Tell me a "no shit, there I was..." story. I just ran across this phrase in an old email and I don't think I have any of my own, so listen me up one of yours.
So I'm hanging around my dorm entrance, maybe 3 in the am, as was the custom at the time. I'm there with and her then boyfriend, they're smoking, I'm hanging out, and this girl runs up to us, drunk as a skunk and slightly less agile.
"I'm so fucking wasted, so horny, I need sex."
Joel, cinnamonjezebel's then-boyfriend, grins at me. "Hey, [Guilty], your lucky day." I know he's kidding, so I turn to cinnamonjezebel and say "Should we get her inside?" I always was the worrying one. cinnamonjezebel smiles evilly and sashays up to the sorority girl, placing her hands on the girl's hips and saying, in her huskiest voice, "Well, honey..."
The girl flings her away and staggers back before screaming at the top of her lungs, before the gods and everyone within 200 yards, which included most of the frathouses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I LIKE DIIIIIIICK!"
We ended up spending a large chunk of the rest of the night making sure she got to bed (her bed, and alone) and stayed there...
At one of the very first Pennsic wars, I was wandering at night. I am night-blind, thus I was at a huge disadvantage. I saw a fire and there were a lot of people there doing the Bardic Circle thing, so I went that way.
I tripped on a tent rope and fell on someone at the Circle. Fortunately, at that time I weighed all of 95 pounds and I was lithe, so I managed not to do harm by this, tho I was embarassed.
I spent the night with this crowd, singing, partying and discussing SF & Fantasy. I got in a huge argument with the woman I'd fallen on over Darkover, an argument that got pretty heated before she played the ULTIMATE trump card: "I'm right because I wrote it!"
Yes, I fell on MZB.
Needless to say, I rather wilted and admitted that she had me on that one.
So, the lease was going up on my first apartment in Baltimore, and we had to find a new place to live -- two people and two cats in an efficiency just wasn't cutting it. Anyway, we kind of had an idea of where we were going to move to, since our friend lived on the third floor and there was a vacant apartment on the second. Unfortunately, we didn't bother to look at the place until we were about ready to move. When we finally went in to take a look it was a complete disaster -- fridge didn't work, mouse droppings everywhear, yuck. Well, my then b/f at the time opens a drawer in the kitchen and finds a button that says "Don't Panic". We signed the lease that day and bought a whole bunch of cleaning supplies.:)
No shit. There I was, face to face with a police horse, while the crowd was pushing me forward and a faint tang of pepper spray was wafting down from some sort of mayhem further up the bridge, beyond the wall of cops.
Normally, in such a situation, the horses are the calmest people around. They don't know piss from protest, and they could care less about war and peace. But this one knew he didn't like pepper spray. He started shaking his head and stamping his feet. Not a good sign.
I didn't know anyone in this crowd, and I wouldn't trust these self-styled anarchists to get my back even if I did, so I decided it was time to split. But no sooner did I try to push my way back through the crowd than some genius started shouting "sit down! sit down!" and all the protesters demonstrated their autonomy by blindly obeying the loudest voice they could hear.
Now the commotion behind the lines was getting louder and closer, and I was picking my way through a mob of people sitting on the pavement (all the better to allow the cops to run them down, I guess), and the mob was chanting "no violence no violence" just a few minutes too late, and then the police line parted to allow protesters to stagger from behind the lines to rejoin the main body of the march, or the sit, I suppose I should say.
"They attacked us!" this bunch was crying, "police brutality! unprovoked!" and they'd certainly been on the receiving end. A few were leading their friends, pepper spray victims with gobs of snot running down their faces and eyes clenched shut, and one or two were clutching their heads where they'd been clobbered. And the crowd around me was shouting, and some people were standing up, and others lying down, and I took advantage of the turmoil to slip through the shifting gaps and make my way to a less exposed position, further down the ramp leading up to the bridge.
I caught the protest highlights on the late news that night, and saw the helicopter footage of what really happened behind that wall of cops. A small group of militants had been cut off, and trapped between the mounted police and a squad of riot cops: masked, black-clad, wielding long clubs and the usual assortment of gas guns and spray cans. The cops, that is. The anarchists had a banner constructed of plastic sheeting and framed in PVC pipe. They tried to use this flimsy assemblage as a battering ram, and actually charged the riot police.
Well, you can imagine how that went over. A few of the cops were forced to take a whole step or two back, and the militants came in for a beating. They got off pretty easy, all things considered. Only the one who got her skull split open was arrested, and that only because she was in no position to leave when her friends did. I never did hear what happened to her. But I know that those who were beaten up told everyone who would listen, and posted all over Indy Media, that they were the innocent victims of police brutality, and threatened at great length to sue the city. Which they never did, as far as I know, and for good reason.
