was living large in the ‘Proper Garage Apartment’ and was ‘in good’ with the Landlord. She informed me he had this ‘wonderful little apartment’ for rent, which was ‘just perfect’ for me. Read CHEAP.
I checked it out, paid my fifty bucks and moved in. The moving in took all of two minutes, for I had not much to move.
Working for Ruth at her Liquor store in Ladonia and making a solid three dollars fifty cents an hour (plus ‘benefits), it was indeed, ‘perfect’ for me.
Now mind you, I never complained about living in such a place. After all, it did suit me and no one would have cared anyhow if it didn’t. It had some kind of ‘certain charm’ (just like this place) to be sure.
How many folks could invite a guest into their home and lead them past the shitter before arriving into the living room/bedroom/kitchen/study proper? As far as I knew, I had the only such place in all of Commerce. It was special.
And truth be told, I did some ‘entertaining’ there a couple of times. The only person who I would invite over was my girlfriend. She never judged me. She was always happy to be with me, no matter the venue. (Yes, that sounds conceited, but there it is Gentle Reader—c’est vrai, or quel dommage, or… choose your own français).
After a good night’s sleep and an uneventful day at ‘work’, Matt and I hit the beach at 1600hrs. Rog was not to accompany us because he had ‘The Duty’ and could not leave the ship.
That is the little part of The Naval Service Experience the recruiters never tell you about:
A war ship must be ever-ready to put to sea.
Or put out a fire.
Or counter a terrorism threat.
Or clean the shitters.
Or Worst of All: Standing Watch!
Hence, a percentage of the Ship’s Crew must remain on board at-all-times.
AT ALL TIMES
Call it a ‘skeleton crew’ if you will.
This is fitting since while stuck on board, unable to leave, one feels as if better off dead than…
Suffer the dread
Because Having The Duty Sucks!
AT ALL TIMES!
“Navy: It’s Not Just a Job. It’s A Pain-In-The-Ass.”
Magsaysay was a little more frenetic than usual for a hot, humid sunny day.
Or maybe it was my imagination.
“Matt,” I remarked as we sauntered down the street heading for Viva Young, “Seem a little busy today?”
“It’s a Filipino holiday,” he said.
“No shit? What’s the occasion?”
“I thought the Filipinos despised him.”
“They do. This holiday commemorates that poison arrow they embedded in his ass back in Fifteen Twenty-One.”
I laughed. “You’re bull-shittin’ me Matt!”
“Yeah, I am.” And he laughed. “I have no idea what, if anything special’s going on today.”
“How do you remember?”
“What? Remember what?” he said, while wistfully gazing at a Filipina standing in a barroom doorway.
Matt was easily distracted and had already lost the train of our conversation.
“The year of the untimely death of ‘Ferdinand-The-Fucked’”
(“Don’t know much about History. Don’t know much Biology. Don’t know much about a Science book. Don’t know much about the French I took …” But this sailor knows just enough to get him into trouble.)
“You remember who I married right?”
“Oh yeah. Of course. But I didn’t take Josie for a Philippines’ history buff.”
“I married her for her brain, not for her big tits and tight ass.”
“Now I KNOW you’re bull-shit.”
We laughed some more and continued down the street dodging the ubiquitous Jeepneys and Trikes and street vendors and sailors and marines and… You get the picture.
As we were making our descent toward Viva Young, we passed a balloon vendor who was struggling with an armload of bright balloons.
A light-bulb idea lit up in my brain (This sometimes happens, not often, but sometimes)
and I stopped dead in my tracks. Matt did not notice and kept on walking.
“Hey Matt!” I hollered, “Wait a sec. I wanna buy a balloon.”
Since Matt is a sentimental artist, he thought nothing of it.
Now if Rog had been with us, there probably definitely would have been some unhappy words exchanged.
But Rog was stuck on the Freddy. And I smiled inside, imagining him stewing over doing his ‘Duty.’
I walked over to the kid selling balloons. He must have had no less than a baker’s dozen and a-half all trying to escape into the sky. Since I am such a prince of a guy, I decided to relieve him of his burden so he could call it an early day.
“How much for all?” I asked.
“How much for all?” I repeated. “I wanna buy all your balloons.”
