A Common Pornography_ A Memoir - Kevin Sampsell [40]
Sports were the reason I became known as Sedale. Big K was a pretty goofy jock kind of guy who was always making funny noises and doing silly pranks. I was mostly into music at the time, but I still had a passing interest in sports clinging to me from my days as a statistics-hoarding football freak in junior high. Big K and I went out after work a few times and played some playground basketball. His stiff but powerful inside play reminded me of Robert “the Chief” Parrish of the Celtics, while my quick, slashing drives and hustle earned me the alias Sedale Threatt, who was a backup point guard for the Philadelphia 76ers.
So we’d be working in the midst of some mad rush and our pace is faster than the taternuts can fry in the fryer and just to keep the mood fun for all, K would shout out my nickname in an exaggerated PA announcer voice: “Sedaaaale Threeeeeeatt!” and then I would go “The Chieeeeeeeef!” All the customers seemed used to these outbursts and even our occasional and random animal noises.
Some customers were also special enough to receive trumpeting treatment. Murphy was one. He was a slouched sixty-two-year-old whom we’d greet by announcing: “It’s the Armeeeeenian!” Other regulars were Ray, Coach, Betsy Baker, Danny Boy, Ozzie, and Miss Missy. Random terms were rotated for folks we weren’t familiar with. Tags like Old Man, Big Dog, Chi Chi, and Buster.
Whenever we had the dough rolling through the cutter, Big K and I had to stand on each side and gather up the uncooked taternut shapes. They’d then go into the warm racks where they would rise, then we’d plop ’em on a wire tray and stick ’em in the fryer, where they cooked in the oil. All the extra dough was rolled into a little football and thrown around the shop when it wasn’t busy. For a little joke, we’d sometimes plant a small piece of dough on the ground where we knew that someone would step on it. Stepping on one of these things felt like you were stepping on a small squishy turd. K and I would casually watch over our time bombs and make ticking sounds. Whenever Debra or whoever would step on it, we’d laugh and congratulate each other on our treacherous achievement.
At some point during this job, which I held for a year and a half, Debra started to ask me about my sex life. This was right before I started to see Daphne, and then Elvia. I was getting around, as they say, and sometimes girls would come see me at work.
Debra wanted to make sure I knew a few important things—tools for life—such as the mysterious and tribal-sounding ritual known as “eating out a pussy.” All the photos of oral sex I’d seen in magazines were of women giving it to men. I had no idea that oral sex was such an equal opportunity activity. The first time a girl asked me to give her oral sex, it was a one-night stand with a sixteen-year-old devil-worshipping runaway. We were making out and I had her shirt off. I began licking her breasts and she asked: “Will you eat me out?” I thought about it for a second, knowing I didn’t even know the first step, and politely answered, “No, thanks.”
My mother and I had too much of an age gap to have sexual talks. I think she knew something was up in regards to my sexual blooming, but she never pried. Mostly she stayed in her sewing room and listened to Nat King Cole as I wrestled with my puberty (and penis) in the next room. I’m sure that some of my family thought I was gay. The Scotch-taped photo of Ralph Macchio on my wall could have been cause for alarm.
Big K was possibly my best bet for sex advice from an older, more experienced person.
“Gotta grow