Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  All I wanted to do was disappear and find someplace to pass out. I kept trying to get Rob’s attention, but he was toast. I ended up eating some of Rachel’s home-cooked trailer spaghetti, which elevated Chef Boyardee’s ABC’s & 123’s with Franks to gourmet status.

  Surprisingly at first, the pasta seemed to lessen my inebriation. However, I’d barely choked down the last of this slop when I felt the first rumblings. I grabbed my belly, trying to settle the boiling cauldron and hoping to prevent the inevitable. Too late! Before I could get to my feet, the vomit volcano began erupting, spewing undigested greasy ground beef, toxic tomato sauce, slimy noodles, and all. Some stomach-acid-infused sauce shot out of my nostrils, followed by a violent discharge that exploded everywhere: landing in my hair, on my shirt, and all over Roy’s trailer-park patio.

  Once again, I was embarrassed that I couldn’t handle my party. I was a skinny little rookie who had no business drinking and smoking. But in my fucked-up condition, that much was obvious to everyone but me.

  Like they say: you can always tell a drunk, but you can’t tell him much.

  Rob turned out to be my personal perfect storm, a disaster of epic proportion. He finally confessed that his birth mother had been a junkie. Looking back now, I realize he probably suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome, in addition to whatever damage he suffered from her addictions. His adoptive parents had done everything to give him a stable home life. But with his genetic road map, he was headed for destruction. (Not long after I left for the West Coast, following high school graduation in 1992, I heard he got arrested for dealing crack. He spent several years in prison. I hadn’t seen or heard from him for nearly two decades; however, ironically, the same week I wrote this chapter, he died of heart failure, brought on by a deadly mix of narcotics.)

  Meeting Rob was no accident. He played an important role in helping me understand that life can be fragile . . . and fleeting. I was destined to find my way to self-destruction. With his help, I just got there a little faster.

  Later that same summer, with our parents out of town, my sister decided to host a house party. She had always been the responsible one, so they’d left her in charge. Natalie would soon be leaving Boonville to finish her senior year of high school at the Cincinnati School for the Creative and Performing Arts. As a gesture of goodwill, she decided to include her little brother.

  Natalie was a talented triple-threat stage performer. When only twelve, she’d won a full scholarship in ballet to the National Academy of Arts in Champaign, Illinois. She’d had major roles in Evansville Civic Theatre musicals for several years. She’d recently played the silent-screen film star Mary Pickford in the U.S. premiere of The Biograph Girl, with screen legend Lillian Gish in the audience.

  Even then, everyone thought of her in glowing terms. She was on a path that would lead to a distinguished career as a stage director: as Rachel Rockwell, she would be named 2012 Chicagoan of the Year in Theater. Unlike her, I was on my way to becoming a prime-time addict and a certified juvenile delinquent. Though I loved her, my sister’s successes were a little hard to take. I felt I couldn’t compete. Truthfully, I looked forward to her going away to Cincinnati for that reason. This party would be her send-off, our last chance to “make some memories.”

  During the summer of ’85, Natalie worked at a bizarre theme park in Nice, France. The summer of ’86, she was working at Holiday World, an amusement park about an hour away from Boonville, in Santa Claus, Indiana, the actual place where, yearly, millions of letters written to Santa went to die. She was a singer and dancer in one of their variety shows. Most of her coworkers were older and, of course, they all drank and smoked. So I wouldn’t feel totally out of it, age-wise, she agreed to let me bring Rob along. Little did she know . . .

  The day of the big shindig, Rob and I drove to Holiday World with her. Our job was to rally the troops—to remind her friends about the big party at our house. While Natalie performed six shows in the sweltering heat, we rode rides and smoked cigarettes all day, waiting for the park to close. As soon as she finished her last performance, we raced home to start prepping. The three of us hurriedly tried to straighten up the house. Before we could finish, people began showing up in droves, not just the people we’d invited but seemingly every amusement park employee. Dozens of cars jostled for the limited parking in front of our house. The overflow parked in front of our neighbors’ houses and for several blocks in every direction. There were too many cars to ignore, and with loud music blaring all night, we weren’t exactly discreet. Just how we thought we were going to get away with it without getting in trouble only proves what greenhorns we were.

