- Joined
- Jul 11, 2013
- Messages
- 19
- Likes
- 16
A Curious Tribal Custom
This was back when I was still alive and working for the Long and Nasty Railroad. We were laying ribbon rail down by Ben-Hur, Virginia.
One weekend, I was staying with a few of the other guys and I decided to go to the little country bar in Jonesville. Now—back then at least—Virginia had dry, wet and half-dry counties. We were in a half-dry county—meaning that beer and wine were sold but no hard liquor.
Never been much of a drinker but I was absolutely not a beer drinker. The little bar didn't have wine. They didn't have Coke or Pepsi either—let alone my all-time favorite Double Cola.
So going to the bar meant sitting and nursing Shasta Colas—at a buck a can—back in 1980! But they did have a pool table and folks to talk to.
I didn't know that they had a band and a five-dollar cover charge on Friday and Saturday Nights.
So unless you've been to a hillbilly bar, when they're having a weekend dance, I'll tell you about it. There was a wide range of styles. Some of the girls wore jeans, some were halfway dressed up and some of them looked like they were going to the prom. Makeup ranged from none at all, to applied with a mini trowel.
Some of the guys looked like they'd just climbed out from under a truck and slopped the hogs before coming. Some were wearing the western-look clothes and a few dressed like Elvis.
I was sitting at a table. I'd taken several hits of speed earlier and they were just starting to come into focus. I was sitting at a table, enjoying the music immensely.
I had that feeling that drugs sometimes give—like you're just on the edge of some cosmic revelation. That's when I'd go nearly catatonic and people would insist on interrupting my profound meditation with dumb-ass questions like:
"Are you all right?"
This big ole girl came up to the table. She was about my height—six feet—but her high heels made her taller than me. She weighed maybe 230, maybe 240. She was big without being sloppy.
She was dressed in a long black evening dress. She had a low bodice—you could see beaucoup cleavage. The dress was also slit to the hip on each side. She was smoking with a long black cigarette holder.
"You look all alone," She said to me.
"I was," I said regretfully.
"Would you like to dance?"
"Don't know how."
“I'll teach you.”
My patience was wearing thin about then. I thought maybe some old fashioned rudeness might help.
"I have no desire to learn. Dancing is worldly. It’s a tool of the Devil and it stirs up sexual desire. Fallen women like y'all done been Satan's favorite henchmen and I have no doubt that he'll appoint you one of Hell's head firemen... "
"I want to dance with you and I'm not going to go away 'till you dance with me," She said.
So as she put her arms around me and her belly touched mine, she felt my .45 Automatic—tucked right up front—where my belt buckle helped break up the outline of the handle.
That was one reason that I hadn't wanted to dance with her. I felt her pull her belly in marginally, so she wasn’t touching my gun. I remember thinking:
"Well, now she knows I'm packed. I hope she'll keep it to herself and not make an issue of it. "
Then she let her belly touch mine again. Then she started rubbing her belly all over my pistol. She was heavier than me and she had the initiative. I couldn't help being shoved all over the dance floor, without being violent.
"My God! She's turned on by a concealed weapon," I thought.
She wanted to dance every dance there for a while. During a band break, Old Bill (Who was a Hell of a lot younger then, than I am now...) came over while Pammy was taking a potty break.
"What kinda dance was y’all doin' out there?" He said, while holding an imaginary partner and doing some very obscene hunching.
He was gifted at being vulgar. I doubt that Pammy and I looked anywhere near that Bad. (This was before the movie "Dirty Dancing")
“I Don't Know What to Tell You Bill. She gets turned on by my .45."
"Are you carrying it in its usual place?"
I nodded affirmative.
"Dude, I got some news for you...she don't know that's a .45! She thinks you're packin' something else entirely! Ha-Ha! Hee- Hee!! Ho-Ho!!!"
Saxon Violence
This was back when I was still alive and working for the Long and Nasty Railroad. We were laying ribbon rail down by Ben-Hur, Virginia.
One weekend, I was staying with a few of the other guys and I decided to go to the little country bar in Jonesville. Now—back then at least—Virginia had dry, wet and half-dry counties. We were in a half-dry county—meaning that beer and wine were sold but no hard liquor.
Never been much of a drinker but I was absolutely not a beer drinker. The little bar didn't have wine. They didn't have Coke or Pepsi either—let alone my all-time favorite Double Cola.
So going to the bar meant sitting and nursing Shasta Colas—at a buck a can—back in 1980! But they did have a pool table and folks to talk to.
I didn't know that they had a band and a five-dollar cover charge on Friday and Saturday Nights.
So unless you've been to a hillbilly bar, when they're having a weekend dance, I'll tell you about it. There was a wide range of styles. Some of the girls wore jeans, some were halfway dressed up and some of them looked like they were going to the prom. Makeup ranged from none at all, to applied with a mini trowel.
Some of the guys looked like they'd just climbed out from under a truck and slopped the hogs before coming. Some were wearing the western-look clothes and a few dressed like Elvis.
I was sitting at a table. I'd taken several hits of speed earlier and they were just starting to come into focus. I was sitting at a table, enjoying the music immensely.
I had that feeling that drugs sometimes give—like you're just on the edge of some cosmic revelation. That's when I'd go nearly catatonic and people would insist on interrupting my profound meditation with dumb-ass questions like:
"Are you all right?"
This big ole girl came up to the table. She was about my height—six feet—but her high heels made her taller than me. She weighed maybe 230, maybe 240. She was big without being sloppy.
She was dressed in a long black evening dress. She had a low bodice—you could see beaucoup cleavage. The dress was also slit to the hip on each side. She was smoking with a long black cigarette holder.
"You look all alone," She said to me.
"I was," I said regretfully.
"Would you like to dance?"
"Don't know how."
“I'll teach you.”
My patience was wearing thin about then. I thought maybe some old fashioned rudeness might help.
"I have no desire to learn. Dancing is worldly. It’s a tool of the Devil and it stirs up sexual desire. Fallen women like y'all done been Satan's favorite henchmen and I have no doubt that he'll appoint you one of Hell's head firemen... "
"I want to dance with you and I'm not going to go away 'till you dance with me," She said.
So as she put her arms around me and her belly touched mine, she felt my .45 Automatic—tucked right up front—where my belt buckle helped break up the outline of the handle.
That was one reason that I hadn't wanted to dance with her. I felt her pull her belly in marginally, so she wasn’t touching my gun. I remember thinking:
"Well, now she knows I'm packed. I hope she'll keep it to herself and not make an issue of it. "
Then she let her belly touch mine again. Then she started rubbing her belly all over my pistol. She was heavier than me and she had the initiative. I couldn't help being shoved all over the dance floor, without being violent.
"My God! She's turned on by a concealed weapon," I thought.
She wanted to dance every dance there for a while. During a band break, Old Bill (Who was a Hell of a lot younger then, than I am now...) came over while Pammy was taking a potty break.
"What kinda dance was y’all doin' out there?" He said, while holding an imaginary partner and doing some very obscene hunching.
He was gifted at being vulgar. I doubt that Pammy and I looked anywhere near that Bad. (This was before the movie "Dirty Dancing")
“I Don't Know What to Tell You Bill. She gets turned on by my .45."
"Are you carrying it in its usual place?"
I nodded affirmative.
"Dude, I got some news for you...she don't know that's a .45! She thinks you're packin' something else entirely! Ha-Ha! Hee- Hee!! Ho-Ho!!!"
Saxon Violence
![[rofl]](/xen/styles/default/xenforo/smilies.vb/013.gif "ROFL [rofl]")
