Salt on the Nuts by Scott L. Anderson and Anonymous - HTML preview

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DROPPING LSD, JERKING OFF AT THE PUSSYCAT THEATRE, AND SHIPPING OUT

 

"Sir! Sir! Wake up. You're disturbing the other passengers."

I blearily pulled my face away from the window that I had stuck to from dried drool and looked up at the stewardess who was shaking my shoulder. I had been dreaming about the porno movie I had seen at the Pussycat Theatre on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis that had kicked the previous night off and realized that I might have been shouting out things like "hairy snatch" and "let me stick in your ass, big momma." Passengers were looking at me in horror. By the stench surrounding me I must have been also farting like a circus elephant. If I had pulled the same stunt after 9/11 my ass would sitting in a jail cell right now.

Jesus Christ, what a day and a half it had been. It all started off when I had checked into the downtown Radisson Hotel. When I found my room and opened the door I discovered that I had company. And my company appeared to be both lonely and stoned. He was also talking a mile a minute and appeared to be some sort of drug fiend.

"Hey, buddy! Guess we'll be bunking together. Cool! My name's Bobby. You're Navy, huh. Me, I'm joining the Marines. Just like my brother, which by the way reminds me. Do you like to party?" When I nodded at him (I had yet to utter more than a single word), he reached into his pocket and pulled out a glass vial and handed it to me. "Acid, dude. My brother is stationed out in Frisco and he sent it to me. Owsley acid. They call it that cause some freak named Owsley makes it. Suppose to be the best in the country. The Hells fucking Angels get their acid from this dude. There's enough for both of us. Let's drop it and make a Fucking-A- Dilly-Bar party for our last night."

We washed the tabs down with a swig out of Bobby's can of Schlitz malt liquor. The good old Bull. The LSD took about fifteen minutes to kick in as we chatted. And it kicked like a mule.

"Fuck, Bobby," I stuttered. "This is some potent shit! We better get some food in us and a couple of beers to try to mellow out some or this is going to be a long night."

Bobby had started making this weird look with his face like a chipmunk chattering and he kept  repeating "Yes, dude, yes! Fucking A yes!" It was really starting to freak me out. I realized that I may have made a huge mistake.

We stumbled down to the dining room where our government issued meal tickets got us this greasy and goddamn nasty Mexican dinner which we both inhaled. I don’t know how since it was like eating a dead squirrel and didn’t taste much better than it looked. We damn near got thrown out of the joint because Bobby kept whistling at this hot little waitress and flicking his tongue out at her like Linda Blair when she had the lead role as Satan - which I was starting to think Bobby wasn’t too far off from - in The Exorcist.

After we finished our rotgut meal we staggered out on to the streets of Minneapolis to find a bar that was lacking in the skills of checking the identifications of underage drinkers. It took about half a block to find. The place was dark and dank and all of the customers appeared to be about ninety fucking years old. They were drinking Old Style beer, obviously the house special, and were glued to the television which seemed to be playing an endless loop of Leave It To Beaver, Maude, and Good Times reruns.

“Cold beer for our men and hot whores for our horses,” Bobby yelled out as he slapped a twenty on the bar. The bartender, who looked like an old queen from the silent film era, popped two cold ones down and gave a sly wink and swished back down to the other end.

“Fuck, I think we may be in some sort of retirement home homo bar,” I slurred out, I was so high I couldn't tell if I was really talking or not. "Is there a parrot on the bartender's shoulder?" Behind the bar there appeared to be a giant purple lizard wearing a turban and it was crawling slowly across the wall.

“Who gives a shit,” said Bobby, “As long as the old bastard keeps bringing these beers,” he belched out. “Maybe he’ll blow us if we tip him enough.” I looked at Bobby in horror not knowing if he actually had said that and meant it, or if I was now having auditory hallucinations.

