The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (7 page)

The
fact that I didn’t tell my parents about Trashley’s testicular ambush didn’t
carry weight at school. The principal found out but, despite there being dozens
of witnesses, Trashley maintained innocence and ducked retribution of any sort
(her mother being a teacher at the school had a
lot
to do with
that
shit). My parents were never notified. The furor eventually died down and it
was
not at fucking all
forgotten about.

***

Trashley
and I parted ways after sixth grade. Through associates, I heard she’d gone on
to become the leader of her coven through high school graduation, her
employment options scarce once she realized black magic wasn’t a viable skill
in the American workforce. I often heard of her struggles via third-parties,
her main source of income being the other side of a gloryhole.

I
saw her once and we laughed about this childhood memory over drinks, the flakes
from the Goldschlager lining her lips like she’d blown a Mardi
Gras
dancer. And my, how she’d changed; back then the girl
was so skinny she could barely hold a thought. But she’d filled out quite
nicely by the time of our encounter, and for a moment, I thought I was about to
get laid. Wistfully, our reunion was cut short when her break ended and she had
to get back on stage.

As
I bid Miss Sexneeder adieu, I couldn’t help but salivate, her colossal
asscheeks devouring her red g-string as she wrapped her sizable thighs around
the pole and shook her enormous belly and G-cup hooters for the last show of
the evening.

           
I’ve always loved the thick ones.

Many have heard the saying, “Don’t let one incident in your life
define you.”
It’s a simple statement with a humanitarian concept, but it’s
easier to voice than it is to apply. Because for many years, I let a single,
dispiriting circumstance do just that.

In
the course of one’s existence, an event can occur that changes the way they
look at themselves, the world, and its inhabitants. One intervening half-second
of fate can reshape their plans for the future, their self-esteem, and
ultimately, their self-worth.

So
then.....

In high school a rumor circulated that a chick made me cum on
myself. It ruined any potential for that portion of my history and was a huge
incitement for the plunge into drugs and alcohol that persisted for the better
half of two decades.   

***

Picture
the Rob Lowe of your high school. Or one of the rent-boys from
Twilight
,
depending on your level of gay. That guy who made the women swoon with a flip
of his locks and a flex of his crotch. The student whom teachers yearned to
have in their class who was the poster boy for popularity: defined muscles, a
rugged jawline, fashion sense straight from
GQ,
and a laugh so
infectious it made STDs jealous.

Now
strip that asshole of his superficial bullshit and you have me: a timid,
insecure, lonely ninth grade loser whose sole talent was encrusting the family
towels.

You
may be asking yourself, “How in the hell could you jerk it so much, Coxman?”
The answer’s simple: I was the clueless new guy who failed miserably at social
interaction.
How to Address
Peers
Without
Appearing Stupid
should’ve been a pamphlet issued in the first week of
school, man. My aloneness left me all the time in the world to envision titties
I couldn’t touch.

The
only people I knew were the two older kids from next door who I’m almost
certain were bribed into showing me around. I had zero street cred, which can
be worse than shitty cred, and I was as invisible as the bassist in a rock
band. Dating wasn’t even feasible; the closest I ever got to the opposite sex
was in my dreams. I didn’t get any action in reality, but in my mind I was
Thor.

(By
the way, you ladies who would’ve rather walked over my dead body than said
hello: you deserve to know that in my twisted bitch of a brain I fucked all of
you a thousand times. You did things that would make back alley whores vomit
and seek Christ. If those statements require refinement, just imagine
yourselves in
2 Girls, 1 Cup.
Starring as the cup.)

If
there was only some way to get noticed by a chick. A way for a girl to see the
lesbian within me. A talent I could exploit to lay with one tarted harlot.
Anything other than being unnoticed and alone.

Enter
a girl named Slobadong Misuchabitch.

***

Slobadong
had expressed an interest in me since the first day of school, or so I was
told. She sat across the room from me in Biology and we’d never even spoken to
one another. But the scarce number of people I associated with said that she’d
asked about my availability.

My
loins flickered at the prospect of having a girlfriend, though Slobadong wasn’t
the bar of gold I was mining for. She was rough to look at, so much so that I
thought she was related to Hoam Li and Ug Li, two brash Mandarin sisters whose
faces were known to uproot tree stumps.