So that's how I met an unhappy horse, and did my bit for peace and freedom or something along those lines, on a sunny afternoon on top of the Steele Bridge in Portland.
Anyway, yeah, you do know me, if only in passing. I'm Greg from Portland, and I see you every summer at Autumn's house, where we eat and drink and make with the chaos thing for a weekend. And I had no idea of writing such a long story here, but if you've heard me talk, you know how hard it is to make me stop. Even for myself.
so my friend S and I are hanging out in my apartment. S is one of those women with whom you have Deep, Meaningful Conversations about Life, the Universe, and Everything; she herself is an agitator for social justice (at the time she was contemplating a Harvard program in cross cultural negotiation) and generally one of the more serious people I'm acquainted with.
Somewhere about halfway through solving the world's problems, my ex the porn star (http://www.laurenlegends.com) shows up, open bottle of champaign in one hand (clearly not her first either). "I'm going to run naked through the fountain," she announces. "Anyone want to come take pictures?"
Two relevant facts here. First is that this adventure predates the existence of her website, so there was no mission to generate content or anything like that; this was pure, drunken randomness. The second is that the fountain in question is in the heart of downtown Portland, right along the waterfront, right alongside one of the posher restaurants and posher hotels in the area.
But what the hell - I'm up for an adventure, and S apparently has decided that tonight is one of her occasional "fuck it, let's do something stupid" nights. So we all pile into the porn star's car (me driving) and make the short hop from my downtown apartment to the fountain. The porn star has herself already become naked by the time we get there; S follows her out, hesitantly at first, but is quickly naked herself.
The only camera we have is my crappy instamatic, but I get as close to the arcing water as I dare, snapping as quickly as the film will load. A security guard wanders over to have his picture taken with the ladies; S chickens out and runs to put her clothes back on, but my ex, now well into the bottle, drapes herself across him in every lewd position imaginable. (Poor guy, I never did get his address to give him a copy. Wonder whatever happened to him.)
And so the inevitable happens - out of the corner of my eye I see flashing lights. Not one, not two, but three squad cars arrive. My ex has enough sense at least to pull on a trench coat, as five officers approach us.
"What the hell is going on here?" asks the senior officer.
"We're art students," I reply.
The officer opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and just grins instead. Just when I'm starting to breathe a little easier, they find the bottle of champaign the ex stowed in the trash can.
It's empty, thankfully, and she insists it was empty upon our arrival at the scene - she just needed to throw it away. They're not buying it for a second, but they'll never prove otherwise and they know it, so they grudgingly let it drop. Just as I think we're about to make it out unscarred, one of the junior officers decides he needs to pull a power trip.
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" he exploded. "Did you stop to think what you would do if a CHILD walked by?"
Now to be completely fair, I am struck by the ludicrisness of this question, but even though i'm guffawing on the inside, I have enough sense to at least project an aura of contriteness. "Yes sir, sorry sir," I mutter at the appropriate moments. Since S was dressed long before they arrived and I never undressed to begin with, they didn't seem to care too much about us.
The ex, however, is not only the target of the serman, but is just drunk enough to be beligerant. "I'd have gone like THIS," she says, and proceeds to spread her legs as far as the coat will permit. And when the officer continues to berate her about her immorality, she actually hauls off and spits in his face.
By this time a local news reporter has wandered by and is taping the entire spectacle. The junior officer actually reaches for his night stick, but one of the officers pulls him away. The senior officer, meanwhile, makes her blow a brethaylzer; of course it shows up as too high to drive, and even though there's no car keys on her (cuz, really, where would she put them - and don't answer that) he whips her around, cuffs her, and helps her into the car.
There must have been a concerned, helpless look on my face, because he hands me a card and says "we're just taking her to the drunk tank to let her calm down. Call this number in about 2 hours."
And just as suddenly as they appeared, they're gone.
The news reporter tries to ask us some questions, but after a series of "no comments," S and I get into the ex's car and drive back to my apartment, not really sure what to do next. We aren't there for 15 minutes when the ex calls and tells us how to find her. The drunk tank in question is, fortunately, just across the river, and upon arrival I discover that they've given her a sweatsuit culled from the women's shelter (which makes me feel kinda shitty, but seems not to phase her in the least). She's been released on her own recognizance, and if she ever had to make a court appearence over the matter, I never heard about it.
She tells her version of the story in her pre-fucking interview in Jailbabes Vol 9, from Larry Flynt Productions. Needless to say her version of it goes somewhat differently.
