3. Three Hundred: Molon Labia

“Only one man in a thousand is a leader of men; the other nine hundred and ninety-nine follow women.”

Groucho Marx was right. Queen La Chiefa was one in a thousand and a natural leader of men. However, I only followed Chief Queen because I had to. Once he cut us loose for the day, I hopped on a bus and went straight to The Hideaway to see Loraine. I’d follow Loraine anywhere, and after not seeing her for a few days, there was much to tell her. She spied me as I walked up to the main bar and started on my Murphy’s. I didn’t even have to ask. As usual, the pints of stout just came my way. She called out to me over her shoulder while angling a glass under the tap.

“Hey stranger! Where’ve ya been in the last week?”

I had a split second to contemplate my answer. Obviously, the reason I hadn’t seen her for a bit was because for this past week, I had absolutely no money in the bank. Yet admitting that I was broke to such a pretty lady was not something I was prepared to do. She turned towards me and approached as the partially filled Murphy’s settled under the tap. I decided to lie with some truth.

“Oh man. My new boat finally pulled back into port. The San Fran. And they’ve been keeping me pretty busy.”

“The party’s over now, huh sugar?”

“Yeah, pretty much. And my new chief is kind of a hard ass.”

“Sounds like someone could use a shot.”

“You just read my mind.”

She poured two shots of Stoli, we slammed them together, and then she turned back around to top off my stout. I had a lot to tell her. The upcoming six-month deployment. All the qualifications I had to do before we go. And all those nicknames and funny guys. Hash Brown and Queen La Chiefa? Those are two guaranteed laughs right there. Or I could tell her what a riot Bruce Bells is. That would take a little more skill in explaining though. Maybe you had to be there for the things he said.

She placed the topped off pint in front of me, looked me in the eyes, and I froze. This awkward silence was dreadful. I had all those topics of thought before. Where were they now!?!  We continued looking at each other without saying a word for only a few seconds, yet it felt like an eternity. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I quickly grabbed the pint glass of Murphy’s and started pouring it into my pie hole before it had even fully settled. That would buy me some time.

“Thirsty, are ya, Brendan?”

I nodded and then put the half-filled glass down. My delay tactic worked. She now had a topic of discussion in order to fill this silent void: The Hideaway’s version of happy hour. Her accent was still as thick and raspy as ever, but I was getting better at understanding her words for the most part.

“I told you about Power Hour on Mondays, right?”

“Power Hour on Mondays? Hmm. If you did tell me about it, I have since forgotten.”

“Well, you know how Power Hour is only two hours on weekdays?”

“Uh, yeah, okay. I think maybe I forgot that too though.”

“So, it’s two hours long on weekdays, but on Mondays, it’s all night long.”

“Yeah, Power Hour. All night long. Sounds, uh… sounds good.”

“It sure is.”

“What is it again?”

“Sweetie, it’s twenty-five cent domestic drafts and a buck for the well drinks. All night.”

“Right. And how much for the Murphy’s?”

“Still five bucks. It’s imported.”

“Okay, yeah. Big ocean-going ships, fuel costs and all. Makes sense.”

“But this one’s on me, sugar. The next one though… you should switch to domestic so you can save some money.”

“Well, I got money. I got lots of it. I keep it all in that ATM right over there.”

“I’m just saying you might want to save some of the money you keep in that ATM right over there.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Depends what domestics you have.”

“Look at the list. I gotta take care of these customers.”

The list of domestic drafts were all lagers. Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Lite… mostly diet lagers actually. Nothing appealed to me. Loraine took some initiative, however. When I was close to finishing my pint, she set a flimsy plastic cup of golden beer in front of me instead of starting another nice black stout in the usual sturdy pint glass.

“What’s this?”

“Kona Longboard lager. Try it. It’s better than all that other domestic piss water.”

I gave it a shot. Definitely not piss water. It was full of flavor and also nice and crisp. I could see it being ideal on a hot and sweaty day. However, this was a nice temperate night, and that wasn’t exactly the beer flavor I desired at the moment.

“Not bad. But not bitter enough for me. I’m gonna stick with the Murphy’s if you don’t mind.”

“Honey, I don’t mind. But all these guys here are having their entire nights for less than what one of your Murphy’s cost.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I’d rather pay the price to enjoy something I really like instead of paying a little bit for something I wouldn’t even want for free.”

“I hear ya.”

She started on my next pint of Murphy’s. When Loraine brought it over, I still couldn’t think of anything of substance to say to her. That old deer in the headlights thing. I was much too sober to talk to someone as striking as her. Shots maybe.

“Another Stoli, please.”

“I could use another one too.”

She teed them up, we shot them down, and then off she walked. That bought me some more time. I needed that time for the liquid courage to start kicking in. Sober, I always locked up in the presence of a beautiful woman. I had a theory for this. Now approaching twenty-two years of age, I was quite desperate. I had never even had a girlfriend before. That I can explain.

I went to an all-male Catholic high school, didn’t do any extracurricular activities because I worked two jobs, and then immediately joined the Navy after high school. At the time, females were not allowed to serve aboard submarines. I simply had so little exposure to the opposite sex that I’d get really nervous in their presence. At least while sober. You see, in my little world before I turned twenty-one, there was only one place to meet them.

That place was church. Yet I absolutely fucking hated going to church. My mother had to force me to attend. Then one day during my junior year of high school, I met a senior named Linda in my confirmation class. It was on Valentine’s Day of 1993 to be exact. A Sunday. Once I discovered the fact that Linda existed, I started going to church without my mother’s forced intervention. I’d even go when it wasn’t a Sunday. What kind of crazy ass teenager goes to church after school on a Wednesday? One with crazy ass hormones in overdrive. (This lovely little Linda lady is what I would later refer to as church-bait.)

To be clear to any god-fearing parents out there: If you and your son had a history of engaging in angsty teenager quarrels which were a touch on the existential side, ending with the obligatory door-slamming “I hate you!” closing argument before each and every Sunday service, and then one day this son suddenly looks forward to attending mass… well, I can assure you that yes, he’s in love with someone, and no, it’s not Jesus.

For me, it was Linda. She was my first true crush. Linda was seriously spiritual, so I followed her right into any service she said she might be attending. (Usually the one aimed at teens and young adults with a “hip” guitarist and without the stuffy old people choir.) My attendance was for the sole purpose of seeing her, and maybe even talking to her occasionally. The mass itself was still just a chore.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Peace be with you. And also with you. Can we get on with it already?

A good day was measured by how many additional words I could say to her beyond a simple, “Hi!” after the service. There weren’t too many good days in the beginning, and the ride home was typically a real bummer.

Darn it! I should have said something! Anything! Maybe she’ll be there Wednesday. I think overheard her telling some dude she was going on Wednesday while I stood there… silently like a dope.

Eventually I strung enough of the right words together to convince her to do things with me outside of church. While I was attending training in upstate New York for “prototype” (which was the last mandatory school of the Peepayleenay), plus also during my training at the welding school in rotten Groton, the words I strung together ultimately culminated in quite a number of sleep overs at her Greenwich Village apartment. (I slept on the anti-apostate approved couch-of-the-unwed, however.)

Yet like how I was just now with Loraine, I was much too shy around Linda. Actually worse. It was as if I had left my personality back at home, perhaps locked in a box under my bed for safekeeping. My pursuit of Linda obviously ended in failure. It was inevitable. Perhaps if they served beer in church, or rather, if the priests hadn’t been so god damn stingy with that fucking blood of Christ, things might have turned out differently with Linda.

Don’t YOU understand!?! I need more BLOOD, you silly little priest!!! It’s for my pursuit of LINDA!!! Give it to ME!!!

I gave up following Linda around the time I reported to Submarine NR-1. Once a crewmember of that pint-sized atomic U-boat, there was no time to follow such women. This was only one year prior to my ass getting shipped out to Pearl. A year which included a brutally frigid winter in rotten Groton where I worked my balls off for an intense pre-deployment maintenance period, usually collapsing in the barracks most nights after my alternating two 12-hour and one 36-hour shifts. I didn’t see sunlight on my free time for weeks. And then that maintenance period was immediately followed by the five-month Mediterranean deployment. Salty sea air mixed with diesel and exhaust fumes brings me right back to that summer of 1997.

Once on deployment, I began losing my religion after meeting a cute R.E.M.-loving Russian cocktail waitress in Haifa, Israel. I didn’t have to follow her into church because she was Jewish. I didn’t have to follow her into the synagogue because the only use she had for Judaism was to get her the hell out of Russia. And let me tell you something else: I drank like the sailor I was in Haifa. Therefore, I was not shy around Anya. I took risks. I asked for her phone number. I asked her out on a date. I kissed her. Didn’t have to ask for that last one. We both went for it when the time was right. I’d like to thank Elohim for all that blood of Christ we drank!

Side note here: Should one wonder about my taste in blood, this was all Anya. She drank Guinness and room temperature shots of vodka on our first date while I drank Rolling Rock and sickeningly sweet, ice-cold kamikaze shots. I suppose you could say she wore the pants in our one-week relationship. My very own first attempt at that chest hair producing stout wasn’t until the next morning. I had a very hard time finishing it. Guinness sure was an acquired taste for a noobie drinker. I still found the Guinness unpleasant when I ordered it on our second date. I think Anya could see my lemon baby face of rejection suppression struggle. I powered through though. Ordered more stouts for the both of us.