“Uh, Pive Hundred Peso” (This is roughly ten dollars)
I gave him the money.
He gave me the balloons.
Matt shook his head.
We walked into Viva Young.
And all Hell and Pandemonium broke loose.
The girls squealed with delight as they, en masse, stampeded over almost knocking us down in the doorway.
‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gimmie Balloon!” fifteen voices yelled in unison as thirty arms reached out from bouncing girls.
“That’s what they’re for Little Darlings” I said as I untied the bundle and passed them out.
The girls dispersed back deep into the bar with their new prizes.
I felt some cold blue steel penetrating my head. I glanced in the direction of the source.
“Where MY Balloon? Goddam Chew!”
“Uh, Mama-San… You don’t want no balloon. I have something way more special for you that I picked up in Hong Kong.”
During our last Hong Kong port visit, anticipating such an emergency, I had purchased a semi-cheap but nice, lovely locket on a gold chain. I fished the little box out of my pocket and handed it to her.
She opened it, smiled a sweet smile at me, then caught herself and said, “Why you no gimme this before?”
“I was waiting for a ‘special’ occasion.”
“What special occasion?”
“I was waiting for the ‘special’ occasion of you being in a good mood.”
“I no in good mood now,” she said.
“Yeah, I know, but I got tired of waiting.”
“Well, ‘salamat’” (Filipino for ‘thank you’), she said. “It nice.”
“Walang anuman,” (You’re welcome) I said back. Two can play at this game.
Thinking this was the only opportune chance I would have, I broached the subject:
“I didn’t see New Girl. She here today?”
Instant frown: Just add Lance-the-Butterfly-Sailor and stir the shit.
“I told you! She off you limit!”
“Ah, come on Mama-San. I just want to talk to her. You know you have my heart.”
“Chew bull-chit-man! Yeah, she here. Go to look around you-self asshole.”
“What’s her name?”
“Thanks.” And I went off on my quest before Mama could say anything else.
I discovered ‘Lourdes’ at the back of the bar. Why she had not claimed her balloon, I have no idea. But I theorized she was still very new to this ‘business’ and quite shy.
There was an extra balloon bouncing off one of the hanging light fixtures. I rescued it and walked up to Lourdes.
“Hi. My name’s Lance,” I said as I handed her the red balloon.
She looked up at me through beautiful dark Filipina eyes, took the balloon tether from my hand and said quietly, “Tank you por balloon. Red my pav’rit color. My namb ‘Lourdes’.”
“Yes, I know. Nice to meet you Lourdes.”
“How you know my namb?”
“Mama-San told me.”
The mention of ‘Mama-San’ seemed to make her nervous, so I quickly changed the subject.
“Come sit with me at the bar, okay?”
“Uh… Okay” she said as I led her to the part of the bar furthest away from the prying eyes of Mama.
We sat down and I must have gotten lost in her for a moment. She fidgeted a bit. I finally found my voice and asked,
“Aren’t you supposed to say it?”
“Say what?” she asked.
“Say, ‘You buy me drink’?”
“Oh yeah. I por’git. You buy me drink?”
“Of course I will.”
Some things are universal.
In these ‘types’ of establishments, no matter what town, city, county, country, or continent, the ‘game’ never waivers:
The girls hustle way over-priced drinks which more often than not, especially in Olongapo, consist of weak tea—no booze—but cost three times as much as top-shelf scotch.
It’s just the little dance we all must do and I have always been just fine with the arrangement, never being one intent on breaking the rules nor upsetting the balance of power in the universe.
We chatted for an hour or so over several beers for me and several ‘scotch’s’ for her.
Eventually, she began to relax having come to the conclusion, I surmised, that I was not a monster and actually a decent guy to hang out with.
Sad to have to say, but most sailors and marines have a ‘I buy you one drink baby, then it’s I-pay-your-bar-fine and we go to the show.’ standing policy.
Your humble sailor is not such a man.
“’Lourdes’ is a lovely name.” I said, gently brushing her hair back from her cheek.
“Tank you. I like it.”
“Not your real name, is it Honey?”
“No,” she admitted. “I pic it outta book.”
“Kind of a ‘stage name’ eh?”
“Oh, yeah… Kinda. Yes.”
“Would you tell me your real name?”
