What I Read on Wednesday
No, it's not a true story. Just heavily researched. =)
Panties and the Cop
There was a time they called me Panties. I don't remember why, it's just one of those nicknames you get when you're 19. Like any non-preppy suburban chick, I wore Converse All-Stars, a studded Rainbow Brite hoodie, streaked my long brown braids with green. It looked like somebody blew their nose on my head.
I'd go to crappy parties in Dick Johnson yes-that's-his-real-name's garage. He had a party almost every weekend. The place was set for it: ripped up, greasy couches, blacklights on the ceiling. I'd make out with a boy or two, the sweet and easy kind, who still wore flannel after 1996- then after a few more Jello shots, yeah the green ones made with everclear- I'd start to wander.
It was like I was lured away from the party by this invisible cosmic music, better than the rave wannabe boom-boom crap the DJ was spinning. I'd stumble off and walk the maze of streets with names like Chettleham and Exchester- like the architects were trying to speak British, or something- past house, tree, house, tree, SUV. The claustrophobic comfort that is the suburban sub-division.
I totally knew I'd be first to leave, the first of my crew to move out of their parents' house, out of this wasteland of strip malls and pedicured lawns. After I got my Associates' from CRC, I would do something awesome. Like teach poor children in Pakistan to make musical instruments from mud and twigs.
So anyway, I'd wander away from the party and Chrissy or one of my other friends would eventually find me cross-legged, drunk and drowsy on the corner of Butte and Sexton. I always sat there because it was funny. I'd hear the old red Honda backfire and there'd be Chrissy in the window, waving a bright, lit joint.
"Hey little girl, want some candy?" she'd sing and I'd envy her bleach white Mohawk and get in the car.
But this one night, think it was Labor Day weekend, the party in Dick's garage got kind of rowdy. The kegs ran out, the turntables broke, then Asshole Ben showed up with his posse of thugs in their ICP shirts and tried to start shit. Everybody was shitfaced and screaming. It was bound to get busted soon.
Cue my wandering. I stuck a Mike's Hard Lemonade in my hoodie pocket, slipped past a puking chick and out the garage door.
I made my usual journey, down Exchester. Picked a lily from somebody's garden and sniffed it. Ripped the label off the Mike's, so I could lie and say it was regular lemonade, if stopped by the Shady Peak PD.
Wound up at Butte and Sexton, as usual. Sat my drunk ass down on the grass. It was nice to be dizzy and underage in the thick late August air, breathing perfume from the dogwood trees.
But after like, an hour Chrissy still hadn't plucked me off my corner. That night, she found out her boyfriend got some other chick pregnant and kinda forgot to come get me.
I was about to start back, when this white Crown Victoria pulled up. Fuck. The undercovers.
I could see the cop inside. Black bomber jacket, slicked back hair, sunglasses at 2am. What an asshole.
The window rolled down. "What you doin' there on the corner, little lady?" the cop said. But wait. He was wearing blue jeans, tight ones...
I said, "Dude, you're not a cop. Do you think I'm dumb?"
He removed his sunglasses slowly, "No, you're Panties. You were at Dick Johnson's party. Hop in and I’ll take you back."
But we never went back. No, we drove. Drove west, to Bumblefuck. Parked the Crown Vic on the side of the road by a cornfield. And I dunno how it happened, but there I was, sucking his tongue, which tasted like Kamel Reds and Old Style. His tight jeans were undone only at the fly. I was bouncing up and down on his lap. His fat and perfect cock was poking parts of my insides I didn't know existed.
And he was like, "Fuck me, slut. Fuck me harder you bitch."
Oh my god, no one had ever talked to me that way. And to my drunken ears, it was damn funny. So I was like, "Fuck me! You fucking cop, you fucking pig!"
This rockabilly music, kind of like country punk, vibrated from the speakers and we just fucked and swore until the Crown Vic's interior began to flash red and blue.
"Shit! The real cops!" I leapt from his lap and yanked my pants up over my hips.
He zipped his fly of his tight blue jeans.
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