Blogging in E minor
Usually just a bunch of silly crap.

How the Wolf Cock-Blocked Me

1985

Charu and I departed our tacky, roach-infested motel room at the SS Galveston, which was built in the appearance of a ship, complete with multiple decks,  port hole windows and decorative smokestacks. We loaded our cooler into the trunk and  jumped into his two-tone, black and red, ’78 Chevy Rally Sport Camaro.

The SS Galveston

            Although Charu would have many a sweet ride in his time, the Rally Sport would be my all-time favorite. The old girl got us a thousand miles to Texas despite having its air shocks go limp in Nachodogcheese and overheating in League City, just minutes from our destination.  But that was behind us. We had arrived as planned a few days earlier in Galveston, an island community on the Gulf of Mexico just outside of Houston, Texas, and we were ready to have some fun.

            We were pumped! 97 Rock, one of Houston’s premier radio stations, was throwing a party at the East Beach.  The reputation of these parties had reached us back home via word-of-mouth accounts by Sunbelt refugees. We needed only to pick up some ice and some beverages, and we would be off to a fun-filled Friday afternoon.

            It was disappointing that the drinking age in Texas had recently changed from 18 to 21. Charu presented his fake ID and purchased a cooler full of beer at the Asian 7-11, not to be confused with the Hispanic 7-11 or the Iranian 7-11, all frequent stops during our visit. Being mid-westerners, the salad-bowl diversity of the region was fascinating to us. All cultures seemed to be represented yet, there was very little intermingling between them. Fully prepared, we boarded the Rally Sport, cranked up 97 Rock, and headed east on Sea Wall Blvd, enjoying the coastal scenery along the way.   

Charu's Rally Sport Camaro

            After a few minutes drive, we arrived at the East Beach at the island’s tip. To a pair of young men who had rarely ventured outside of their home state, the beach atmosphere was a welcomed change. Cars parked in rows a comfortable distance from the tide for what seemed like miles. Many a suped up hot rod cruised by with stereos cranked. Charu pointed out how well preserved the older cars were due to the absence of winter weather and its resultant salt to corrode them. So sweet! We parked, got out, stripped off our shirts and grabbed a beer.

            Beautiful girls were everywhere . . . gorgeous, shapely, scantily clad women as far as the eye could see! Via multiple stereos, Y & T’s Summertime Girls rippled through the vast beachfront expanse and forever imprinted itself in my mind as the soundtrack to this graphic and beloved memory.

            A curvy brunette approached us: “Where y’all from?” she asked in a syrupy Texan accent, flashing a gorgeous smile. She had noticed our out-of-state plates. We offered her a beer and had a pleasant conversation before she sauntered off with an equally sappy “See y’all later. Have fun, now!” I couldn’t have written a better scene.

            Charu locked up the Rally Sport and we took a stroll along the beach. We were were young, 20 years old, and confident. I had recently put some time in at the gym and was adequately ripped. A few months earlier I had shed my long locks for a short, spiky dew, leaving a lenthy “fools tail” dangling asymmetrically down the back. After a few days in the Texas sun, our hair was bleached and our skin was tan. In fact, Charu was so dark that a black man stopped him to compare skin tones. “Your ass is as black as mine,” he proclaimed.

            We recalled how Charu’s mother was opposed to us going on a trip so far from home. “You should just go to Ste. Genevieve and ride the ferry to Chester, Illinois,” she had suggested, much to our eternal amusement. So far in Texas, people were friendly, beautiful girls wanted to talk to us, we were hanging out on the beach drinking and nobody bothered us. We were so glad that we did not settle on the ferry ride! Perhaps we would never go back.

            Eventually, we made our way to a building where a crowd was congregating. It contained a bar with an outdoor patio and a shop that sold beach accessories and such. 97 Rock had speakers set up on the patio, which overlooked the gathering throngs like a stage. Of course, the station’s airings were blasting through the speakers, and a DJ would occasionally make a live broadcast from the site, inviting people out to the island to join the party.

            Then the real show started. Following the obligatory shout out to sponsors and whooping it up for the crowd, the Big Event began: The Bikini Contest!