By the time we pulled back into rotten Groton, not only had I begun learning to read and write in Russian, but I had starting to crave the Guinness. Unbeknownst to me, I had fully acquired a taste for those Irish stouts by not drinking them during my trans-Atlantic voyage. It took me a little while to figure out exactly what I had been craving when I had returned to land. I knew something was missing but couldn’t pinpoint it. Why aren’t these Heinekens doing it for me anymore?

Wait a minute! It’s a good day for Guinness!

I went to an Irish pub, ordered one, and holy hell, it was the perfect taste. I just sat there all by myself with utter satisfaction. Probably looked like a simpleton staring at my glass with a big shit eating grin and occasionally nodding to no one in particular. Hot damn, I figured out! I figured out exactly what I had been missing in my life—just in time to move to an island in the middle of the Pacific where at the time, these Irish stouts were quite rare. So rare at the time that it drew curious people straight to my pint glass of jet-black beer. Moths to the flame.

As Loraine brought my fifth or sixth pint of Murphy’s over, the first pretty lady of the night came in. She sat down next to me. Solid development I thought. Then I noticed her wedding band. Drats! At least I could talk to this one without getting nervous, especially now that I was a few pints in. It’s like practice or something. The pretty practice lady ordered a drink from Loraine and immediately engaged me for commentary on mine. The pint was still cascading.

“Wow, what is that?”

“Murphy’s.”

“Murphy’s?”

“Yeah. It’s an Irish stout.”

“What’s it taste like?”

Last time this happened, I had determined I’d explain the taste as best I could to the pretty ladies as to not shock them and ruin my chances of, I dunno… chances of something. Anything, really. But this one was married, so I had nothing to lose by withholding pertinent flavor information from her. Plus, once Loraine heard this lady’s question, she immediately looked over and flashed me an evil smirk. How could I not?

“Here. Fresh pint.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Have a sip before I get my cooties on it.”

“Your cooties!?!”

“Yeah, you don’t want any of those. You take the first sip.”

She seemed amused my cooties comment. That may have put her at ease. Well at least until she took a sip of the stout. She made the full-on lemon baby face of rejection. Loraine burst out laughing, quickly put the back of her wrist up to her mouth to muffle it, and then ducked down. The poor little sipper coughed a little bit, and then tried to speak.

“Uhhkk!”

“Not what you were expecting?”

“I thought there’d be chocolate!”

“Chocolate?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“That would be a lot better, right?”

“No, not at all! This is a stout.”

“So?”

“Stouts are supposed to taste like, uh… stouts.”

“Well I think they should put chocolate in them!”

Crazy lady! Could you imagine that? A chocolate stout? That was definitely crazy talk. The pretty (but obviously crazy) lady left after one cocktail. Loraine came over to the other side of the bar, made a comment about the lemon baby face the pretty/crazy lady made, and laughed about it again. Loraine hugged me, rubbed my fluffy red high-and-tight hairdo and went back behind the bar. I had more vodka. The night eventually faded away. I woke up in the barracks. No time to shower or shave if I wanted to make it to the boat on time.

My eyes were glazed over and undoubtedly bloodshot during Queen La Chiefa’s morning meeting. You better believe that I was the main source of this particular morning’s silent sulfuric cloud of death. Stouts are somewhat unforgiving on the body. And they’re even more unforgiving to all the bodies huddling around said original unforgiven body. As to be expected, my assignment was to continue checking in. Read more regs, go for more interviews. The next interview in line was with my division officer.

My division officer was the Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA) by title and a Lieutenant Junior Grade (O-2) by rank. Unlike how we were permitted to address Senior Chiefs with a shortened version of their rank, we were not allowed to address Lieutenant Junior Grades as “junior.” (Sometimes the military is no fun.) The MPA was young, maybe twenty-four, and seemed nice and highly intelligent, perhaps too good for the Navy. He likely had barely two years in the Navy. Yet due to this guy being an officer, salty ass Chief Queen with years and years in the Navy technically reported to this young’un.

The next few days followed the same pattern. Regs and interviews. Regs and interviews. Regs and interviews. My department head was the next one. He was the Engineering Officer (EO) by title and a Lieutenant Commander (O-4) by rank. (All the other department heads such as the Weapons Officer and the Navigator were O-3 Lieutenants.) Due to his artificially elevated rank, the Engineer was third in command. Kind of like Scotty on Star Trek.

We were permitted to shorten the Engineer’s title to the “Eng” (with a soft ‘g’ like it was spelled ‘Enj’). The Eng was pleasant enough but had an air of superiority about him. Maybe I just imagined that superiority due the cigars he always smoked. Or maybe it was that he owned one of the most insanely fast motorcycles available to the public at the time. A mighty GSX-R750. Not sure if he paced fighter jets along the runway after work and pumped his fist, however.

Next up were the Captain’s left and right hands. One was enlisted, and one was an officer. His enlisted assistant—the boat’s mommy—was called the Chief of the Boat (COB) by title and a Master Chief (E-9) by rank. Note that his title is pronounced like what corn is found on and not by stating the individual letters. (cahb, not see-oh-bee) The COB was basically to the Captain what the Bull Nuke was to the Engineer. Unlike our Bull Nuke however, our COB seemed like a complete S.O.B. and not too bright. I had to watch out for this guy. He was an enforcer and a nuke hater.

The Captain’s righthand man was the Executive Officer (XO) by title and a Lieutenant Commander (O-4) by rank (just like the Eng, but with more seniority). Unlike with the COB, you pronounce the letters individually. (ecks-oh, not zoh.) The XO was second in command and would be called the “First Officer” if our boat was British. Kind of like Riker on Star Trek TNG.

I was told the XO’s are the ones to fear on the boat, which might seem strange to anyone who read “XO” as the “hug and kiss” officer. No, the Executive Officers can’t be that cuddly. They have a specific job to do. Since they execute the Captain’s orders, they’re supposed to be the bad cop of the good cop/bad cop routine. Yet I got a good cop vibe from the XO on the San Fran. I suppose the COB was bad cop enough for the entire boat.

Finally, there was the Captain. Officially, he was the Commanding Officer (CO) by title and a Commander (O-5) by rank. (see-oh, not koh) Note that he did not actually hold the rank of Captain (O-6). He wasn’t delinquent or anything. This lower ranking non-Captain Captain was standard practice on an attack boat. Yeah, the Navy excelled at mixing up the names of ranks and the names of titles.

Have you noticed by now that I had a Senior Chief-Engineering Department Master Chief, a Master Chief-Chief of the Boat and a Commander-Captain? We even had an Admiral-Commander whose full title was so long he got a portmanteau for it called “COMSUBPAC.” (The full title is Commander, Submarine Force, US Pacific Fleet.) Best not to focus on the mixed-up ranks and titles too much. Things only get more twisted from here as you descend further down into what is stored in the mushy bits inside the cranium of a submarine sailor.

My new Captain, Commander Howser, seemed like he could play an aloof yet sharp dad on a sitcom. He would be there quietly in the background and then say something shocking out of nowhere when you least expected it. Holy cow! He was listening the whole time!?! Yes, I could see him playing that part. I did not see him being cast by Hollywood to play the part in a movie of the part he played in real life. That’s all I could say about him because our interview was so brief. He asked me a few questions, signed my sheet and wandered off. I wasn’t really much of anything to him. Honestly, there was really only one thing I remember him telling me:

“Nothing good comes from excessive drinking.”

Really? That can’t actually be true, can it? I mean, what about Anya? She was good. Well, maybe slightly evil, but definitely good for me. Anyway, with his comment and signature, the check-in process was completed. The work week was over.  I had signed for all those numerous regulations (whether I read them or not), received my submarine service qual card (to earn my “dolphins”), and finished all my check-in interviews (the COB was the worst of the bunch). Completely free weekends were about to become quite rare as I was undoubtedly about to be assigned to a duty section in the very near future. I had to make this weekend count. Oh yes, it was time to put the skipper’s catch phrase to the test.

Let’s go drink excessively and make something good come out of it!

My shipmate roommate Andrew had invited me on a pub crawl following our dismissal for the day. Perfect! I accepted the invitation. This was actually my first pub crawl ever. In fact, I hadn’t even heard of the term before. Once Andrew explained it to me, I figured it would be a good opportunity to see some of other bars around Waikiki and more importantly, to meet the ladies. There never seemed to be many at The Hideaway.

Andrew wore a pastel colored Izod collared shirt with the little alligator on it and some slacks, but I stuck with my standard heavy metal band black tee shirt and blue jeans. I decided against anything with satanic or gory imagery. Morbid Angel, Obituary and Slayer shirts were out. The orange, flaming skull Metallica shirt seemed best to impress. The crawl started at a bar called Moose McGillycutty’s on Lewers Street. We split a cab.

The place was on the second floor and featured an abundance of light-colored wood paneling with an almost-but-not-quite Tiki-like style. Unfortunately, there was no Guinness or Murphy’s at the Moose. Had to survive on Heinies. Andrew ran with rum and Cokes. To me, this Moose joint was an inoffensive generic place that should just be called “bar.” I could totally see why it was such a popular place with the guys. It ticked off all of the boxes for a great place to hang out after work. That is if in your hangout you wanted to share pitchers of Bud Light, listen to popular music you can easily find on the radio, and talk endlessly about sports while watching pretty much all of them at once with the rather numerous tv sets. Basically, my own personal hell. This was not a place for me.

