Curtis Last ~ The Trouble With Finding Adequate Drinking Partners

by Horror Sleaze Trash on December 16, 2013


CL comes from Orange County, California. Currently serving in the the US Navy.

The Trouble With Finding Adequate Drinking Partners


It started my third day back on Guam. I was getting over the jet lag and already getting bored at night. Daytime wasn’t a problem, since I had the beach, plenty to drink, and the tourist girls who came and went; but at night things closed in, since local bars were a potential fight, and Tumon was a dead zone except for the Globe Disco on Fridays. Strips clubs were always open and always free, and the beers were cheap, so I decided to go check out Dream Girls—previously Don’t Tell Momma’s (some things even fiction couldn’t make up).


The girls sucked—none too attractive or interesting. I sat it out, hoping one hot girl would get up on the stage, or some Korean girls from the Karaoke club in back would venture out on a slow night and sit in the front; but nothing was giving. Then some crazy young blonde got up on the stage and was doing tricks on the pole. She had pep—you could tell she was a character. When she walked around afterward, and asked for a drink, I said, “Sure.” I figured I’d be amused, at least.


Turns out she was buddies with the ex—at least according to her. Use to party together at the Chinese Restaurant below the Valkyrie Strip Club—where I left her dancing after our break-up. It had been a year and a half since I went back to California and ended up joining the Navy for another random adventure to write about. Strippers and military service—they just seem to go hand-in-hand; maybe because both are so potentially dangerous.


We had a good conversation over a couple of cheap beers, and I got the juice on what the ex had been up to—who she had fucked, and fucked-over, since I had left; and how she herself got treated like the tool she was. It was satisfying to hear there was justice in the world. Or maybe her flaws were doing her in—like a Greek tragedy.


And there was the learning—getting to know this thing sitting across from me. Being young, dumb, and a stripper, this girl was pretty self-assured in her home environment. She thought she was the hottest girl with the fastest car back in St. Louis that smoked any young punk who tried to race her. And she brawled both guys and girls at the club if anyone crossed her. I was looking behind her back for the cape, but didn’t see one. The sad environment made it enjoyable, however, and her stories made me laugh.


I could only handle so much of a bad strip club, though, and I didn’t want to keep buying her drinks, so as the Korean mamasan asked if I wanted to buy ‘Jenni’ another beer, I refused through a toothy smile with a dark, assertive tone. Another uneventful night on the island of Guam.


Next day drinking down on the beach at the old World War II Japanese pillbox, I saw Jenni walking by with a stripper from Foxy’s—probably the biggest pit of a club on island. It’s at the end of San Vitores Road, on the backside of a beat-to-shit two-story concrete building. The inside stairwell going up to the club is dark, dirty, and reeks of old piss. You’d never think you had to ascend to get to hell, but there it was at Foxy’s. In all my times coming to this island, it was never known for having hot girls. Ever.


They came and sat down with me at my invitation, and Jenni offered me a Coors Light from her case. So the day was beginning. As the drinking continued, we made our way in and out of the water for unacknowledged piss breaks. Her invincibility became more prominent, her drinking prowess and rock star status more evident. All under her own testimony. It eventually got dark, and hunger was penetrating through a healthy buzz, making it time for me to leave. We agreed to keep the party going by meeting later at a pool hall down in Tumon.


I left her on the beach, and went back to my apartment to shower and eat and drink a little more. After a few hours passed and it was completely dark outside, I was good to go down and meet my new friend. I called her to let her know I was on my way, and she told me to come up to the G-Spot, the strip club above the pool hall. Apparently she was at the bar there with a girlfriend who was working that night. This was the jump off.


I walked into the G-Spot, and there she was sitting over at the bar with her girlfriend. I came over and sat down, and of course the bartender throws it on me to buy the girls drinks. Worst of all, the girlfriend pulled the “It’s my birthday” bullshit on me. I really wanted to tell her to fuck off, but I played it off and bought her a drink. I should have seen this shit coming, and I walked right into it—$50 dropped on some whack whores I had no interest in.


All of these strippers seemed to think the birthday thing would fool any guy. My first day back on island in ’06 I went up to some girls down on the beach in front of the Outrigger Hotel and the stripper with the biggest, ugliest ass pulled the birthday thing on me. It was like you were stuck—you knew it was bullshit, but you’d look like a cheap bastard if you didn’t buy the bitch a drink—in front of all her better looking friends. They always wanted you to buy all of their friends drinks, too. I would tell them, “It’s not their birthday, is it?” That usually shut them up (and had the potential of killing my chances).


(I’m slow on my feet, if my back isn’t against the wall. Now I know the best thing for the birthday trap is to let them know that IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, TOO!! Let’s take turns buying drinks…how about you getting the first round, dear!)


After a wasted round, we made our way down to the pool hall, got a couple of beers, some sticks, and a set of balls—which helped as mine felt as if they had been snipped off upstairs at the G-Spot.


We went through the rounds and slowly through the games. Missed shots multiplied and the beers did as well. Jenni was done early. Missing the ball completely. I was surprised she didn’t scratch the table. Her words slurred, she was a scene that left the locals at other tables laughing at the stupid haoles. Since I was with her, I was obviously the fuck/date/boyfriend. Especially on this island. If you were with the opposite sex, you were fucking. That’s just the way people think here.


