The Screamer

Some pals and I were sitting around drinking beers and chewing fat, when this question was posed: "Do you remember the first chick you ever picked up in a bar?"

Do I ever.

Who could forget the night I bagged the infamous Kerri Bunne -- rumored throughout upstate New York to be the world’s loudest screamer.

I was 20 years old, working at Shop-Rite, and living in the basement of my parent’s house in Monroe, New York. One summer night, after a taxing produce shift, I went to the pub to wind down.

I knew Kerri from Shop-Rite. She was sitting at the bar so I hugged her hello and sat down. She was a dark angel with amaretto eyes and long, Frangelicolored hair. She dated a bouncer named Eddie who was well over six feet and built like a brick bulldozer.

Their’s was a classically dysfunctional romance. Kerri obsessively whored around town for Eddie’s attention. Afterward she confessed her indiscretions, and Eddie pulverized whomever it was that indiscressed her. Than Eddie and Kerrie screwed like jackals.

Anyway, we ordered a pitcher of Alabama Slammers. After the third Slammer, Kerri began yammering about how deeply she loved Eddie. After six she complained about his possessive nature. Sometime after the tenth Slammer, I felt her hand on my thigh . . .

One thing I do not miss about the twenties is being so totally enslaved to my dick. I knew Eddie the Hun was going to tear out my gizzard if I touched his woman. But like so many enslaved trawlers before me, I dipped my worm into her polluted pond anyway.

Flash forward: 4:30 a.m..

I am in my basement bedroom -- banging the beautiful Bunne babe from behind. She asks me to slap her ass and I pause. I have never heard of such a thing. But she insists, so I pat her buttocks squeamishly, as though petting an ailing kitten.

"Harder," she urges.

Feeling silly, I tap slightly harder.

"Harder . . . Harder" she repeats, until I find myself grinning wildly and reddening her right rearmound with each rigorous, resounding "thwack" -- as her cries for "harder" deteriorate into primordial wails of animal lust.

And the rumor is true.

Never have I heard such sounds -- like the cacophony of Swiss mountain yodelers, ass-banging a team of randy Clydesdales in the eye of a tribal warzone.

. . . Which is fine by me, except: My parent’s bedroom is directly above -- And I think I hear them rustling.

"We gotta go!" I say.

Without dressing, we rush out into the pre-morning darkness, take my Pinto to the Round Lake parking lot, crawl into the hatchback, and let her bark and squawk until dawn.

But this is no happily ever after.

When it’s all over -- and my shifter goes limp, and the last blush of lust dissipates from Kerri’s cheeks, and the blood returns to our brains -- a predicament comes to light: We have no clothing.

Silently -- as a cold, coarse patch of torn vinyl is cruelly snaking up my rectum -- we drive toward my sleeping parents’ house.

But they are not sleeping.

As I pull into the driveway, my father sticks his head through the upstairs window and glares down at two idiot perverts sitting cold-stone naked in a Pinto Hatchback.

Busted.

"What are we going to do now?" Kerri shouts, as I jam into reverse and race backward out of the driveway.

"Don’t know," I say, now putting it into first and speeding away as her bare breasts centrifijiggle from the abrupt acceleration.

I drive to the next block, park, and -- naked, sweating, and confused -- step onto the street like a cyborg emerging from the future.

I climb Mrs. Barry’s chain link fence -- the cold, metal wires barbarously flossing my toes -- and fall into a mud pile on the other side.

I am now in the Benson’s back yard.

Startled, the Benson’s, look up from their breakfast plates to see my wretched, naked, muddy ass crawling out of the mudpit like some gnarled demon creeping up from the molten bowels of hell.

I craw nakedly through the slats of their wooden fence, and stealthily, nudely trounce through a patch of woods until, quite naked, I hide behind Dad’s tool shed, listening, in the utterly naked nudeness of my exposed, bare, nakosity.

All seems quiet.

I inhale deeply and dash into the basement door. The parents are upstairs talking.

"He just drove away??" asks the mother.

"Yeah," answers the father. "And I think he was naked."

"Sell out," I think, then gather the clothes and return to the Pinto.

One week later:

While stocking Casabas at Shop Rite, Eddie approaches my work cart.

"We’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot" he snorts.

It is a High Noon scenario. Eddie and his friend, waiting by my Pinto, drinking Bud nips, while inside I count the minutes to doomsday.

I punch a time card and walk the hazy green mile to the gallows.

As they pound on my head and face -- an eye swells shut, the nose snaps, blood splatters the Pinto windows, and I start howling like Swiss yodelers ass-banging a team of Clydesdales -- I am thinking:

"Now I have the reputation."

Darkness then.

*Alabama Slammers: Pour equal parts Southern Comfort, sloe gin, triple sec and orange juice into mixing tin. Slammers are best when served with the tin (pitcher), strainer, and shot glasses.

EJD
1/30/02