OF SEXY BEASTS & IVORY TOWERS...:Female Readers Share Some of Their Own Erotic Tales from the Higher Education Underground

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- A few years ago, I discovered that, yes, the vast majority of visitors to this site are women - by an almost 2:1 margin. Most, too, are either enrolled in college or college graduates.

And there's a reason, sure, that this here online homestead gained its reputation amongst college students, graduates, or even lifelong learner types of gals.

Integrity? Honesty? Heartfelt writing and amazing storytelling?

Heh. I wish.

Believe it or not, but I may just be the one librarian who, consistently, since 2005, has posted more about his often fucked-up sex life than he has about any other subject.

And there are more women who've never even met me in person, in all honesty, who have a better idea of my libidinous habits than most of the people I work with.

Kinda creepy at times. But, well, I do have my narcissistic exhibitionist streak, just like every other blogger... kinda fucking badass...

I made the female readership/librarian sex life connection a few years ago, ironically enough, while going through a rather nasty breakup I was specifically asked not to discuss online.

After the end of a really bad fling, particularly one where the ending involves a cornucopia of completely contradictory, malevolent emotions, well, I'm man enough to admit I'm one of those pace-around-all-night-and-sulk guys - I can't remember the time frame exactly, but I think I spent a month posting nothing but links to articles or playlists from the music I was listening to at the time.

And, well, I was spending a shitload of time in my underwear, online and chatting with pretty much anybody who stopped by this here site and added me as a chat "buddy." All hours of the night, days on end. My weekends were governed by visions of pop-up ads and online notification pings dancing in my head.

And then, well, I had a selfish idea - why not, in an effort to remind myself that all human beings have shitty relationship moments, ask some of these really cool chicks for their funniest, most embarrassing fling stories? I sent out a quick email, received about a hundred or so responses...

...And then I fucking lost the folder containing all of these wonderful pieces originally meant for a post two years ago.

Recently unearthed on an old flash drive found in a storage unit, I thought, Well, shit... what better way to return to the ol' Zenformation Professional? Let readers tell their sex stories for a change, pick out the best and most cringe-worthy and humorous...

* * * *

"When a girl's in your apartment and tells you she wants you to rip off her panties, it doesn't mean keep drooling and licking her tits like a fucking idiot. Tear those fuckers off, shut up, and get working. If not, she's gonna be faking it because you obviously, duh, can't follow fucking instructions..."

- MADISON, Wisconsin

"...I went home with this guy once who just didn't get that he was a bootycall and couldn't spend the night. Worst lay ever! Anyway he wanted to stay and cuddle. He smelled like fucking ass - missed that when I was wasted but when I sobered up he was, OMG, a fucking little troll... He just couldn't deal and missed all the hints, so I got up and told him I wanted to go get a frozen pizza or something. This dude got up... put his clothes on and like ran out the door - he was gonna get me the pizza. I locked the door when he left and turned the radio on real loud...Don't think he came back with haha the fucking pizza..."

- OXFORD FUCKING OHIO

"You know what I hate dude? I hate when guys who think they fucking PWN U the second they get laid. I dated this guy once who was completely cool until we hooked up. After he just turned into this ridiculous chachasaurus... no space ever... always wanting pussy... he would like cling onto me at EVERY party EVERY bar whenever I was talking to guy friends... but when his female friends were around, oh, THAT's when I'd get some fucking space..."

- COLUMBUS, Ohio

"Won't ever ever ever fuck a guy taller than 6'5 again. Long story but not long anywhere else :)"

- ATHENS, Georgia

"...Anal. I don't know why some girls don't like it. I'm like ur ex man... in the butt and I'm like good to go for hrs... sadly have you ever noticed there are guys more scared of being seen as like gay just b/c they like it? Not you but guys in general...?"

- VANCOUVER, British Columbia

...In all honesty, the best sex I had when I was in college was with myself. It's funny but I quit going [to Oxford's] Uptown right after I turned 21. Lost all interest in drunken idiots. Just me, my showerhead, and, LOL, lots of Cabernet . God, I miss that massage setting..."

- CHICAGO

"...I don't know if this is what you mean by erotic and embarrassing but I've been caught heh diddling the magic button by every roommate I've had since Freshman year... Every woman masturbates everywhere..."

- ANN ARBOR, Michigan

"...Worst funny or best funny? Both would be - plz no names - with my husband when we were dating. In Fort Collins [Colorado] there used to be this great burrito place right near campus... I dunno but for some reason Roberto's used to just make me horny... We used to go there in between classes but for some reason - ____'s so gonna kill me - we'd never make it to those afternoon classes. Don't know how we both graduated..."

- BOSTON

"...I think all of them were funny embarrassing and erotic. Dooders, that's the point of college. To learn. Put that in there..."

- CLEVELAND

"...Tried this melted chocolate thing on my partner once... ah yeah... ever seen an angry dyke rushed to the hospital with burns on her tits? Not cool but she forgave me eventually and she'll kill me if you use my name..."

- TEMPE, Arizona

"...In a tube [ London subway] once after drinking. Worst bloody lay of my life. Guy looked like [David] Bowie while rumbling south... the next morning I awakened to a guy who looked so dandy, like Tony Blair or an electro deejay..."

OXFORD, Oxfordshire, UK

"The Fat Man in Canberra... not because he was huge but because he ate at the clammie like a Chinese buffet... God the slurping still gives me nightmares...Worst naughty I have ever had..."

- NEWCASTLE, New South Wales, Australia

"... I was in graduate school... I was exchanging fruitcake sex (best Zenfopro-ism EVER btw) with another TA in our office. I don't know about M____, but our TA offices are tiny, filthy holes not fit for human occupancy. He was every bit the self-absorbed, stereotypical Jewish mama's boy... a great lay but paranoid she'd find out I was Korean... We were going at it like cats and dogs, just crazy. I was about to come when his cell phone rang... he stopped and answered his fucking mother's phonecall. I pushed him off me and told him he could fuck his mother the next time... while he was still on the phone with her."

- PRINCETON, New Jersey

"Library school. I didn't sleep alone for five semesters. I was queen of the cougars. Or my ex-husband. Which was awesome. My kids were disgusted. Graduated with a 4.0."

- [Location withheld by request]

"...Okay, well, this guy from where I work on campus. I was trolling for twinks at this queer club near where I live and I had such a crush on this guy... such a HOTTIE omg... I thought he was into the scene... GAY bar, DRAG SHOW NIGHT, PRIDE flags everywhere... anyway we hung out all night, got completely shitfaced, hooked up... OMGOMGOMG the next morning fucking sucked. He thought it was a trendy metro club or something. that I was born a fem (hope that doesn't creep you out) His first trans experience btw..."

- SAN JOSE, California

[* NOTE: And no, I've not 'creeped out' by transwomen.]

"In the alley next to - don't kill me - the library during first-year. I faked it for all 20 seconds. Fucking shit, did I just say that???? "

- OXFORD FUCKING OHIO

* * * *

Now THAT'S the most woman-friendly post I think I've written in months.

Oh wait. Correction.

Now THAT'S the most woman-friendly, first-ever "guest post" the very readers of this here site have ever told in their own words.

And yeppers, I'm back.

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Oh Sure, Nobody's Ever Been Busted in a College Town for Underage Drinking...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Five boxes of cheap bagged wine.

Five boxes. Twenty-five liters of yuppie rotgut.

I've known winos in my life who'd kill for that kind of suburban hooch.

And a case of bottled water, a jar of peanut butter, sugar-free jelly, three bags of pita chips, two bottles of sunblock, three bags of salad, a bottle of whey protein, a gallon of skim milk, and some baby carrots.

I couldn't help but look into their shopping carts as I squeezed between them heading down the cereal aisle.

CARTS. Plural. One cart for the booze, one cart for the food.

Two girls.

Correction. Two young women. With more than six and a half GALLONS of wine in a shopping cart.

A common enough occurrence in any tiny-ass Midwestern college town, the week before classes start and the day before the residence halls reopen for on-campus students. The Local U, in fact, is well-known for its undergraduate binge drinking problem.

And trust me. There's barely anything for a guy my age to do after work in this burg in August. I was a student myself once, and I've drank away my share of dog-day afternoons as both an undergrad and a graduate student.

But here's the problem.

One of the girls - sorry, young women - is wearing an old t-shirt, with the words _____ High School, Class of 2007 sprawled across the front.

