Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Not Your Average Jaycee Shindig

Caution:  This story contains explicit adult material.

I once lived in a South Alabama town where I became a member of the Jaycees. For those of you who may not know, Jaycee (JC) is sort of a nick-name for the Junior Chamber of Commerce, an organization created to give young men a place where they can get their feet wet in local politics and charitable endeavors before hitting the big time in the grown-up Chamber.

Each year, as a fundraiser, the Jaycees sponsored a local carnival.  Over the course of the week-long event we each took our turns manning the ticket booth or the cotton candy stand. This was back in the day when carnivals still had a real midway and there were sideshows with babies in jars, and freaks, and a peep show.  Everyone wanted to work the final night because at the end of the evening, we were all promised a private show in the “Gentlemen’s” tent.  When the last patron was gone and the money counted, we hurried through the darkest recesses of the midway and sought out “the” tent.
My buddy, a long, lanky attorney with a giant handlebar mustache, had a pint of Jack Black and a joint, and being a veteran of these things, he situated us at the back of the tent were we could watch the proceedings from a safe distance.  He cautioned, “ We don’t want to git too close.”

The air was electric with excitement. Thirty-five or so young men ready to party, and a party they got.

In short order the girls came out and sashayed around the stage.  A loud cheer arose from the gathered throng.  I believe there were three of them.  As the saying goes in LA (that’s Lower Alabama), these girls had obviously been rode hard and put up wet.

But when the music started, so did the girls.  Dressed in the cheesiest outfits imaginable, they gyrated and rotated and grinned and teased the testosterone-crazed crowd pressed against the stage.  Bit by bit they slowly stripped themselves of scarves, teddies, stoles and boas until little was left to the imagination.  Or so I thought.

One of the girls, now dressed only in 5” heels and a g-string, squatted right down in front of a chubby boy (who had helped me sell cotton candy only an hour before) and began grinding her pelvis inches from his face.  His eyes were glued to her crotch as she slowly reached over and removed his glasses.  She pushed them up into her g-string, rubbed them up and down a few times, and placed them back on his face. They were so covered with goo that it was impossible to see through them, but he was loving it.   Then, to my compete disbelief, she pulled aside her panties and spread her legs.  Without hesitation, he thrust his face squarely into the Gloryland where he commenced to making noises somewhat like a hog eating slop, all to the howls and cheers of the appreciative crowd.

Having by now consumed half of the joint and most of the pint, my buddy and I were bowled over laughing.  I had to force myself to stop long enough to catch my breath.  Like most of these kinds of spectacles, it isn’t only what’s going on on-stage that’s hilarious, it’s watching the people.  It was like a lust-driven feeding frenzy.

No sooner had chubby had his fill than the girls got together and began taunting the boys, challenging them to come up on stage.  Even as crazed as they were, none of them took the dare.  Finally, the crowd selected its own volunteer, a skinny kid who looked like a bookkeeper.  They grabbed him up and threw him onto the stage but before the girls could catch him, he scrambled to his feet and leaped head first back into the crowd where he was caught and again, kicking and struggling, hoisted back onto the stage.  This time the girls got him.

Two of them held him down as the third undressed him. She began fondling him until he got an erection and squirted his essence into the air.  The crowd roared.  Mortified, the boy grabbed his clothes and ran from the tent buck-naked into the night, never to be seen again.  I mean that.  No one ever saw him again.

Over the next few weeks I learned that he wasn’t one of us at all, but an interloper who had sneaked in and had gotten his just desserts.

When I got home that night, the moon filled the sky and the sweet smell of magnolias filled the soft summer air.  Fireflies flitted around the yard.  I stood there for awhile, taking it all in.  I knew it was a night to remember.


  1. I wonder how bookkeeper boy remembers that night.

  2. Was the chubby kid ever seen again?

  3. Part of me likes to believe that if I had been "volunteered" like the bookkeeper kid at least one of those ladies would have had to introduce me to more detailed and finer points of manhood and carnal knowledge.

    But in truth I would have been just as scared and ready to run like he did.

  4. Andrew... In truth, the only thing hurt was his pride.

    Syd... the chubby kid grew a full-face beard as a forever reminder of the evening.

    BB... Me too. In fact, as you saw, I stayed in the back of the tent well out of harm's way.


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