Story Time With Uncle Ricky (NSFW)

I was a late bloomer. Wait. Backup.

I was at a Breeders concert my freshman year of college. I was not old enough to drink, which the state of Oklahoma takes very seriously. (The entire state was dry until 1957, meaning soldiers returning from WWII were not allowed to have a beer.)

A young woman with a drink — meaning she was at least 21 you see — asked me if I wanted one. And here I was only one month out from my 18th birthday. I couldn’t believe it. A woman asked me if I wanted a drink, and an upperclasswoman at that!

It did not occur to me that she was being anything but nice because it did not occur to me that she would ever actually be interested in me in that, mostly because no one in high school ever had, so I thanked her politely and refused.

Like I said, late bloomer.

When I broke free a year and half later, I made up for lost time. I got a job at a local tobacco/coffee shop hybrid (it was fucking awesome — free merch all day!) which was a kind of local hangout. Lots of girls. I played. I partied. I even tried LSD.

The assistant manager of the shop was engaged at the time, and his fiancee (and future ex-wife) lived with him, along with one of their friends — call her Jane — who they were helping get back on her feet after an awful break-up involving, as I understand it, some violence.

Jane was fucking hawt. I will skip the physical details, which could be construed as objectifying. Suffice it to say, she was very well-endowed. For whatever reason, I became a pet project and soon we were dating, only I had an asshole roommate at the time, which meant we always hung out at my friend’s house.

One day, my friend pulled me aside and asked very politely if we could “keep it down” at night.  I was mortified. Truly. I felt terrible. Here I was a guest in someone’s home, and I wasn’t being respectful. I apologized and agreed. That night, my time with Jane was significantly more subdued.

It was an old house (with thin walls), and my friend, being a pipe smoker — we both picked up a lot of bad habits at the shop — never cared if I lit a cigar. So after we finished, I did, a fat Hoyo de Monterrey Excalibur No.1 maduro.

As I smoked, Jane called me out, in a high voice, saying we needed a do-over. I explained, in a low voice, the conversation I’d had earlier. She said tough and got louder, if only to underscore her objection. I told her I didn’t think it was funny, since both my friend and his wife had to get up early for work, and a small argument ensued.

Now, I’m not sure about other guys, but arguing is like kryptonite to my penis. (Meaning green kryptonite. Crying, on the other hand, is like red kryptonite.) As Jane got more frustrated, so did I, which meant I wanted Round Two even less, which meant I resisted more, which meant she argued more, and so on in an ever-downward spiral.

Meanwhile, I’m still smoking the cigar.

At some point, Jane joked that I got to suck on the fat cigar, and what did she get? All of this, by the way, was taking place around the time of the Monica Lewinski scandal. So I joked that she could “share” the cigar if she really wanted. She said I wouldn’t dare.

After having my manhood questioned, directly or indirectly, for twenty minutes, I’d had enough. I told her to lay back and spread ’em, which she did, as if in a dare, and in went the cigar, lit end sticking out trailing wisps of smoke.

She was shocked. I was shocked that she wasn’t screaming. We both laughed and started having fun with it, fake moans and everything.

My friend’s fiancee, meanwhile, has been lying awake in frustration. I’m sure, after the earlier conversation, she had been looking forward to a good night’s sleep. She got up, and with Jane now moaning at full volume, burst into our room. She said nothing. She saw the smoking cigar poking from her friend’s vagina, turned around, mouth agape, and walked out.

We both kept it down after that. And I finished that cigar.

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Art by Tina Lugo