And they're openly discussing the fact that Ms. Tee isn't of legal drinking age, discussing things such as the party they're planning and it's location, cracking jokes and saying things like Oh don't worry. The cashiers are Townies. I'm, like, buying so...

Aside from the pair, I'm the youngest person within earshot. There's an elderly couple checking out granola and rolling their eyes at the girls, a 40ish dad type with two teenage girls listening in, too.

There were 10 people in that aisle alone.

* * * *

Here's the deal, for the record.

The ability to purchase alcohol is limited, in all 50 states, to those over the age of 21. And retailers, well, tend to train sales associates how to properly I.D. those who are purchasing alcohol. In Ohio, it's not just illegal to purchase - it's illegal for anyone under 21 to even drink alcoholic beverages, unless it's purchased by a parent or legal-age spouse.

And in Ohio college towns...

Trust me. If one girl rolls up with a shopping cart full of wine, and the girl behind her is underage, and there's even the slightest hint that they may know one another both parties are getting carded. And odds are nobody's leaving the store, 21 or not, with that much wine when an attempt to skirt the law is that, well, obvious.

If the clerk's in a really bad mood, well, they may even involve law enforcement. And those charges, in Oxford Fucking Ohio, even off-campus, can end up getting a student in a lot of trouble on-campus. Violations aren't just a civil offense; they're also potentially an academic disciplinary offense...

I keep shopping. But something's eating away at me.

I dunno - maybe it's being a good citizen, or maybe I'm just shocked that, well, apparently, there are people naive enough to believe the college myth that says Everybody knows we're drinking, so why hide it?

I keep passing these two chicks in the aisles and, well, they're still announcing to the world that they're planning this huge party, that so-and-so just turned 20 and they were, like, gonna get her so wasted...

Hmmm. Are they ... stupid? Brain-damaged? Too many days in the tanning salon, maybe?

No, I tell myself, they're probably just sheltered and don't know any better. Just fucking kids...

* * * *

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. The school year hasn't even started yet, and some decent citizen is going to narc them out to the store's management, they'll end up getting in a lot of trouble...

I track them back down on the other end of the store.

"Hey ladies? You know, nobody's stupid here."

I'm smiling and talking as softly as I can. They try to play dumb. Ms. Tee crosses her arms over the logo on her chest. She's nervous and knows, well, she's wearing her underage status across her body.

The other young woman is not. She's as brazen as the best of them; a quality I'd find refreshing under normal situations.

"Excuse me. We don't know you. And this is for me. I'm buying it and she has-"

"Do you know there's about 20 of us 'Dumb Townies' walking around here who you've just announced to that there's gonna be a huge-ass party on _____Street where YOUR wine's gonna be used to get a fucking 20-year-old drunk?"

That shut her up.

But, trust me, it's better me being a dick about it than a cop. I don't have arrest powers.

* * * *

Look, I drank under the legal age. I'll admit it. Most people do, at least those who drink.

But I never, ever paraded around with my older friends, the ones buying for me, discussing my intent within earshot of everyone from off-the-clock municipal employees to store clerks and retirees. Some things require a clandestine approach and aren't meant for a fucking audience.

And yes, for the record, I think the 21-and-over laws of the land are complete horseshit, feel that the congressional blackmailing of individual states (there is no mandated federal drinking age; however, states without a 21-and-up law on the books lose federal highway funding) is, well, not helping anyone, and I don't care how much those Mothers Against Drunk Driving bitch, their statistics just don't add up.

I will not repeat my "Not Ready for Primetime" lecture because, well, everybody who's been on a college campus knows that, regardless of bullshit neo - prohibitionist laws, regardless of the number of lectures from advisers and parents and authority figures, the vast majority of underage drinkers are going to find ways to get their hands on booze.

But it's still illegal. While some elements of our society may give kids breaks, other concerned citizens still have the right to report crimes and cops still have to do their jobs.

And while I tend to give myself tend to give underage drinking a wink and a smile, well, I can't turn my back on someone pinning that sort of legal bullseye to their back.

* * * *

There's no law that gives a college student the right to plead I'm in College and this is what college students do, not a court in the nation that would accept that as a defense in the event of an alcohol-related death, not a jury in the world that would accept that as a defense if somebody left that party fucking blitzed, got behind the wheel, and killed somebody.

Pardon the cliche, but, hell, it's not hard to drink responsibly. And to behave responsibly, even as an undergrad in ratfuck Oxford Fucking Ohio. Just be smart about it.

Us grown-ups tolerate underage drinking because, well, we'd generally like to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume they're smart enough to handle it. Hell, most of us were when we were underage - we're still alive, right?

Some people, however, do everything in their power to prove that they can't handle it, assume that, well, their actions in college are somehow excusable, automatically forgivable to all.

But if you're dumb enough to wander around a store, as a legal drinker, with an underage friend, announcing to the world that you're planning on getting another underage drinker drunk enough to puke, well, nobody wants to read about another alcohol-related tragedy in the paper and somebody may say something about it.

* * * *

Oh, and using chapstick on the backs of your hands? To make it easy to remove those Sharpied black Xs ya get in bars and clubs when you're underage? You know, every door guy and bouncer I've ever met knows that trick.

Welcome back to college, kids. Let's smart out there, as well as responsible.

To borrow a phrase from that classic 1980s G.I. Joe cartoon...

Now you know - and knowing is half the battle.

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Snake Brothers are Mysterious, Infuriating Animals(When You Don't Have a Penis...)

SNAKE BROTHER -- Slang. A term used to refer to the unique bond between two or more men who have had sexual intercourse with the same person at sometime in their lives, thus creating an overlap in sexual histories. Provenance of term unknown but may be indigenous to North America. However, the concept was understood by Ancient Mesopotamian, Asian, and European civilizations. For gay men the term also applies, but with more complications to the dynamic.

For female equivalent, see TRENCH SISTER.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I waited. The question was coming. I could feel it.

As pathetic as it is, I'm actually quite skilled at these sorts of things. I had a sneaking suspicion, too, that my sparring partner also had some experience in such verbal sport...

"So Jason, you and _____ went to school together in Greeley?"

Before I could answer her husband's question, the Diva intervened.

"Honey. I knew lots of guys in Colorado. We hung out. Jason was a reporter..."

I laughed, oh so slightly, nodded, took a sip of my iced tea.

"Oh. So you just hung out then?"

I took a bite of my salad and tried to not simply burst into all-out laughter, nodded with a full mouth in the direction of his loving wife. Lunch was her idea. She could answer the question.

Oh yeah. He knew. Or, at least, he suspected.

The game afoot! Time to cry Havoc!, let slip the dogs of war...

* * * *

Despite all the discomfort and uneasiness, I couldn't help but wonder, after all these years, if the Diva still got off on being handcuffed to bathroom sinks and spanked, or if she and the ol' hubby had ever, well...

Back in the day, she was such a fun little thing, all explosive darkness and piss and rage, domineering, driven by lust and hidden insecurity. I was, well, a lot more fun and free myself back in those days, too, cloaked in my own naivety and ignorance, pushing my boundaries with drugs and booze and sex...

Oh, trust me. I'm sure the Diva's husband was pondering similar things. I've been in his shoes before. And he'd, heh, probably been in mine. Dogs of war, since the time of Julius Caesar, typically hunt the same prey because such beasts are usually bred in the same pounds and kennels.

What husband wouldn't wonder, seriously, what his wife was like before he knew her, back when she was a Colorado Chicana! wild child, smack dab in the midst of her Oooh! This will piss off Mom and Dad! I'll fuck an Anglo! phase? He's undoubtedly heard stories, probably bits and fragments, here and there from friends of hers, relatives...

What husband wouldn't be at least curious about that past? And, frankly, what lover from the past wouldn't be intrigued by thoughts of how women of memory evolve and grow and mature into the present and future wives and lovers of such noble, intelligent men?

Snake brothers, of course, aren't supposed to ask such questions out loud. That'd be rude. And, well, quite possibly dangerous. The unwritten rule of the Cult of the Snake Brother is, well, that such things are best not discussed, left silent.

Hell, the snake brothers of Helen fought the Trojan War because they couldn't handle such knowledge. Mark Antony, Caesar, and Ptolemy destroyed much of the Ancient Western World because, well, they couldn't deal with the fact that Cleopatra initiated the dynasties of Rome and Egypt into the phallic serpentine brotherhood.