            A group of about 10 girls came out on the stage. We noticed that the gregarious brunette who had welcomed us earlier was among them. One-by-one the girls were introduced and each would step forward, wiggle and strut and dance and such while displaying their wares before the rowdy crowd.

            The show started strong. Immediately I was blown away by Contestant #1, a brunette in a black bikini. She came out dancing, swinging one arm above her head, gradually rotating her gorgeous bod 360 degrees as her hips swiveled suggestively to the tunes.

            Contestant #1 was well proportioned with attractive everything. My girl had longish, somewhat curly, dark brown hair and pleasant facial features that were partially obscured behind dark sunglasses. Her medium-sized breasts were accentuated by a strapless bikini top that twisted in the middle. She had long, sexy legs, a flat belly, curvaceous hips, and a cute little butt to round out the package. And of course, like most of the crowd, she was well tanned. The winner had already been crowned, as far as I was concerned; however, I had no objections to seeing more ladies.

            Despite the organizers’ error in releasing the hottest chick first, the contest was quite enjoyable. Our “Welcome Wagon” put on a good show as did several others. A tall skinny blonde in a chamois bikini was well received when she swung the fringy tassels that adorned her bottom piece like a lasso. And sadly, a drunken heavy girl was taunted most cruelly by the crowd. Nevertheless, it was Contestant #1 who had caught my eye in the beginning, and my attraction to her did not wane one bit.

            Most disappointingly, the crowd did not share my convictions. Although my girl made the first cut, the contest came down to Welcome Wagon and Chamois Girl, who danced and strutted and shaked and wiggled their buns off in an intense final showdown.  But I don’t even remember who won. My girl came in third, and that’s all that mattered.

            After the contest was over, a few radio personalities were introduced and worked the crowd as Rock’n’Roll pounded from the elevated speakers and stirred the tightly packed mob of half-nakedness into a frenzy. Then I turned to my left . . .

            . . . to find Contestant #1 beside me. Things like that just. didn’t. happen. to me.

            So I tapped her delicate, bare, oiled shoulder: “I think you should have won!” I told her.

            My girl was genuinely flattered and thanked me for saying so. I was able to see her eyes for the first time from behind those dark shades, and of course, they were attractive, just like everything else about her.

           Charu had noticed the biochemistry in action and gave me an approving nudge. “She’s really good-looking,” he said, “Go for it!”

            She and I continued chatting. I found her surprisingly quiet and soft-spoken, which clashed with her tendancy to explode into loud, abrupt outbursts in sympathy with the collective voice of the crowd.  On several occasions, I looked her up and down, consumed by the spectacular beauty of this vivacious woman beside me, and I noticed her doing the same to me. Neither of us minded the overt, wanton sexuality on display.  And I was so flattered that the Hottest Girl on the Island was hanging out with me. Things like that just. didn’t. happen. to me!

            As we bobbed to the music, the radio people were throwing souveniers – T-shirts,  cooler cups and other items out into the crowd. At one point, she and I made extended eye contact and we stopped moving altogether . . . .

            . . . and then I kissed her.

            As I look back, I surprise myself. In stark contrast to my then-established modus operandi, I did not grab her and shove my tongue down her throat and contain her in a sweaty and slobbery marathon face-sucking event. It was not like that at all.

            Instead, I looked into her eyes, moved in on her and expertly placed a soft, brief, meaningful kiss upon her lips —  one, perfect, hands-free, dramatic lip-to-lip exchange. It was as if I were showing due reverence to this goddess while at the same time defiantly trespassing upon forbidden flesh. (Time does tend to romanticize things, Good People).

            As I pulled away, I looked into her eyes, made an obvious scan over her remarkable body and smiled coyly. “You are so damn gorgeous!” I said.

            And she smiled back – pleased. It was indeed perfect.

            We continued to yell into ear others’ ears and sway and wiggle together from within the tightly packed crowd, and what little distance that was between us diminished.

           Meanwhile, as the radio people continued to throw schwag into the audience, the station mascot, a guy in a wolf costume really, worked his way through the crowd. He approached us, gravitating immediately toward by my rowdy, bouncing beauty who was screaming and cheering into his giant cartoon-esque face.

