face scrunched up like she’d tasted something really sour.
We didn’t speak or see each other after that. I’d heard from our mutual friend that he’d heard that she’d fought off a dude who she sold weed to, who’d tried to rape her. Then she’d dispatched a pair of butch lesbians she knew from prison, set them after the fuck. My friend said he was at a party, and the lesbians charged in, found the would-be rapist, dragged the fuck into a bathroom, slapped him around and forced a dildo up his ass… I can’t confirm how much of that was true, but I did hear the story of the angry lesbian anal assault confirmed by one other eyewitness from the party...
To this day, part of me regrets not making a move on the prison chick. She was a freaky chick, had even talked about being super into sodomy, blowjobs and anal.
She was probably an amazing lay.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent But, I just couldn’t get over the thought of her dropping horrific turds everywhere, like five or so a day, she’d said. It was too unsettling a thought... As well, not that I’d ever rape a girl, but what if I’d gotten her mad about something and she set the angry lesbians after me? What if that was how she resolved disputes? Talk about having to “watch your back…”
I dated a couple girls casually after that, had a couple one nighters, but I never had a steady girlfriend in college. Not one. It’s a regret I have because that’s really the time when one should experiment, have lots of boyfriends and/or girlfriends, or at least one or two.
But at least I wasn’t a virgin. I had dated and was only an occasional incel, wasn’t a total incel. Maybe the funniest date I went on was a girl I met online. In her picture, she looked attractive. Then we met at a Chinese buffet, and I was shocked to discover she had a googly eye. Fucking strabismus. The whole meal, I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or the waiter.
Another amusing one was a girl I’d been set up with by a mutual friend. It was a blind date.
I walked up the stairs, to her apartment, to meet her. Nervous, my heart thumping, I rang the doorbell and this sizzling-hot blond, in short shorts and tank top, opened the door. I’m thinking “jackpot!” I was elated. I stretched my mouth into a smile about a mile wide, nodded my head, and gave her the Joey from
“Friends” “How YOU doing?”
Turns out it was her roommate. The girl I was to meet then walks over and was about two hundred pounds and had the face of a pig.
Despite being horribly unattractive, she was a nice person, and we’d had pleasant online chats. I’d thought, selfishly, callously, of making up an excuse and darting out of there. But I stayed and, while waiting for her to get ready, I remember watching their TV, seeing news coverage of a citywide blackout in downtown NYC.
I’m glad I didn’t run off because It was a fun date, I must say. We went to downtown Nashville, ate at an amazing restaurant/bar, had authentic Southern comfort food, saw an excellent live band.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent Seeing live music in Nashville is a desideratum for anyone living there or just passing through. Even if you’re not into country western music.
I’d never been a fan of country music, and still am not, really, but when you see it performed live you learn to appreciate the craftsmanship, musicianship behind it.
Living in Nashville gave me a new respect for the artform, and I quite enjoyed the country band we saw at that bar/grill. It was the type of music that if I heard it on TV or the radio, I’d turn the dial, but hearing it live was different. It was awesome, sounded so big, so alive. Nashville has some serious talent, and after living there, the musicians in that city earned my respect…
On the way back from that date, on the highway, the existential topic of death came up in the car. The girl’s hot roommate and her boyfriend and I were discussing it.
I brought up an article I’d read that described near death experiences. How scientists believed that the brain is the last organ to go, how the brain can still function for a time after death, explaining the “tunnel of light” experiences, visions had by people who’d been clinically dead.
I’d read that the brain could possibly stay alive, for days, after the body itself is dead, and that one could feel, experience autopsy, burial, cremation.
Hearing this scared her friend so much that she said something like, “No matter what happens, I’m always going to remember this conversation. And I’m just NOT
going to die. Ever!”
I wonder if she held to that, if she didn’t die. And if not, if she’s alive, I wonder if after all these years, if she remembers our conversation, in the car that night, on that Nashville highway.
I do.