Why, now, would modern men ruin such a wonderful lunch with such stupidity? Life's too short these days, the social norms that once drove Primitive Man mad with jealousy now a curious antiquity for the educated and experienced.

* * * *

The Diva was not amused with the pissing contest, our testing of certain waters to see which Snake Brother would wince first.

"We were, you know, just ... friends..."

The Diva then went into a long, drawn-out explanation as to how she and I knew each other back in 1997, explained in twisting, prefabricated answers that almost made me wish that I was, indeed, the guy she was describing...

All she had to say, really, was that we were... just... friends. Pauses, like photographs, really are worth a thousand words.

The Husband smirked. I smirked. Nothing makes for a good meal like good dinner theater. He kept looking at me. I kept looking back at him, nodding and eating my salad.

Men really do bond over making women uncomfortable. Payback, yes, for infecting our gender with the cooties and wet dreams of youth...

At least she acknowledged that, well, both of her male dining companions had just...friended the shit out of her at some point in the last decade.

* * * *

A decade.

A whole fucking decade.

That's enough time to turn any snake brother into as docile a reptile as your average timber rattler in winter. A man's blood, at least the blood of seasoned, educated men, rarely boils at the mere hint of a partner's previous sexual history. Who a woman fucked in some long-forgotten house in Ratfuck Colorado is, to such men, as historically meaningless as Abe Lincoln's last shit in the White House.

It's not like her husband was getting ready to build a goddamn wooden horse to storm the table or anything. And it's not like I was gonna chew my breadsticks down into a dagger to stab him on the way to the Forum.

Jesus H. Christ. The rules of the Snake Brother Cult have, well, evolved since the days of spears, Greek fire, and spoken Latin...

* * * *

I kept grinning like a retarded clown, sipping on my iced tea and gnawing on my salad. The Diva's husband was half-grinning like a razor-scalped madman, drinking his wine and chewing up his vegan pasta.

And the Diva changed the subject. Quickly.

"So Jason... are you seeing anybody? Married?"

Well-played.

Check. But not checkmate. There was still game left...

* * * *

Some women just don't have the same sense of adventure they had when they were young, back when they wore no underwear, wore plaid miniskirts and purple lipstick and tight black Sonic Youth teeshirts, back when such women seduced and screwed like demons whilst certain former 19-year-old aspiring reporter's housemates watched through the living room window...

Rather than bring up the past decade, I simply explained that, well, I'd found religion and the Republican Party, had become a Born-Again Virgin, held hands with peroxide blondes at church potlucks...

The Diva nodded and went back to her lunch.

Wait. Does she really buy that horseshit? Is that believable after ten years?

Holy fuck, we were just talking about strip clubs and blowjobs ten minutes ago...

* * * *

The hubby leaned in, smiled.

"Heh. Sounds like Cincinnati. So you really are married then?"

We both snickered like 14-year-olds staring at our first glossy boobies in a copy of Hustler.

And as I explained, in between snickers, that, well, I've been engaged two-and-a-half times in the past 10 years, as I explained that, yeah, why the hell would I want to get married and ruin my peace and tranquility...

"Dude, you're a really cool guy."

"Yeah, man. I see how you got the hot goth girl here."

"Hey, do you like Tom Waits? You look like a Waits kinda guy..."

"Well, fuck yeah, dude."

"Baby, he likes Tom Waits! Did you know that? Hey, we caught that gig down in Louisville..."

The Diva was not amused.

What'd she expect? C'mon now.

Snake brothers usually have more in common than simple momentary spins on the ol' vagina rollercoaster. Hell, if there weren't similarities, we probably wouldn't have ever been attracted to the same woman, or once had the same woman attracted to us, in the first place...

I've been snake brothers with worse.

Being a Snake Brother is just one of those mysterious bonds between men that even some of the most modern, liberated women just aren't comfortable facing.

And, sometimes, that's just fucking hilarious.

- # # # -

OF PHOTOGRAPHS AND OTHER DEAD HISTORIES: How Memories Build Up Oceans Around Man's Worldless Islands

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.

- H.P. Lovecraft,
"The Call of Cthulhu"
[Full text avail. here]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It fell out of a book, a paperback volume of the works of John Donne, the 17th century metaphysical poet.

The photograph, of this bloated, unkempt, drug-distorted 19-year-old, had probably been used as an impromptu bookmark years ago. I can't remember the last time I sat down and read Donne's "Meditation XVII," can't remember the last time I read the words No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main... or what inspired me to use such a foul image as a placeholder.

There is nothing quite like cleaning one's apartment and finding, buried within the bindings of a Cavalier religious writer, the graven image of oneself as a young addict. I sat on the corner of my bed and held the photograph in both hands, not as one cradles a child but as one would hold the putrid remnants of an aborted, rotten fetus.

1998* was such a rotten year, for both wine and life.

Memories, yes, memories can indeed flow like tears. It's why I've systematically destroyed most records of that infernal year, broken most of the ties that bind me to that time. Some things are best cast to the wind like dead leaves, left to fall where they may...

How I stared into the snide, fat face of the kid I used to be! That demonic child, framed in his own Victory-sign forming fists, did peyote with sorority girls on dares, bought intoxicating widgets off Aryan Brotherhood members and Mexican gangsters and sold, at profit, unspeakable products. That vile thing once got off on taking the virginity of Good Catholic illegal immigrant daughters without so much as a care about legality, or, well, whether or not Big Brothers Cholo would mark him for death.

That... person ... a marginal human being, with very little real conscience ... earned every bad thing that happened to him back then. The kid I was lived off of three things - pleasure, power, and the manipulation of everything in between.

And memories, yes, memories can swell in the brain like rivers when visual stimuli break the dams of time. Even good memories, funny stories, from 1998 somehow seem to be nothing more than tragic comedy...

* * * *

GREELEY, Colo. (ZP) -- Crackhead Jim wanted more tinfoil. He didn't knock. Just walked right in.

Basketcase junkies rarely knock, once you show them even the slightest courtesy, once they've been invited into a place. Like Hollywood vampires, crackheads generally wait for that first invitation into a dwelling, that first sign of human weakness, only to choose their comings and goings afterwards as if personal boundaries don't exist.

Crackhead Jim needed tinfoil to help him hide from his probation officer and the all-knowing, all-invasive Grov'ment Agents. They were always watching him, using their spy satellites to track him. Jim said that he'd stabbed a guy in a grocery store parking lot, some gangland Vato who'd called him a dirty nigger, a few days prior – he'd avoided them then, but, well, he'd used up all of his tinfoil wrapping his body in radar-jamming armor.

“Jada” was in the shower, the tiny studio's bathroom door wide open, her wet ebony nakedness barely a feminine contrast against the whitewashed walls. I was contently reading old Justice League comics on the toilet, shitting away three or four forty-once bottles of Olde English 800 and probably a good two or three grams of pristine Mexican blow.

I hollered back at Jim, told him that we were out of foil. He asked if he could take some wire coat hangers, our bags of garbage. He'd dig through them, sell back the recyclables, and have enough money for more tinfoil of his own – and enough money to score one or two tiny viles of rock to get him through the day.

Jim lived in 4B, two apartments down from the pre-op transsexual from Denver, across the hall from the skanky waitress from Omaha, Nebraska, the one who constantly inquired as to whether or not Jada and I were interested in a threesome. She'd already pulled a train with the two frat boys across from me...

And Jim, well, never robbed us. We were the only ones he never seemed to steal from. Jada and I, being junkies ourselves, were nice to him. Because of that common bond, and the steady supply of tinfoil and old aluminum cans and malt liquor bottles, we were probably the only tenants who actually got along in that run-down former sorority house.

From the toilet I carefully watched the junkie through the open door. Jada's tips from dancing were in her purse, right on the tiny table we used for meals. I watched and reached for the heaviest thing I could find – a shaving mug. I'd hate to think I'd have been forced to kill ol' Jim but, well, cold cash is worth more than a warm corpse to a junkie.

Jada'd picked up two private parties in a VIP room that weekend, Mormon businessmen who'd paid for all-nude lap dances, tipped well, and only tried to fingerbang her twice. Being good LDS boys, she'd racked up close to two grand – shamed at violating their faith by staring at a naked black woman, they'd dared not waste their sinning money on equally forbidden booze or soft drinks.