“You boys having a good time tonight? You two can sure put the beer away.” The old fart ran his tongue over his yellowed dentures. I looked down at the bar in front of me.  I couldn't believe that I had drank that much and not taken a piss. We must have been on about our fourteenth beer apiece by the amount of empties in front of us and it appeared that the old geisha boy was ready to make his move. I had totally lost track of time and just where the hell I was. How many fucking episodes of Leave It To Beaver are there?

“I guess were doing OK,” I babbled.

Bobby responded by opening his mouth and barfing a geyser of beer and bad Mexican food all over the old queer. We both vaulted off of our stools and ran out the door screaming and laughing like hyenas and tore down the block until we found ourselves, like a vision from God, in front of the legendary Pussy Cat theatre. Deep Throat had played non-stop there for years. It was a double feature, the second show was called I Cream On Jeanne. I was hoping that Barbara Eden was really in it. She had been the subject of many of my stroke dreams. Thinking back, how in even my LSD addled mind did I think that Barbara Eden would be performing in a porno film?

“I gotta see this flick,” Bobby said, “I heard this chick Linda Lovelace can go down on a mule and not bat an eye.”

After getting our tickets I went to take a leak while Bobby went to the concession stand. Like I’d eat anything that was sold in a porno theatre. The walls of the bathroom were covered with graffiti and with the phone numbers of men who either wanted me to call them so they could blow me or visa versa.

“What in the hell is wrong with this goddamn town,” I wondered as I pissed all over my shoes looking at all the amateur porno scrawled on the walls. The majority of them poorly done renditions of stick men with massive cocks, balls, and exposed assholes. If the theatre was showing just regular old porno flicks - guy on girl, girl on girl - why was all the graffiti homo related? Another question for the ages.

Bobby was waiting for me in the lobby, rocking from one foot to the other. He had bought a box of World War II era malted milk balls and was eating them with his mouth wide open. I had to swallow back my gag reflex. What a disgusting sight!

The theatre was one of those old time places that had gone to shit and now showed only skin flicks around the clock. Fucking place must have held two thousand people at one time in it’s glory years and now there were about fifteen in the whole joint. Me and Bobby, eleven single men, and two either really ugly women or two transvestites who were wildly making out.

I didn’t give a shit though! Man, once I started to watch that Linda Lovelace, who was short in the tit department but fine in the ass and bush, get down with old Harry Reems, I was sporting a piece of wood that Rod Carew could have used to knock out a homer at the old Met stadium. The urge to jerk-off off was intense. I just had to beat my meat, just had to, but I couldn’t with Bobby next to me. What shitty luck I was having.

“Look at them ugly chicks swapping spit,” Bobby yelled out. No one in the audience as much as turned around. “Goddamn that ain’t right! What would Jesus do if he saw that?” (If that dumb asshole had only been able to see into the future he could’ve thrown a trademark on that one.

Advertising firms could have dosed Bobby with acid and he would envision future marketing slogans). Suddenly without warning he stood up and stepped out into the aisle and hurled a milk ball as hard as he could at the two spit swappers. It shot over their heads by fifteen feet. The place was cavernous, no one even heard it hit. Or cared for that matter.

The next time he wound up like he was trying out for the Yankees, even going through the whole wind up with the kick and everything, but his throw was way over their heads. Eventually throwing the box empty, Bobby turned and ran up the aisle for more ammo. Eureka! I took the opportunity to un-zip and pull out my crank. I'm sure this was illegal but since I had noticed about everyone in the place appeared to be either beating their hogs or someone else’s it must not be too well enforced. I was really getting into it when out of the corner of my eye I spied Bobby moving down the center aisle firing malted milk balls like a sub- machine gun. His hand would dip into the box, he’d fire, and then take another step down the aisle. The acid in my brain gave the milkballs the visual effect of being shout out of a bazooka along with a bright orange tracer. Very cool looking. But he was still way off the mark and I was about on mine when suddenly...

“What the fuck?” someone shouted. The two transvestites were out of their seats and running up the aisle towards Bobby. Obviously he had finally hit his target. The sons of bitches were a lot bigger than they looked sitting down. They charged up the aisle looking like linebackers wearing nylons, wigs, nightclub dresses, and high heels. The three of them went down in a pile of punches, curses, and kicks.