It was also not a place for the ladies. While there may have been no dudes in the Engine Room, there were definitely no ladies at the bar. Yeah, this must be where all the dudes went in Queen La Chiefa’s mind. He was right. The M/F ratio here was dismal—just as I had found at The Hideaway. And for that matter, with this pub crawl’s M/F ratio as well. What a complete sausage fest! Pretty much any lady who signed up for the crawl was a tourist with a guy she imported from the mainland. The only two unaffiliated ladies were easily twice my age. At least the booze to boozer ratio was adequate. We stayed maybe a half an hour, had a few drinks including shots, and then walked over to the next bar. It was nearby and also on Lewers Street.

This bar was called the Irish Rose. This seemed to be a good development. They would undoubtedly have Guinness on draft. Or excuse me, on draught if we’re being proper. Not only that, but they were sure to have some live music. It’s the Irish way. I was half right. There was a band playing, but to my surprise, I didn’t spot a Guinness or Murphy’s handle poking out of their tap system. I asked for them by name anyway. No dice. However, the bartender responded by saying they had Beamish. What was this? Another Irish stout!?! This was an exciting moment.

Holy hell! There’s a third Irish stout! There may be more! Think of the possibilities! The world is my oyster!

That’s why I didn’t see a tap for a stout! Never heard of Beamish before, so of course I wouldn’t recognize its tap! Then came another surprise. The bartender cracked open a tall black and red can and handed it to me with an empty pint glass. What the? How is a can a draught!?! Before I could contemplate this too much, beige bubbles began rapidly foaming out of it. Entropy! I immediately poured the can into my glass as to not lose any to the bar top. I was surprised to see the same cascading effect in my glass, just like a properly poured draught stout from the tap. So many surprises today.

Andrew ordered another rum and Coke. We had no room at the packed bar after being served, so we retreated to one of the few tall two-top tables that were still open. I brought the can with me as it had a little bit left in it. The table had no direct line of sight of the band. Too many beams in the way. I took a swig of my Beamish stout in this beam-ish bar and was content with it. Not bad for a can! I filled the glass up again and noticed that the can rattled. It had moving parts! Andrew did not seem pleased that I ripped open the can. There was some splatter. Maybe it got on his nice alligatored shirt. He walked off and started mingling with the two older ladies. The ones that appeared to be in their mid-forties.

I sat there with my torn can and newly discovered white plastic pressurized beer and nitrogen releasing disc. It was called a widget according to the write up on the can. “Serve chilled!” it warned. Or what? It didn’t say. Found out later: foam. Lots of foam. I had a few more cans of Beamish and ripped open each one. The Irish Rose definitely had the most favorable male to female ratio of any bar in Hawaii I been to thus far—no doubt because of the live music—but I was much too busy playing with my widgets to interact with any of the ladies. The torn open cans probably kept them away too.

Wow, look at that psycho!

Once our time was up, our group moved onto the next Lewers Street pub. It was called The Red Lion. Right away, I found this joint immensely appealing. It was a small, dark basement bar with a much more rock-based music selection. Now we’re talking! There was lots of graffiti with any and all bare wooden spots covered in messages written with pen or marker. I could easily touch the low ceiling, which was absolutely plastered with hundreds of stapled-on dollar bills, all of which were covered in some sort of graffiti as well.

There was a seat at the bar, so I immediately took it. Andrew was still busy flirting with the two older ladies. I asked for a shot of Stoli and any kind of stout if they had one. Fortunately for me, they carried Guinness. Not on tap, however. Like the Irish Rose, this one was in a can misleadingly labeled “draught.”

The can looked like a typical Guinness tap handle: all black with a golden harp and golden writing. This draught can also rattled. I ripped it open a little bit more discretely than with my Beamishes at the Rose. The widget was different! Looked like a ping pong ball that was a few sizes too small for regulation. I determined I needed to get my hands on a can of Murphy’s to inspect their widget technology.

While wondering what shape the widget was inside the Murphy’s, like would it be maybe triangular or perhaps a cube, I thought I saw what appeared to be bare feet and legs strolling by in the reflection of the big, blue-tinted, rather opaque mirror behind all the liquor bottles. Like a reflection of someone walking along the bar top. Yet there was no one on the bar top.

I looked behind me to see if someone was on top of something back there, but there was nothing of the sort to stand on. There couldn’t be. The ceiling was too low for that even had there been an object to stand on. This reflection was gone when I turned back. I had a few more sips of my Guinness, and the feet and legs returned from the opposite direction.

Christ. How many shots had I done?

I called out to the bartender dude.

“What can I do for you?”

“What’s up with your mirror? Looks like we’re underwater.”

“We pretty much are.”

“What?”

“That’s not a mirror. You’re looking into the pool of the hotel above us.”

“Shit! That’s a window!?!

“Yup. You don’t see that too often, do ya?”

“No, you most certainly do not! I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“We get a few good shows from time to time.”

“Do the hotel guests even know it’s there?”

“Not all of them.”

I laughed.

“Nice!”

Andrew came over to point out the pool window to the two ladies. He already knew about it. Andrew introduced us and we all ordered more drinks and shots. We did the shots, and the ladies went to the restroom. I was still pretty excited about this whole pool window situation.

“The bartender said they have some pretty good shows from time to time!”

 Andrew was unimpressed.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it all before.”

“Really? See anything like a bunch of hot drunk chicks skinny dipping?”

“No. Only guys do that.”

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. Don’t get your hopes up, kid. All you’re going to see is twig and berries.”

“Damn. Well, that bubble just burst.”

“And don’t get any ideas.”

“Me? Nah, I’d never do that. If I went skinny dipping, everyone here will call me twigless or triple berry or something like that.”

“TMI”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. But anyway, I won’t do it, don’t you worry.”

“Good, because well… a bunch of guys on the boat did it and got arrested.”

“Whoa! Really? Who?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t you like to know!”

“I would like to know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Well, let’s just say it’s the guys you’d never suspect.”

“I don’t have a list of suspects. I don’t really know the guys on the boat yet, so that’s why I want to know.”

“Sucks to want.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“They were lucky though.”

“Lucky to get arrested?”

“The cops didn’t charge them.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, they figured the Old Man would take care of them when they turned them over.”

“The cops just turned them over to the Captain?”

“They called the boat, and the Duty Officer sent someone to pick them up.”

“Huh. Interesting. Is this some sort of formal arrangement with the police?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But those guys were lucky as fuck they were fraternizing.”

“They were with officers?”

“Just one. And he jumped in too. Buck ass naked.”

“No way!”

“Yes way. This is a no-shitter, for real. And that’s why they’re all lucky. You better believe the Old Man would have peeled a chevron off of everyone if they weren’t with that officer. But he can’t bust them all down and let the JO get off scot free. So, nothing happened to anyone.”

“Damn. That must have really pissed off the Captain. He had just told me ‘nothing good comes from excessive drinking’ today. Right when I checked in with him.”

“Yeah, he was pissed alright.”

“So, who was the junior officer? I would have hated to be in his shoes—err once he put them back on, I guess.”

“Can’t say.”

“C’mon!”

“Nope!”

“Was it our div-o?”

“Not saying anything.”

“You suck!”

“Not for free, I don’t.”

The ladies came back, we had another drink, and we were off to the next bar. That particular bar and the next several bars don’t really stand out in my hazy recollections of the night. No Irish stouts, no widgets, no live bands, no pool windows at those establishments, no doubt. And then we rolled into The Hideaway. That I remember. Loraine was not working this night unfortunately. She was probably behind the bar at Déjà Vu Showgirls. I thought about ditching the crawl and going there, but I was tired of drinking all those Heinekens at the last few bars. No more lagers! The Hideaway had Murphy’s, so I was now once again finally content with my beverage.

The details of this part of night have faded considerably over time, but I was not yet in black out territory. I do remember that one of the forty-something year old ladies gave me a massage while we were standing somewhere between the main bar and the Tiki bar out back. I remember feeling uncomfortable when she switched from massaging me from on top of my shirt to underneath it. That was after she told me she had a son around my age. That temporarily jolted me into a brief sobriety. Something’s not right. I told her I don’t like being massaged and offered her one instead. I stayed above her clothing and assured her I had no kids.

The pub crawl moved on, but I stayed put at The Hideaway. I was comfortably numb at that point. Plus, I noticed a stunning Asian bartender in the small side room bar. Her features seemed more Japanese to me than Polynesian. I pulled up a stool and drank Murphy’s and Stoli until someone hit that reset button and I woke up in the barracks in the morning. If anything good happened that night, I don’t remember it. Well, I suppose some good did happen. I discovered Beamish and another day had been completed, bringing me closer to freedom.

Take that, Old Man!

When Monday morning rolled in, I had 1164 days left. I survived the morning huddle around the starboard main engine. I was in good shape and not the source of this morning’s bomb drops. Others had that covered. (But with all-night Power Hour at The Hideaway awaiting me after work, the next morning would be payback.) Queen La Chiefa had an announcement that we were going out to sea the following week. Just a training mission to keep the cobwebs from forming. Short stint. We’d be back by Christmas. My assignment this day was to begin qualifying Shutdown Roving Watch (my in-port duty station) and Engine Room Lower Level (my at sea watch station).