Jim, thankfully, ignored Jada's purse and her housegirl earnings. He was too immersed in gathering up all of the empty booze bottles we'd left lying around on the floor the previous night. He cleaned every scrap of trash up off that studio apartment's floor. He moved fast and furious and, without so much as a thank you, he waved and headed back to his apartment, back to feed his pet rat and to continue trying to remember way back, way back to when he was that young rhythm guitarist out of Washington, D.C.

Jada heard the door shut as Jim left. With one quick jerk, the kind of awkward motion that coke addicts make when they're still high, she pulled the shower curtain open, popping one corner of the plastic loose. Tiny black pearls rolled off her breasts, down onto her still soapy belly and crotch, down towards the fiberglass below her, down into a cold Colorado drainpipe. She yelled something incoherent, some fake hootchie squeal, feigned disgust at how one day Jim would OD and we'd be the first to smell his rotting corpse.

I put down my comic book, wiped my ass, flushed, and hopped into the shower with her. I reached for the tiny plastic bag on the back of the toilet. Jada squealed again, begged me not to drop the precious powdered elixir, to not let half of her Mormon tips wash down the drain.

In one night, we'd already moved into our stash of sacred, emergencies-only Angel Dust. I put a pinch on the tip of my tongue, pulled her into me, and let her tongue work loose the dust's sacred, hypnotic magic. I almost dropped the baggie, almost let that most precious earning wash away as that rush of invulnerability hit...

Crackhead Jim, at least, was smart enough to not fall in love with another junkie. He had his tinfoil and conspiracy theories and memories of those performances with Sam Cooke and Sammy Davis, with Sinatra and Aretha and Marvin...

That crackhead, at least, played music with legends. I only ended up getting played - and then stabbed - by my cokehead stripper fiancée.

And, as strange as it may sound, that's one of the most normal stories I can tell from that period in my life. For some reason, that one moment is burned into my mind like a brand, every detail as vivid as a Polaroid snapshot.

It only took looking at that old photograph of myself to resurrect that moment like Lazarus from the crypt. Needless to say, it wasn't all that pleasurable of a resurrection...

1998 was a rotten year, for both wine and life.

* * * *

BACK IN OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I crumpled up the photograph, tossed it like a baseball towards the trash bag by the bedroom door. The past is, well, the past; there's no sense in dwelling on that which one cannot change.

I was in the middle of cleaning my apartment, in the middle of throwing out all sorts of things and dusting and vacuuming and making the bed - life waits for no photograph, no dream or nightmare from the past, cares not for tragic comedy or pointless wallowing.

No man is an island - of course, Mr. Donne. If we were, we'd all sink like Atlantis under the weight of our own memories.

I clicked on the sweeper and watched as the past's dust disappeared from the carpet.

- # # # -

* - Heh. Even in flashbacks, I can get the year wrong. The first draft of this post listed 1997. My ten-year clean date, by the way, is Aug. 1.

WINE COUNTRY CONFIDENTIAL: Bizarre Cocktails and Nostalgia, Not So Classic Beauty, and the Ohio Library Veterans Association

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- The bartender looked at me as if I were crazy, downright fucking nuts, bonkers, completely off my rocker.

"Yeah, it's called a Napa Valley Handjob. I learned to drink 'em from older Poly alums back in the day."

It's one of the most insane undergraduate cocktails of all time, a perfect mixture of the often unrealistic perception of life in California Wine Country, of 1980s Falcon Crest pipe dreams, and the typical American college kid's very real need to get completely shitfaced.

Basically, the cocktail is merely a high octane version of a wine spritzer, the kind of pussy cocktail served at teetotaler weddings, Rich White People (RWP) parties in places like the Hamptons and Connecticut, and artsy-fartsy gallery openings along the East Coast.

Instead of the stereotypical white-and-club mixture, however, one adds a shot of vodka and a dash of black pepper to cheap Cabernet, gently mixes with ice, pours the whole thing into a highball glass.

In college, the wine was, well, usually a jug of Carlo Rossi, and vodka usually referred to any cheap, clear liquor, usually with that cheap-booze rubbing alcohol flavor.

Even better with Everclear.

"The drink's a Myra without the vermouth, dude. Calling it a Napa Valley Handjob used to make the Aggie girls laugh, think you were high class and crude simultaneously.

"Much more appropriate name. And sometimes, guys did actually get handjobs from girls from Napa, especially the sorority chicks..."

The doubting barkeep laughed, saying he had no idea how to ring up a Napa Valley Handjob. But, well, a Poly student himself, he made a point of writing down the drink recipe.

Older alumni know best, after all.

An older couple at the bar, yuppie tourist types, probably from wherever Land's End actually ends, some plane of hell reserved for old men in penny loafers and tennis shorts, got up and left.

They didn't even finish their bottle of Zinfandel.

Oh well. Can't blame 'em. They chose a shitty vintage. Horrible bouquet. One of those fly-by-night retiree wineries. Smelled like rancid goat semen.

Like Carlo Rossi, except for the $40, tourist-ready price tag and $20 corking fee.

Would've been perfect Napa Valley Handjob wine.

* * * *

ATASCADERO, Calif. (ZP) -- Busted lip and all, the young girl picked herself up and brushed the dust off her baggy shorts.

Even from 20 feet away, along El Camino Real, I could make out the road rash from her failed feeble grind, the ground-in concrete from the sidewalk buried in her shins. She'd landed almost face first; if her knees and palms hadn't absorbed the brunt of the impact, her bloody lip probably would've been a busted nose or worse.

The skater shoved a finger into her mouth, checking for missing teeth or loosened fillings. Satisfied, she kicked her board back up to her side and sat down on a bench, right in the heart of Sunken Gardens park.

She peered from side to side, watching cars as they passed, looking out for the dreaded Po-Po, the ones who, sadly, are now responsible for citing those who refuse to practice the California State Sport within the sanitized confines of the local skate park.

The young fugitive from city-ordinance justice gingerly picked stone from her knees, spitting on her hands to wipe away the blood.

Another kid, a raven-haired Lancelot on his own banned wooden horse, pulled up beside her. He whipped off his shirt, stripped down to his own over-sized Dickies and his Vans and his broad, studded leather belt and his wallet chain. He tossed it at the young skater's lean, bloody shins, striking his best teenage, cock-sure skatepunk pose as the wifebeater fell into the girl's waiting hands.

And then he sat down beside her, put his arm around her, wiped the blood away from her busted lip. He kissed her gently on the cheek, and she put her head on his shoulder, pink liquid dripping onto his chest, their sweat and blood and teenage love perfect.

And to think - a woman recently told me, back in Oxford Fucking Ohio, that I wouldn't know true beauty if it stared me in the face.

* * * *

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- War stories.

That's the best way to describe conversations with "El Guapo," my former Oxford Fucking Ohio colleague.

We bellied up to the bar at the Crooked Kilt, right off the town square, less than a hundred yards away from one of the old Carnegie Library, the one the 2003 San Simeon earthquake didn't have the heart to bring down with many of the other historic downtown structures.

Eight drinks into our Association of Badass Fucking Librarians Conference, I realized something.

One does not simply leave Oxford Fucking Ohio.

One escapes.

Looking around the crowded bar, I also noticed something else, something that I've been missing for going on three full years.

Diversity. Real, organic diversity.

And we're not talking the complete horseshit, let's - substitute - Affirmative - Action - with - politically - correct - statistical - quota- building, either.

Blonde Barbie-doll looking women, hanging off the arms of tattooed Latino bikers. Goth girl waitresses getting hit on by middle-aged golfers. Bodybuilder bouncers discussing ska concerts with skinny dudes, popped-collars mingling with plaid pants and straw fedoras. Old alkies at the bar, too, ogling the Asian girl in the micro-mini, the probably fifth - generation Japanese - American woman whispering to friends.

And two gay guys on a date, out in the open, holding hands, next to the old rancher-looking guy. I know gay men and women in Ohio who can't get a date, who can't go anywhere, even when attached, in the NeoCon Disneyland that is the Greater Cincinnati Area, without worrying about some Bible-thumping zealot or some homophobic idiot ruining their evening.

"El Guapo" just bought a house, moved his family here, into the heart of Wine Country.

And I'm so jealous I could scream, downright envious.

"You know, California is really full of a lot of cool people," El Guapo said, as he returned from the pisser. "A lot of arrogant assholes, but, yeah, cool people."

After I dropped El Guapo off back at his house, I returned to downtown Paso Robles, a town I once called home, a hick town I once despised, back when all the old buildings were still standing and before the wrecked Carnegie was closed to visitors.

