Slow Adventures in Slothville

October 5, 2005

Trouble With A Capital “T”

Filed under: Family, Maybe worth a look, Photography — shhville @ 10:27 am


You like that? Fashion forward! In case you can’t tell, the button on those shorts is undone. Took this photo at Oregon Inlet.

Our last night on the Outer Banks, my uncle and I went to a restaurant named the Jolly Roger. This place is not what one might describe as staid. At the entrance to the parking lot is a parachute-sized sign that says WELCOME BIKERS, there are hundreds of shiny Christmas ornaments hanging from the foil-covered ceiling in the dining room, one of their “vegetable” options on the menu is mac and cheese and the locals gather in the adjacent room every night for karaoke. Tourist season is over, man. What else is there to do?

Over the years my uncle and I have grown very fond of the Jolly Roger for a couple of reasons. One, they make a fucking killer veal parmesan. Two, it’s the biggest freak show on the Outer Banks. After finishing our tortured baby cow meat we always head over to the karaoke section of the restaurant to ogle the local flavor. Mullets abound. Acid washed jeans scissor back and forth, “wisk, wisk, wisk…” Big hair, menthol cigarettes, and country music. It’s a good time.

On this particular evening I was wearing a pretty fabulous outfit – black and white flared skirt, tiny black t-shirt, slingback heels and pigtails. Feeling confident and voyeuristic. A little old round lady was singing “The Rythm is Gonna Get You” by Gloria Estefan for the second time when Danielle walked in. I didn’t know her name was Danielle at the time. What I did know, in that way that women sometimes have a sense about each other right off the bat, was that she was Trouble. My first thought was, “Wow, that girl is really damaged.” My second thought was, “That damaged girl is going to come over here and talk to me.”

I was right on both counts.

Danielle was really attractive, but it seemed like she didn’t quite know how to put herself together. She was younger than me but looked a little older because of years spent in the sun – her skin was the color of caramel. Her hair was in braided pigtails and she was wearing a halter top, a mini skirt and….boxer briefs. The Tommy Hilfiger logo on the boxers could be seen clearly above the waist band of the skirt. Oh, and she was covered in tattoos. My sense of her was of a girl who wanted to be tough as nails but pretty and feminine too and she was having a hard time reconciling the two.

She had a friend there – a guy who was totally hot and totally bad news and who had totally hit on me about three seconds before she walked in. So she walked right over to where I was standing and before you could say “molested as a child” she was showing me a huge scar on her arm that she had acquired while working a gill-netter. This progressed quickly to an earnest confession that her nipples were pierced.

You can see where this is going.

I was drunk enough to be fascinated with the nipple piercing so I asked her if it hurt. I don’t remember her answer because at the same time that she was talking she was making me pinch her nipple. With the ring in it. In the bar.

It was at this point that a lot of people starting watching us.

She then turned toward the wall and pulled her tank top over to the side so I could peek at the piercing. Still drunk and fascinated, I stuck my face right in there for a good look. I said, “Are they both pierced?” I’m not sure what she said then because I was busy pinching her other nipple. It was, in fact, pierced.

You can see where this is going.

Before you could say “incest survivor” she was telling me about her clit piercing. As I may have mentioned, I was drunk. And fascinated. So I pinched that too and no one was watching the karaoke anymore. I sort of tugged on it and that made her laugh and then I asked her a billion or so questions about how much THAT piercing hurt and she explained that it’s not the actual clitoris but the little hood over it that is pierced. I felt very much relieved at this new information.

So we hung out for a couple of hours and my uncle, the psychiatrist, got dragged into the conversation. At some point I was whisked off to the dance floor by a very drunk middle aged guy until his wife busted it up by pointedly “apologizing” for her husband in a way that made me fear for my hairdo if not for my life. I scurried back to Danielle and my uncle and the totally hot, totally bad news guy and some other dude who I think was Danielle’s boyfriend. He told me they were going to go smoke some coke and *bing!* it was time to go home.

As my uncle and I walked to the car he told me that while I was dancing with the bad husband, “Danielle showed me her vagina!! There was a little rhinestone in it!!” Apparently, she had pulled up her skirt and pulled down her boxers right there in the bar to show my poor sixty-year-old uncle her clit ring. He seemed a little traumatized.

I gently explained to him that “vagina” was really not the proper term for this sort of situation and offered him an alternative noun. “What’s a cooter?” he asked.

On the drive home he shook his head and said solemnly, “I could spend the rest of my career with Danielle as my only patient and she’d still be a total mess by the time I retired.”

Amen, brutha.

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1 Comment »

  1. Hi Elke

    What a great blog. đŸ™‚

    Kathleen

    Comment by Kathleen Burkhalter — November 4, 2008 @ 8:15 am


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