At first, this was essentially just studying these voluminous giant black hard plastic covered Reactor Plant Manuals and similarly constructed green Propulsion Plant Manuals. I needed to be able to draw a detailed schematic of every system in the Reactor Compartment and Engine Room, from the Reactor Coolant System to the Main Sea Water System and the myriad of systems in between. Basically, every system which was essential to provide propulsion for the ship and to generate electricity. I would have to sketch these systems from memory to get each signature for that system, plus explain how these systems worked in detail, what immediate actions to take during abnormal conditions called “casualties,” and whatever random idiotic useless fact about the system the guy offering the signature could come up with to display his superiority in knowledge over me.

If you didn’t know the useless fact, like for example, how many tubes are in each Engine Room Fresh Water cooler, you were sent away with a “look-up” and had to return after fetching the irrelevant information in order to grovel for the signature. When getting checkouts with Chiefs and officers, the look-ups were to be expected. I had done these months-long qualification rituals twice before, once at the Prototype portion of the Peepayleenay and once aboard Submarine NR-1. It is a most tedious, time consuming and unpleasant process.

Due to the manpower shortage in the Engine Room of the San Fran, I had to be aggressive in attacking these time consuming and unpleasant qualifications. While I was studying the systems, I also had to make sure I didn’t miss out on performing evolutions with the duty section. Evolutions such as swapping over an oil cooler, starting up a Main Condensate pump, or charging the Reactor Coolant System. I needed to get those performance signatures too and could obtain them independently of or simultaneously with my system discussion signatures. This was to be my life for the next few weeks. Or actually months and years rather. There was always a new watch station in which to qualify.

Our progress in each qual was tracked weekly, and our statuses were posted on a bulletin board in the main passageway just outside the mess deck. If you were behind on your quals, everyone could see this, and you were called a dink. (Short for delinquent) When you’re a dink, many of your privileges would be revoked. That would mostly be your liberty in port (as you’re assigned extra study hours on the boat, noob!) and your movie watching privileges underway (as you’re supposed to be studying, shipwreck!). If you were ahead on your quals, there wasn’t a name for it, but I guess instead of saying you were a dink, you could say you were a drunk. That is, you were granted your liberty and could go to the bar right after work. Oh, and I did.

Loraine was especially jubilant to see me when I sat down at the main bar after being cut loose by Queen La Chiefa. She called me sugar, started a pour, and once it was settling, came around the bar and hugged me. I liked that. I liked all of that. She then rapidly ran her fingers back and forth through my hair with an outstretched arm as she started walking back to her side of the bar to finish off the pint. I liked that too.

“Like my momma always said, ‘Rub a redhead for good luck!’”

“Smart lady.”

“That’s the truth right there.”

“You seem rather excited today.”

“Because I am, sugar.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“You guess what’s up!”

“Mmm… you bought a pet monkey?”

“No, I didn’t buy a pet monkey, silly. You’re my pet monkey!”

“Oh yeah? Well, then I give up. What is it?”

“Well, sugar, I talked to Tony and I told him I didn’t think it was fair you paid five dollars for your Murphy’s during Power Hour when everybody else is only paying a quarter for their drinks, so I con—”

“Tony? Is he the owner?”

“Yeah. So… I convinced him to make the Murphy’s the same price as a well drink.”

“A buck?”

“Yup.”

“A buck a pint for Murphy’s?”

“Yes!”

“Damn! That’s incredible! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, sugar!”

“I guess it really is good luck to rub a redhead.”

“My momma knows what she’s talking about.”

I made sure to come in every possible Monday and to start other weekday binges during happy hour whenever she was working except for the upcoming Thursday. This following Thursday was Thanksgiving. 1161 days to go. Chief Queen invited all of the M-Div guys not on duty to his house for dinner with his family. Most of us were single and had no place to go other than the chow hall on base, so this was a nice treat. Despite Loraine saving me a butt ton of money by convincing the owner to drop Murphy’s down to a buck during Power Hour, my funds were still getting low. With four more days until payday, I probably would have been eating at the chow hall regardless of the holiday. I hitched a ride with one of the guys in the barracks.

Chief Queen’s wife was very nice, and their young kids seemed appropriately happy and playful for children who were raised in a loving environment. Dinner was quieter than I expected. I didn’t know anyone all that well, but the conversation among those who knew each other for quite some time was not lively in the slightest. You mostly heard the clanking of silverware against the plates over the small, scattered conversations. Everyone seemed to be holding back, walking on eggshells. My fellow mechanics were clearly very uneasy around Chief Queen. Maybe it was because of his wife and kids. Perhaps no one wanted to be the first one to let an f-bomb slip out in front of his children. Lots of rusty surfaces to chip and paint on the boat, you know.

After dinner, I chatted with Queen La Chiefa in his kitchen over some beers. He handed me that same Kona Longboard lager Loraine had recently tried to pawn off on me in place of my stout. The Kona actually hit the spot right then. Nice and crisp. Queen mentioned that he briefly owned a Harley Sportster, which surprised me. He said he only rode it once, which surprised me even more. On that first ride, he dropped it and then had to call for help to get it right side up again. This surprised me the most. Then he said he immediately sold it. That didn’t surprise me at all.

Although I did not make this suggestion out loud, I thought he should probably just tell people that his wife made him sell it. The whole not being able to pick the bike up thing would be embarrassing to me. What I found odd about his story was that I dropped my first motorcycle the first day I rode it too, yet I had no trouble picking it up all by myself. Sure, the Harley was about a hundred and fifty, two hundred pounds heavier than my bike, but hell, it was cake to pick mine up. Yeah, it wasn’t difficult at all. I don’t think I’d struggle with a bike twice its weight. Why couldn’t Queen La Chiefa pick it up himself? Well then again, he was probably in his mid-thirties. It must suck to get that old I thought.

Monday was payday, so I would be heading to The Hideaway for some of that all-night Power Hour action after work. 1157 days to go. During the gaseous morning meeting, we were reminded of the underway coming up on Friday. I could knock out all of my Under Instruction watches for Engine Room Lower Level, plus get a startup under my belt. Yeah, I was absolutely ripping through my qualifications ever since I finished my check-ins and could actually focus on them. I was no dink. In fact, the rate I was going, I would be done in half the allotted time.

Turns out Queen La Chiefa was notorious for making dinks practically live on the boat while in port until they were ahead on their quals. No liberty for you, dink! Imagine not being able to start drinking until after happy hour!?! I thought there were prohibitions on cruel and unusual punishment in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I believe it’s Article 55. Chief Queen somehow must have gotten around the right to happy hour clause in the USMJ. A lot of the guys hated his guts for that. They held grudges. But he was not going to have that problem with me, and Queen took note. He appreciated my aggressiveness. Consequently, I was cut loose at regular time with all the fully qualified guys to hit the bars in time for happy hour.

For whatever reason, Loraine was at The Hideaway’s little sidebar instead of the main one, which was cause for concern when I walked in and didn’t see her. It was a relief when she called out for me. Whew! It was also a relief for her to spot me apparently. Loraine had an even better bitter beer bulletin to broadcast compared with the prior week. She was bursting at the seams to tell me.

“Hey sugar! I’ve got something I think you’re going to love, love, love!”

“Really? What is it?”

“You have to come by to see me tomorrow night to find out!”

“Tomorrow night? Here?”

“No, at Déjà Vu.”

“Oh okay! I suppose I can rough it drinking some Heinies to see you.”

“Well, you won’t have to rough it anymore!”

“Wait. Are you saying—”

“Yes!”

“They have a stout now!?!”

“Yup!”

“Holy cow! On tap or in a can?”

“On tap!”

“Whoa, no way!”

“Gonna be a big ole party now, huh sugar?”

“Yeah totally! So, which one did they get? Guinness or Murphy’s? Or Beamish?”

“Red Hook Double Black Stout!”

“Red… what?”

“Red Hook Double Black Stout!”

“Huh. Red… Hook. Okay.”

“You haven’t heard of it?”

“Uh, well, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe not actually. I don’t think I have.”

“Well, I think you’re gonna love it!”

“If that’s what you think, then I’ll definitely swing by!”

“Okay, wait. Hold on a second, hon.”

Loraine then handed me a stack of these little white Déjà Vu Showgirl’s business cards from her purse. Odd. I knew where the place was. It was the first establishment in which I drank in on this island. And why so many? I guess to hand out to the guys on the boat? She may have sensed confusion.

“These will get you in for free, sugar.”

“Oh! Nice.”

Cover was ten bucks normally, five bucks for kama’aina and active duty military. But these one-time-use business cards waived that cover charge. I decided I’d keep them all and not share any with the boys on the boat. There was a reason for my planned stinginess. What if I liked this so-called Red Hook Double Black as much as Loraine suspected I would? Well then, I’d need all the cards I could get my grubby little paws on. This new stout intrigued me, so I was quite eager to swing by. But first I had to drink my way through this night. Easy to do with dollar drafts.

Along with Loraine, the beautiful Asian bartender from the other night was there too. I was right. She was of Japanese descent. Her name was Amy. Her parents were from Japan, but she was not. First generation American. I found it interesting that she had absolutely no desire to learn or speak Japanese. She was American alright! After a few pints and shots at the sidebar with Loraine and the occasional visit by Amy, a pretty female customer sat down next to me and noticed my Murphy’s settling. The familiar scene began to unfold.

“Wow, what’s that!?!”

No wedding ring. Plus I was nice and loose from drink. It was go-time.