I wanted to cry.

Instead, I pissed through the safety fence, right into the manicured landscape surrounding the busted ol' Carnegie Library.

A young woman who I'd seen at the Crooked Kilt earlier in the evening, a woman El Guapo thought I was talking up every time he got up to hit the head, walked past, said hi, and asked if I had an extra cigarette - while I'm taking a piss.

"I heard you talking at the bar. You guys were cracking me up."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was born in Cincinnati. I thought it was so funny, because I probably know people that go to [Local U.]."

We spent two hours talking in that downtown park.

And her advice?

"Run."

- # # # -

BLOGS DON'T BET ON PEOPLE & NEITHER DO I: Playing the Odds, Early Morning Phone Calls, and Other Lustful Things

MOOD MUSIC:

Halloween (Cousin Cole v. Flufftronix Remix 2007) [MP3]
- The Misfits
[Original Artist, 1981 Plan 9 Records]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It took me a few minutes to figure out who was on the other end of the phone call. Not many folks call me so early in the morning, not unless the caller just happens to know that I'm usually up by five Eastern.

The sound of the cell vibrating across the kitchen table scared the shit out of me. I was barely through my first cup of coffee, barely finished eating my first Lean Pocket.

Though I'm sure the caller knew I answered, the other end fell silent, a disconnect. I wrote it off as a dropped call or, probably, a wrong number. I looked at the caller ID - didn't even recognize the area code.

Two minutes later, the phone went off again, and this time I caught it on the first ring.

"This is Jason."

"Hey, Fucknut."

"Uh, hey yourself."

"It's just me. _______ gave me your new number."

* * * *

Given the fact that, well, I'd never expected to hear "Tonya's" voice ever again, I sank to the floor, cigarette and cup o' joe in hand. I don't know if I was excited or shocked or upset or merely caught up in some early morning daydream. The room was spinning.

The only thing I could muster after an awkward pause was an exaggerated Oh, hey chica!, as if I were talking to some colleague about space planning or some female friend locally about plans for the weekend.

Deep down, I guess I knew that the phone call wasn't exactly one of those simple, friendly calls.

* * * *

It was clear, within five minutes of talking, that "Tonya" was drunk as a skunk. She slurred her words and apologized numerous times for being a little wasted.

Upon realizing that she'd miscalculated the time difference, she abruptly hung up, called back, hung up again, and finally, after one more call, believed me when I told her that I was already awake and that I was, indeed, alone and woman-free.

She was calling from a motel room somewhere out in Vegas and had just gotten in from a night on the town. Two of her friends had talked her into finally using up her Frequent Flier Miles on a Girls' Only vacation- they were still out on the Strip, enjoying the trip. And drunk "Tonya" was alone in the hotel room, talking on the phone to yours truly.

Her husband had moved out of the house back in January. The divorce was to be finalized as soon as the attorneys negotiated a fair division of assets.

Tonya's daughter was staying with her brother and his wife. Apparently, the split had gotten so bad that the only thing she and her soon-to-be ex could agree on without attorneys present was the importance of keeping the kid out of it...

As Tonya explained her situation, I couldn't help but feel guilty. But I didn't feel guilty because of what happened back in December. I felt guilty because I didn't feel one ounce of sincere remorse.

I felt guilty because, well, when one plays a part in another's train wreck of a life, that's how one should feel.

But, at the end of the day, passion, to me, is passion. People lose control when sexual attraction is combined with the momentary alignment of body, soul, and a deep-rooted past - happens all the time.

Of course, being single, I have the luxury of believing such things.

* * * *

"Tonya" started to nod off midway through the conversation. She did explain that her guilt, too, was more akin to mine; she'd called not because she was looking for some scapegoat but because she just thought I'd like to know that it wasn't my fault, just in case I heard it from someone else.

We finished our conversation as the sun rose and my tiny apartment filled with gray light. She asked if she could ever call me again, if I hated her, and if I thought she was somehow an evil person for giving up on her "perfect" marriage in order to finally live life again.

I told her that she was always welcome to call.

But I couldn't answer her other questions. I just couldn't find the words. I wasn't sure if she was looking for affirmation, for strength, or for condemnation. So I chose the straight and narrow path instead.

"Fuck it, chica. What are ya gonna do?"

* * * *

That was four weeks ago.

Since that morning, I've talked to "Tonya" a few more times on the phone and a couple of times online. She even sent me a picture, courtesy of her nifty camera phone.

Honestly, in hindsight, it's not too difficult to figure out why I was so damned willing to simply ignore the fact that, well, she was married at the time of our romp in a cheap motel.

Looking at the pic, I can actually remember the taste of her skin, can smell what she calls her "Born on the Rez" scent floating through my apartment.

[NOTE - That's about the only hint towards "Tonya's" actual ethnicity that I'm going to post online. I guess I need to clarify that only about a third of the women I've posted about on this damn thing would fit the WASPish stereotype associated with this region. Many Ohio readers naturally assume I'm discussing affluent "white" women, based on Oxford Fucking Ohio being known, nationwide, as being one of the least diverse campus communities in the America. ]

Online, we spent more time swapping mp3s (we share a favorite Misfits song [Mp3] and she recently discovered that, yes, GWAR makes great Soccer Mom Repellent at the gym) and arguing about how much growing up sucks than discussing her divorce or my "settling" for being a "pussy-ass librarian" instead of going back into media and image consulting.

And, well, it's been a while since I've had a conversation with a woman who's just as comfortable using words like cunt, twat, and hella in casual conversation as she is discussing her militant political libertarianism or her newfound love for Glock collecting / shooting (her Glock 20 weighs almost as much as she does; she could probably get by with a much lighter G26 - a great lil sidearm).

Nothing in the world like a woman who rides a skateboard to work, packs heat, and who, like yours truly, loves munching on soy chips while watching the original Dawn of the Dead.

* * * *

Faced with that kind of attraction, well, hell...

Give a shit about the whole adultery thing? Please. If I'd known how truly fucked up her marriage was, well, I would've suggested that we videotape the whole thing and send it to Sally Suckyfucky and her soon-to-be ex.

If you're gonna sleep with someone's spouse, it better be a goddamned marathon, especially if you're friends with the spouse in question.

Dislocated shoulders. Destroyed hotel room. Bottle of peroxide to clean the fingernail and teeth marks. Hell, I had finger imprints on my lower back for two weeks, a bruised pelvic bone, and...

Not that I'm bragging or anything.

Err...yeah.

I'm bragging. Who am I kidding?

* * * *

The last phone conversation lasted close to five hours.

It really is amazing what two people can find to talk about when, thanks to unlimited mobile-to-mobile minutes, even the cost of a transcontinental phone call becomes a non-issue.

It's equally amazing what two people can manage to not talk about in five hours, too.

For weeks, we'd both been skirting certain issues, certain Where is this going? and What the hell are we doing? discussions.

We spent more time discussing her Warped Tour plans (her daughter earns the honor of being Most Badass Preschool Kid, since she's excited that her mother will, against Stepdad's wishes, take her to see her favorite band, Bad Religion, this summer) and my work problems than anything involving our continued interaction.

* * * *

I flinched first.

At one point, we were discussing her having to fire one of her store managers - this metrosexual kid who was spending more time trying to get women's phone numbers than actually doing his job.

It started as a joke. I suggested that she make me an offer - I'd love a chance to actually get back into the private sector, where taking a user-centered approach to day-to-day client relations is given more than the often silly lip-service found in public sector librarianship.

She made me an offer, all right. Six grand more than my current salary, with benefits - including some other, more intimate perks. We talked about how cool it'd be to work together. That became a discussion about me possibly moving in with her, dumping everything I own and moving back west to be her partner.

I thought we were still having a lighthearted, in-a-perfect-world type discussion. "Tonya," however, was completely serious.

Whoa, chica.

I stopped her mid-sentence and indicated that I was uncomfortable planning out some imaginary future based on our past together and one quick - but meaningful - fling.

I also pointed out that, well, in the real world, it'd look absolutely horrible for the two of us to, well, jump right back into bed together at the same time her marriage was ending - public image aside, the impact such an act would have on her daughter could be devastating long term.

And how would her friends react? She has people in her life who think she's crazy for leaving her perfect, upwardly-mobile overgrown fratboy of a husband - I doubt they would exactly welcome me into her social circle.