“Mary-Lou. Mary-Lou Perucho.”
“I like that better,” I said. “May I call you ‘Mary-Lou’ from now on?”
“Yes, but not in pront of Mama-San.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Where you from Mary-Lou?”
Not Shonnie, But Pretty Close (and almost) BeautifulEnough to be a Reasonable Facsimile
In Nineteen-Eighty-Seven San Diego County there was only one Country & Western Bar/Dance Hall (that I knew of). I was sorely missing Texas and even though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic. So I bought me a pair of Nocona’s, and no, I did not varnish them,
A Stetson, couple pair of Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, ‘Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.‘
But in this case, I had found ‘The Right Place’. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time.
This One below is Personal and for Shonnie. Wherever she may be.
No need to watch. My narrative would survive without it. But my heart would not.
If you do choose to watch/listen, keep in mind it sums up, and also foreshadows in a nutshell, a great deal of the content in the chapters to come.
Good Gawd! I love My Texas!
The name of joint escapes me. Not important. But it was along the lines of ‘Gilley’s’ in Pasadena, Texas, albeit much the lesser.
I mean, Gilley’s had five bars in theirBar and the largest dance floor in Texas, if not The World. (My apologies to ‘Billy Bob’s’ in Fort Worth.)
This ‘Honky-Tonk,’ and I use the term loosely, had but one bar and one medium-sized dance floor. And it didn’t even have chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from flying Lone Star long-neck beer bottles.
What a gyp!
Would serve my purposes however, or at least sate my low expectations. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.
(According to SirWillie Nelson in hisfirst book,“Willie: An Autobiography,”The Good Folks who ran Gilley’s, Mickey Gilley et Al,during the Early Years (1971) were compelled to install the wire. Without it, no band would agree to perform there. Things could, and often did, get ‘Rowdy’ at Gilley’s.
By the Time Peanut and I were spending Quality Time in the place–Mid to Late Seventies–I saw no chicken wire. But the rowdy remained. More often than not with Peanut in the thick of it and too often the cause of it. “That Sonuvabitch done pissed me off!”
“Thanks for the memories, P’Nut–You fuckin’ Nut.”)
Credit: Channel Two Houston and devonhart,
June 26, 2014 in ‘Historic Houston’
So I began to frequent this establishment in earnest. The thing that stuck me upon my first visit was that all the ‘Cowboys’ and ‘Cowgirls’ looked like Yuppies. Not Dallas Yuppies, mind you: ‘Southern California Yuppies’.
The walls were adorned with all manner of Rodeo Scenes, all of which looked as if Norman Rockwell might have dragged his brush across them.
There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against a couple of walls, a few ‘decorative’ spittoons (nothing more useless in the world than a spittoon ‘what never dun been used’), and many more things I cannot find the stomach to recount.
The lighting was, well, Too Light. Hopefully, this would be rectified later in the evening’s adventure as the ‘real’ Cowfolks came sauntering in.
One sustains hope in situations such as these. There really is no other choice.
“Good Godawmighty! Lance! Son, you were more ‘at home’ in the Titty-Bars downtown San Dog than this abhorrent lame excuse for a ‘Honky-Tonk’,” voice in my head said.
The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy?! You know you ain’t no real Cowboy neither; jes’ go wid it.”
There was, as I said, one bar. And immediately to the right of this bar…
(a respectable looking bar, if I do grudgingly admit, replete with no less than four barkeeps and many, many serving wenches scurrying back and forth not unlike so many dutiful worker ants—all very pretty—in that Southern California-Wanna-be-Urban-Cowgirl-Beach-Babe-Kinda-Style)
…was the stage with a Cowboy Band. Actually a damn good one. They even had a fiddle player (so at least they could play ‘Amardillo By Morning’ a song which always reminded me of ‘Monsieur Le Peanut’, and forever held a special place in my heart and in my ears.
Immediately in front of the Bar was that ‘dance floor’, (No sawdust, but that could be grudgingly forgiven, I suppose).
The rest was mainly four-seater tables and chairs (And Candles! Fer Christ’s Sake! Candles!)
For the life of me, I could not spy a single pool table nor a shuffle board nor even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull.
The bar itself drew me first (of course). I asked for a Lone Star and got a vacant look. “Ok, gimme a shot ah Beam and a… ah… a Heineken.” (‘Jerry Jeff, please forgive them; for they know not what they do’.)
Now properly attired and bona-fide in my two-fisted drinker status, I went searching for a table close to the dance floor. As it was relatively early, I had no difficulty finding same.
I sat and drank and wistfully, wishfully, sorta woefully…
‘Cowgirl’ Watched, as I drifted back into memories of ‘for real’ Cowgirls.
The place began to fill up along ‘bout 1900hrs. The joint was semi-jumping now. (For San Diego, I guess. By that time I suppose the surf was no longer ‘up’).
I studied the apparently single cowgirls and spied a rather lanky ‘tall drank ah water’, long-haired brunette with Sloe-Gin eyes and all that implies, just tearing things up with several different dance partners.
I made my move between songs. Sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know! Bullshit!) trying ever-so-hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un.
Lance as “Cowboy”
We danced the dance and I could sense I was not her cup of… whatever it is that they actually drink here.
She whispered in my ear, “Hey ‘Cowboy’ (rather mockingly, I perceived), “I have a friend you should meet. Her name’s ‘Shonnie’ and she is seated (seated?) just right over there. C’mon! I’ll introduce ‘Y’all’” (Yet another perceived slight?)
I glanced in the direction she was leading us and saw a rather diminutive dirty blond, absently stirring her drink as she casually watched the band while they began to belt out some Randy Travis monstrosity.
We waltzed up to the table and my escort announced quite cheerfully, “Hey Shonnie! I found you a ‘real’ Cowboy.” (She quickly whispered to me, “Hey Sugar Britches, what’s your name?”)
“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s ‘Lance’. Say ‘Howdy.’”
I shook the diminutive hand she offered and sat down.
“Uh, Howdy Shonnie, Little Lady; Nice to meet Y’all.” (Yes, I was really laying it on thick, but I was somewhere between buzzed and drunk and starting to figure, ‘What the hell I got to lose’?)
She smiled wily, if not demurely, through semi-white teeth, Marlboro smoke, and Paul Newman Blue Eyes. I must admit: I was intrigued.
Thus began one of the most bizarre ‘flings’ I have ever had.
More to come…
“And I’ll be lookin’ for eight when they pull that gate.”
This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”
And since I like things to be linear,
We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’
Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.
Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?
SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.
I have to guess.
The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.
After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.
Could’ve been an hour or more.
After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.
Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.
Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.
My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.
The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead.
My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.
In other words, I was a mess.
SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)
SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)
As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”
I had to laugh, right before I drifted off. Passed out.
Completely whacked out and totally done in.
It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.
The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)
I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.
But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?
(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)
“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.
“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”
Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.
“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)
I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.
She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair.Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.
Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.
Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.
It was unnerving.
Not necessarily in a bad way,
But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.
I was spent.
Running on empty.
I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.
Send my saddle home.
I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to beheld and caressed.
Not fucked to within an inch of my life.
I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.
As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.
Not yet, anyhow.
Not just yet.
My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.
“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”
–Joni: Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988
“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.
“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”
“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)
See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’
Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.
First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…
Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized BloodyMary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.
My mind had wandered off somewhere.
Layla repeated her question,
“Ring any bells?”
“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”
Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”
“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”
“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”
“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”
“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”
“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”
“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”
“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”
“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”
“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”
I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.
Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.
Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.
I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.
And I was a good and decent man.
Most of the time.
But Shonnie had set me back.
Set me back and set me down.
Something must be done.
Something had to give.
My mind was in a very bad place.
“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.
Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.
“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”
“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”
Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974
“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”
Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post
Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity
18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”
johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit
I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.
LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
How can one go wrong with Willie?
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit
It has been said before!
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit
Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉
LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit
You are too kind my friend.
I do thank you though.
markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit
With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit
You know I will!! 😉
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit
Thank you Sadie.
My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.
But… Never Fear!
The words will come, by an’ by…
And I hope you will read.
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit
Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit
It only hurt when I laughed.
Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.
Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit
I’m with Nancytex.
You definitely need a Samantha.
Can’t wait to read the next installment.
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit
If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)
Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….
NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit
My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit
I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’
At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.
As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!
Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.
Cheers My Friend,
Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit
I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.
I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.