“Murphy’s. It’s an Irish stout.”

“An Irish stout? What’s it taste like?”

“Well to be honest, it tastes, uh—”

I was indeed going to be quite honest with her in order to diminish the inevitable first time stout-shock. However, as I was responding to the pretty girl, I saw Loraine tugging Amy’s tank top, whispering something to her, and discretely pointing towards me and the unsuspecting pretty customer by my side. It was go-time alright, just not the go-time I was hoping for. An actual chance with this one would have been nice, yet I couldn’t let the two beautiful bartenders down.

“—well, it tastes delicious. Yeah, it’s great. Very smooth. Here. Fresh pint. No cooties yet.”

As to be expected, she was total a lemon-baby face maker. Loraine and Amy turned around and cracked up after the poor lemon baby lady coughed and sprayed some out.

“Oaahhh! Uhhh!”

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Not at all!”

“You were expecting chocolate, right?”

“Coffee actually.”

“Oh! That’s a new one! Huh. Coffee.”

A coffee stout? Another pretty/crazy lady. But she turned out to be someone else’s problem. Halfway through her cocktail, some dude came in, greeted her, ordered a beer, kissed her sloppily right in front of me (Asshole!), and they wandered off. Figures. At least I served some justice.

The following morning with 1156 days to go—after gassing out the guys all around the starboard main engine of course—I continued studying system schematics in the Reactor Plant Manual and getting signatures for performing evolutions associated with my Shutdown Roving Watch qualifications.

Forward march!

After being cut loose, I took the bus to Waikiki. It was time to investigate this Red Hook Double Black Stout business. It didn’t sound too Irishy to me, so I was skeptical. I climbed up the green staircase front and center of the Waikiki Town Center, opened the shiny metal doors of Déjà Vu, and handed the cover charger-taker one of those little white business cards. I was in.

It was sensory overload once again. Loud as hell music, strobe lights flashing all around a dark environment, nipple hardening air conditioning, fake sweet smelling smoke being blown out by the stage, a barely decipherable DJ on the speaker telling us all to “putcha hands togethah for-ah” something or someone while abruptly switching the music to Mötley Crüe’s Girls, Girls, Girls, and most importantly, lots of actual girls, girls, girls wearing next to nothing, nothing, nothing.

I was expecting to see Loraine behind the bar, and she was, but I was not expecting to see Loraine’s behind. My mental picture of her was with the tank top and shorts of The Hideaway, not her working white lingerie uniform of Déjà Vu. Been a while. Seeing her in a G-string felt pretty naughty of me. Recovery was swift, however. I didn’t mandate this. But I certainly didn’t mind this.

While pulling up a stool, I can only assume she called me sugar. It was too loud to be certain though. Loraine got right down to business and poured me this newfangled stout right into a tall pilsner glass. You know, the kind of glass that was scientifically designed to be knocked over with the least amount of force? Yeah, that’s what the staff had to serve dark beer in while wearing a bright white corset and panty ensemble. That was going to be trouble, I could tell.

The first difference I noticed was that she placed this new stout in front of me after one straight-through pour. The second difference I noticed was that the head was a bit darker than an Irish Stout, like a dark brown instead of a light tan. The third and final difference that I noticed was that it didn’t have the waterfall-looking settling action of an Irish Stout.

Hmm. Might be harder to draw in the ladies with this one.

But by god was it dark. Like I was staring into the abyss and it was staring back at me. Actually, it looked a lot like hot, used engine oil with the all the froth right after you drain it from a recently shut off engine.

Just like the first time Loraine set the Murphy’s in front of me at The Hideaway, she eagerly awaited my verdict on this Red Hook. I could see it in her face as she hovered. Other customers could wait until I reached one. I took a sip and had an immediate reaction. This immediate reaction was in fact that of an involuntary face of rejection. Loraine had just lemon-babied me! She flashed her evil smirk and then shouted a question.

“Good strong stout, huh sugar!?!”

I tried to speak but only weak croaking sounds came out.

“Yea—khuh’huummm—yeah!”

I choked a little after trying to speak and I bet it wasn’t loud enough for her to hear. She had another (possibly sarcastic) question.

“Bitter enough for ya!?!”

I began to recover.

“Khhmmm, khhmmm! Makes, uh… khhmmm! Makes Murphy’s taste like Bud Light. Holy fuck!”

She laughed and walked off to serve others. I thought about what had just happened, looked around nervously and began smiling. Yes, on behalf of all those cute little tourist ladies I tortured, Loraine had avenged them. Turnabout is fair play I suppose. Well done Loraine, well done.

The second sip of this Red Hook Double Black stout was just as strong as the first, but it was even more concerning. I didn’t know if I could acquire this new, insanely powerful flavor. What if I couldn’t? Think about it. My reputation would be sullied. Loraine might go find a new red head to rub. This was alarming. I needed to power through this pint and remember my history.

At first, I thought Heineken was too strong. Then just right. And now too weak. Then there was Guinness. At first it was too strong. Now it was just right. Today I found Red Hook Double Black Stout too strong. Logic would dictate that the natural progression meant that soon Guinness would be too weak and Double Black Stout would become just right. That’s what I was trying to convince myself of as I struggled sipping this new stout. One thing I was already convinced of however was that tomorrow morning’s meeting was going to be deadly. People were going to die.

While I was deep in Double Black thought, a dancer walked up to me and asked if I wanted to “have some fun” upstairs. I politely declined using the “just got here” excuse. She walked off. I looked at the taps to inspect my new beer’s handle. “RED HOOK” was written in yellow letters on a black background slanted like the opening crawl of Star Wars, except that there were three red pine tree shapes under the brewery’s name instead of star destroyers. Pines in space! Below that in faded white (stacked) lettering was the “DOUBLE BLACK” portion. Below that was “STOUT” in yellow again. Then there was a green banner under that with small white print. I moved closer to inspect.

“BREWED WITH STARBUCKS COFFEE”

Well I’ll be damned! Where’s that pretty/crazy lady from the night before!?! I owe someone an apology. Guess I was the crazy one, not her. Now I had to be on the lookout for the one “brewed with Godiva chocolate” I thought. Perhaps that lady wasn’t crazy either. Then another dancer came up and asked if I wanted to have some fun as I was pondering the possibility of a chocolate stout. Maybe there was a market for that too. I politely declined the dance again, stating I was going to have a few beers before anything else. I rejected a few more in fairly rapid succession over the course of my second pint.

I was beginning to feel guilty about that, but also a little irritated as I wanted to focus on my difficult drink. I was supporting the bar and tipping Loraine better than any other customer at the bar. But then again, I couldn’t not look back and sneak peeks of the pretty naked ladies on the stage from time to time. They’re too hot not to! But those girls are working, so when you think about it, I was technically stealing the merchandise here. They wouldn’t get a cut of the beer money or Loraine’s tips. I would have to tip them down by the stage at the very least. Well, I mean after a few more beers.

The idea of being that close to fully naked women and having to talk to them while they were that fully naked fully intimidated me, so I needed the Double Black to loosen me up first. Yeah, that was the plan. It was a solid plan, but then something caught my attention which immediately altered the plan. After an earful of pop, country and R&B, I heard the strange sounding intro of White Zombie’s Blood, Milk and Sky. It sounds like a record being played in reverse, and then there’s like a tambourine or something.

No way! This means metal!

The heavy, mysterious guitar riff came on immediately after the tambourines. I knew it! To me, the low pitched chugging of the heavy metal guitar sound is like a massage for my brain. It relaxes me. I looked over at the stage to see who requested this from the DJ. She was an absolutely stunning beauty, with flowing blonde hair, a slender body and long legs. She danced gracefully to the creepy Zombie metal music.

She made her way over to the pole and was just as graceful in the vertical plane. I had never seen someone move the way she did. Gravity clearly did not affect her. It was mesmerizing. I had to go down to the stage immediately to tip. What an incredible show! The DJ told us to “putcha hands togethah for thee-ah lovely-ah Charlie” after his fade out of the unfinished Blood, Milk and Sky. He switched to an industrial metal song. Acceptable.

Charlie completed her pole routine and began the part where she collected the tips while performing short, several second personal dances for anyone that left a dollar or two, which usually included a roll over maneuver with a loud high heel click. When it was my turn for a personal performance, she walked over, abruptly squatted down in front of me with her knees on either side of my head and covered her lady bits with her hand. Then she slowly slid her hand up, spread her fingers and reclosed them, squeezing her, well, her lower lips between her pointer and index fingers. She slowly and seductively asked me a question while prominently displaying everything important right in my face.

“Are you… hungry?” 

My response was instantaneous, like I had known what she was about to say and nearly talked over her.

“No, just thirsty.”

This reply in retrospect felt almost, I would say, involuntary. What part of my brain did that just come out of!?! For fuck’s sake, I even held up my pilsner glass for full dick effect while saying it. Why did I do that!?! It was definitely not the response she was expecting. I could see in her face that I hurt her feelings. I think I was as shocked at my response as she was, and I have no idea why I said that to the one dancer who simply captivated me. It was just plain mean. I think I was just really nervous, and my stupid brain came up with that as a defensive mechanism. I don’t really know. She scooped my tips onto the stage and moved on without a high heel click.