  Fortunately, all the guests brought booze: God knows how many cases of beer, in addition to a couple of kegs. The house resembled a popular dive bar on a Saturday night. This was like a dream come true. I began guzzling beer like I was in a power-slamming contest and puffing away like a chain-smoking drug czar, determined to show the older crowd I was one of them.

  “Jeremy!” Natalie yelled from across the room. She staggered up to me. “You were smoking . . . I saw you.” She was shit-housed, and so was I. Her angry expression quickly melted into a goofy I’m-really-drunk smile. We fell into each other—laughing. It was less of an embrace than the need to hold each other up to keep both of us from falling.

  Eventually, the booze gave me enough liquid courage to chat up some of the older chicks who worked with my sister. Feeling overconfident, I tried to Casanova my way into some tonsil hockey with one of them, but she wasn’t having it. No college chick was about to hook up with a skinny-ass thirteen-and-a-half-year-old, especially one who looked eleven. Fortunately, I finally located another one who was a good sport about my attempts at the pitch; she even macked with me a little. However, when I belched, then breached—nearly sharting myself—she alerted my sister, who told me to stop hitting on her friends.

  I decided to head up to my room, where I assumed Rob was hanging out. People were sitting in groups at the bottom of the stairs and further up on the staircase landing. I staggered over and around people and almost reached the first landing when I lost my balance, tumbling and crashing into people along the way down . . . all the way to the very bottom. Fortunately, some dude caught me just before my head smacked into the hardwood floor. Though the applause was for his heroics, I co-opted it as my own. I was trashed again and reveling in it.

  The party slogged on until the wee hours of the morning, ending only because my sister and her friends had to leave for work. Everyone was destroyed, totally hungover . . . none more so than Rob and me.

  Natalie rode to work with one of her friends. Our plan was to spend another day at the amusement park after we’d cleaned up the house, which now resembled an aluminum recycling plant decimated by an atomic bomb. Though we both felt—and probably looked—like hungover zombies, we started bagging up hundreds of empty cans.

  After several hours of scrubbing, dumping ashtrays that belched dozens of cigarette butts, and moving furniture back into place, we hauled a dozen trash bags outside and tried stuffing them into three large metal garbage cans. Too many to fit, we piled the extras on top of the cans.

  After a quick shower, we headed back to Holiday World to enjoy some fun in the sun. On the way, Rob whipped out some pot. I’d never tried it, but when it came to the opportunity to get high, my mantra was already “There’s no time like the present.” We chased away our hangovers by putting a hurt on his nickel bag.

  Due to the lax park security, we were able to sneak in a bottle of Jim Beam, which we consumed in thirty-two-ounce Cokes. Feeling like I was getting away with something made it all the more enjoyable. We drank, smoked, toked, and rode rides all day in the scorching sun. We were sunburned, buzzed, and baked. But I sobered up pretty fast when Natalie found me to share some disturbing news.

  “Dad called. Mom found a beer can on top of the stereo. Right there in plain sight. Great job cleaning up!”

  “Guess I missed one.”


  “One? You wish! He saw the trash bags you piled on top of the waste cans. He opened them up and went through it all.”

  “Oh shit!”

  We were fucked! We’d gone to great lengths to pull off this party, and I had screwed up the whole operation.

  “Way to go, Jerums. We’re both in big trouble now. If this prevents me from getting to finish high school in Cincinnati, you’re dead meat.”

  We had to go home and face the music. Boy, were our parents epically pissed. Had they known what a party animal I’d been, they would have been even more so. They grounded me and took away Nat’s car. Though it was a bad scene, part of me didn’t care. Pot was a great accompaniment to booze. And partying with the grown-ups was a blast. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last time—and I made sure it wasn’t.

  With my ability to abuse alcohol and with my newfound interest in getting stoned, could sexual awakening be far behind? Admit it, these are important moments in one’s life: both getting blasted and blasting off. I felt like I was quickly moving out of the minor leagues when it came to booze. So I had getting blasted down pat. As for blasting off, that was soon accomplished when I discovered the joys of jerking off.

