Shonnie, The Biker’s Wife, Part Four

Shonnie Saga: Part Four

Parts One,   Two,   Three.

We spent that Friday afternoon and most of Saturday enjoying the Bluegrass festival while swilling beers and smoking lots of cigarettes. During the late evenings we would share burgers, listen to all sorts of music on my little boom box, drink whiskey and have great sex. We also talked of many things, but nothing too heavy. We were enjoying ourselves.

Sunday noon we checked out of the motel and sadly headed west back to San Dog. It had been a perfect weekend and I truly regretted the ending of it. Shonnie impressed me more and more with her worldly wisdom, and in spite of no formal higher education, she seemed to know a lot about a lot. Mostly about the important shit: Life. She had not one ounce of pretentiousness in her small body. (Small, very sexy body) Both of us were inventive and creative in bed. Did I mention the sex was fantastic? I am certain I did.

Knowing my duty schedule on the USS Frederick, I knew it would be three weeks until I had another weekend completely devoid of any responsibilities as a sailor. I had already formulated a plan to ‘kidnap’ her when that free weekend came about.

During the ensuing days we kept up our regular rendezvous schedule. More and more I looked forward to seeing her and getting to know her even better. She was reluctant to tell me very much about her life, but bits and pieces did come out between slow dancing, drinking, smoking, and fucking. Her father had left her and her mother when she was still quite young. ‘He was an abusive type’, was about all the detail I got from her, but I could occasionally catch a glimpse of sorrow and pain in her eyes. I refrained from broaching the subject of her husband-the-biker. In fact, the fact that she was married at all, slipped away from my mind like so much quick silver…

One Saturday night she had me drive us to a Mall.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” I asked her. Malls ain’t my thing, you see.

“I wanna buy you something,” she replied.

“Oh no you don’t. I have everything I need.”

“No. You need this, c’mon.”

She led me to a record shop and began searching the bins.

“What’re you looking for?” I asked.

“Gimme a sec. Oh here it is,” she announced happily pulling a cassette from the bin.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll love it. Trust me.”

She purchased Nighthawks at the Diner by Tom Waits, an artist I had never heard of.

We drove to Balboa Park,  and opening some beers to go with our whiskey we listened to the cassette. I loved it from the very first minute. My Girl had me all figured out. It was just a little disconcerting, how she had so easily pegged me and yet to me she was still mostly an enigma.

After the sun set we started our make out session, then she did something unexpected. She unbuckled my jeans and started giving me head. This had never happened before and to say I was quite pleased would be an understatement bordering on the felonious. Just as I was really getting into it, she stopped suddenly, looked up at me with those piercing blue eyes and said solemnly, “If you come in my mouth, I will kill you.”

Well, that kind of ruined ‘My’ moment, but actually in a good way. It struck me so funny that I just could not help bursting out laughing. It was priceless. Make out session temporarily put on hold and my fondness for her intensified.

The next weekend (my ‘freedom’ one), we met at our usual rendezvous point. She, on instructions from me given over a pay phone, had brought along a bag with extra clothes and whatever other tricks of her trade she needed for a two-and-a-half day ‘excursion’, along with a pass from her mom relieving her of motherly duties for the weekend.

“So Cowboy, where are we going?”

“Vegas,” I said. “My turn to ‘educate’ you My Love.”

Video Credit:  The VICTORY of COMMUNISM

“Woolworth  Rhinestone diamond earrings and a sideways glance”

Greatest line from any song.

To be continued…  FIVE HERE

 

Shonnie, The Biker’s Wife: Desert Dreams, Sex & Music

Continuation of the Shonnie Saga

Part One Here

Part Two Here

*****

About three a.m. we were pulling the Toronado up in front of her house, actually, her mother’s house. During the course of our conversation after leaving the bar’s parking lot Shonnie revealed to me that she had left her husband, who was a biker, and moved in with her mother. She had a nine-year-old son who suffered from a crippling disease and though fairly independent, still required almost twenty-four hour supervision. I asked her why she felt compelled to move out of her house and she told me her husband was overly jealous and had a ‘mean streak’. (Perfect, I thought: A jealous Biker with a mean streak and I had just finished screwing his wife. Twice. Smooth Lance. Real smooth.)

In spite of this revelation, and in the department of ‘I shouda known better’, I agreed we should continue seeing each other, so we set a date for the following Saturday night, back at the bar.

For the next several weeks we continued our weekly rendezvous, sometimes meeting on a Friday if I had ‘Duty’ on Saturday. Basically, we would drink and dance (still only slow dancing, but once I did allow her to attempt to teach me the ‘Two-Step’ with semi-disastrous results: I think I embarrassed her and she did not broach the subject again.). And of course after we had closed the bar those nights we would retire to the Toronado for some late night sex. It was all good. And better now that she was arriving in her own car and I did not have to risk running into Biker Dude at her momma’s house at three or four in the morning.

Eventually we grew weary of the bar scene and went straight for the sex, generally in some out of the way dark and empty parking lot. This new pattern went on for some more weeks.

One weekend I had a rare three whole days off duty, so we planned an ‘outting’, or rather, she planned it. She managed to get her mom to take the kid for the entire three days and we met up in some parking lot in Pacific Beach.

She got out of her car with a small suitcase, locked up, jumped into my car, announcing, “You got plenty of gas?”

“Not really,” I said. “Why?”

“I’m kidnapping you, and we have some miles to cover today.”

“Road trip?” I asked.

“Yep, and while we’re gassing up, we need to get some booze and maybe some munchies.”

