Monday, July 09, 2007
Vintage Razzy: The Marine in the Airport Bathroom
People seem to like stories about my sex life, and frankly they should. Anytime I share a sex story it's because it's usually funny and/or ridiculous. Sure, I've hooked up with a lot of people for normal reasons, like I was attracted to them, or I wanted them to like me (back when I was younger and less in love with myself), or I was drunk. However, on a number of occasions, I've hooked up with some people for no reason other than I figured it would make too good a story to pass up. As far as those types of super Razzified bedroom hijinks go, this one is a classic, if not THE classic.
Smith College had a policy of closing down most of the dorms during holidays, even short holidays like Thanksgiving. If you wanted to stay on campus during this time, you had to either make arrangements to stay in one of the houses that stayed open, or you had to Anne Frank it. Anne Franking it means you need to sneak in or out of campus buildings without security or housing catching you, usually for an extended period of time like a school holiday. This means no smoking during the day, no lights unless you put a garbage bag over your window, and no noise. In spite of how difficult all these things were for me, I was a pro at covert living in Smith houses. Once I Anne Franked it for an entire spring break in the newspaper office. I made up for my quietness during the day by having kinky sex with my boyfriend all over the office by night. We did it on the editorial board table and he handcuffed me to the radiator in the computer room. I'm not bragging about my prowess at sneaking around behind Smith Public Safety's back or anything, but let's just say that if I were in the same situation as the real life Anne Frank, my ass would totally not have gotten caught and shipped to Treblinka, and I probably would have been breaking every last single hot Jewish guy's heart in the secret annex.
Anyway, my sophomore year, I had to Anne Frank it in my Jordan House dorm room for one day, because I was negligent about buying my plane ticket back to Seattle for Thanksgiving. The only ticket I could get left at 6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning, which meant I had to get my ass to Windsor Locks, Connecticut by 5 a.m. Unfortunately, everyone was leaving Tuesday or Wednesday, so I was kind of screwed. However, this crazy girl who lived down the hall from me heard about my predicament and stepped in to help. Her sister was picking her up Wednesday night, and she planned on hiding in her room until she came to get her. She said they could drive me by the airport Wednesday night, and I could just suck it up and crash at the airport for the night. I saw no other alternative, since the Valley Transporter (or "Valley T"), the local airport shuttle, didn't start running until 7 a.m. and my flight was due to depart an hour before that. I agreed.
This girl, Deirdre, and myself tried to hang out to pass the time, but we were both too noisy while animatedly chatting and almost got caught by the housing guy who was closing up the house. We decided to go to our respective rooms and take naps until later in the evening, thus preventing our discovery and ejection for an afternoon onto the rough (actually, cold) streets of Northampton. At around ten, Deirdre's sister picked us up, and they dropped me off at the airport without incident.
I'd been having fun chain-smoking and talking shit with Deirdre and her sister, so I was most unhappy to arrive at Bradley International Airport, a two-terminal shitshow outside Hartford, knowing that I'd be spending the night there and not comfortably Anne Franking it in my dorm room. I was even more unhappy to realize that I was possibly alone in the airport excepting the janitorial staff and a wandering drunk man who was singing Pink Floyd at the top of his lungs. However, most distressing was the fact that I was out of cigarettes, and all the airport stores were closed. I disgruntledly settled into a chair with my book and my suitcases, waiting for the TWAss customer service counter to open at 4 a.m. so I could check my luggage for my flight.
I was jarred shortly from my book by someone talking to me. I glared up, being my typically anti-social-to-strangers-while-traveling self. "What?"
"I said, would you like a cup of coffee? You don't look like you're going anywhere, so the least I can do is get you a cup of coffee." It was some type of military seaman in full uniform. I told everyone he was a Marine, but I think he was actually in the Navy. There's a naval base not far from the airport. He was probably about my age (19) and while not handsome, he wasn't ugly.
"Okay, sure. I take it with cream, no sugar. You want some money?" I asked.
"For what?" he seemed puzzled.
"Uhhh...for the coffee."
"Oh, no, it's courtesy of the United States government!" he said proudly, and sauntered off. He returned shortly after with two cups of coffee. "Here you go, cream, no sugar." I'm not sure if he expensed it to the military or what, but it was pretty good for late night airport coffee. He was still standing there, so I motioned him to sit down if he was so inclined.