I was getting embarrassed. Jenni lunging into a shot that doesn’t come anywhere to doing anything to the cue ball. Jenni just being unattractive and drunk. At one point she walked right up to me, made a move to kiss me. I pointed my nose off to the side and tipped forward, missing her advance. She was a very average looking girl, with a short, thick frame. Nothing too flattering. I figured she’d at least to be fun to hang out with—and when you’re with a girl, more come around. It’s good to have live bait.


But Jenni was proving to be rubber. I was lit up too, but I knew who I was, and I could still think in a line. I was probably slurring, but I do that when I’m really fucked up. Then Jenni wasn’t there anymore. I figured she went to the bathroom. Twenty minutes went by, then I started thinking maybe she left me there, though my ego found it hard to believe some whack stripper left me high and dry.


Finally, two local guys came in and told me, “You’re friend’s unconscious out in the parking lot.”


I booked out of the pool hall, down the stairwell, past a porn shop, through the dark concrete corridor going out to the parking lot. There she was, off to the left in the dirt, passed out drunk. So much for super party girl. It’s 9:30. The party is over, and she’s a pass-out drunk, at 9:30. I was so pissed that she was such a dud I wished I could have just left her. But my conscience got the better of me.


“She’s unconscious,” a couple of locals over to the side looking down at her say.


I’ve crouched over her already and observe her. “She’s passed out,” I say in a pissed-off tone. I’m pissed-off because these guys don’t know shit. I might only be a Navy Corpsman, but she’s not unconscious. The level of seriousness is not that great.


“She’s unconscious,” they say again, as if to disagree with me.


I ignore their stupidity. Now I have to get to work. I go back upstairs, turn in the pool set, pick up my id that I left at the bar, and her purse that she had left on a stool. When I get back outside, there are two cops and two parameds standing around her. I’m now in play-sober mode. I don’t know if these cops will cause problems for me, considering I’m lit and I’m about to drive Jenni and myself out of there.


The parameds are hunched over her. I’m getting more pissed because it’s a growing scene, and these guys don’t seem to know what to make of her condition or what to do.

So far no one has been able to revive her, and the cops are asking me questions. I tell them that she’s been drinking all day and that she’s passed out. Locals hate a white man telling them what to do, but it looks like I’m going to have to play the role.


I tell the parameds to get out their smelling salts. One of them goes to the ambulance and comes back with the little white tube. He breaks it under Jenni’s nose, but nothing happens. Everyone is scratching their heads.


“Is it expired?” I ask.


“It’s probably expired,” he responds.


I get down on the ground next to Jenni. At this point, I’m fed up with her condition. I want to leave. So, I apply the ultimate physical test of consciousness—the brachial pinch. It’s a little trick I learned during my corpsman training, and my dad being an E.R. doctor, I guess I’m just good in crunch situations.


I grab the back of her arm—where the triceps are—it’s all loose fat (on her), for the most part. I pinch a little. She starts to squirm.


With a brachial pinch, grabbing a quarter inch of flesh between the thumb and forefinger is usually enough. If someone doesn’t respond to that, or a sternum rub, they’re definitely out—and usually not in a good way. I want to get myself and Jenni out of there, though. I grab a nice handful of flesh, and squeeze with my thumb and all four fingers vigorously. Jenni starts to kick and jerk.


“FUCK OFF! FUCK YOU!” She screams as she takes a sloppy punch at me.


“Get up!” I yell, and continue to squeeze.


After a few more weak punches, name-calling, and me yelling for her to get up, she finally does. I tell the police I can take her home. We carry/drag her to my car and put her in the back seat. The cops don’t say anything to me. I’ve held myself together well. They’re probably use to drunks down here in Tumon, and at least I seem cognizant. They may not even realize I’m fucked up. I did a better job of handling Jenni than the parameds, that’s for certain.


I pull the car out, and realize I don’t know where she lives, since we met at G-Spot. I drive over to Dream Girls, a name becoming more ironic by the minute, and park in the back lot. I walk in the rear entrance, peep the karaoke club to see what Korean girls may be there, then approach the bar at Dream Girls. A beat-looking white lady is making drinks.


I tell her Madison is passed out in my car. I keep the story brief—“she’s been drinking all day, passed out in a parking lot.” She calls over to Jenni’s roommate, Asia. Asia is the gnarliest looking black stripper I’ve ever seen—tattoos and piercings that are excessive for even a stripper; but this is Guam, what I consider to be the elephant graveyard for strippers. All kinds end up here.


They both thank me for taking care of Jenni, and not taking advantage of her. Yeah, I’m such a gentleman. Who would touch Jenni short of a drunken sailor…then again…


The club mamasan comes out along with a big black bouncer, and we all head to the parking lot. The bouncer and I pull Jenni out of my car—I’m scrambling because I’m worried she’s going to puke all over my floor. We put her into the back seat of the bouncer’s SUV. Mamasan gets in the passenger side and Asia comes along with me as we follow in my car.


We end up at a beat apartment complex in Upper Tumon, above the tourist area. The  bouncer manages to walk Jenni up the stairs, where mamasan takes her to her apartment. I take off and I’m out. I go straight home, take a shower, have a cup of tea and watch some tv until I’m tired enough to sleep.


The next day I’m back down at the pillbox drinking and enjoying the sun and sea. Jenni walks by with her girlfriend around 2 in the afternoon. That’s about the time most strippers come out, since their shifts end at 2 or 4 in the morning depending on the day of the week.


“Hey Jenni, did you have a good time last night?!?” I yell at her down the beach.


She turns her head to look, then turns straight and keeps going down the beach. Her friend doesn’t even look. Not even a thank you. I should have left the bitch in the dirt behind the G-Spot.

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