And what about our families? My parents barely survived my engagement to a stripper and were devastated when they learned that, well, I've been involved with several women who work in the hardcore adult industry. I don't know what kind of reaction I'd get if I showed up for family get-togethers with a girlfriend who a)I used to tutor when she was 16, b) who I'd slept with before she'd even decided to leave her husband, and c) who also used to be a fellow coke addict.

Her family? It'd take a miracle for her father not to put a bullet between my eyes.

And I'm sure her ex-hubby would just love the idea of his ex-wife shacking with the guy she'd had an affair with - talk about a juicy piece of information for any potential custody battle.

Besides, I reminded her, what are the odds that this would work, anyway? We'd probably break up or kill each other in a year, tops.

* * * *

Silence.

She didn't say anything for more than two minutes, just made these oh-so-cute sounding noises she makes when she's thinking - or when she's seriously pissed - about something.

Yup. Pissed. She hung up without saying a word - no goodbye, no nothing.

* * * *

I didn't hear from her for more than a week after that. She calmed down and, well, finally came to the same conclusion I did.

Some things are not worth the gamble. And she'd be gambling a lot more than I would. I don't have a daughter, a soon-to-be ex who may or may not end up owning half of my business interests, a house that may end up being sold off as part of a divorce agreement, or friends I'm worried about losing.

Quitting my job and moving across country? Hell, wouldn't be the first time for me. But doing so for someone else, just because I could potentially, one day, fall in love enough to - Gasp! - move beyond being the Ex-Other Man wouldn't be the wisest move on my part.

There's no such thing as a movie ending in the real world. Maybe for some annoying suburbanite emo kid or Trustafarian, but not for anybody whose ever spent any amount of time studying at the esteemed School of Hard Fucking Knocks.

* * * *

We agreed to take some time away from communicating for a bit, to let whatever this lustful silliness is just die. The potential danger is, indeed, greater than either of us can really afford in our lives, at this point.

We do, however, have an agreement. A Fruitcake Sex Agreement, similar to this one.

If both of us are single next December, and if both of us just happen to be back in California after Christmas...

We're getting a room in the same motel. And we're not leaving until we're good and ready to leave. I'm thinking it could take days, maybe even a week.

* * * *

Goddamnit, dude. Wouldn't it be nice to just get involved with women who're single and uncomplicated?

You know, just once, to do the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, without having to worry about getting a motel room or husbands or ex-husbands or potential stepchildren or ... ?

# # #

HEY, UM, DIDN'T JOANIE LOVE CHACHES?: Notes From Conversations About Jack and Shit, Chin-Up Bars, and Sexual Cockroaches

CHACH (alt. sp. CHATCH) - n. A younger American male who overly relies on shallow and often superficial things to compensate for intellectual deficiencies, sexual inadequacies, basic dignity, socially acceptable etiquette, and/or understanding of human interpersonal relationships.

For better, more creative definitions, check out the various entries at Urban Dictionary or this stellar commentary from an Ohio campus newspaper, The Independent Collegian.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I'm not a college student anymore. I haven't been one for many years. And I never attended the Local U., never experienced many of the things students here experience as part of their development from children into men and women.

I moved to Oxford Fucking Ohio not from my parents' house or some boarding school but from a tiny little apartment in Baton Rouge, one with a stellar view of both Tiger Stadium and the State Capitol Building.

I left behind the last of my college years back in the Pelican State. The days of tailgating, of running over to Ichabods for shots after - and often immediately before - Thursday evening classes. I experienced the crawfish boils, the pink flamingos of the Spanish Town Mardi Gras.

I left behind those downtown trips to Tabby's Blues Box (No. 2) and Red Star to drink cheap beer and party 'til Last Call, the ones made while everyone else was cramming for their comprehensive exams, pretending like those silly reference and cataloging classes were actually challenging.

And there was this one very hot waitress from Lake Charles at that sports bar across the street from my apartment, the one with the shirts cut so low you could see her...

Er....yeah.

And that was graduate school. There are days I'm grateful that I didn't start blogging in college.

Needless to say, I have really no idea about what it feels like to be a student here in Oxford, beyond what I've witnessed or what I've been told.

Hell, I just work here, folks. No ties whatsoever, other than the ol' job. I'm a transcontinental foreigner, a single guy who, through some quirk of fate, ended up accepting a position in this little town.

It's not a bad little town, really. Never once worried about getting mugged, never once have I worried about rush hour traffic, and I really enjoy the nice, peaceful summers.

But I've never given a shit about Green Beer Day, a once-a-year annoyance that leaves my facility's plumbing fixtures clogged with vomit and beer shits. I've never celebrated Ghetto Fest, never experienced one of the famed Toasted Rolls in a dining hall, never had to suffer through perhaps one of the most tedious general education schemes known to Man.

I've never even thrown up in The Alley, never worn a Muck Farshall tee to the football stadium, and I've yet to log a single hour passed out on the couches in the ZenFo Pro Library - all seen as benchmarks of the Local U. Experience. I've never cried over rotting water towers or whined to city council about outdoor drinking game bans, either.

Without having been a student here, well, there are several local phenomena for which I have no frame of reference. There are concepts that I can't seem to grasp, no matter how hard I try.

Sadly, the chach concept isn't one of them.

* * * *

The first time I heard the term chach, "Britney" and I were sitting in my new apartment, back in late November (when I began writing this damned post), chatting away about her experiences transitioning from undergraduate to alumna.

She'd come back to visit Oxford for the same reason many recent alumni return to visit their alma maters post-graduation. While out in the working world, adjusting to a 40-hour work schedule, the decreased socialization, an the inability to sleep past the asscrack of dawn, she'd grown a bit nostalgic. Sadly, coming back reminded her of why she'd said she never wanted to return in the first place. Too much drama, bad memories overwhelming the nostalgia.

Over dinner, she even told me that seeing all of the drunk students staggering down High Street, from bar to bar, made her new boring life - up at 5 to go spinning at her gym, in the office by 8, and hanging out at a Barnes & Noble drinking coffee and reading away her evenings - seem like a vacation from the reality she'd once known as a student.

One of her former roommates called while we were sitting at the kitchen table. I laughed as "Britney" made faces and obligatory obscene hand job gestures while she talked, occasionally kicking my leg to remind me that she'd much rather be talking to me.

The two didn't really like each other; they kept in contact, it seemed, primarily out of a sense of obligation. I guess they missed arguing over unpaid utilities and, er, certain former flings who'd once, er, accidentally removed a showerhead with a pair of handcuffs.

Long story.

Yeah, I don't think I'm going out tonight. I'm over at J's apartment right now. No, we're just talking. No, I've got a hotel room....I don't think that's any of your business really anyway. Later babe!

"Britney" hung up her cell and flung it down onto the table.

Can you believe her? She wanted me to come down to Brick Street because she's not sure if she should hook up with some guy. Un-FUCKING-believable. She's 23 and hitting on fucking chaches and thinks YOU were a bad influence on ME!

Having never heard the term Chach before, I asked "Britney" what the term meant. I thought she was talking about Scott Baio's character from Happy Days.

It's one thing when someone laughs with you. It's another thing completely when a former "fruitcake sex" partner laughs at you for being so ignorant of local slang, points and giggles at you like you're the dumbest guy on the planet.

And she absolutely refused to define the term beyond never mind...this is too fucking funny.

"Britney" explained, through the snorts and tears, that, well, the idea of the oh-so-smartypants librarian not knowing the meaning of Chach was one of the funniest things she'd ever seen or heard - especially since I'd been suckered by something called chachbait quite a few times since she'd last seen me (see this post for one example).

Very humbling experience.

We ended up hanging out in my apartment all night, drinking my last very good bottle of Tobin James, a 2004 Estate Private Stash (a $50 bottle of reserve-bottled Bordeaux. I'm not a wine drinker, but, well, I know how to buy the stuff. Great flavor on this one.) and watching Justice League Unlimited on my laptop.

At one point, she excused herself to use my john. Five minutes later, I heard more hysterical laughter from my bathroom. Apparently, the chin-up bar I'd recently installed in the bathroom door frame was chachish - "Britney" even asked if I secretly pop the collars on my polo shirts and flex in the mirror when nobody was looking, a closet chach.

At one point in the evening, she popped her own shirt collar, put on my Stetson, and did her damnedest to convince me that her impression of the Chachformation Professional was as funny as she thought it was.

I walked her back to her hotel at well past three in the morning, unable to pick a meaningful definition of Chach from her oh-so-smartass brain.