I went back to the bar and felt really awful. Maybe I was too sober and still had an edge on me. I ordered a Stoli and was surprised to see that Loraine only poured one. Did she somehow hear what I said to Charlie and disapprove? No, not possible. I rebuffed a few more dancers while still feeling kind of shitty and confused. Then the captivating Charlie who I had just recently insulted approached.

“Wanna go upstairs for some fun, or are you still only thirsty?”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It was the first thing that popped into my head. But I didn’t have to say it, I guess. You know? I shouldn’t have said it.”

There was a bit of a pause as she looked at me. It was uncomfortable. I poured more stout into my face.

“So, are we going upstairs or what?”

“Uh, well… yeah, so… how much are the dances?”

“Twenty bucks a pop.”

“Alright let’s do it. I think I owe you that much.”

“Yeah, I think so too!”

I downed the rest of the potent Double Black stout with a little post chug cough and went up the stairs behind the blonde beauty. We were now in a dark lounge on a balcony overlooking the bar and stage below. This lounge was furnished with many puffy black leather couches around solid-looking cylindrical black plastic objects that could serve as either a table or a mini, one-person stage. The couches were not partitioned and there were at least five sets of dancers and drunkards already “having some fun.”

We plopped down on an open couch between two occupied ones. Those girls were already naked and gyrating. Charlie waited for the song to finish so I’d get a fresh, full length three or four minute tune. The new song started, and Charlie immediately began her routine, seductively peeling each layer of clothing off with the music. Wow, she has such moves! I was still way too sober for this dance and had a little bit of anxiety. I wondered where I was supposed to be looking. Her eyes, right? It’s rude not to look a girl in the eyes, am I correct?

Hey, eyes up here!

That’s what girls say when you’re caught looking at their boobs. I knew that, and damn did Charlie ever have these big, beautiful eyes to look at! (And for that matter, also an incredibly cute little pointy nose which reminded me of the animated version of Samantha from the opening credits of “Bewitched.” But I digress.) So yes. It was confirmed that I was looking at the proper place as Charlie was staring right back at me in the eyes. Of course. It was just natural for a gentleman to maintain proper eye contact with a lady, although this perhaps wasn’t the most natural way to do so.

I mean, her completely naked crotch was pulsating to the rhythm of the music just inches from my face and there I was, looking just above her snatch, past her belly button, and between her tits to be laser focused right into her peepers. Yeah, maybe this isn’t the most natural way to be a gentleman, but at least I’m being a gentleman.

But, wait a minute here. Maybe I’m not being a gentleman at all. Could it be poor etiquette to ignore all of her other body parts? I’m looking into her eyes because she’s looking at my eyes, but what if she’s only looking at me to see what I’m looking at? Oh damn. What could she be thinking?

Why isn’t he looking at my pussy? Is there something wrong with it? 

That could be exactly what she’s thinking! What if it is? I already told her I wasn’t hungry for it. This is such a dilemma! I thought maybe I’d better sneak a peek at her vagina just in case. You know, before she thinks that perhaps I don’t like it, feels bad about herself and turns to drugs for comfort.

Okay. Problem solved. We’re looking at the vagina now. Very nice. But this solution created a new problem. Man, if worrying about what to do with my eyeballs didn’t create enough anxiety to ruin this experience of my own personal totally naked beautiful lady, holy hell, wondering what to do with the rest of my face certainly conspired to do so. What is the appropriate facial expression when looking at a girl’s vagina?

Do you smile? I’ve never heard the phrase, “Smile for the vagina!” before, so maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe it’s supposed to be such a hot and sexy experience that I’m supposed to look like I’m so turned on that I can’t resist her. I have no idea what face that looks like though. If I tried to make it, I’d probably look like a total creep. I really didn’t know! After some thought, I went with a little forced smile like when someone tells you to say “cheese” for the camera. Maybe it is smile for the vagina after all. I did that, and she immediately turned around. Maybe it isn’t smile for the vagina then? Hmm. At the moment, I thought I could almost hear her thoughts.

Oh man, this guy’s a total weirdo. Looks like he expects someone to jump out of nowhere and snap a photo of him with my legs wrapped around his head. Ugh. I’m just going to turn away from his stupid forced smile face.

I was always more of a boob man than an ass man, but now wondering if my cheesy smile creeped her out, it came as a bit of a relief for her to get up, turn around and show off her beautiful teardrop shaped posterior. At this moment in time, I had definitely switched to being an ass man. Didn’t have to worry about my facial expression or where to make eye contact this way. Man, I wish I had another one of those Double Black Stouts right about now. And a shot of Stoli or two or ten. I could use some more liquid confidence. But then the temporary relief turned to alarm.

Oh shit wait, don’t sit down on me! I don’t have a stiffy yet! Fuck! Well if you can hear my thoughts, I’m actually not gay! I’m just not very good at lap dances! They’re intimidating! It’s like trying to get a boner while driving in a snowstorm with icy road conditions!

Oh man that was so embarrassing. Halfway through the dance and I was still flaccid? And Charlie just found out! This is definitely the most awkward part now. But that was actually quite an overreaction. Charlie was a professional. She dug her lovely posterior into my crotch and gyrated with the music, making it seem quite normal and natural. As she was doing this, Charlie reached down to interlock her fingers with mine, and then gave me a guided hand tour up her thighs, across her stomach and over her breasts. We hovered there, she flipped her head onto my right shoulder, arched her back, and then she guided my hands to slowly and repeatedly squeeze her breasts.

Whoa I’m not supposed to touch you there!

It worked! I was now at attention and giving her a very personal salute. Just in time for the song—and therefore the dance—to end.

“Would you like another dance?”

“I would like them all.”

All turned out to be just four of them. In less than twenty minutes, it wiped out the rest of the twenty dollar bills in my wallet from the $100 I had taken out of the ATM for the night. I still had a few more bucks for one more Double Black Stout and the tip, however. But then Charlie asked if I wanted to sit at a table downstairs. I of course wanted to do whatever she wanted to do. I suppose I was indeed as hungry as she had initially suspected.

We took an open high-top table across from the bar near the backstage area entrance, the men’s room, and most importantly, the ATM. I made about $400 a week (before taxes), and the Navy just handed me two weeks’ worth of that the previous day. Plus, I was also about to go out to sea in a couple of days. Therefore, money was of no consequence.

While waiting for a waitress, I excused myself to get another $100, and was pleased to see Charlie still sitting at the table when I returned. The waitress came by in no time, and she was absolutely gorgeous. Easily one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life. She introduced herself as Tia. She was Asian, but I couldn’t place from where. Not Japanese or Polynesian. Maybe Vietnamese? I didn’t know.

Tia asked if I’d like to buy Charlie a champagne. I asked how much. Twenty bucks—just like a dance. I figured it would take her longer than a song to finish a glass of champagne. Probably just some crap sparkling wine, however. One of those cheap ones you get at a wedding that tastes like stomach bile. I agreed and ordered another Double Black Stout and a Stoli shot for me.

Charlie was significantly less intimidating to talk to with her clothes on. She was quick to smile and gave off both good girl and naughty temptress vibes simultaneously. Very magnetic. Although I forget which part, I remember that she was from California. Probably the Los Angeles part. I had never been to L.A. as an adult, but I had seen a lot of movies. I’d cast her as a local there.

When I asked how the music is selected, she confirmed the DJ chooses the music based on the dancer’s requests. When I mentioned her incredible performance on the stage, she said she was to compete in the Polympics (obviously a Navy influenced portmanteau for “Pole Olympics”). It would go down—or up and down and all around rather—in Las Vegas in a few months. I could see her winning that. Charlie was beautiful, graceful, and as I mentioned earlier, gravity did not appear to apply to her.

I went down to tip when she was back on the three-song stage rotation and was again pleased that she returned to my table afterwards. I got her another couple of champagnes, but she was drinking them slowly. I knew it. They were that brut bile crap. Yet timewise, it really stretched my twenties. I was drinking two stouts and two shots of vodka for each of her champagnes. Charlie excused herself to see if anyone needed dances.

I continued ordering stouts and shots. I chatted with Tia. She mentioned she was half Thai. Ah! Right next door to Vietnam! I was super close! Her Air Force vet father stuck around Thailand after the war, but then eventually moved the family to Oahu. I ordered more stouts and shots. Charlie returned after a bit. Things began to fade.

I woke up in the barracks and felt an overwhelming sense of dread. I didn’t remember saying goodbye to Loraine, Charlie or Tia. I didn’t remember how the night ended. I didn’t remember how I got back to the barracks. I didn’t remember anything after a certain point. These memory holes were becoming a source of anxiety. Anything could have happened the night before.

I was reasonably comfortable blacking out at the Hideaway as it was usually just filled with a bunch of dudes. Who cares? And I was fairly certain Loraine would keep me in line or at least forgive me if she couldn’t keep me in that line since she was the one serving me. But at Déjà Vu, I was getting piss drunk around tons of ladies with next to no clothes on who I didn’t know.

How would I behave? How did I behave!?! Like I said, anything could have happened! What if I did something wrong around a naked lady? What if I’m not welcomed back? I have this habit of thinking the absolute worst. I mean, the worst is the most likely thing to happen. It’s entropy. From order to chaos is just natural. I learned this in my thermodynamics classes.

I was so worried about this possibility of chaos that I don’t recall how many shipmates I choked out with my ass during the morning meeting. New stout probably killed them all. I don’t know. I’m sure my body was having a hell of a time trying to figure out how to process this new Double Black Stout as I tried to process the night. I continued on my qualifications and knew I had to go out for drinks again after work. There was money to spend and in a couple of days, I’d be absent from the world for a couple of weeks. But where should I go?