  The first time I got off, my lubricant of choice was Vaseline. That turned out to be a rotten choice, because it was thicker than a Snicker. I might as well have used honey . . . or motor oil. Sliding my hand up and down, I started to feel the earth move, though it was most likely my twin-bed mattress bouncing like a trampoline. Every muscle in my eighty-pound body was tensed. The more I stroked, the more intense it got. I pumped away like a miniature oil derrick—anticipating a gusher. I’d heard it was akin to shaking a Coca-Cola bottle and then popping the cap.

  I had a big fluffy towel handy to handle the enormous eruption. It was sure to be one hell of a toe-curling explosion. Oh . . . here it comes . . . here it cums. 5-4-3-2-1 . . . BLAST OFF! For several seconds, my body experienced a series of spasms from the seismic aftershock.

  Anxious to see the monumental jizzfest, I was disappointed to discover only a pea-size drop of clear liquid still clinging to the end of my dinky dipstick. I figured my nad factory wasn’t firing on all cylinders just yet, which is why my sperm tank was empty. Though that thought was a little troubling, I was still harder than a choirboy in a porn shop. So with nothing better to do, I decided to give it another go. Same result.

  I soon realized that beating off was like trying to wipe your ass with a wagon wheel . . . there was no end to it. I must have gotten off a half dozen times. I’d have attempted number seven, but I was beginning to get a little bored, not to mention more than a little concerned I might start ejaculating blood if I didn’t give it a rest.

  Armed with this newfound hobby, I was happier than a woodpecker in a lumberyard, and certain my right forearm would soon resemble Popeye’s. In the next few weeks, I was lucky not to have torn my fucking rotator cuff, trying to achieve all those liquid-less nuts!

  My next goal soon materialized: to have sex and not be the only one in the room while it was happening. It’s not that I disliked being a soloist, but I was anxious to see what kind of body music I could produce as a duet. I was hoping to convince a girl I met in the high school band to join me (in more ways than one). We’d been flirting with each other for a while and were starting to get into each other pretty seriously.

  Brilliant minds that we were, we soon devised a plan: she’d spend the night at a mutual friend’s house, and a buddy and I would sneak in her bedroom window. Pretty original, huh? Of course, as self-appointed DJ, I brought what I hoped was good “makeout music.” My jacket was stuffed full of cassettes—including Yngwie J. Malmsteen’s Trilogy. Nothing like a little march-of-the-dragon metal to get chicks all hot and bothered, right? This addle-brained thinking was an indication of how much pot I was smoking at the time. But, wouldn’t you know, it worked.

  We began with kissing, but soon tonsil hockey gave way to stage two. This consisted of me rubbing the outside of her blouse, which was made of some kind of synthetic material. The more I rubbed, the warmer it got. Not wanting to rub her nipples raw or set them ablaze, I started working my way underneath her blouse and toward the much-anticipated bra itself. As if decoding an erotic form of Braille, my fingertips blindly glided over the bra strap till they reached the fastener. Knowing I was mere seconds away from unleashing those luscious flesh melons, I was now painfully tenting.

  I twisted and turned and fumbled, but the lock to all that voluptuousness would not give way. WTF! Can just one thing go right?

  If there was a secret to unfastening a bra, I wasn’t to learn it that night. She was either tired of my fumbling, trying to be nice, or just as horny as I was . . . but in one shift movement she reached back and unfastened the bra, revealing her nubile breasts. My mouth was agape and my eyes did that Wile E. Coyote “I can’t believe how good Roadrunner is going to taste” thing.

  I was now confronted with what to do with these generous scoops of mouthwatering teen flesh. So many choices! I decided to sample them all. I rubbed them, sucked on them, and squeezed the fuck out of them. I treated her nipple like the knob on the video game Tempest—mindlessly turning it back and forth, back and forth. I couldn’t help wondering, Does her look denote pleasure or pain? Since she didn’t order me to stop, I surmised she was either a masochist, basking in pleasure, or nerve dead.