"Well, I always love to sit with a pretty girl, but first I'm going outside to smoke a cigarette. Can I ask you to wait for a few minutes?"
"Can I ask you for one of your cigarettes?" I replied.
Luckily, he had a full pack of Marlboro Light 100s (what kind of dude smokes 100s?!), so he gladly provided smokes for the rest of the evening. Since it was brutally cold out, he also provided me with his insulated leather gloves, a wool scarf, and his coat--which he put over the coat I was already wearing. We got to chatting since we were both stuck there.
He was from Florida (I think) and was going back there for the holiday. He asked me about college life. I told him several humorous and ridiculous Smith anecdotes. I asked him about military life. He told me a bunch of straight-up lies about how all the enlisted dudes get a BMW as a signing bonus. I called him on it, and he changed the subject. Then we talked about books (he was shocked that I read for pleasure, since he'd always found the experience challenging and humiliating) and movies, where we found our only common ground (mutual love for the Die Hard trilogy). Then we started talking about parties and drinking, and somewhere around quarter to four, the conversation turned to sex.
Within ten minutes, his hand was in my pants and I was seriously contemplating fucking this dude. My thought process went as follows:
Cons:
1. He's in the military, and I generally steer clear of military dudes. Nothing personal, but I've just met enough fucktards in our armed forces in my time growing up surrounded by military bases (Fort Lewis, McChord AFB, Bangor Naval Station and Trident Submarine parking lot) to know that the military tends to attract a specific type of angry, marginally literate fucktard.
2. His statements about books being painful and unpleasant led me to think he might indeed be a marginally literate fucktard.
3. He lied about his salary, not disguising his lie because he apparently thought I was a ditzy blonde without critical thinking skills.
4. He's not very hot.
Pros:
1. He's not very ugly, either
2. He did get my coffee order right, and he paid for it.
3. He was generous with cigarettes and outerwear.
4. This would make for an AWESOME story.
I thought the pros outweighed the cons, and made him carry all my luggage to the baggage claim area of the airport. In baggage claim #4, we found a unisex bathroom obviously designed for the handicapped. It was a single room, very spacious, and had a metal table (which I later realized was intended for diaper-changing) that would be perfect for him to bend me over. I gave him a short BJ, then he bent me over the diaper-changing table, smacked my ass a few times, and gave me a not spectacular but nonetheless serviceable doggystyle pounding.
When we were done, there was just enough time before I had to check in and board my flight to smoke another one of his cigarettes. "Hey, maybe I'll come to one of these parties at your school of yours," he said. "Can I get your number?"
"Uhhh, sure," I said. "You have a pen?"
"I don't," he said. "But I bet we can find one."
"Probably, but I'm going to have to go straight to check in. Why don't you just look me up on Smith's web site?"
"Smith's web site? Uhhhh..." This was 1997, and the internet wasn't as prevalent then as it is now.
"Yeah, just type in 'Angela', my name, number, and e-mail will totally pop up if you search the directory. Then you can pile half the barracks in the Beamer and come party in Northampton." I was being flip and insincere, and he could see that.
"Uh, okay, whatever. Happy Thanksgiving."
"You too!" I grabbed my shit, returned his gloves, scarf, and coat, and went off to catch my plane. As I got on the plane, it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. He told me at one point--I think it was Greg--but to this day he is the only dude I've had sex with whose first and last names I don't know. He'll always be "The Marine in the Airport Bathroom."
When I got back to Smith, it was, as I predicted, an awesome story which quickly became legend. A year later, the newspaper staff had done a mock "Question of the Week" section for the April Fool's issue. Normally we'd ask a few Smith hos with nothing better to do than loiter around the student center some question, then post their pithy answers with their pictures. For the April Fool's issue, the question was something like, "Where's the craziest place you've had sex?" or something like that, and we pulled this gnarly, mummified-looking old bitch's photo out of our stock photo folder next to the caption, "I boned a Marine in an airport bathroom." Unfortunately, it turned out that stock photo was of some rich old trustee, and the school administration did not appreciate sticking her endowment-padding, withered rich bitch class of '25 ass next to such a bawdy statement. Oops.