She blames it on me. Makes up some tale about how I had left some film in the car, and by the time I got back with it, the cops had arrived.
While it is true that I left some film in the car (we were originally only going to shoot one roll) the only person who had arrived by the time I got back was the security guard.
And goes into somewhat more detail about being locked up, which I'm sure is fabricated as well as most of it seems unlikely in its erotic content.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 07:33 am (UTC)From:"I'm so fucking wasted, so horny, I need sex."
Joel,
The girl flings her away and staggers back before screaming at the top of her lungs, before the gods and everyone within 200 yards, which included most of the frathouses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I LIKE DIIIIIIICK!"
We ended up spending a large chunk of the rest of the night making sure she got to bed (her bed, and alone) and stayed there...
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 07:56 am (UTC)From:I tripped on a tent rope and fell on someone at the Circle. Fortunately, at that time I weighed all of 95 pounds and I was lithe, so I managed not to do harm by this, tho I was embarassed.
I spent the night with this crowd, singing, partying and discussing SF & Fantasy. I got in a huge argument with the woman I'd fallen on over Darkover, an argument that got pretty heated before she played the ULTIMATE trump card: "I'm right because I wrote it!"
Yes, I fell on MZB.
Needless to say, I rather wilted and admitted that she had me on that one.
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 08:13 am (UTC)From:Good one.
("The difference between myself and a lesbian is I LIKE DICK.")
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 08:14 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 08:28 am (UTC)From:So, the lease was going up on my first apartment in Baltimore, and we had to find a new place to live -- two people and two cats in an efficiency just wasn't cutting it. Anyway, we kind of had an idea of where we were going to move to, since our friend lived on the third floor and there was a vacant apartment on the second. Unfortunately, we didn't bother to look at the place until we were about ready to move. When we finally went in to take a look it was a complete disaster -- fridge didn't work, mouse droppings everywhear, yuck. Well, my then b/f at the time opens a drawer in the kitchen and finds a button that says "Don't Panic". We signed the lease that day and bought a whole bunch of cleaning supplies.:)
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 08:45 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 09:18 am (UTC)From:Normally, in such a situation, the horses are the calmest people around. They don't know piss from protest, and they could care less about war and peace. But this one knew he didn't like pepper spray. He started shaking his head and stamping his feet. Not a good sign.
I didn't know anyone in this crowd, and I wouldn't trust these self-styled anarchists to get my back even if I did, so I decided it was time to split. But no sooner did I try to push my way back through the crowd than some genius started shouting "sit down! sit down!" and all the protesters demonstrated their autonomy by blindly obeying the loudest voice they could hear.
Now the commotion behind the lines was getting louder and closer, and I was picking my way through a mob of people sitting on the pavement (all the better to allow the cops to run them down, I guess), and the mob was chanting "no violence no violence" just a few minutes too late, and then the police line parted to allow protesters to stagger from behind the lines to rejoin the main body of the march, or the sit, I suppose I should say.
"They attacked us!" this bunch was crying, "police brutality! unprovoked!" and they'd certainly been on the receiving end. A few were leading their friends, pepper spray victims with gobs of snot running down their faces and eyes clenched shut, and one or two were clutching their heads where they'd been clobbered. And the crowd around me was shouting, and some people were standing up, and others lying down, and I took advantage of the turmoil to slip through the shifting gaps and make my way to a less exposed position, further down the ramp leading up to the bridge.
I caught the protest highlights on the late news that night, and saw the helicopter footage of what really happened behind that wall of cops. A small group of militants had been cut off, and trapped between the mounted police and a squad of riot cops: masked, black-clad, wielding long clubs and the usual assortment of gas guns and spray cans. The cops, that is. The anarchists had a banner constructed of plastic sheeting and framed in PVC pipe. They tried to use this flimsy assemblage as a battering ram, and actually charged the riot police.
Well, you can imagine how that went over. A few of the cops were forced to take a whole step or two back, and the militants came in for a beating. They got off pretty easy, all things considered. Only the one who got her skull split open was arrested, and that only because she was in no position to leave when her friends did. I never did hear what happened to her. But I know that those who were beaten up told everyone who would listen, and posted all over Indy Media, that they were the innocent victims of police brutality, and threatened at great length to sue the city. Which they never did, as far as I know, and for good reason.
So that's how I met an unhappy horse, and did my bit for peace and freedom or something along those lines, on a sunny afternoon on top of the Steele Bridge in Portland.