  After nursing her noobies like a starving infant, I was determined to explore . . . the Forbidden Zone. I’d been anticipating this moment since we’d first met. In fact, I’d thought of little else for weeks.

  Though stealing second base had been frustrating, I couldn’t wait to slide into third. To make things easier, she sported sweatpants. Quivering with apprehension, I paused at the top of the waistband. Not certain if I was green-lit, I proceeded cautiously. I slowly inched my way down—rubbing the outside of her sweatpants—gradually working my way toward paradise. When my fingers detected the much-maligned camel toe, the mysterious mound of Venus, or, as the description in my Dad’s huge Oxford English Dictionary described it, the mons pubis, I concentrated on massaging it until it started to warm to the touch. That description was an understatement. It was like I’d flipped the on switch for her space heater. Fearing the friction could cause the sacred area to ignite, I was surprised to discover it getting moist instead. I prayed it was passion not piddle.

  In my mind, love juice was the green-light special, so I shoved my hand inside her sweatpants and immediately encountered . . . Yosemite National Forest. Though it was 1986, it might have been 10,000 BC. That was the way it was back then: people had hairy junk. There was no waxing, no shaving for bikini lines. Hair pie was a sign of the times.

  Admittedly, I’d begun the evening as a rank amateur; however, I was determined to end the night as a professional. This was a rite of passage, and I had to succeed. I’d battled a contrary brassiere, circumvented a chastity belt of a waistband, and unearthed a bearded clam. Nothing could stop me now from reaching vaginal Valhalla. My fingers wandered through the hair maze, hoping to embrace her love oyster before I found her poop shoot. Undaunted, I slid two fingers into the clammy opening.

  At that point, I had no idea what a clitoris was, and, had I found it, I would most likely have treated it like the proverbial bald man in a boat—irritating the hell out of it. I slid my finger in and out until she began moaning. Once again, I couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or inflammation. After a few minutes, I decided to give it a brief rest and engage in more boob squishing.

  As my fingers withdrew, I got a whiff of a mesmerizing aphrodisiac. It was an alluring vibe . . . and my fingers reeked with it. They say of all the senses, smell is the strongest. Personally, I’m like a dog with a sniffing fixation, and the scent of her poon-tang perfume had my tail wagging.

  I’ll spare you the rest. Just know that when I got home, I showered with a plastic baggie over my hand. I managed to preserve that glorious aroma for a couple of days. Some call it “stank finger.” I t
hought it was manna from heaven.

  Only a few weeks later, I was given another opportunity to score with a girl I’ll call Charly, short for Charlene. However, my introduction to actual sexual intercourse was akin to a carnivore sitting down to eat what turns out to be a vegan burger: a little off-putting. Charly, was bisexual and really rad. She informed me that her parents were out of town and invited me over. Not sure what all her invitation entailed, I decided to take my drum kit over to her house and make recordings of the most offensive shit we could manufacture. The plan was to compose horrible lyrics, and then, like maniacs, scream them into the mic while I thrashed away.

  In addition to recording, we’d started drinking early and went at it hard. Of course, it didn’t take long to get completely hammered, which led to innocent fooling around. She’d also invited over this cool gay dude, and he was getting blitzed, too.

  Eventually, Charly and I graduated upstairs to her bedroom, where we continued making out. She lit candles and put on some Japanese music. It may have been the combination of booze, bamboo flute, and bowed lute, but before I knew what was happening, she started going down on me. This was a first, and I watched in amazement. However, I was so fucked up and super numb that at times it seemed like I was only observing the blow job but not actually feeling it.

  She continued to fellate me until I flipped her over and started going down on her. I was so involved that at first I didn’t notice the pain. WTF! I soon realized she was furiously scratching my back like a cat covering crap on a linoleum floor. I definitely didn’t dig it, but though it hurt like hell, I decided I must be doing something right. I continued to “dine at the Y” for a while, hoping to recover from an acute case of dizziness.

  After I gave her a good twenty-minute tongue-lashing, she pulled me up on top of her and, miracle of miracles . . . it happened! My love muscle found a parking space in her vaginal garage. Stoked, all I could think was: Alert the media . . . I’m no longer a virgin!