Corresponding back and forth with Gloria, Gloria! today - well, mostly just forth, truthfully, because of the time difference. I made some ass over heels hypocritical remark like "didn't that raise any red flags for you?" and then had to promptly apologize because in perusing my dating history realize that I am the QUEEN of weaving them together to make ponchos instead of thinking "Hmmm. Maybe this person isn't the best choice for me...", which when I am not on teacher time roughly translates to: Get the fuck away from that psycho, there is something irreversibly wrong with him. Take one of my Saipan indescretions, for example, Matt. I'd refer to him by his hash name, but that is relatively singular in its identification and Matt? Well, it's generic as hell. Speaking of which, I'll be Jane for this story. I always wanted that to be my name.
At the hash one fine early evening, after the running and cursing and sweating, we were sitting around the fire, waiting for someone to tell a story. Attention whore that he is, Matt jumped to the front and proclaimed, "I gotta story for ya!" And what a story it was.
Another hasher had his entire family come to visit. Parents, brothers, sisters. One of whom happened to be a young lad by the name of Stuart. Stuart was unassuming in his teenage rebellion. Choosing to rebel only in his conformity. He was skinny, average height, brown hair. Teenagery. At a party earlier in the week he had hung out with us on the edge of a cliff furtively squirrelling away beers while his parents checked on him sporadically. I don't think he uttered more than 20 words the whole evening. He just faded into the background like the rest of the evening. I don't even remember the damn party.
Apparently, my tolerance for Stuart's alcohol consumption and fondness for short shorts during the hash caught his attention, of which I was blissfully unaware. No matter. He would enlist the help of Matt, a neighbor. The social studies teacher who was famous among our group for manipulating people for his own sheer delight fed Stuart a few lines to tell me, gave him a six pack of beer and sent him up to my door, assuring him that I would deflower him faster than...well, it was his first time, granted it would be fast.
Serendipitously, because there are no ideas in my mind as to what I would've done to open the door and find a 15 year old eager beaver there, I had been invited to a joint shower. Alas, I would miss little Stuart. With a six pack. Miller Lite, the nectar of the islands, you know.
Although I found it a little bizarre that Matt was interested in my whereabouts that evening, "Where are you going?" "Why?" I was more focused on the shower. Any time Chamorros party, there are massive amounts of island food so delicious that it is impossible to show any restraint. At least, that's what I told myself as I went back for the fourth time. Spoonful after spoonful of red rice and kelaguin - Stuart and Matt were long forgotten.
Unfortunately, the situation at LoveJoy apartments was decidedly less festive. Matt had promised Stuart some "pussy" - and he was bound and determined to deliver at any cost. Of course, cheaper is always better, and Matt decided that the cost would be $50.00, at the StopLight. Resident strip club and *cough cough* brothel. You know, because telling girls that your first time was with a hooker makes you the (JAZZ! HANDS!) BIG WINNER!
The sad part of the story is that Stuart was terrified. Reluctant on the way there and immediately remorseful afterwards. I couldn't describe how much of a scheming fuck I thought Matt was as I watched him recounting the tale, laughing in between drags of his cigarette and sips of his beer as he exhaled, "It was hilarious. The kid would tap his feet on the floor of the jeep and whisper, 'Do you think I have AIDS?'"
At this point in the evening, we all stared at him, mouths agape. Stunned in to silence. Well they did, anyway. Me? I put on my poncho and went home with him. For that, I'm giving myself the dumbass of the day award. Ignorance of red flag presence, OCCURENCE 3,958. Apologies, Gloria.