Smith College had a policy of closing down most of the dorms during holidays, even short holidays like Thanksgiving. If you wanted to stay on campus during this time, you had to either make arrangements to stay in one of the houses that stayed open, or you had to Anne Frank it. Anne Franking it means you need to sneak in or out of campus buildings without security or housing catching you, usually for an extended period of time like a school holiday. This means no smoking during the day, no lights unless you put a garbage bag over your window, and no noise. In spite of how difficult all these things were for me, I was a pro at covert living in Smith houses. Once I Anne Franked it for an entire spring break in the newspaper office. I made up for my quietness during the day by having kinky sex with my boyfriend all over the office by night. We did it on the editorial board table and he handcuffed me to the radiator in the computer room. I'm not bragging about my prowess at sneaking around behind Smith Public Safety's back or anything, but let's just say that if I were in the same situation as the real life Anne Frank, my ass would totally not have gotten caught and shipped to Treblinka, and I probably would have been breaking every last single hot Jewish guy's heart in the secret annex.
Anyway, my sophomore year, I had to Anne Frank it in my Jordan House dorm room for one day, because I was negligent about buying my plane ticket back to Seattle for Thanksgiving. The only ticket I could get left at 6 a.m. Thanksgiving morning, which meant I had to get my ass to Windsor Locks, Connecticut by 5 a.m. Unfortunately, everyone was leaving Tuesday or Wednesday, so I was kind of screwed. However, this crazy girl who lived down the hall from me heard about my predicament and stepped in to help. Her sister was picking her up Wednesday night, and she planned on hiding in her room until she came to get her. She said they could drive me by the airport Wednesday night, and I could just suck it up and crash at the airport for the night. I saw no other alternative, since the Valley Transporter (or "Valley T"), the local airport shuttle, didn't start running until 7 a.m. and my flight was due to depart an hour before that. I agreed.
This girl, Deirdre, and myself tried to hang out to pass the time, but we were both too noisy while animatedly chatting and almost got caught by the housing guy who was closing up the house. We decided to go to our respective rooms and take naps until later in the evening, thus preventing our discovery and ejection for an afternoon onto the rough (actually, cold) streets of Northampton. At around ten, Deirdre's sister picked us up, and they dropped me off at the airport without incident.
I'd been having fun chain-smoking and talking shit with Deirdre and her sister, so I was most unhappy to arrive at Bradley International Airport, a two-terminal shitshow outside Hartford, knowing that I'd be spending the night there and not comfortably Anne Franking it in my dorm room. I was even more unhappy to realize that I was possibly alone in the airport excepting the janitorial staff and a wandering drunk man who was singing Pink Floyd at the top of his lungs. However, most distressing was the fact that I was out of cigarettes, and all the airport stores were closed. I disgruntledly settled into a chair with my book and my suitcases, waiting for the TWAss customer service counter to open at 4 a.m. so I could check my luggage for my flight.
I was jarred shortly from my book by someone talking to me. I glared up, being my typically anti-social-to-strangers-while-traveling self. "What?"
"I said, would you like a cup of coffee? You don't look like you're going anywhere, so the least I can do is get you a cup of coffee." It was some type of military seaman in full uniform. I told everyone he was a Marine, but I think he was actually in the Navy. There's a naval base not far from the airport. He was probably about my age (19) and while not handsome, he wasn't ugly.
"Okay, sure. I take it with cream, no sugar. You want some money?" I asked.
"For what?" he seemed puzzled.
"Uhhh...for the coffee."
"Oh, no, it's courtesy of the United States government!" he said proudly, and sauntered off. He returned shortly after with two cups of coffee. "Here you go, cream, no sugar." I'm not sure if he expensed it to the military or what, but it was pretty good for late night airport coffee. He was still standing there, so I motioned him to sit down if he was so inclined.
"Well, I always love to sit with a pretty girl, but first I'm going outside to smoke a cigarette. Can I ask you to wait for a few minutes?"
"Can I ask you for one of your cigarettes?" I replied.
Luckily, he had a full pack of Marlboro Light 100s (what kind of dude smokes 100s?!), so he gladly provided smokes for the rest of the evening. Since it was brutally cold out, he also provided me with his insulated leather gloves, a wool scarf, and his coat--which he put over the coat I was already wearing. We got to chatting since we were both stuck there.
He was from Florida (I think) and was going back there for the holiday. He asked me about college life. I told him several humorous and ridiculous Smith anecdotes. I asked him about military life. He told me a bunch of straight-up lies about how all the enlisted dudes get a BMW as a signing bonus. I called him on it, and he changed the subject. Then we talked about books (he was shocked that I read for pleasure, since he'd always found the experience challenging and humiliating) and movies, where we found our only common ground (mutual love for the Die Hard trilogy). Then we started talking about parties and drinking, and somewhere around quarter to four, the conversation turned to sex.
