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Cruisin' Kent - Part 1
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
CRUISIN' KENT
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This story is fiction. There is no intentional similarity
between the characters in this story and anyone who really exists.
Although I am using a familiar character as the central one, (as per
usual, me.) none of the things that happen in this story have
actually occurred. I should be so lucky. This work may be distributed
freely, as long as no changes are made to it and you don't charge
anyone for it. If you do charge someone for it, kindly mail me about
10% of the take, and then sell many more copies. Hell, I'm a capitalist-
if you're a good salesman, I could use you.
Thus ends the LEGAL BULLSHIT!
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I've spent, in my life, 5 years working in grocery stores.
There's a reason for this. Even though the work sucks, the pay
sucks, the people you work with suck, and the hours suck, there is a
definite advantage to being a cashier. Come summertime, the outfits
get real skimpy, and there is no way to empty a shopping cart without
bending into it to get at what's on the bottom. Usually, right in
the cashier's line of sight. (Simple mind, simple pleasures. Remember,
when I was 15 when I started that shit job. Between the ages of 15
and 20, tell me one thing other than sex, money, and food that enters
a male's mind. I didn't think you could.)
When I finally left the biz, to go into sales, (It's my
natural calling in life. I can sell ice cubes to eskimos, and make them
think they called me out to talk to them. I love it.), the most miserable,
thankless job in the history of time, that ceased. (Working at Sears,
selling shit computers to morons who are stupid enough to pay Sears prices,
when they could walk across the street to Sun TV, buy the same thing,
and save $300-500 - how many stunningly gorgeous scantily clad women do
you think that I'd end up talking to over the course of a shift? Right.
Not one. The only women that came into the department were either
A) With their SO, looking for a cellular phone, or B) about 95, looking to
buy "one of those new-fangled machines" for their grandkid. Part A wasn't
so bad, but you'd end up talking to the latter for about 9 hours, and
then the bitch would decide on a nice $9.99 calculator instead, because,
"All a computer is is just a fancy calculator." Never, will I ever, sell
computers at a place that also sells calculators.) So I needed a new
way to fill my voyeuristic tendencies.
(You know, there is one building on the Kent State campus that
is open 24 hours. It's the computer science building. Every hour, of
every day, there's a "lab rat" like me here. We have, as a matter of
course, gotten used to the idea of bringing in large sums of cash to
feed the vending machines. We know that the vending machines in this
building are the most popular on campus, because if it weren't for them,
most CS majors here would be skeletons slumped dead over keyboards. So,
how do they tell us that they love the extra revenue generated by us?
They took out the machine that had about, oh, 70 selections of delectable
munchables and gave us this bastard machine that spits out Mr. Goodbar,
Bit-O-Honey, and stale granola bars. I'm allergic to chocolate, and
don't particularly relish the idea of having all of my fillings ripped out
chewing on a Bit-O-Nasty-Tasting-Shit-That-Sticks-Like-Tar-To-Smooth-Surfaces,
so that leaves me with these fucking stale granola bars. It's hard enough
to pallette that shit when they're fresh, but *stale* is a different matter
altogther. Now, they're punishing us for using the machines even further.
A pop is 65 cents. That machine takes dollars. A stale granola bar is
55 cents. Since you've just gotten a quarter and a dime from the pop
machine, you fish out a quarter from your last excursion to get a
Mountain Dew (the only selection that they feel needs refilled.), and
put the whole mess into the candy machine. 55 cents for a stale granola
bar. You put in 60 cents. You expect---??? Right. A stale granola bar
*and* a nickel. This bastard machine gives you a choice, now. It either
gives you a stale granola bar, and no change, or it eats the 60 cents,
spits out a nickel, and keeps your stale, overpriced, honey-flavored,
oh-so-healthy, oh-so-tasty granola bar, that you had to drink two
Mountain Dews to get at in the first place, so you're naturally wired and
hungry, (as Mountain Dew is approx 60% sugar 30% caffeine, and 10% water),
and now you're beating your head against this fucking Satan-loving machine,
because it's three in the morning and the only thing left open is Taco
Bell, and you know that if you go and get some, you'll not get any work
done from the shitter, so now you're wired, hungry, and pissed all too
boot, and the janitor comes along to give you greif about beating the holy
living shit out of this cocksucking machine that just fucked you over
for the third time since midnight. Then, to top it all off, you can't even
follow the last sentence you wrote because it is one of the longest run-on
sentences of all time, you've gotta pee because the 8th mountain dew you've
drank since 11:00 trying to get enough change together from the nickel that
the machine lets you have to buy a Mr. Goodbar, and damn the allergy is
kicking you in the kidneys, and you're accomplishing nothing. THAT is
why I hate this fucking school. Ms. Cartwright, if you're reading this,
WE WANT OUR FUCKING VENDING MACHINE BACK!!!! GIVE IT TO US YOU COMMIE
BITCH!!!! 'nuff said. Gotta pee...be right back....)