Loraine wasn’t going to be at The Hideaway or Déjà Vu. If I pissed her off, I figured I knew her long enough by now that smoothing things over wouldn’t be too, too difficult. But Charlie and Tia? They just met me. And who knows who else I may have interacted with and made an ass of myself in front of!?! Despite my extreme concern and curiosity for how I was acting in my recent blackout state, it was just too risky to go there for answers without Loraine for back up.

I mean, I was originally “not hungry” for Charlie. Later I remember that while at the table, she made a comment that it didn’t look like I had any fun during the dances. Damn face of uncertainty. And think about this: what if I said other mean just thirsty-like things while blackout drunk? No, I was much too embarrassed to go back without Loraine being there. I decided to go to the Irish Rose instead. Fresh start at a relatively new place. Plus, there were a lot of girls when I went there last—more than any other bar I had been to. Maybe I could meet one and not lemon-baby her. So that’s where I went after Queen La Chiefa cut us loose.

It appeared that a memo went out for the girls to keep clear of whatever bar I planned on going to. Where were all those Irish Rose ladies from the last time I was there? Maybe I was too early. There was no band, and the place wasn’t packed in the slightest. Even getting a seat at the bar was no problem. There was yet even more bad news: the Beamish didn’t taste as good as I remembered it. Kind of weak. Perhaps my mind wasn’t in it. I was just in a weird place at the moment. Or maybe the Double Black Stout flavor was beginning to take hold.

After a few cans of Beamish (and without ripping open a single one to collect the widget), no band did come in—nor did any of the ladies. Maybe the women only come in for the music. Yeah, the ladies liked to listen to live music and dance, like they wanted their music uncanned right from the tap. And you know what else? The ladies didn’t ever seem to sit in a bar getting sloshed all by their lonesome selves. Don’t women have problems too? If they did, how did they deal with them? Directly? That probably never solved anything as easily as avoiding them did.

Then I began to wonder if the seemingly dismal male to female ratio here was why it was so easy to get a detail in Hawaii. That must be why, as this place is a paradise by every other metric. How did all those guys know that before filling out their dream sheets? Why didn’t I know that before filling out my dream sheet? Wait. Was I the one brain damaged by paint fumes? Did I ignore the warnings? No, no, no. I know that no one warned me. I’m sure of it. Stupid military. Wait another minute. Maybe the problem was the military itself. That’s why they didn’t warn me!

Think about it. This remote little rock in the Pacific had all five branches on it. There was Pearl Harbor for the Navy, Hickam for the Air Force, Schofield Barracks for the Army, Kaneohe Bay for the Marines, and Barbers Point for the Coast Guard. With the military being about 85% male at the time, could this be why women were so scarce on Oahu? Maybe, but who knows? What I did know is that I wasn’t going to give up looking for them after only one bar. I decided to try my luck over at the Red Lion.

Yeah well, no luck there either. No girls. Plus, even the bartender was a guy here. I could leave, but I thought it to be bad form to enter a drinking establishment and leave immediately. Should have at least two drinks. I grabbed a stool at the bar for a beer and a shot. The Stoli was fine, but like the Beamish, the Guinness didn’t taste as good to me either. Weak! That quick acting Double Black was clearly taking hold. I didn’t even need a transoceanic voyage to figure it out this time. Too bad I couldn’t go back to Déjà Vu to get some. I didn’t know where to go next. Maybe The Hideaway, but that place always had poor M/F ratios too. I ordered another Guinness and Stoli shot, stared into the pool window behind the bar, and began to get lost in my thoughts.

What kind of night would I be having? Was I going to black out again? Wake up on the beach or in the barracks like someone hit reset? What am I like when blacked out? Do I act the same? Or is it a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation? Can people tell when I’m blacked out? Am I that obviously drunk?

I’ve actually heard otherwise a few times, so that’s pretty strange. Can you image? I start slurring words and ricocheting off of objects after many drinks, memory fades away after a few more, have just one more drink, and then all of the sudden I bounce back with all this fully coordinated zest.

I’m sober bitches!

Except my brain stops recording and I’m actually super-duper drunk now. Like I pegged the needle, then it broke through to the other side, and wrapped around a bit more that now it looks like a normal reading again. Is that what’s happening inside my blacked-out brain?

But what do I do and where do I go when I’m blacked out? I could be a serial killer and not even know it. Or maybe I started a family somewhere. Nice little house, wife and dog. Maybe even a few little blackout babies. But does my secret wife know I’m blacked out? Or do we only meet when she’s blacked out too? Maybe we’ve passed by on the street sober and not even recognized one another.

My mind was all over the place thinking these thoughts, and then suddenly and with a tremendous rush of bubbles, someone cannonballed right into the pool, almost like he or she was aiming for the window. It snapped me out of my deep thoughts and concerns. Hmm. Some action. When all the bubbles rose away, I could clearly see that it was a dude. Figures. He was wearing tight little white swim trunks. He backed closer and closer to the window. Wait a minute; he’s naked! He pressed his ass cheeks hard against the window and wiggled them briefly. Then he squatted, shot off, and swam up, up and away.

I hope that’s not what I do when I’m blacked out. What would my secret family think?

It was time to go to Déjà Vu immediately after my beer. Fuck it. Let’s find out if I’m welcome there. I thought that because I really needed to go there now. It was an emergency. I had just seen another man’s butthole and jingle berries. If I were to get hit by a bus in the morning, then last person I saw naked would be a man. I looked into my pint glass and swirled it around a bit. A man can’t be the last. Yeah, I definitely had to ignore my anxiety and get over to Déjà Vu after this Guinness. Best be careful crossing the street on my way there too. It was like a ten-minute walk away. Lots of busses.

I climbed the green stairs, opened the shiny door and walked into Déjà Vu cautiously. My heart immediately sank. Charlie was standing just past the entrance. I felt so embarrassed. What I did last night, god only knows. And Charlie. I probably made an ass of myself in front of her. No, I definitely made an ass of myself in front of her. This cover charger-taker lady just didn’t yet know I was no longer welcome at this establishment. Just a matter of time till she did though.

Charlie wasn’t looking at me when I handed over a freebie entrance white business card. (If I was about to get kicked out, I didn’t want to have to pay for it.) As I walked past the entrance and made the left turn, Charlie turned her head, spotted me, and then burst out laughing. She greeted me enthusiastically when I approached.

“Hi!”

Strange. She seemed excited to see me. I was confused.

“Hellooo?”

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight!”

“Really? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you just had a lot to drink! I’m impressed you’re still standing. How are your knees?”

“Uh, I think they’re okay… but I didn’t know to check them. Did I fall down?”

“Probably!”

“Man. But like, I wasn’t rude to anyone, was I—last night?”

“Besides just being thirsty?”

“Yeah, sorry, uh… I meant after that. Was I rude? To like other people.”

“Not that I know of.”

“So, I guess I’m still welcome here?”

“Yes of course!”

“That’s a relief.”

“Oh my god, you were so funny last night!”

“Really?”

“Yes, you were hysterical!”

“What was I doing?”

“C’mon, let’s get a table so I can tell you all about it.”

We sat at the same one as the night before. I looked around nervously for a waitress. Hopefully it was going to be Tia. No, wait. Hopefully it wasn’t going to be Tia. Maybe I talked to her when Charlie was on stage or in the bathroom. Entropy could be anywhere. I needed to find out details of my blackout behavior.

“So… what was I doing?

“You kept apologizing for not looking me in the eyes.”

“During a dance?”

“No, we were just sitting at this exact table.”

“Yeah, I do remember sitting at this table. But it’s like the last thing I remember from last night.”

“I bet! You were pretty tipsy!”

“Yeah. So, why was I apologizing for not looking you in your eyes? Was I like staring at your boobs the whole night or something? Like in a super obvious and creepy way and I knew it?”

“No, no, no. You kept saying, ‘I’m sorry I can’t look you in the eyes because I—”

Charlie started laughing, dropped her head and shook it for a few seconds, recovered, and then continued, clearly struggling to hold in her laughter.

“—because I don’t know where your head is. Where is your head!?! I can’t see your head! I might be looking in your eyes, but I can’t be certain because I don’t know where your head is! Where’s yo—’”

She cut herself off again with a short burst of laughter. While I thought her impression of me was actually pretty good, I just focused on not understanding why I’d say something like that. So much for the needle wrapping back around into normal territory theory.

“I didn’t know where your head was?”

“You said it was just a big, blurry blob.”

“Well that was kind of rude of me.”

“No, it was hilarious! You said everything straight ahead was blurry, but you told me not to worry because you could see the ground as long as you didn’t look down and that you could probably make it home without falling down too, too much but everyone should be prepared for a scraped knee or two just in case.”

“Hence your knee comment.”

“Hence my knee comment.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh yeah! And then you were like, you probably wouldn’t walk into a telephone pole because they’re dark—and you were going to try to avoid walking into the darkness—but then couldn’t guarantee avoiding bus stops if they had—”

She let out another shriek and then continued.

“…if they had ‘glass construction.’ You just kept going on and on saying all these crazy things, like one thing after another. I can’t even remember everything you said. It was just so funny!”

“Well, I didn’t crash through any bus stops with glass construction last night… as far as I know.”