I
decided that sexless beggars can’t be choosers. I’d always heard that Slobadong
was abrasive, so if I was unhappy I’d drop her. When the opportunity presented
itself, I’d give her my phone number and see where it led. There was only a
skosh of apprehension coating my bones:

Slobadong
was such a whore
that the only students seen in her company were the
jocks who packed towels to wipe the semen off her back.

***

Hailing
from the Russian tundra, Slobadong did nothing to dispel the legacy of cruelty
left over from Stalin’s Siberian prison camps. She came stocked with a full
mustache, a face that could be used for a voodoo charm, and a personality so
caustic it corroded hope. The only attributes going for her were breasts that
passed for deflated medicine balls. If provoked, she could swing them and break
a jaw. All in all, she was a brutish Russkie with untameable facial hair who
enjoyed fighting and turmoil.

Since
her family’s arrival in America, Slobadong had always confined her villainous
tendencies to the streets—where she was never mowed down by a gang of drunken Shriners,
goddammit—but when hurling Molotov cocktails at the homeless ceased to provide
release, she set her sights on me, smearing my dignity like a Bulldog eating
mayo.

***

The
principal had held a screening of Scorsese’s romantic 70s masterpiece
Taxi
Driver
in the school auditorium. It was meant to show appreciation to the
student body for attaining such high scores on a statewide standardized exam
(forged permission slips were collected in homeroom). Those attending were
dismissed from class at 9 o’clock to gather behind the school. I’d arrived on
my lonesome and melded into the crowd as we were herded across the street to
the facility.

The
building had been constructed during World War Two and was in a state of
crumbling disrepair. It was a two-balcony venue, its interior made up of cinder
blocks that were painted a sickly yellow. Streaks of paint were missing on a
majority of the masonry, and chunks of grout had been gouged by those with
prohibited weapons. The seats had once been a dazzling snow-white, but years of
abuse and spilled whiskey had turned them tattered and dingy. Pushing the crash
bar on one of the grey aluminum doors, I entered and inhaled the intoxicating
scents of old cigarettes and Evan Williams, courtesy of teenagers who’d snuck
in during lunch to fuck in the upstairs projector room and partake in all
manner of worldly vices for the last fifty years. I snaked through a gaggle of
Girbauds with too much makeup, tripped over a copy of
Introduction to
Physics: The Star Trek Theorems
lying on the ragged brown carpet, and
quickly procured a spot on the ground floor (damn, man—when I read all that
back I see how much of a joke my high school really was).

My
popularity was such that I’d secured a row all to myself. I’d claimed an aisle
seat and was digging the flick, when the pungent aroma of seafood suddenly
filled my nostrils. Indeed, I had eaten catfish the previous evening and farted
a minute before. I thought I’d shit my pants. I shuffled from side to side
feeling for the squish. Wasn’t it,
though.
A quick
check under my chair produced zero findings. Scanning the surrounding empty
seats yielded similar results. So help me, I couldn’t locate the root of the
funk. Unable to endure the stench any longer, I turned to find another seat only
to look up at Slobadong standing in the aisle beside me. She was inhaling a can
of Bumble Bee sardines like they were planning an escape.

Surprised,
I said, “Oh, hey, Slobadong,” in my best Dolph Lundgren voice, circa
Rocky
IV.
I was trying to be suave but she didn’t say a word. She continued
stuffing those abominable turds of the sea in her piehole, staring down at me
intently.

It
was creepy as fuck.

Legend
had it that Slobadong’s stare once killed a shark and I was nervous. I steeled my
balls and gazed in the direction of her dark, empty eyes. It was dim in the
hazardous auditorium, but the movie projector gave me just enough light to view
her features: her greasy black hair fell to the middle of her back with some
ratty strands cast over the front of her linebacker’s shoulders; freckles
dotted her face like an infectious case of chickenpox; her crooked nose told of
the fights for toilet paper and cabbage back in Russia; a rash speckled her
upper lip from the over-application of Nair; her right eyebrow held the scar
from a lunchroom brawl over a deaf kid’s Nutter Butter; the reform school
tattoo of Charles Manson on her neck pulsated with each tremor of her carotid
artery; the knees of her jeans were wet from a blowjob in the bathroom; and her
red plaid shirt screamed “lumberjack dyke” all the way to the Pacific
Northwest.

The
decision to withhold my phone number came swift and ironclad.  

Without
an invitation, she abruptly skirted by me to the next seat, shoving her ample
ass in my face and dropping a sardine in my lap as she passed. She might as
well have thrown a live grenade on my dick. I threw that motherfucker on the
floor like it was a roach. I hate sardines, man.

She
plopped down next to me, her cheeks filling one seat as her fabled floaties
threatened to engulf the next. We sat for a few minutes in silence, my eyes
fixed on the movie. She all but poured the can of sardines down her throat.
What yanked my sack the most was why she chose to sit
there.
With all the empty seats in the auditorium, her ass could’ve intruded anywhere
it pleased. Didn’t matter—at that point, I was trying to cork the magnum of
bile climbing its way up my esophagus.

A
sardine had touched me, man.

She
began speaking in a husky voice with a thick Russian dialect. Think Barry White
from the Eastern Bloc.

“What
are you watching, Penis?”

Any
unease I’d felt about the situation quickly evaporated upon being called a male
sex organ. I looked at her incredulously. “Excuse me? I’m watching
Taxi
Driver,
Slobadong. I thought that would’ve been hard to miss. And what the fuck you
mean by calling me ‘Penis’?”

“Well,
isn’t that your name?”

“No.
It’s Innis, not
‘Penis.’”

“Oh.
I’m sorry, Glynis.”

“No,
Innis.”

“Tennis.”

“Innis.”

“Anus.”

“No,
goddammit—
Innis!
”

She
put her hands up, palms out and facing me like a mime trapped in a box. “Woe,
woe, woe, Denise. Calm down. I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Look,
would you like a sardine?”

Is this pinko bitch serious?

“No,
Slobadong, I don’t want a sardine. Even if I did, you just ate them all when
you tipped the entire can down your gullet. Thank you, though. Now, not to be
rude, but was there something I could help you with?”

“You
don’t have to get so mad, Patrice. I was just wanting to get to know you a
little bit. Hey, you want some
vwodka?
I soaked my sardines in the
bottle all weekend so it would be extra strong, just like my papa showed me.”

Sigh.
“Look, Slobadong, I’m really into this movie. What’s up?”

So
began her encroachment on my cinematic enjoyment. While Jodie Foster engaged in
gross and illegal child sex on the auditorium’s dirty silver screen, Slobadong
gleefully yakked about nothing at all. I listened to her ramblings with the
fakest of sincerity: her life in Russia before her family’s emigration; their escape
from the motherland due to her father’s arrest for trafficking underage
prostitutes; how the
Russkaya Mafiya
was after them because of his
testimony in open court; her ability to suck a Tootsie Pop down to the center
in two minutes.....

Mindless
trivialities that oozed from her lips like syphilitic backwash.

As
our feature wound down, she started rubbing my thigh and speaking of topics
more sexual in nature, like the time it was her and four guys playing “Find a
Fold and Fuck it” in the bathroom of some church in St. Petersburg. She trailed
a painted fingernail up my leg, sending tingles to my nether region. My body
was acting on pure instinct. Try as I did to think of something totally unsexy
like
your mom
, my Levi’s became tighter in the crotch.

The
movie ended. As the credits rolled, Slobadong took the pint of
vwodka
she’d been sipping on and tucked it in a front pocket of her tight-fitting
jeans. Bouncing her hefty cheeks out of the seat, she winked and said she’d see
me around. Then she disappeared into the crowd.

I
felt like I’d been on a whirlwind. I was finally alone and didn’t know what to
make of our get-together. When the lights came up, I looked down to see the
empty can of sardines in the off-white seat cushion. Outlined by a large brown
stain that wasn’t there before Slobadong sat down.

I
vomited all over the Doc Martens I’d gotten for my birthday.

Cut
to lunch time. I’m standing in the spacious lobby that doubled as a hangout watching
a stoner roll one as teachers strolled by, blissfully unaware of his crime
(that place
had
to be ripped out of a comic strip). Two burnouts named
Michael Hegayla and Elmo Fagsund ran up to me grinning maniacally. They reeked
of weed that’d been smoked in a Datsun and the Cool Water that was doing a poor
job of masking it. They finally quit giggling long enough to say that they’d
something to ask me, but that immediately kickstarted their stoner’s laugh once
again. Being as I didn’t really know either one of these vegetables, I had no
clue as to what they were talking about.