A Common Pornography_ A Memoir - Kevin Sampsell [41]
After work that day, Debra cornered me in the back room. “You want me to just tell you how to do it and save ya some time?”
I tried to think of something funny to say, but settled for: “Sure, if you want to.”
She explained several things: the taste, the labia, the clit, the secret button, the canal. She mapped out certain methods: the vibrator, the fingers, the tongue, lips, teeth, etc. And finally, she soberly gave me a few warnings: yeast infections, periods, pubic hair in the teeth, gagging on excess pubic hair, pubic hair that seems to be either absent or shaved.
I didn’t ask her about how the cop did it to her. Actually, oral sex may have been against state law for all I knew. I made a note to be careful in case it was.
The results were: I loved it!
Even despite close calls with yeasty girls and others who looked like they had Jimmie Walker’s head sticking out of their groin, the giving of oral pleasure was high on my priorities list on every date. It was indeed one of the most valuable things anyone has ever taught me. Thanks, Debra!
Soon after these lessons, I was preparing to quit my job and move to Spokane, where I would go to broadcasting school. It was time to hang up my apron and retire from the taternut biz. My last day of work was a tearjerker. “You were a legend in the fry zone, Sedale,” reflected Big K on my eighteen months of fabulous frying.
I was glazing up a batch and doing my best Dick Vitale, “It’s SHOW TIME, baby!”
Big K splashed water on his face and wiped faux tears from under his eyes. “We’re gonna retire your apron, man. It’ll hang from the rafters.”
I looked at my early-morning work companion with respect.
Murphy rattled through the door. “It’s the Armeeeenian,” I announced.
Murphy stopped for a moment and asked over the sneeze guard, “This is your last day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, off to the medium city, old man.”
“Well, you make one heck of a taternut, kid,” he said. Then he paused to let me prepare for some wisdom. “Just remember,” he started, “when you get there and get settled, you can’t come home again.”
Interruption
Before I moved to Spokane, Pam came over to my parents’ house to see me one last time. She said she saw my car in the driveway and wanted to say hi before I moved. We went to my old bedroom and I tried to figure out what it was she wanted. She said she heard that her little brother had beaten me up at the mall and that she was sorry.
I got angry and defensive and told her that he didn’t beat me up. In fact, I forgot it even happened that summer. He saw me at Columbia Center and stopped me outside the Bon Marché. A few of his friends were with him and he was obviously putting on a show for them, acting cool and tough. He said something about “fucking over” his sister and then threw a wild punch at my neck, which I barely felt. There was an angry surge of heat in my head, but I chose to walk away. He and his friends stood there laughing.
Pam sat on my bed and started to cry. I said it was no big deal. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she said, and then she started kissing me. I kissed her back but didn’t say anything. It had been almost two years since that night she sat in someone else’s car and saw me waiting for her on her porch.
It was dark in my room and even though my parents were home, I locked my door and let Pam get under the covers with me and we took our shorts off. She was on top of me like a wrestler. She had me pinned. She put me inside her and I felt a sad regret. The last thing I ever wanted to do was accept any form of apology that she offered. She would probably feel like we were even now.
The bed was thumping, but I was trying to be quiet. The one thing that would make me feel worse about this whole scenario would be for Mom and Dad to think Pam and I had made up. My doorknob jiggled and then Dad said from the other side of the door, “Does Pam want to stay for dinner?”
“Hold on