“That’s good! But you know, the whole time you were really worried that I’d get mad if you weren’t looking me in the eyes. Kind of sweet actually.”

“Well that, uh… that certainly makes me feel a lot better. Blackout Brendan is kind of a gentleman. Good to know.”

Tia came by to take our order. Despite Charlie’s play-by-play recount of the night, which I found tremendously relieving, I was still worried that maybe I could have been rude to Tia. Fortunately, she had the biggest smile on her face when she spotted me, so it was immediately clear that I was well behaved. Tia even pinched me gently and leaned in for a kiss on my cheek as she greeted me.

“Good to see you, Brendan. Can you see my face tonight?”

“Yes, I can at this moment. Definitely… but no guarantees later.”

“Double Black Stout then?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“And a champagne for Charlie?”

Charlie objected.

“Oh god! No more of those, please!”

“Why” I asked, “did you get a bit too tipsy last night too?”

“Ha! No, there’s no alcohol in them—and they’re really gross!”

“They’re gross?”

“Too sweet!”

“Hmm. Well, do you want a real drink then?”

“Yeah, get me a shot of tequila.”

I ordered a tequila for her and a Stoli for me with my stout, but Charlie objected to that as well.

“Don’t get your shot at the same time as mine!”

It started to click. Loraine only pouring one shot for me instead of one for herself as well last night. Non-alcoholic champagne. Charlie worried about me ordering two shots but only one beer at the same time. Ah-ha! The dancers and the staff weren’t allowed to drink on the clock! They could only sneak shots here and there. It was confirmed when Tia brought our drinks over. Charlie was hesitant, looked all around, and quickly downed it. She recovered and got down to business.

“How about we go upstairs and have some fun?”

“Maybe in a little bit. I just got here and need a few drinks to loosen up.”

“Seems like you’ve had a few drinks already.”

“Maybe I need a few more.”

“I think you’re loose enough already for a dance.”

“How about we just talk for a bit first?”

She sighed.

“Will you buy me a champagne then?”

“I thought you didn’t like them.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you want one?”

“Because I get half.”

“Ah! That makes sense. You’re at work. You should get paid.”

“Yeah. So how about we talk over one champagne while you’re loosening up, and then we go upstairs?”

“Uh… okay. Sounds fair.”

She drank the champagne a lot faster than the night before. I didn’t even finish the Double Black.

“Ready?”

“Oh, uh… yeah, one second.”

Down went the stout, and up went the two of us. Charlie began her dance, and she was right. I was pretty loose. I wasn’t nervous, and there was no problem with the boner. But maybe I was too loose. Right at the end of the dance, I felt loose enough to ask her a question. The question turned out to be like a needle scratching off a record. She immediately called me out for it.

“Oh my god, are you a virgin?”

I stared at her for a little bit without answering. Charlie stared back at me. She tilted her head a little bit while raising her eyebrows. She continued to stare at me as I remained silent. It was awkward. Very, very awkward. And I didn’t have a glass to raise to my mouth. Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have asked about both the g-spot and the clit at the same time. Never ask about both of them in at the same time! Rookie mistake! She saw right through me. Damn looseness.

“Well,” she pressed, “are you?”

“Yes.”

“You are? Really?”

“Yes… Really. And shhh!”

“Oh my god! How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. Almost twenty-two.”

“Oh man! You need to get laid!”

“I know.”

“No, like tonight!”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, you need to have sex tooo-night!”

“With you?”

“Ha! You’re so funny! No, not with me.”

“With who then?”

“Go get one of the girls down on the street, silly!”

“One of the girls on the street?”

“Yeah, one of the working girls. You’ll find one.”

She was actually right on the money once I thought about it. Waikiki was teaming with hookers at the time. I was constantly being asked by ladies of the night if I wanted to have a good time while walking from bar to bar. Most took the rejection well, but there was this one girl who pushed me up against the window at the Denny’s down the block and pinched both of my nipples repeatedly trying to get a yes out of me. As uncomfortable as that was, I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off thinking about what the people on the other side of the window eating their pancakes must have been thinking. Still, I politely declined.

However, this was the day. Charlie had cut my orders. I downed another couple of shots of Stoli at the bar and went out in search of my own lady of the night. I wandered around a bit, heading towards the beach. Taking this stroll got the blood circulating, and then the alcohol really started to kick in. I was floating as I walked. I turned off of Kuhio and onto Seaside. Halfway down the block, I could just make out this blond in a bright blue, skin-tight dress. Right on the corner of Kalakaua. She must be working. I approached her with alcohol activated, now absolutely shit-bombed.

“Hey baby,” she said to me, “are you looking to have some fun?”

“Umm… I’m supposed to… to uh… I’m supposed to have sex tonight.”

“You are?”

“Yes, this uh, this girl… I forget her name now. From… from Déjà Vu. Do you know her?”

“Know who, baby?”

“The girl from Déjà Vu?”

“I’m not sure. There are a lot of girls there.”

“Oh, uh… Charlie! She’s the one that said, uh… ‘Sex… too-night.’ Do you uh… do you know her?”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No baby, that’s not a problem.”

“Okay, good. Because she said, ‘sex’.”

“Alright—”

“Tooo-night.”

“Okay baby. Well my name is Treasure, and why d—”

“Treasure?”

“That’s right baby, Treasure. So, why don’t you follow me, and we’ll have some fun?”

I eagerly followed this very beautiful blonde in a tight, bright blue dress with big boobs a few blocks to an opulent hotel lobby on Uluniu Street. The Hyatt Regency I believe. Treasure directed me to an ATM across the lobby from us, asking if I needed to get some money.

“Uh… How much does sex cost?”

“Three hundred, baby.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes, dollars.”

“Sex costs three hundred dollars?”

“It does, baby.”

“That’s a lot of money. Are you sure that’s how much sex costs?”

“Yes, honey, I’m sure.”

I had no other frame of reference and took her word for it. Sex costs three hundred dollars. She said so and seemed pretty trustworthy. No sense bidding it out. I walked across the lobby and went to the ATM she had pointed out, got the cash and followed her up to the room. I sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed as she slipped out of her dress.

“Baby, take your clothes off, okay?”

I took off my shoes and my pants, and that was it. Still wearing socks and a shirt, I was going to have sex through my boxer hole. Well that was my intention until she directed me to take it all off. I complied and was now fully naked in front of a lady who was only minutes ago a complete stranger.

Treasure sat down on the bed wearing only panties while I was still standing, waved me to come closer, looked me over, started stroking me a bit, and then put a condom on me when my turkey popper popped. It didn’t take long. She stood up, took her panties off and got back on the bed, laying on her back. She motioned me over. I got on top of her.

“Baby, no kissing, okay?”

“No kissing? But we’re gonna have sex, right? I’m supposed to have sex too-night. I don’t want to not—”

“Here, slide down a little—yeah right there. Okay.”

Treasure, likely tiring of my inane questions, ignored them and simply guided me into the proper entrance. I felt a sensation that was alien and unexpected to me, prompting a request for some clarification.

“Is it in?”

“Yes baby, it’s in.”

“I’m inside of you?”

“Yes, you’re inside of me.”

“It’s so warm!”

So unfortunately, for the record, these were my first questions and statements while having sex for the very first time in my life. “Is it in?” and “It’s so warm!” Yes, that is most unfortunate. History now though. Then there was a third unexpected discovery. While not expressing this one out loud, in all honesty, I felt hooker vaginas really weren’t anywhere near as tight as I had expected, not like hands. That’s kind of why I wasn’t sure if I was actually in her.

The inability of a vagina to grab you like a firm handshake when meeting someone for the first time would take some getting used to. Maybe if I spanked it with a slightly looser grip for now on, because, man, I definitely enjoyed the warmth of having a whole lady around it. Enjoyed it so much that I forgot to ask her what the difference was between a g-spot and a clit. You know, the question that initiated this entire mission. I was too busy having sex… tooo-night. And I was having it for an entire hour. I’m not sure if it was my looseness or her looseness, but I didn’t finish before the time finished. She told me my time was up like I was at a psychiatrist’s office. Very matter of fact.

But I’m not done with the sex yet! Tooo-night!

Now a little bit more sober from time and sweat, and fully aware of what I was doing, I certainly wanted to continue doing it! This unfortunately required paying for a whole other turn. No discount on the second hour. We both got dressed and went back down to the lobby to get more cash. But alas, I did not have another three hundred dollars in my bank account. I returned to her across lobby in defeat.

“The stupid ATM wouldn’t let me get any more money.”

“Okay baby, well—“

“Can I just owe you the money?”

“No baby, that’s not how it works.”

“I still have sixty dollars in my wallet. How much time does that get me?”

“Well, if you can’t—”

“Should be like, uh… twelve minutes, right? It’s five dollars a minute?”

“Baby, no.”

“Oh so, this isn’t, uh… this isn’t like… prorated then? Is that the right term?”

“Look, honey. Why don’t you just come and find me when you can get some more money, okay? You remember my name, right?”

“Treasure.”

“Right.”

With that, she escorted me out of the hotel. Obviously, the night wasn’t all that special for her. Just another day at the office with someone in her orifice. But for me, that night would forever be how I lost my virginity. Well… whatever. I suppose the most important take away from this night was how I could now identify with another Groucho Marx joke:

I remember the first time I had sex… because I kept the receipt.

Well, yeah, me too. Except I lost mine.

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