Entry 25
I Pick Tracy Randall up in Garden Grove where she lives with her mother in a trashy single story apartment complex.
“So where’s this place?” I ask.
“It’s by Mike Ness’ place. It’s that British pub place... It’s in a back alley. A lot of Fullerton punks hang out there.”
“Oh yeah..., it’s that place on Harbor. I saw The Crowd there once with this half Chinese punker chick I used to work with who was friends with Mike.”
Toralf Amundsen, the guitarist for the Westminster punk band, Thoughts To Drink About, is sitting at the bar when we walk into the pub. Me and Tracy sit down at a table across from the bar. I order a Budweiser longneck.
After Toralf joins us at our table I notice how Tracy is dressed. She wears a tight fitting white long sleeved top unbuttoned just enough to reveal a fair amount of cleavage. Below she’s got a black short skirt with black nylons.
“I heard you guys got fucked up by some Vietnamese gang,” Toralf comments.
“Yeah,” I laugh a little.
“Robbie Blount and Mark Cellini last night at Blinkey’s Pizza were all, ‘We’re gonna get some baseball bats and go back there and fuck those gook-fucks up.’ ”
“They’ll have a hard time findin’ the right guys,” Tracy laughs. “Fuckin’ slopes all look the same.”
“They’ll find some fuckin’ gooks, that’s for sure,” Toralf comes back.
“Well..., ah...,” I pause remembering that Ish once had told me that Amundsen and his bandmates were Nazis. “I got a couple uh Vietnamese guys in my painting class at Golden West College. There totally cool. But maybe if Mark and Robbie wanna come to class with me sometime they could fuck them up.”
The conversation turns to other things: the demise of the local punk club, the Galaxy, Ricky Risler puking on Lara Stockton’s tits when he was fucking her one night, Tracy’s boothead marine brother saying Reagan is a good president. And because he’s in the military, he really knows.
I sip my second longneck slowly as Tracy goes on about how Judy Cellini is butch and that she went down on Nina Bultanski one night.
It’s a week night, I have to be to work in the morning while Tracy has to go to school, so we leave around 11:30.
We turn south on Harbor and head back towards Garden Grove. Tracy moves across the bench seat of the Cutlass and gets close to me.
“You wanna go to the football game with me on Friday night?” she asks.
“Who’s playin’?”
“Pacifica of course, I don’t know who the other team is... Probably Marina or Huntington Beach.”
“I’m not really inta high school football.”
“Neither am I... I just hang out.”
I pull up and park in front of Tracy’s apartment. Instead of saying goodnight and getting out of the car, Tracy grabs my t-shirt pulling me towards her sticking her tongue in my mouth. I kiss her back and it’s not long before I’ve worked my way down to the cleavage. Soon I’m licking her erect nipples.
Not wanting to be seen by the Garden Grove police, I push her down onto the front seat out of sight of any passersby. I unbutton her blouse and push her bra up above her plump breasts exposing them. Unshyly I reach up under her short skirt pulling both underwear and stockings off in one quick move.
I gently start moving my fingers around her already wet pussy. Then I start fingering her with my right index finger. Slowly at first, then a bit faster. Then two fingers real fast. She’s whimpering, her breathing starts to get out of control.
“Oh...! Oh...! Oh...!” she goes for a bit. Then suddenly, “Oh...! Jack!” she moans while coming, squirts juice on my fingers and hand.
I pull my pants down just enough to get to work. It doesn’t take me long to get inside with her all wet and fired up. I’ve gotten so turned on by the fingering and how it affected her that it isn’t long before I’m finishing. I pull out shooting jizz all over the front seat.
“I’m on the pill... You don’t have to pull out,” she informs me too late.
“I just came all over the place here.”
Entry 26
I sit at an organ in a dining area just off the kitchen in the Cellini house. My Stroh’s sits atop the Hammond while I work the keys and pedals with both hands and feet. I’m blending the sounds together in a slow moving odd, eerie piece. So strange and odd, in fact, that it prompts Mark to come up to me from behind, place his hands on my shoulders and implore, “It’s okay, it’s okay Jack,” in an effort to get me to stop.
The Cellini parents and youngest kid Bert, who is about twelve, have gone in the family motorhome to Lake Havasu for the weekend. So we plan to get fucked up having a small party in their giant house in Garden Grove.
Altogether it’s me, Mike Onack, Robbie Blount, Tracy Randall, Mark, Steve and Judy Cellini.
“Does anybody wanna see my dick?” Mark blurts loudly, out of the blue, standing in the middle of the living room with a beer in one hand.
“Onack..., you wanna see my dick?”
“No Mark..., I don’t wanna see your dick.”
“Fuck,” Mark sits on the couch, directs his attention to the T.V. watching Van Halen’s “Beautiful Girls” video.