I don’t know if it was the combination of the acid, sweet Linda up on the screen giving it her all, or the adrenaline of the fight - but I shot to my feet and shot a molten lava shot of spunk that arched over at least two rows and landed right on this old dude’s neck!

He stood and shrieked like a wounded deer, with his pants hanging down to his knees, his white ass glowing in the dark as white as the moon. “What the hell was that?” He screamed out again as if battery acid had been poured on his neck.

Without stopping to look, I bolted up the aisle as I jammed my prick back into my jeans at the same time. I ran straight through the lobby and out the left side lobby doors just as two cops came in the right side of the lobby. I sprinted like an Olympic track and field star packing a full load of steroids, all the way back to the hotel.

And I never saw Bobby again.

I was leaning against the front of the hotel trying to catch my breath when I heard her voice. "Do you want to party?" I couldn't decide if I was still hallucinating or not. For I was looking at another vision sent straight from heaven. My second in about an hour. A gorgeous blonde Amazon! She was incredible! Playboy shit! I mean she was that hot. Long blond hair. Huge jugs in a halter top.

Shapely legs pouring out of denim hot pants. Must have been close to six feet tall. She was the whole fucking package!

The power of speech had left me. I could only nod numbly. In my drug and alcohol soaked brain pan I knew that she was a hooker but I didn't give a shit.

"Give me your room key." I handed it over without question. She ran her tongue around her lips and Pearl Drops white teeth and turned and walked across the lobby as I followed along. Staying slightly behind her so that I could check out her gorgeous ass, obviously she was wearing no panties. We stepped into the elevator and as soon as the door closed she turned and grabbed my crotch and stuck her tongue in my ear. "I'm going to wear that big cock of yours down to a matchstick," she hoarsely whispered.

"Do you have someone else in the room with you?" She was standing by Bobby's bed and looking at all the empties of malt liquor scattered about.

I don't think he'll be back tonight." Fucker had to be in jail by now. I was hoping anyway.

She smiled coyly at me. "Good. It's 50 for a blow job. A hundred for a suck and a fuck. And a hundred a half hour for any extras. Do you have the cash?"

I walked over and flashed the remainder of the wad I had stolen from la Favor, Mike, and Angel.

She smiled again. "That's a start." She started stripping off her clothes. She looked over at me. "Well just don't stand there, get those clothes off so we can get this party started." My crank was already so hard I thought I'd pass out. The blonde had perfect jugs with tollhouse cookie nipples and her trim was shaved into a heart. There was a tattoo of Curious George beating his meat emblazed on her ass. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a couple of horse sized pills. "Have you ever taken a Quaalude?" She pulled a beer out of the cooler and popped the top and washed one down. "Makes fucking twice as good. Here, take this one. On the house."

***

The ringing of the phone brought me out of my coma. I was laying on floor of my room buck naked. The phone stopped ringing and quickly started up again. I staggered to my feet and had to hold the sides of my head to keep from passing out.

"Hello," I gasped into the phone.

It was my wake up call. "Good morning! It's five o'clock! Rise and shine! The bus leaves for the induction center in..."

"Fuck off!" I snarled and slammed the phone down. I barely made it into the bathroom before I puked into the bathtub. Standing up I caught a glance of myself in the mirror before I passed out.

I'll never know what really happened that historic night. It was one for ages that's for sure. But I do know how fucking shocked the security guards looked when they found me passed out on the bathroom floor. I guess the woman who had given me the wake up call had been a little concerned about how I had answered her call. Security found me laying in a pool of my own barf and looking like I had been dragged behind a car. All my clothes, money, and other personal shit had been stolen. The guards were kind enough to dig through a lost and found bag to scrounge me up some Viking sweatpants and a matching t-shirt along with a packet of underwear (size medium - irregular) and black socks that were stuffed in a sweaty smelling gym bag. For shoes they gave me a pair of old shower shoes. I wound up looking like a member of a group home for retards.

Quite a way to start your military career.