(And furthermore, the only thing more distant from the Undergrad
lab to the bathroom is Goddamned Jupiter, so when you finally have to
pee so bad you can't take it any more and start that long trek, the
temptation to stop and piss on the infernal machine just outside the
ugrad door (typical) becomes almost too much, and when you whip it out
and tell the machine to give you a fucking granola bar or savor the
taste of your broadsword, the janitor not only berates you, but starts
shooting you the strangest fucking looks of all time.)
I have no fucking idea what I was talking about. I think I was
talking about getting a sales job, and how much it sucks, and how no
scantily clad voluptuous women would bend over at the cash register.
So, anyway, I had to find a new way to observe the fairer sex.
Then one day, I realized that God does love me. You see, at
the Sears store I worked at (remember, I live in Akron. Should narrow it
down.) the computer division (my area) was (gasp) RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO
THE LINGERIE DEPARTMENT. That, in itself, is nothing great. But one of
the stock guys, who unfortunately has to almost live in the back room
for the computer and stereo departments showed me something terriffic.
There was, indeed a small hole in the wall, (big enough for a security
camera that just happened to never get placed), right behind a one-way
mirror in the changing rooms, which connected to our stock room.
Now, there is no slower computer department in the world than
the one at the Sears I worked at. (Gee, overpriced powerhouse PCs (we
had a Pentium while I worked there.) in an economically depressed and
psychologically depressing area not selling well. What a fucking concept.)
So, more than once, Terry, the stock guy, and I would meander into the
stock room to check on merchandise that could go out, suck back a pop,
(if you were caught with a drink on the salesfloor, you'd be fired so
fast the only thing to remind you that you worked there would be the
manager's footprint on your ass, but you were allowed to have a pop
in the stockroom.), whatever. My boss didn't care, it's not like any
of us had much to do. So, while I was choking back a coke or two, or
any number of other things to keep me back there (I have a passion for
those Keebler soft-batch oatmeal cookies. Find me a woman who can make
cookies like that, and I'll find that woman a ring for her finger. I'm
a good cook, but I can't bake for shit, and my cookies even get rejected
by the squirrels I leave them out for. Such is life.), I got to watch
a rather interesting show. ('course, sometimes there'd be a woman who
looked like she could sumo wrestle with that nasty Rosanne bitch and win,
but for the most part, the show was fairly nice.)
So that made work interesting.
But, there was still quite a bit missing from my life. I had
recently misplaced my love life, and couldn't quite find it, and my
sex life had, for the most part, been over for as long as I could
remember. Even my hand wasn't too excited by what had to pass for sex
for a rather long time, so I wasn't even jerking off anymore. (I had
been trying to fill that void in my life with golf, and all that
playing with long shafts and going for the hole did for me was make
me have to try to play golf around a hard-on. Try explaining *that*
to your buddies. When watching the PGA tour starts to hold a sexual
interest in you, it's time to kill yourself.)
So, I decided to consult Mike Siminske, a "friend" of mine. Mike is,
without a doubt, the single worst thing that could happen to my life.
He means well, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so he
doesn't help. He tries setting me up with girls, and inevitably he forgets
to mention that they're A) married, B) lesbians, C) both, or D) interested
in him. My mother thinks that he is a god...she's given him a key to our
house. She knew me for 16 years before she ever let *me* have one. She thinks
that since Mike has been forced to live on his own since he was 15, (his
family moved and "forgot" to tell him.) that he can teach me responsibility.
Dad likes him because he keeps me on the straight and narrow. (Meaning,
he always seems to show up right when I'm trying to score some weed, and
I've not been able to get good and stoned for about a year now.) My
fucking *dog* is happier to see him than me at any given time. (He knows
not to bite the hand that feeds him, but he sure likes to snub it.)
Mike, basically, is a member of my family, and I'm not. My parents invite
him to family get-togethers and somehow forget to tell me when they are.
When I had to work Thanksgiving, they invited him for dinner. Whenever
we go anywhere together, every female eye in the entire area focuses
on him. (He's one of those Bronze Adonis types...muscular, well defined
features, etc. I'm, well, not. I'm short, and not entirely loved by
muscle mass, if you get my drift. I'm a typical computer type...forgive
me. But I dress real well...) Needless to say, one day, I will up and
kill him, eat his body, and beat my family (including that goddamned
ungrateful, unloving mutt) with his bones. Anyway, I went to consult
him on the matter of finding me a woman.
So we decide that we're going to indoctrinate me in the bar
scene. The Ohio DMV fucked up. They said that I was born a year earlier
than I really was on my licence. Not being an idiot, I wasn't about
to complain. ('course, when I got pulled over a couple months ago, and
they found out that the wrong date was on it, they took it away, and made
me get another one -AT MY EXPENSE, the bastards.) So, being 21, (according
to my licence), he took me to all the drinking establishments that I
hadn't been frequenting since I was 18. (Because I had already figured that
if in three years of going there I'd not found *anyone* at *all*, there
was no point in returning.)
Silly me. I thought that he might try to help. Where does he
take me? Titty bars. Oh, joy. I get to pay to go somewhere and
stuff dollars in the g-string of the bimbo who is just making my nuts
ache even more. Oh, hooray. Thanks, Mike, I'm really enjoying this.
I try to inform him that the odds of meeting a woman to have a decent
and possibly long standing relationship with (I despise the thought
of a one night stand.) in a titty bar are about those of winning the
lottery 27 times in a row. So he says to me, "I've already got a girlfriend.
What do I need to look for?" Some big fucking help he is.
It sure is amazing how when it came time to leave, someone had
let all the air out of his tires. Don't know who could have done that
under the guise of going to the bathroom. It's a satisfying experience
to deflate the tires on a Mitsubishi 3000GT. Not that I've ever done it,
especially to Mike.
Strange thing about that Mitsubishi, too. When it parks, people
stare at it...(the windows are tinted.) When we get out, women openly
gawk at him. When I drive it, and we get out, they gawk at him. So I
know that women are not motivated by money. (Of course, if it's true that
the flashiness of a car is inversely proportionate to the size of the
penis, then they're gawking at Mike, wondering why such a god would
have about 1.1 inches. (They're super nice cars.) But, alas, I know it's
not true, because on the flip side, men with shitty cars would have
King Kong peckers. My car is worth, at best, $10. By that standard, my
dick should be able to circle the globe. It doesn't. I can't even wrap
it around my waist. But, maybe if I cut a few inches off, my car will
become worth more....hmmm....)
So, anyway, I go home, more pissed than when I left. (It sure
was fun listening to that AAA guy lecture Mike about checking for
slow leaks. It wasn't slow at all. It took me five - er, it probably
only took the guy who did it a few minutes. (My next trick will be to
"accidentally" push the fucker over Nelson's ledges, with Mike handcuffed
to the wheel. Then retreive my cuffs from the wreckage, leave a suicide
note, and let God sort it out from there.)
I decide, for the first time in my life, I'll go somewhere alone.
(I'm serious. The only place I'll go alone is the bathroom, and if I can
help it, I'll drag someone to talk to. I don't shop alone, I don't
go out alone, I don't do anything by myself. I'm excruciatingly shy, and
if I can't get up the courage to go talk to someone, (typical) I end up
sitting alone for the whole evening. Fuck that. I drag some poor bastard
to talk to, so when I don't get up the courage to go talk to anyone,
I at least have someone I know there with me. Make them miserable too,
listening to me whine about how I never meet anyone.) I go to Franklin
Station, *the* Kent Bar.
This place is *immense*. There are roughly 300 people on the
dance floor, about 1500-2000 people packed around tables, standing
four and five deep at the bar, in the upstairs bar, waiting outside, etc.
I don't have to fuck with the line, all the bartenders know me there,
and let me in without even making me pay a cover charge. They have been
just assuming that I'm 21 since I was 18, so I'm not one to argue. With
the way I tip, they're happy to serve me. (After Long Island #5, I
usually forget to collect my change. They love those $6 tips....)
I stroll over to Eric's part of the bar. He places my usual
set in front of me. (Wicked group of drinks, too. Fire & Ice, followed
by a Purple Hooter, with a Screaming Orgasm chaser. When you need
a drink with vodka in it to cool down your mouth from your last two
drinks, you know you could catch fire at any moment. That could be
why I don't smoke.) I slam them, and begin to observe my surroundings.
(It's a bar, Jim.)
Through some divine guidance, the DJ plays "Personal Jesus."
There is, in fact, only one dance that I am capable of, and the line
dance to that song is it. (People often try to teach me how to dance.
Their first words are, inevitably, "Loosen up." Right. The poster child
for stress loosening up. I am more than slightly high strung, and
when you take someone who is that way, compound it by the fact that
I probably consume 50,000% of the RDA of caffeine, and I am generally
nervous about anyone watching me "shake it", as I am cursed with
what could be called, "White man's rythym, (read: none), "loosening
up" is about as likely as winning the lottery. (Hell, that would stress
me out. I'm gonna be dead of a heart attack by about, oh, 25.)) So,
with the effects of the alcohol lowering the fire alarm that I have
come to accept as the norm for my nervous system (and boy, do I get
full use of the nervous part.) to a pleasant ringing sound, I wade
through the crowd onto the dance floor.