“The other day I was goin’ to the extra room, upstairs,” Judy tells us, “and little Bert’s jerkin’ off to somethin’ on the Playboy Channel. And he got all embarrassed and covered his dick up with a newspaper.”
The evening rolls along, it becomes clear to me that Tracy wants some more of what she got in the front seat of my car the night we went up to the Fullerton Pub. Tracy finds me wherever I am in the house. She rubs her ass up against me in the kitchen as I cut a large slice of ham making a sandwich. Then in the upstairs entertainment room she falls in my lap as Steve and I watch highlights of a Super Bowl between the Cowboys and the Steelers. I ignore her as much as possible fending off each advance. I try not to be an asshole while giving her no reason to think she’s making any progress.
We consume more and more beer. Robbie and Mark get into a punching contest. I’m wondering if the thing is going to turn into a fight. They both stand with muscles bared, the sleeves of their t-shirts pulled up. Robbie stands rigid, his entire body clenched as Mark blasts him landing a punch hard directly on the right bicep. Next it’s Robbie’s turn and he lands a hard right jab straight on, into Mark’s shoulder.
When the slugging activity gets old, Mark works on jimmying the lock on the family liquor cabinet. It takes him just a few minutes to get it open. Then we’re all helping ourselves to gin, bourbon, scotch, vodka, rum, the whole works. We’re switching from one type of hooch to the next with each drink—seriously augmenting our cheap beer buzz.
“Fuckin’ Tracy wants me to fuck ‘er, she won’t leave me alone,” I complain to Robbie while savoring the bite of a scotch on the rocks.
“Fuck... Why don’t you just fuck ‘er then...? Hell, if you don’t want to, I will,” he comes back.
“Go right ahead, enjoy yourself... Give it to ‘er,” I start. “I don’t wanna end up goin’ out with that chick... She’s totally fuckin’ crazy. Shoulda seen ‘er last week when we didn’t wanna stay at the Cuckoo’s Nest ta see Institute of Delinquency. She’s all screechin’, ‘Fuck you...! I wanna see my friends’ band!’ And I’m all thinkin’, ‘Fuck..., this is what it would be like if we were goin’ out!’ ”
The conversation turns to the demise of Robbie’s ’71 Mach One Mustang. He had ran the Ford into a tree some months earlier. The crash happened in one of the cemeteries in Signal Hill on a night of rampaging with the Arceneauxs and Ricky Risler.
“Yeah, it’s been in the shop for a long time... I don’t even know if my dad’s gonna let me drive it again once it’s fixed.”
As we head into the wee hours of the morning most everyone has gone off to separate parts of the house to crash or continue partying. However, Tracy is still on the hunt. She sits a ways from me on the couch in the living room seeming to be a bit pissed. I am still not receptive of her advances. I ignore her discontent and continue to get more and more trashed.
Somewhere around five in the morning I find myself in Bert’s bedroom with Tracy. We’re joking about something. She stills seems a little pissed off giving me a smart-ass attitude, but has not given up her pursuit.
All of a sudden in my inebriation I think to myself, “Shit...! I can get laid right now.”
I pretty much lunge at Tracy who’s leaning against the headboard of Bert’s twin sized bed. Then I strip her down to her underpants and in a frenzy of lust I fumble at her largish fairly firm boobs. Pretty soon my clothes are coming off. While I’m focusing on the task of disrobing she takes her panties off and throws them in my face.
Now my fingers are on Tracy’s pussy stroking it haphazardly without the hint of a delicate touch. Soon my cock is in her and I fuck with drunken abandon. A few minutes later I’m coming inside of her. I roll off immediately. Walk into another room, lie on the bed.
Tracy walks into the room as the sky just begins to get light, “This doesn’t mean that you’re my boyfriend.”
Then I try to sleep but give up feeling my hangover coming on. I stand from the bed very queasy and make my way out to the Cutlass in the Cellini driveway.
Back home I lay in my bed with a cooking pot nearby functioning as a puke-bucket. My mom, an R.N., walks in with some anti-nausea and Tylenol suppositories. I shove the medicine up my ass. I stop puking, but am still sick as fuck.
I’m glad when the anti-nausea stuff wears off and I can throw up again. It’s not long before all the ham and other stuff I ate at the Cellini’s is gone and the dry heaves start. I am able to produce a bit of green bile sometimes when I vomit, but most of the time I’m just retching with nothing coming up at all.
Onack calls me about seven at night. I’m still puking.
“Hold on a second,” I tell him and bend over. “Baughhh!” I vomit nothing once again then pick the phone up.
“Ah yeah... I’m still really sick... I can’t talk, I just puked,” I tell him, but he doesn’t get it and still wants to have a conversation. “I gotta go dude,” I hang up the phone.
I finally stop throwing up around nine o’clock but still am quite weak and continue lying in bed.
Around midnight I finally feel good enough to get up and end up going out for a ride down near the beach with Willard and Christine.
Photo by Benjamin Hung