“Hey, I’m all in. Hell! Let’s do it.”

So without even asking where we were going, I took care of the logistical tasks. Once we were stocked up, and now (directed by her) heading east toward the desert, I asked, “So Shonnie, where’re we going?”

“Away from all this San Diego Shit an’ into the desert,” she said.

“This much, I have already figured out, but where, and why?”

“Tell ya when we get there,” was all she said as she dropped ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres into my cassette player and cranked up “Jesus Just Left Chicago” which started mid-way through. Couldn’t really talk over that, so I just kept driving east.

An hour or so later we were pulling into some little town called ‘Alpine’. It seemed nice enough, I suppose, if just a little dusty and brown.

“Find us a motel,” she said, after turning down the stereo which she had kept cranking during the entire trip: ZZ Top, Marshall Tucker Band, Hank Jr…. It was about two in the afternoon.

We drove around a bit, found a motel and I asked, “One night or two?”

“Two.”

“You’re the boss,” I said as I got out and headed to the office.

I always kept most of my civilian clothes in the trunk of my Toronado since there really was not much room on the USS Callaghan  I meant USS Frederick, LST 1184, (sometimes I forget which ship I was on) for anything in my locker other than uniforms and I grabbed some and along with my Babe, we headed to our little love nest. The room was Spartan, but adequate. At least it had regular sized towels and no roaches that I could see. Actually, it was clean and tidy. There was a tiny TV on a table and a regular size bed, two chairs and a small coffee table which had some initials carved into it with a message:  “J and J had sex here. 1981. Hiley Recomend” Very quaint, I thought.

“Hey Shonnie,” I said to her back as she unpacked, “Do you have a pocket knife? I’m feeling literary.”

“What? Too soon to slit yer wrists City Boy. What for?”

“’City Boy’? That hurt. Never mind,” I laughed.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, already half-way through peeling off her shirt and blue jeans. “Join me?”

“Yup.”

We did the shower sex, then wearing nothing but towels sat on the bed and had a drink or two over some Marlboros.

“Okay Shonnie,” I said. “You gonna tell me now exactly why we’re here, ‘miles from nowhere’, on this hot and dusty Friday afternoon?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She said.

“Nope… I mean it’s lovely an’ all, and good to be out of town an’ all, but if you just wanted a sleazy motel room and me all to yer lonesome, we coulda done that in San Dog and saved the gas.”

“You told me you were a ‘romantic’.

“Yes. Yes. I did. Er… I am, but…”

“Get dressed, we have a place to be this afternoon.”

So we got dressed, grabbed the Beam and cigs, locked up our room and headed to the car.

“You got a beer cooler stashed in your trunk or somewhere?” She said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“You know I do,” I said.

“Good, take a left. There is a Seven Eleven up the street. We need some beers and some more cigs.”

“Roger that.”

That mission properly dispatched, Shonnie played navigator and back seat driver and eventually we ended up in a dusty park. Which was beaming with people. And music. Bluegrass Music. She had kidnapped me to a Blue Grass Festival! Surprised? Yep. Shocked? Shonnie? No shocking me about this gal anymore.

And I Loved it. And I may have been falling in love with her at this point.

Video Credit:  Kevin Allen

More to come…  Here

Shonnie: The Biker’s Wife

 

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 though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic. So I bought me some Nocona’s (NO, I did not varnish them), a Stetson, Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places, or in this case, ‘Place’. The name of which escapes me, but it was along the lines of Gilley’s in Pasadena Texas, albeit much lesser.

Orig Gilleys

 

I mean Gilley’s had five bars in their bar and the largest dance floor in Texas. This joint 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 errant long neck beer bottles.

What a gyp! 

T’would serve my purposes, however, and sate my lower expectations at any rate. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.

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 like Norman Rockwell had dipped his brush on them. There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against some 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 head said.

The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy! You know you ain’t no real Cowboy either; 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 say so, 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 Urban Cowgirl Beach Babe 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 always 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).

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 or even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull. Honky-Tonk Travesty!

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; 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 ‘Cowgirl Watched’ as the place began to fill up. Along ‘bout 1900hrs, the place was semi-jumping (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, I sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know!) trying ever so hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un. From Texas.

Cowboy Days

Lance As Cowboy (The one on the right don’t look  much like the one what shot  at me),  But then,  that is another story, ain’t it?)

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 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 as 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?”)

“Lance”

“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s Lance. Say ‘Howdy’” 

“Hiya”

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… Here

*********

“And I’ll be lookin’ for eight when they pull that gate.”

“and I hope that judge ain’t blind…”

We all do Peanut. We all look for ‘eight’

And we all hope the judge IS blind (but you knew that, didn’t you? You asshole! You were not supposed to die first. We made a pact. Didn’t we?? Don’t you remember?)

Rest, My Very Best Friend.

You are severely missed.

I’ll catch up to you.

Someday soon…

Vid Credit: 

Scot Wick

 

–Lance

 

Something Wrong

There must be something inherently wrong.

Something inherently, just wrong, with a man who can love Joni Mitchell–Mitchell and LBJ all in the same virtual ‘sentence’

I have seen idiots from ‘Both Sides Now’ And… I have been the ‘Both Sides’ Idiot. Still am, I suppose.

Well, there you have it: My virtual dichotomy.

I love ‘em both.

Surely it is a Texan thang.

I surely do hope so.

For, if so, there is still hope for those of us who call ‘Texas’ our home.

We do ‘sailor on’…

There will be some commentary on “The Atomic Cafe” soon…

(http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/atomic_cafe/)