            The Wolf hunched over, and as if on cue, my girl climbed upon his back and onto his shoulders. He heisted her into the air, to the delight of many male spectators, who were whoopin’ and hollerin as if in worship of a gilded calf half-naked girl. She urged them on, her arms pumping into the air, swaying and wiggling to the loud pulsating beat atop the mascot’s shoulders. They were an archetypal Beauty and Beast icon, the two of them together, and a raw expression of the 80’s Rock ‘n’ Roll vernacular.

            Like the others, I initially enjoyed this spectacle. But time wore on and she just wasn’t coming back down. I suppose she was on top of the world at the time, with the eyes of the entire crowd upon her, its cheering and drooling and such satiating her exhibitionistic longings. You would have thought that the Wolf would have eventually got tired, but no, he showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever. There’s just something about a beautiful, scantily clad female that brings out the high-octane party animal in everybody.

            I decided that it would be an opportune time to finally go “run for governor,” so I found a restroom, met up with Charu and made a beer run to the Rally Sport, figuring I’d catch up with my girl later. She didn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.

             During our journey, we talked to some locals about the job market which, to our disappointment, was abysmal. Perhaps relocating to Texas wouldn’t be such great idea after all.

            Then we got distracted by some jail bait we had met the day before and it took quite a while to pry Charu away from the phenomenally beautiful Cheryl Tiegs-looking girl-child that just wasn’t gonna’ be happenin’ for him. We also got hit on by an entire family, including the gay brother, but that’s an entirely different story, and by all rights, Charu’s by-line.

            So by the time we got back to the club, the crowd had thinned out significantly. To my heart’s profound disappointment, there was no sign of Contestant #1 anywhere. I continued hunting for her without any luck whatsoever. Things like that were always happening to me.

            Evidently, the party was about to wrap up. Although the jams still blasted away through the elevated speakers, the crew was beginning to tear things down. We decided to check out two vans emblazon with the 97 Rock logo. One DJ was all-too-happy to speak to curious out-of-towners interested in the station, and he gave us some bumper stickers and other items.

            As we continued to mill about among the station’s crew, a heavy-set fellow in his late 20’s stopped what he was doing inside a van and stuck his head out the side door.

            “I’m sorry if I was out of line back there,” he said. “Is she your girlfriend or something?”

             Initially, I was a bit confused. Then I spied the giant wolf head inside the van and put it all together. He was hardly the charismatic party animal without the costume! Most likely he was a low-level station dweeb that got stuck with the grunt work, like running around in a wolf’s costume in 90-degree heat.

            Because the phrase, “DUDE! You cock-blocked me!” had yet to exist, I simply had no words to adequately express what I felt. I said something, I’m sure, then probably accepted his apology.

            “I don’t suppose you’ve seen her, have you?” I asked, hopeful.

           “No, I have no idea where she went. Sorry.”

            Heart sank. Perhaps the ferry ride wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

            Eventually, Charu and I made our way back to the Rally Sport. The beach was significantly less populated with there now being vast expanses between the remaining parked cars. The sun hung lower in the western sky, though the Texan rays were still working its mischief on our continuously darkening skin. Charu stuck a 97 Rock bumper sticker to the Rally Sport’s rear window, and we drove off.

            On our way back to the SS Galveston, we stopped at the Iranian 7-11 for food, drink and supplies in preparation for the evening’s festivities. As we walked along the store’s sidewalk toward the door, Contestant #1 walked out in the opposite direction flanked by three large dudes. She was still in her bikini top, though she was now wearing cut-off shorts and carrying a large bag over her shoulder.

            She seemed to have caught a glimpse of me, turned a bit in my direction and almost stopped. Then she continued on before I could say a word. But why? Were one of these guys her boyfriend? Could they have been her overly-protective brothers? Her bodyguards? Friends, maybe?  Or were they heading to one helluv’an orgy? Who knows.

            I watched her gorgeous little ass walk out of my life just as magically as it had appeared.

            So we went into the 7-11 to buy beer and stuff. And I think it was here that we found out that, although the drinking age had indeed been raised to 21, the law would not go into effect until the end of the month. Imagine how daft we felt to discover that we had been needlessly using fake ID’s the entire time we were in Texas! Things like that were always happening to me.

 

Click for soundtrack

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