As I walked back to my apartment, the only thing I could think of was Charles in Charge, Fonzie jumping the Shark, and Joanie Friggin' Cunningham.

* * * *

I tried researching the origins of this particular, uniquely Midwestern term in a more scholarly fashion. I tried finding an answer in various slang and contemporary language dictionaries during my lunch breaks.

I finally called a language expert, a buddy of mine, who responded by laughing hysterically, questioning my sanity, and suggesting that I ask the locals - something that, well, someone studying regional dialects and its unique identifiers would do.

She did, however, put me on hold while she asked her teaching assistant - an apparently charming 26-year-old who my friend has suggested, in less-than-scholarly IMs, represents the kind of woman I should be dating, should I continue my professional career here in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

The language expert's probably right. I really do prefer educated women who listen to the Clash and the Dropkick Murphys, have a particular fondness for industrial techno but no longer enjoy going to clubs, enjoy hiking and target shooting, and who sport nose rings.

But I digress...

The TA, a Hoosier State native who attended an Ohio university as an undergrad, thought it was, well, fucking hysterical that that blog guy was calling from across the country to learn about Chaches.

After some delay, the faculty finally put her protege on the phone.

According to the Indianan, roughly 60-70 percent of Ohio male college students fall into the chach category - at least the ones she knew when she was an undergrad at her Ohio university.

Here in Oxford Fucking Ohio, at the Local U., she estimated that as many as 90 percent of the male students fit the bill, based on her experiences partying with and dating several Local U. students.

...Basically, chaches are guys women go home with in college because they're cute, frigging adorable, on the outside... Women wake up and literally feel like their IQs have dropped because they've just hooked up with a Metro version of a Neanderthal... Chaches are like the sexual cockroaches of college, they're everywhere and don't ever seem to go away.

Wait...

So I have metrosexual sexual cockroach caveman tendencies?

I explained to the TA how, exactly, I'd become obsessed with the Chach. That only led to more laughter.

Dude, if you have a chin-up bar in your bathroom...yeah, that's kinda chachish. But you don't seem like a Stadium Toad, at least online.

Wait...

Stadium Toad?

* * * *

I finally admitted that I needed, well, a Local U. perspective, a perspective that I could trust to cure my obsession.

So one night, while bar-hopping at way past my normal bedtime, I asked a few male friends - none of whom seemed to be the type to have chin-up bars installed in their bathrooms - for a better explanation.

One guy, a larger guy who I'll call Mr. Molson, laughed as we stood out on the balcony of this one particular bar. Mr. Molson, I knew, used the term frequently.

I'm pretty sure you're not a chach, Mr. Molson said, pointing towards a group of younger bar patrons.

Now that, my friend, is a chachfest.

A group of guys, all dressed in matching neon polos and overpriced jeans, staggered out of the bar, drunk girls in tow. Their hair hardly moved, gelled like mine but...not. Their faces seemed almost waxed, nary an ingrown hair in sight, eyebrows plucked and perfect. The whole group reeked of expensive cologne and Natty Light. The air was filled with the sounds of hey-bras and what sounded like rich white kids who'd heard one too many Dem Franchize Boyz tracks.

And, yes, they looked like the kind of guys who would have chin-up bars installed in their bathrooms.

But unlike the ol' ZenFo Pro, they didn't seem to be the kind of guys who kept Whitman's Leaves of Grass on the nightstand or who'd list The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as one of their favorite films, or would, well, think twice about whether or not being called a chach was a bad thing.

Oh, so a chach is basically a preppy douchebag? Wow.

Mr. Molson looked up from beneath his ball cap. We were both drunk as skunks, standing in the cold, smoking cigarettes and watching as the chachefest migrated back to whatever horrid, vile place chaches take their chachebait.

Yup.

I guess being a college student in Oxford Fucking Ohio is no different that being a college student anywhere else.

* * * *

While the slang may change, there have always been chaches. We had them at LSU when I was a grad student, at Cal Poly and Northern Colorado when I was an undergrad - we just had different names for them.

Yeah. Chach works. And they really are like sexual cockroaches.

One day, maybe, I'll unearth a good definition for Stadium Toad.

I'll save that one, however, for another post.

- # # # -

DOGS PLAYING CARDS ON A SICK DAY: Conversations with Ghosts of Myself

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I did something very stupid Tuesday.

I took a prescription medication on an empty stomach, didn't read those pesky do not drink alcoholic beverages instructions, and ended up puking my guts out for seven hours straight.

As punishment for my very, very stupid mistake, I was sentenced to two days sick leave, in order to recover from dehydration, extremely low blood sugar, and overall ickiness. I'd already been recovering from an upper respiratory infection, so the added stress on my system pretty much guaranteed that I'd be forced to take time off for - gasp - health issues.

I don't do sick days very well. I'm a lousy patient. I'd rather just work through it, keep chugging away until something breaks beyond repair. I'll rest when I'm off the clock or when I'm dead.

* * * *

By the time I could finally hold down anything solid, I was too jittery to sit through any DVD, too annoyed to listen to music.

I wrote long-winded emails, responses to comments on the ol' blog, and caught up on just about every open access journal in my research area.

Well, that killed a whopping five hours of my life.

Boredom is my enemy. And nothing screams boredom like five hours' worth of LIS literature.

* * * *

I crawled out of bed Thursday at around 10 (I normally get up between five and six), had one Lean Pocket and a cup of coffee for brunch, took a shower.

I started to get dressed. Couldn't do it. I crawled back into bed, defeated. I felt like the main character in Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun, a helpless cripple damned to an eternity of dreary solitude, waiting - begging - for sweet death.

As I stared at the ceiling, my bedroom too bright to sleep, I decided to do what I used to do as a kid when I'd get sick, those lonely days when I'd be left bedridden back on the family farm, 20 miles from civilization and with only three snowy network television stations to keep me company.

I'll play a game.

Hmmm... what sort of game?

For shit's sake, dude! Got it. Let's play Interview!

Interview was one of my favorite sick day games as a child. Actually, Interview was more of an an exercise in imagination than a game.

I'd pretend to be a reporter, a regular Walter Cronkite, interviewing an older, famous version of myself. The television studio was completely within my mind, laid out like those old network news desks, clocks from a hundred time zones covering the walls. I could see clearly the cameras, the Teleprompter, the shining lights.

When I had chickenpox, I'd interviewed Jason, the famous scientist who'd cured cancer. Once, when I was in middle school, I'd interviewed retired Rear Admiral Jason, the hero of the Cold War who'd single-handedly destroyed the Soviet Empire.

In junior high, I even interviewed Jason, winner of three Academy Awards... and husband of Cindy Crawford (we had 12 children, I believe.)

I laughed out loud with what was left of my stomach-acid stripped vocal chords.

Dude, this is gonna be fun.

But I think we'd better mix this shit up a bit...

* * * *

Instead of interviewing my mythological older self, I decided, for shits and giggles, to interview my younger self.

Honestly, the idea of interviewing the 48, 54, or 68 year-old versions of me didn't seem appealing.

I mean, for chrissakes...

Did I really want to think about the divorce back in 2014, the sex scandals of 2043, or that dead hooker in that Vegas hotel room in 2051?

Or what about the possibility of that love child, the one living down in Mexico in 2032, the one I never knew I had, from that very real one night with that daughter of migrant laborers, back in in a very real 1997?

Dude, you'll have nightmares for a week if you interview Future Jason.

You're too damned pessimistic and paranoid to have an imaginary bright future...

* * * *

So, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I let my mind wander into that dusty, long-forgotten newsroom one more time. I put on the ol' anchor's blazer, tested the microphone, cleared my mental throat.

I thought I'd share summaries of my first round of Interview in more than 15 years:

* * * *

The Motherfucker was 17, a passionate kid with a huge chip on his shoulder. The Motherfucker liked to fight, smoked way too much weed, played in a punk band, and had a taste for MD 20/20.

"Man, I remember once, at this party, I was so fucked up I couldn't see. We was all outside, all jus' chillin' around this bonfire. Me an' ______ snuck off with this one chick, 'cause she had this dusted bud she'd picked up in Charlottesville. She got so fucked up, she like pissed on herself an' shit. Fucking hippy rich chicks, man. She offered blowjobs if we'd give her a ride home, but I was all, like, shit, white girls from private schools carry all kinds of diseases."