Within ten minutes, his hand was in my pants and I was seriously contemplating fucking this dude. My thought process went as follows:
Cons:
1. He's in the military, and I generally steer clear of military dudes. Nothing personal, but I've just met enough fucktards in our armed forces in my time growing up surrounded by military bases (Fort Lewis, McChord AFB, Bangor Naval Station and Trident Submarine parking lot) to know that the military tends to attract a specific type of angry, marginally literate fucktard.
2. His statements about books being painful and unpleasant led me to think he might indeed be a marginally literate fucktard.
3. He lied about his salary, not disguising his lie because he apparently thought I was a ditzy blonde without critical thinking skills.
4. He's not very hot.
Pros:
1. He's not very ugly, either
2. He did get my coffee order right, and he paid for it.
3. He was generous with cigarettes and outerwear.
4. This would make for an AWESOME story.
I thought the pros outweighed the cons, and made him carry all my luggage to the baggage claim area of the airport. In baggage claim #4, we found a unisex bathroom obviously designed for the handicapped. It was a single room, very spacious, and had a metal table (which I later realized was intended for diaper-changing) that would be perfect for him to bend me over. I gave him a short BJ, then he bent me over the diaper-changing table, smacked my ass a few times, and gave me a not spectacular but nonetheless serviceable doggystyle pounding.
When we were done, there was just enough time before I had to check in and board my flight to smoke another one of his cigarettes. "Hey, maybe I'll come to one of these parties at your school of yours," he said. "Can I get your number?"
"Uhhh, sure," I said. "You have a pen?"
"I don't," he said. "But I bet we can find one."
"Probably, but I'm going to have to go straight to check in. Why don't you just look me up on Smith's web site?"
"Smith's web site? Uhhhh..." This was 1997, and the internet wasn't as prevalent then as it is now.
"Yeah, just type in 'Angela', my name, number, and e-mail will totally pop up if you search the directory. Then you can pile half the barracks in the Beamer and come party in Northampton." I was being flip and insincere, and he could see that.
"Uh, okay, whatever. Happy Thanksgiving."
"You too!" I grabbed my shit, returned his gloves, scarf, and coat, and went off to catch my plane. As I got on the plane, it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. He told me at one point--I think it was Greg--but to this day he is the only dude I've had sex with whose first and last names I don't know. He'll always be "The Marine in the Airport Bathroom."
When I got back to Smith, it was, as I predicted, an awesome story which quickly became legend. A year later, the newspaper staff had done a mock "Question of the Week" section for the April Fool's issue. Normally we'd ask a few Smith hos with nothing better to do than loiter around the student center some question, then post their pithy answers with their pictures. For the April Fool's issue, the question was something like, "Where's the craziest place you've had sex?" or something like that, and we pulled this gnarly, mummified-looking old bitch's photo out of our stock photo folder next to the caption, "I boned a Marine in an airport bathroom." Unfortunately, it turned out that stock photo was of some rich old trustee, and the school administration did not appreciate sticking her endowment-padding, withered rich bitch class of '25 ass next to such a bawdy statement. Oops.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
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Sorry, but I'd draw the line about making jokes about holocaust victims. That just seems in poor taste to me.
# posted by 
: 7/09/2007 1:58 PM
: 7/09/2007 1:58 PM
Make all the Holocaust jokes you want, but fact check, ho! Anne Frank was sent to Auschwitz and later Bergen-Belsen, where she died. Treblinka was in Poland. (a comparison between the two and the depressing decor at BDL would have been apt, too)
# posted by : 7/09/2007 9:32 PM
: 7/09/2007 9:32 PM
My bad. You know, I told my tireless fact-checking/copy editing staff (Caese and Chingy!) to go to Wikipedia and look this up, but once again they failed me. This is almost as embarrassing as the time I called Bob Uecker "Bob Eubanks". I stand corrected, and now, so does the post.
But FYI, Auschwiz was in Poland, as well. They just changed the name to "Auschwitz German concentration camp" because the Poles are--for obvious reasons--embarrassed to have it associated with them.
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But FYI, Auschwiz was in Poland, as well. They just changed the name to "Auschwitz German concentration camp" because the Poles are--for obvious reasons--embarrassed to have it associated with them.
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