So, I'm line dancing. All well and good. And then I see
a familiar face. The alcohol has dulled me to the point that I'm
actually considering being friendly to her, instead of gutting her
right there on the dance floor. You guessed it - my loving ex-fiancee,
the bitch who told me a month before our wedding that she already
married someone else, Eileen. I follow her back to her table, (it
takes that long to get through all the people.), tap her on the shoulder,
and say, "Hello."
She throws her arms around me and acts like I'm her closest
friend, just coming back from a long trip. It's kind of difficult
to stay standoffish when the person you loved does that. (But I maintained
my cool, calm exterior.) She invites me to sit with her and her friend
Christine. Under any normal circumstances, I would have told her to
go fuck a walrus, but Christine captivated me. She had two things that
can stop any thought process in my head dead. First was her smile.
One of those shy smiles, that expose just the top row of teeth, even though
you know they're clenched together because she's nervous as hell. The
one that melts the heart of any naturally shy person, because they've had
to smile like that every day of their lives. (As a public service, if
you know any shy people, lobotomize them today. There is nothing worse
than being scared shitless of everybody you meet. (And, yes, Robin,
you were right. People in general do scare me.)) Secondly, her eyes
caught me like a fish-hook through the temple. Eyes that sparkle in a
mostly dark, smokey room are enthralling enough, but her eyes were
also a deep, rich brown, almost black, so that you couldn't see the
difference between her pupil and her cornea, unless you stared really
hard. Not that I minded staring, but the fact that it seemed like
I was staring a hole through the poor girl's skull made both of us even
more nervous.
But, remember, tonight is my night to be "brave." One day,
I might even get as far as introducing myself to a stranger, without
the help of a mutual friend as a liason, but I think I did rather well.
I sat beside this stranger, and offered her that same uncomfortable
smile, as well has my hand.
As I lightly gripped the end of her hand, (You know the
way most men shake a woman's hand. Just barely touching her, and only
from the second knuckle down.), I said, "Hi. I'm-"
"Mike", she finished for me.
Wow. She's not only stunning, she's psychic. Now I don't have
to worry about nervously ranting, she can just read my thoughts and
try to decypher what the hell is going on in there.
"Eileen's told me all about you. I'm Christine. I've heard
so many wonderful things, I just couldn't wait to meet you.", she said.
Have you ever seen that Castrol GTX commercial, where the engine
is running really fast, and then just locks up? My brain did exactly
that. I think I actually had a brain cramp at that one. First,
EILEEN was saying nice things about me? What the hell? Second, this
wasn't a chance meeting?
So, I decided to try to get some answers. As usual, right
after a mental core dump, I got my languages fucked up, so after
asking her in Spanish if she was sure it was Eileen who said those
things and getting a dumb look, I asked again in English. (What's scary
is that I used to be fluent in Latin. Always great after a massive
brain fart to start babbling in Latin and not know why the hell everyone's
looking at you funny.)
Eileen jumped in. "I never wanted to be on bad terms with you.
I still loved you, you just didn't take what I had to say well."
I was in no mood to argue. I wanted to talk to Christine - but
I also didn't want to piss off Eileen, because she and her friend would
leave. So, in a moment of divine wisdom, instead of being my usual
argumentative bastard self, I changed the subject. "So, Christine," I
asked, hoping that Eileen would leave the last subject well enough alone.
"What brings the two of you down all the way from Cleveland?"
"We came to find you.", she blurted, to the obvious dismay of
her friend. (God, how I love to watch her squirm.)
When pressed for further info, I found out quite a number
of interesting things out. First, Eileen had gotten a divorce, second,
I do have some restraint, (I did *not* burst into a victory dance at
the thought of her life being destroyed.), and third, Christine had
wanted to meet me for a few weeks, and since Eileen was in the meat
market, too, they decided to kill two birds with one stone.
I think God likes to give me unusual turns of events just to
see how well I handle them. This time, He granted me the grand high llama
of opportunity. I see one of my single friends, with a couple of his
buddies. So, I tell Eileen that he's in the market, too, tell her his
name, etc, and she mercifully fucks off to go talk to him. (I love to
play matchmaker. They went home together. ("But wait, Mike...that means..."
heh heh heh. Would I be writing this for alt.sex.stories if we didn't?))
I don't mean to sound like I hate her, but I do, so why throw a veneer over
it? I want her to live a long, healthy life, alone, in a box, with no
contact with the outside world, forever.
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