The Motherfucker was known to most adults as a bookish, level-headed kid. He excelled in scholarly activities, as a member of the track team, in academic competitions. But he had a dark side, a lust to be accepted, to be the badass, the instrument of God's Wrath. He hung out with some good kids, but mostly ones destined for lives of trouble.

According to legend, the Motherfucker once broke a guy's knuckles with a ball-peen hammer, gangster-style, because the poor college first-year couldn't pay his illicit pharmaceutical bill. He once took a baseball bat to some poor kid's stomach at a house party, retaliation for the merciless beating a friend of his had received on a school bus.

"That cocksucking redneck had it coming. If we hadn't fucked his shit up, he jus' would've called some brother a coon or somethin' and ended up gettin' capped. I prob'ly saved his sorry ass. Eye for a mothafuckin' eye, homes. You wanna trip some shit, I'll trip shit like a fuckin' electric chair."

The first girl the Motherfucker ever French-kissed ended up killing herself - after doing time in a women's prison for her role in her parents' murder. His childhood best friend was relocated to an undisclosed location as part of a plea agreement, in exchange for testifying against a narcotics kingpin. He knows that several of his friends from those years are now probably dead or in correctional facilities for the rest of their natural lives.

Through some act of God, however, the Motherfucker made it out of his hometown, outgrew his rage, cleaned up his act. He'd been saved only by the unconditional love his family had provided him and by the faith his teachers had in his intellectual gifts.

* * * *

Dog Juan loved playing savior to just about every troubled young woman who showed him even the slightest attention.

In high school, he'd been a late-bloomer, losing his virginity at 17 accidentally to a woman whose exact identity he'd been too drunk to recall. By the time he'd reached 20, he'd overcome enough of his awkwardness around women to be at least somewhat romantically inclined.

Unfortunately for Dog Juan, he learned too late that there were some women he just shouldn't be involved with romantically. As an undergrad, he mastered the art of the one-night stand while simultaneously mastering the art of dating women who were completely nucking futs.

"Once, I was like seeing this girl, T_____. I'd met her through one of my roommates. T____ had her problems, sure...I mean, she'd survived being a prostitute in Colorado Springs, had managed to get into college. So what if she was still stripping to pay the bills? And its not like I'd never done coke before.

"C'mon. The sex was fucking awesome. Wild shit. And she was older than me, old enough to buy beer.

"Fuck, we drank a lot. Actually, she drank a lot. And the fucking suicide threats. Yeah, those sucked.

"But dude! Wait. The fucking sex, dude. One time, I went down on her in an Italian restaurant. We did it at three o'clock in the morning, butt-ass naked on the hood of my truck, smack dab in the middle of an intersection. We're talking three to five times a day, seven days a week. Nothing wrong with that.

"I mean, I've faked it a couple of times, when she gets pushy - the fucking coke messes my shit up sometimes, but she gets it free and won't do it alone, so what am I s'posed to do?

"I mean, yeah, she gets violent an' shit. Lots of women do. And so what if my female friends hate her - they're just fucking jealous because I'm fucking happy.

"C'mon...you never had a chick pull a knife on you before, homes?"

By his 21st birthday, Dog Juan had accomplished two things that few men can claim:

He'd won his first award as a sportswriter, and he'd managed to become a certified victim of domestic violence, complete with restraining order against his one-time fiance.

Researchers have long sought interviews with Dog Juan. The mystery of how such an intelligent young man with such charm and passion could be so goddamned dense sometimes has puzzled numerous people for more than a decade.

* * * *

Talk Radio Guy knew he was in trouble the first day he'd gone into work after the Corporate Radio Juggernaut had finally cleared their FCC hurdles and had taken control of day-to-day operations of his station.

He knew he was a fairly popular sports anchor in his market, but he also knew, somewhere deep inside, that the Corporate Radio Juggernaut had no use for silly little things like women's sports coverage, Major League Baseball broadcasting rights, and colorful sports commentary.

The future, he'd been told, was in nationally syndicated talk radio - conservative talk radio. What use did the Juggernaut have, anyway, for unbiased coverage when its advertising gurus had research to show that America had no use for such things.

Talk Radio Guy knew, somewhere deep down, that some idiot would one day get the idea for liberal talk radio, the same nationally syndicated bullshit, only spun a different way, to sell more worthless airtime to gullible sponsors.

He felt sorry for his listeners. He knew they were smarter than the Juggernaut's advertising gurus.

He sat in his new Program Director's office and listened to the new management's pitch for his talent, a lecture about the fame that would come with moving to FM, to an afternoon drive slot on an Urban Contemporary station that had been faltering for years in the ratings.

"We all called this pile of goatshit P.D. Mr. Backstreet Boy. Homeboy was pushing 40, single, living off tanning salons and expensive hair gel. He used words like "bro" and "hella" in a vain attempt to stay hip.

"From the first day I met the motherfucker, I knew by all of his flattering comments that, for all of his talk about me being a valuable member of the C________ Family, I was nothing more than a local personality that they were slowly trying to push out of the business. He talked about how valuable I' was, but there was no talk of a pay raise.

"I knew my days were numbered the moment I told Mr. Backstreet Boy that I had no interest in spinning bad hip-hop for imaginary listeners, waiting for Big Fucking Brother to finally install the new receivers for the syndicated shit out of New York."

As Talk Radio Guy sat in Mr. Backstreet Boy's office, he looked over at a picture on the new program director's desk - a beautiful portrait of the P.D. and his girlfriend of two years, a former cheerleader with a certain professional sports team.

He grinned from ear to ear, interrupting the P.D. to ask him a question about the woman in the photograph.

You see, Talk Radio Guy had met the Cheerleader, a sweet woman - not very bright, but sweet - at a dance club three days prior to what was to be his last face-to-face meeting with Mr. Backstreet Boy.

She'd told Talk Radio Guy all about how she loved his funny sportscasts, how he made her laugh while she was in the shower. Talk Radio Guy had pretended to be shocked when the former cheerleader claimed that she was in her late 30s; he'd told her that there was no way in hell such gorgeous woman could be a day older than his 22-year-old self.

The Cheerleader thought Talk Radio Guy was cute in person, that he reminded her of a short, cuddly teddy bear. She kept saying how her boyfriend had never once held a door for her, or bought her a drink, or even asked her what she wanted out of life. She told Talk Radio Guy that she was sure Mr. Backstreet Boy was cheating on her with a younger woman, a college student at Talk Radio Guy's Alma mater.

In fact, she apologized several times over several hours' worth of conversation for telling Talk Radio Guy so much - she claimed that the few Fuzzy Navels had made her tipsy, and that she couldn't believe how connected she felt to Talk Radio Guy, and how she wasn't sure why she felt the way she felt, the attraction...

"I think that's probably the downright meanest thing I've ever done to another man. And I don't regret it one bit.

"Feel bad about using her - I mean, she was cute, but wow, was she dumb. And pro cheerleaders are rarely dumb - I've known several over the years.

Besides, I think she was using me a bit, too - she was a new girl in town with a cheating boyfriend, and I was a voice on the radio, the guy who made her laugh, somebody who listened. Lord, I'm naive but not stupid.

"You know, that's always been the power of local talk radio. It's not about the guy behind the mike, the guy ranting and raving. It's about the listening. That's the seduction, my man.

"You should've seen the look on his face when I asked him about that tattoo on her ass.

He knew, knew instantly. I don't know if it bothered him more that, well, I'd screwed something that meant something to him in retaliation for screwing something I cared about, or that he just never thought a fat guy could ever pull one over on his overgrown Boy Band routine.

"God, California really made me an evil bastard, didn't it?"

Years later, Talk Radio Guy would find irony in the fact that he actually slept around a lot more as a fat guy than he does now, 85 pounds lighter than he was when he was at the end of his broadcasting career.

He also finds it fucking hilarious that people sometimes wonder why he just can't find anything attractive about dumb women. Dumb women are easy to manipulate; they don't make him feel the least bit self-conscious. All he's ever had to do was to just listen - there's no challenge in just listening.

Smart women, on the other hand...

Well, he's still just as dense as a lead brick.

* * * *

For some reason, after finishing my first-ever adult game of Interview, I started to feel better.

I took a rather long nap, downloaded some new MP3s, and even started to clean the wreck I'd left the bathroom.

Hell, maybe taking some time off from work is a good thing, taking time to just let old wounds heal up the way their meant to heal.

After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds, right?

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