Anyway, yeah, you do know me, if only in passing. I'm Greg from Portland, and I see you every summer at Autumn's house, where we eat and drink and make with the chaos thing for a weekend. And I had no idea of writing such a long story here, but if you've heard me talk, you know how hard it is to make me stop. Even for myself.
no subject
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 10:13 am (UTC)From:Somewhere about halfway through solving the world's problems, my ex the porn star (http://www.laurenlegends.com) shows up, open bottle of champaign in one hand (clearly not her first either). "I'm going to run naked through the fountain," she announces. "Anyone want to come take pictures?"
Two relevant facts here. First is that this adventure predates the existence of her website, so there was no mission to generate content or anything like that; this was pure, drunken randomness. The second is that the fountain in question is in the heart of downtown Portland, right along the waterfront, right alongside one of the posher restaurants and posher hotels in the area.
But what the hell - I'm up for an adventure, and S apparently has decided that tonight is one of her occasional "fuck it, let's do something stupid" nights. So we all pile into the porn star's car (me driving) and make the short hop from my downtown apartment to the fountain. The porn star has herself already become naked by the time we get there; S follows her out, hesitantly at first, but is quickly naked herself.
The only camera we have is my crappy instamatic, but I get as close to the arcing water as I dare, snapping as quickly as the film will load. A security guard wanders over to have his picture taken with the ladies; S chickens out and runs to put her clothes back on, but my ex, now well into the bottle, drapes herself across him in every lewd position imaginable. (Poor guy, I never did get his address to give him a copy. Wonder whatever happened to him.)
And so the inevitable happens - out of the corner of my eye I see flashing lights. Not one, not two, but three squad cars arrive. My ex has enough sense at least to pull on a trench coat, as five officers approach us.
"What the hell is going on here?" asks the senior officer.
"We're art students," I reply.
The officer opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and just grins instead. Just when I'm starting to breathe a little easier, they find the bottle of champaign the ex stowed in the trash can.
It's empty, thankfully, and she insists it was empty upon our arrival at the scene - she just needed to throw it away. They're not buying it for a second, but they'll never prove otherwise and they know it, so they grudgingly let it drop. Just as I think we're about to make it out unscarred, one of the junior officers decides he needs to pull a power trip.
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" he exploded. "Did you stop to think what you would do if a CHILD walked by?"
Now to be completely fair, I am struck by the ludicrisness of this question, but even though i'm guffawing on the inside, I have enough sense to at least project an aura of contriteness. "Yes sir, sorry sir," I mutter at the appropriate moments. Since S was dressed long before they arrived and I never undressed to begin with, they didn't seem to care too much about us.
The ex, however, is not only the target of the serman, but is just drunk enough to be beligerant. "I'd have gone like THIS," she says, and proceeds to spread her legs as far as the coat will permit. And when the officer continues to berate her about her immorality, she actually hauls off and spits in his face.
By this time a local news reporter has wandered by and is taping the entire spectacle. The junior officer actually reaches for his night stick, but one of the officers pulls him away. The senior officer, meanwhile, makes her blow a brethaylzer; of course it shows up as too high to drive, and even though there's no car keys on her (cuz, really, where would she put them - and don't answer that) he whips her around, cuffs her, and helps her into the car.
(continued)
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 10:14 am (UTC)From:And just as suddenly as they appeared, they're gone.
The news reporter tries to ask us some questions, but after a series of "no comments," S and I get into the ex's car and drive back to my apartment, not really sure what to do next. We aren't there for 15 minutes when the ex calls and tells us how to find her. The drunk tank in question is, fortunately, just across the river, and upon arrival I discover that they've given her a sweatsuit culled from the women's shelter (which makes me feel kinda shitty, but seems not to phase her in the least). She's been released on her own recognizance, and if she ever had to make a court appearence over the matter, I never heard about it.
She tells her version of the story in her pre-fucking interview in Jailbabes Vol 9, from Larry Flynt Productions. Needless to say her version of it goes somewhat differently.
Re: (continued)
Date: Jan. 30th, 2005 11:33 pm (UTC)From:Re: (continued)
Date: Jan. 31st, 2005 12:08 am (UTC)From:Re: (continued)
Date: Jan. 31st, 2005 12:13 am (UTC)From:While it is true that I left some film in the car (we were originally only going to shoot one roll) the only person who had arrived by the time I got back was the security guard.
And goes into somewhat more detail about being locked up, which I'm sure is fabricated as well as most of it seems unlikely in its erotic content.
Careful What You Wish For
Date: Jan. 31st, 2005 12:18 am (UTC)From:Re: (continued)
Date: Jan. 31st, 2005 12:48 am (UTC)From: