Maggie West

And Now For Something Completely Different…

Green Hell is known for many things, but I bet his readers didn't see this one coming: His Chinese Medicine Medley (My name for it because his posts rarely touch on just one topic). Or, perhaps, they're used to surprises; for one never knows what will show up on Bean's site. Check out his latest: Don't Try This at Home, Kids: We're Trained Idiots.

And if one takes his "sharp, pointy objects very seriously" (Bean's turn of phrase), then this is the site for him: Swordfighting. For there is no man who knows more on this subject than this swordsman to my mind.

Enjoy everyone.

Guest Post ~ Becoming As Little Children

What do you think when you see certain people?

Often, especially due to the violence many of those on the List have experienced and teach about, we see the worst. Do we sometimes forget that people are people, and not realize why some people are the way they are? Here is a little story that has been shared on the Internet that may give a different perspective on things.

Becoming As Little Children
by: Author Unknown

We were the only family with children in the restaurant.

I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly eating and talking. Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, "Hi there." He pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.

I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled.

His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. "Hi there, baby; Hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster," the man said to Erik.

My husband and I exchanged looks, "What do we do?"

Erik continued to laugh and answer, "Hi, hi there."

Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man. The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby.

Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room, "Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek-a-boo." Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed.

We ate in silence; all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid row
bum, who in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.

We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between me and the door.

"Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik," I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I
turned my back trying to sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's "pick-me-up" position.

Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man's. Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their relationship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder.

The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time. I stood awestruck.

The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." Somehow I managed, "I will," from a throat that contained a stone.

He pried Erik from his chest unwillingly, longingly, as though he were in pain. I received my baby, and
the man said, "God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift. You see, m'am, I never saw my child grow up. My wife and son were taken from me in an automobile accident when they were both too young. I was never able to get over it."

Something to think about this season of giving....

Alain
www.burrese.com

Guest Post ~ Written by David Jefferson Bean

Normally, my readers will not see a political piece on my website. This is an exception -- for two reasons. One, my furture husband wrote it; two -- I'm curious -- how much wool does it take, painstakingly pulled over our eyes, before we see ourselves as the "powers-that-be" (stated by Mr. Bean in this post) across this "great nation of ours" sees us  -- as sheep -- industrious maybe, but most certainly -- oblivious sheep?

The Gentle Reader – undoubtedly somewhat dismayed by my marked habit of denouncing damn-near everything in my rants-- may very well find himself asking the following questions:

“Does this grouchy asshole actually like anything?”

“Does the aforesaid grouchy asshole actually stand for anything, or is he just anti-everything?”

Foulmouthed curmudgeon that I am, my initial (and principled, if reflexive) answer to both questions is, “Get bent, pencil dick. Ye’re ugly, an’ yer ma dresses ye’ funny. Why, I oughtta do the ‘Wah-Watusi’ on yer nuts just fer havin’ the temerity an’ effrontery ta ask.”

That, however, would be rather uncouth of me, now wouldn’t it? As I’ve no desire to be uncouth – not at the moment, anyway—I’ll simply answer the questions as politely and succinctly as possible.

The simple answer to the first is, “Hell yeah! I’m fond of a great number of things!”

I like music, especially traditional American, Scottish, and Irish music; classical; hard rock; punk; country/western; “oldies,” and quite a few other genres.

I like alcohol, tobacco, firearms and explosives; for all that I loathe and despise the bureau of jackbooted thugs charged with keeping them out of my grubby little mitts.

I like cooking, gardening, shooting, history, philosophy, martial arts, making things I’d otherwise have to purchase, and acquiring new skills and knowledge in my (already eclectic, admittedly) fields of interest.

I like real literature – for all that very little has been written in the last seventy-odd years.

I like well-rendered, representational art.

I like good movies – not that many good movies are made these days.

I like being a Christian (if somewhat lapsed, in that respect), White, largely Celtic, Southern, individualist/populist (the two aren’t irreconcilable opposites), politically conservative male -- however distasteful others may find me and mine.

In the interest of remaining un-gelded, I oughtta mention that I like my fiancée, too. There. Now my ass – err, make that m’ baw’bag -- is covered…

So there you have it. “These are a few of my favorite things,” as Mary Martin and – some years later -- Julie Andrews sang.

Now let’s tackle the second question, shall we?

I stand for a great number of things, actually. I can’t possibly list them all in a single post, so I’ll opt for brevity – not that doing so will be especially easy for a motormouth like me, mind you.

“Standing” for something means exactly dick if one can’t open a can of whupass on the opposition, should said opposition wax uncivil. Therefore, I stand for the right to keep and bear arms. Try jailing me for expressing an unpopular opinion, and I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off. Diggest thou, sirrah?

As a well-regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state (emphasis mine), I advocate individual ownership of modern military weapons, up to and including machineguns, grenades, and anti-armor weapons.

No, I’m not kidding. The armed citizen –provided that he has the gumption to use his weapon and not merely wave it about like a surrogate pecker – is any country’s last line of defense against tyranny.

Bolt-action rifles are things of great beauty. In terms of accuracy, even the midline models perform as well as, and in some cases, outperform the more expensive semi-autos. My Parker-Hale .30/06, for example, may not be in the same league as a tricked-out M21, but it’ll eat any load I choose to feed it (unlike a few chicks of my prior acquaintance, more’s the pity), and at 500 or fewer yards, makes quite a serviceable sniper rifle.

In short, with the proper load, it could be used to punch neat, little 0.30” holes through blue (or black) helmets, and the empty brainpans of the mindless, imperial legionaries and gung-ho, deracinated, latter-day Praetorians who wear them.

Why?

Because it’s a damned good hunting rifle, and sniping, in effect, consists of hunting two-legged game.

The Second Amendment, however, doesn’t have shit to do with hunting. Rather, it pertains to the security of a free state, “free” being the key word. Just read the Federalist Papers, folks. Bear in mind, though, that it isn’t quite the “Bible of Liberty” some benighted souls consider it. Said collection of documents was, in fact, the slick, bullshit sales pitch whereby the Federalists suckered our ancestors into adopting their terribly flawed Constitution. For all that the Anti-Federalists were the real champions of freedom, the notion that an armed populace is the strongest deterrent to tyranny is confirmed many times within its pages. If you still aren’t convinced, read The Anti-Federalist Papers. Having a gander at both will answer any and all questions pertaining to the “founders’ intent,” and rather handily, at that.

Neither the Federalists nor their opponents, however, lost much sleep over the prospect of bears, deer, squirrels, or buffalo establishing a despotic, authoritarian state. The Anti-Federalists worried about a strong, central government doing just that, but the Federalists assured them that the militia would serve as a foil to any such tyrannical designs on the part of “The Man.” Unfortunately – and thanks to that short sighted, power-crazed arch-shithead, John Marshall and the horror known as “Judicial Review” – it took only a single, 1913 Supreme Court decision to place the “weekend warriors” under complete, de facto federal control.

Not only did this provide “Uncle Sugar” with a convenient way to circumvent/subvert the Posse Comitatus Act  -- the National Guard, now expediently deemed “the Militia”, although under the command of the standing army, was still constitutionally empowered to perform certain law-enforcement duties – it effectively abolished the Militia, as defined in both the Constitution and the Militia Act.

I’ll discuss pathetic, un-funny, paramilitary jokes like the CAP and various so-called “State Defense Forces” in a future post. I’ll also discuss a few of the finer moments in the history of the “Land of the Free,” -- such as the Battle of Blair Mountain and Herbert Hoover’s unique way of “supporting the troops” – in the near future. For now, let’s return to those fabled days of yesteryear, and the abolition of the real Militia, shall we?

Said act of Judicial tyranny, needless to say, left “Joe Sixpack” defenseless and utterly dependent upon the emerging class of neo-Platonist “(would-be) philosopher-kings” and their obedient myrmidons for protection from foreign aggressors and homegrown scumbags. Worse still, it left him defenseless against and dependent upon the very “public servants” who were well on their way to becoming his masters. In a nutshell, yet another of history’s deliciously perverse “black comedies,” the effective disarmament of freedom’s strongest bulwark – the people themselves – was played out on the American stage just as the question: “Quis custodiet custodiens?” loomed largest -- during the first quarter of the twentieth century.

The founders, as it happens, were intelligent men – far more intelligent than the nose-picking morons who masquerade as “thinkers” in this sick, sad, irrational age of ours. Many of them were veterans of our infant nation’s eight-year struggle for liberty, against what was, arguably, the greatest military power in the world. Others risked – and in some cases, lost – everything they had in the name of freedom and independence. Therefore, they held no illusions insofar the natures of freedom, tyranny, and – most importantly – force were concerned.

The struggle to win and maintain freedom is an exercise in force, period. Establishing and enforcing the “law and order,” so dear to the shriveled hearts of would-be despots the world over, is likewise an exercise in force.

“But wait, Bean, you Paleolithic savage, you!” squeals the Gentle Reader. “We have courts! We have the Constitution! We have activists! Look at the great victories won by Martin Luther Anthony-Sonntag and others!

Bullshit.

The legal system is entirely based upon the “legitimate” use of force.

Need further clarification? No problem.

Let’s assume that you, the Gentle Reader, make the mistake of flying the Confederate flag on your lawn, in flagrant violation of the Freedom of Expression, But Only For Those With Whom We Agree Act of 2003. Your uptight wanker of a neighbor, his panties (ersatz “men” who become that “bent out of shape” over symbols are generally pantywaists) tightly bunched, then sees the dread banner while playing “Richard Gere Meets Alvin and the Chipmunks --  “Alvin! Alvin! Oh, GHAWWWWD! Alvinnnn!” -- with his crystals. He then inadvertently channels the spirit of Butterfly McQueen, becomes mortally offended, and decides to sue you for mental anguish.

The next thing you know, you’re being served – and not in the colloquial sense of the word.

“This is bullshit!” says you, wadding up the papers and chucking them into the roundfile. You then go about your business and forget the entire matter. A few days later, you receive a court order to appear before the local magistrate, posthaste.

“Fuck you, you despotic, black-robed nabob!” is the most cordial phrase in your reply to said order. Whatcha reckon’s gonna happen next, home-slice?

I’ll tell ya. The powers-that-be are gonna send two or more boys, armed with tasers, mace, bludgeons, and firearms by your “castle,” to ensure that you abide by the Imperial Senate’s wise and just law, and that you answer that summons. The law is force, period. Don’t jerk yourself off by believing differently, Gentle Reader.

As for the Constitution? Thanks to the earlier mentioned peckerhead, John Marshall, the Constitution means whatever the majority of a group of presidential appointees fucking well says it means, end of discussion. This, incidentally, is why the decision to terminate a fetus is a matter of “privacy,” but distilling one’s own moonshine isn’t.

As for “activists”? ‘Scuse me while I laugh my ass off. Most of ‘em have armies of lawyers, politicians, special interests, foundations and sympathetic media figures overtly or covertly backing them. As Winston Churchill once said of Mohandas Gandhi, “You would not believe how much it costs us to keep that man in his ‘poverty’.” Beyond this, their shenanigans are effective only if and when the society whose “injustices” they’re protesting is a relatively benevolent one.

If not? Two words for ya: “Tienanmen Square.”

The seeds of liberty may be planted through argument and/or persuasion. Injustices may be brought to the public’s attention through protest and pamphleteering. More often than not, though, liberty is secured and injustice righted only through the use of force, or the credible threat thereof.

To deny this is as much an act of intellectual and moral cowardice as it is an act of stupidity. Words scrawled on paper do not make a man free; the ability to kill those who would enslave him does.

This brings us to why I think the Militia of the 18^th and 19^th Centuries should be resurrected.

The political and social history of the United States of America during the 20^th and 21^st Centuries has been a dismal one, from a freedom-lover’s point of view. Both centuries have seen the ever-accelerating growth of government and corporate power, and the proportional shrinkage of state, local and individual autonomy. For the most part, these disturbing trends have met with little or no committed resistance from the general public. The average American has never had to fight for his freedom, so he really doesn’t care when it’s taken from him, bit-by-bit.

The mere, perceived “threats” of the Kaiser (completely imaginary), the Nazis and the “Yellow Peril” (both far more credible, but still grotesquely exaggerated by the “Most Gullible Generation’s” propagandists), and now “Terrorism,” have persuaded the mealy-mouthed, weak-kneed descendants of the country’s true “Greatest Generation”—that of 1776 – to abandon the legacy of liberty bequeathed them by their more vigorous and courageous forbears.

So easily terrified by bugaboos is the typical Post-American American; he consents to have his liberty, his money, and his neighbors’ sons (I’ve yet to meet a neocon with a son who has his “ass in the grass” – or “sand,” if you prefer) taken from him, rather than assess the credibility and capabilities of the so-called “threat.” As for facing it himself? Forget it! There’s money to be made, leisure time to be enjoyed, and – most tellingly and damningly – someone else to do the fighting, the bleeding and the dying for him.

Rather than take up arms, train in their use, and take positive steps towards safeguarding his own liberty, the emasculated piece of shit who presumptuously styles himself and his talk-radio idols “great Americans” prefers to cringe in abject terror, and beg George and Rudy to protect him and his, when a few ragged, rag-head fanatics pull off a predictable and tactically useless (but strategically brilliant) strike against the most sacred symbol of his god – the Almighty Dollar.

Reviving the Militia of old might actually reverse this potentially lethal trend. “A man’s a man, for a’ tha’,” as the old Scottish tune runs. However pathetic, however effete, however decadent, however greedy, however “pussy whipped,” and however “politically correct” the Post-American American eunuch may be, I’d like to believe that some ember of the fire that burned within the hearts of his manly ancestors still smolders within him. I’d like to believe that training in arms beside his kinsmen, his friends, his neighbors, might reawaken within him the warrior spirit – and warrior wisdom – of his progenitors. I’d also like to believe that doing so might rekindle the flame of resistance and defiance, the sense of community, and the love of hearth and home that motivated the “Old American,” long before his descendants made a habit of licking up the ludicrous, pseudo-intellectual vomitus spewed by the scions of tin-horn, immigrant Euro-shite whose wretched progenitors descended, locust-like, upon this country, after the “dirty work” had already been done.

“In your veins the blood still flows/Of brave men who once arose/Burst the shackles of their foes/ Honest men, and free,” as a long-forgotten song goes. I’d like to believe that those old, forgotten lyrics are factually correct. A man can dream, can’t he?

All the same, I’m a realist, and not much given to jerking myself off.

You boys go play video games, watch televised sports, and hide under your beds whenever a few Paynim fanatics wave their dicks at you.

Me? I need to get a good night’s sleep. Then  -like the last few real Americans; those who aren’t sufficiently pretentious to dub themselves “great Americans” – left in this country, I’ll put in some time with the fists, the feet, the sticks, the blades, the pistols, the rifle, and the bayonet.

As we’re approaching an election year, I’d like to close with two quotes, the former from a truly great American, the latter from a very astute Welshman:

“And let history forget that you were our countrymen.”

“They’re all the same/You’re all to blame/You’re dogs.”

Language 101: For Men

This comes from a long line of MySpace friends. These associations ring soooo true, I believe it warrants a place on this site.

1.) Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

2.) Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

3.) Nothing: This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

4.) Go Ahead: This is a dare, not permission. Don't Do It!

5.) Loud Sigh: This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of nothing.)

6.) That's Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

7.) Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or Faint. Just say you're welcome.

8.) Whatever: Is a women's way of saying F@!K YOU!

9.) Don't worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking 'What's wrong?' For the woman's response refer to #3.

Guest Post ~ A Little Bit of R.E.A.L.

Courtesy of one David Jefferson Bean, I had the distinct honor and privilege of making the acquaintance of yet
another veracious survivalist and an adamant advocate of individual rights and free will. A dab hand at
marshalling his research and experimentations, in such a manner, that it becomes appealing and enlightening
for the beginner as well as the proficient.

The ideals and political rhetoric that line the pages of his websites may be misconstrued at times, but do not
underestimate the potential message being conveyed.

I received the added pleasure of being included, with this man, in a post last week entitled,
“Featured Link: R.E.A.L. Survivalability” on Green Hell’s website.

With heartfelt deference, I present to you – my readers – R.E.A.L.

“I don’t vote just because it’s there. I can’t choose the lesser of evils when it comes to politics although I have
voted against scum when the need arises and it often does. My usual method of picking a candidate is choosing the
Libertarian candidate or voting against the incumbent. It gives me some satisfaction, but I don’t expect much in
the way of results. I guess you could say I’m a one issue voter cause my overriding concern is liberty.
Unfortunately, I seem to be in the permanent minority in this cause politics in America is not about freedom, it’s
about who can get what. I could go on about how our government is a thief that uses force to steal from us to
benefit the parasites in our society, but there are thousands of better writers who write about that subject.
Instead I wanted to write about the progression that brought me to being a libertarian. As we delve into my past,
here is a little bit of R.E.A.L. history.

I guess I was born a Republican because from an early age I wanted the Republican candidate to win. When I was
five I remember watching the Ford vs. Carter debate while mom cut my hair. I didn’t know any issues, but I quickly
decided that Jimmy Carter smiled too much for me to like him. Events of the time seemed to prove out my childish
intuition, as the late seventies were a difficult decade for both my family and the country as a whole. At the same
time that America was suffering through oil embargoes and hostage crises, my family was dealing with constant
economic troubles as well.

Mom worked at an automotive parts plant that went through strikes and layoffs on a constant basis. When the
strikes and layoffs lasted too long, she used to go work in a garment factory to help make ends meet. It was a
period of evident decline for both my family and my country. Yes I was always very patriotic, or at least I thought
I was. I wanted America to be the greatest country in the world and kick everybody’s ass to prove it. It’s just that
we seemed to be in retreat everywhere.

When I was ten years old, Ronald Regan was elected as president. Regan he told us how great we were and how
great we could be. At the time, he seemed to be about freedom and liberty. He also helped me in dealing with my
new bugaboo, nuclear war with the Russians. I can honestly say I was not a gloomy kid, but the thought of
nuclear war weighed heavily on my mind. I read a lot about the subject and thought a bit about it. Now I could
have went the route of some peacenik and screamed of disarmament, but my biggest real life problem at that time
was dealing with bullies. Notice that I made bullies plural. I spent most of this time trying to not get my ass kicked
at school and the one thing I knew was that the weaker you appeared, the more likely they would pick on you. It
was the schoolyard version of MAD. So I was deeply in the camp of peace through superior firepower. The military
build up of the eighties was a source of comfort and pride for me.

I was too young to vote for Reagan, but shortly after turning eighteen I registered to vote and placed my first ballot
for George H. Bush. Along came the Gulf War and we kicked some ass. It was a great time to be a flag waving
American. I was in collage at the time and had plenty of time to watch the war as video game on TV. However, after
the euphoria of the war wore off, I began to get some uncomfortable feelings about the whole politics thing.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m a self-proclaimed redneck so us killing foreigners ain’t a problem with me. It wasn’t
anything like a moral issue with me, just a sense of unease with the change in direction the country was taking.
This is the point that I started thinking of myself as more conservative and less Republican.

In 1992 there was a big get out the vote push on campus. The town was voting on liquor by drink and of course a
lot of us students wanted that to pass. I registered to vote in town and went to the polls. At this point I had lived
most of my life being comfortably part of the system. I followed most of the laws except for dabbling with a few
controlled substances. I wanted to graduate and become productive member of society so it came as a surprise to
me that when I voted, I pulled the lever for Ross Perot. I still don’t know why I did it, but it was a changing point
in my political thinking. I left the polling station with a lighter step that when I entered.

That was the end of my being a Republican. I didn’t know what I was politically speaking, but it was out with the
old and in with the new. It was the start of the Clinton years and I had no idea what to expect from a Democrat in
the White House. What I got was Waco, Ruby Ridge, NAFTA, ugly gun bans, and a whole host of nanny state
programs. Remember, “It takes a Village”? In 1996, I couldn’t bring myself to vote for Dole, and I sure as hell
wasn’t going to vote for Bill. Not knowing of an alternative, I just skipped that election.

In the lead up to Y2K, I ran across BWH magazine for the first time. Later on I started reading Claire Wolfe and
about Hardyville. This was my introduction to the Libertarian party. I read the LP party platform and decided to
vote for their candidates until something better came along.

In 2000 we were doomed either way it went. Gore vs. Bush was a “lose lose” situation for America, only I didn’t
know it at the time. Being from Tennessee, I knew that Gore would have been a complete disaster. We were glad
when he became VP, because that got him out of the state. The fact that Al Gore was elected to the Senate in the
first place is a tribute what money and a good political machine can do.

What I didn’t know was just how bad Bush was going to be for freedom and liberty in America. I voted for
Harry Browne, but as the election returns came in I was rooting against Gore and for Bush. A case of the devil
you know vs. the one you don’t. I can say I have a clean conscience because I didn’t vote for either one of them
but that didn’t help our country.

September 11, 2001 changed everything for America. Most foreigners and a lot of the extreme left don’t understand
how that affected us. They don’t seem to realize that this wasn’t some attack on our political system; this was
personal. If you don’t understand let me put in a way that should be fairly clear. If I had been the president on 9/12
the only question would have been how long the nuclear winter going to last and my future son would have been
asking me “what’s a Muslim, daddy?” Like ninety percent of the people, I rallied around the flag and said go get
them. This is when Bush and company started the Great Republican Betrayal. Instead of fighting our enemies,
they became the enemy. We got the Patriot Act, the Military Commissions Act, government sanctioned torture,
NAIS, and the Iraq War. I used to love to fly, but now I can’t because I refuse to surrender the Bill of Rights at the
airport. I’m at the point where I would be insulted if I wasn’t on the no-fly list. This so called conservative couldn’t
find a spending bill he didn’t like and the amount of money he has allowed to be siphoned off to Cheney’s buddies
is staggering. We have suffered through an explosive growth of the Federal government and a drastic reduction in
Liberty. I need somebody to explain to me how you can have “Free Speech Zones” in America? So much for a Bill
of Rights, I guess it is just a piece of paper.

Elections don’t mean much to me anymore. I still vote, but it’s kind of like I’m on autopilot. I would quit voting,
but then I am still an American and nobody is going to take that obligation away from me without a fight. It sounds
contradictory, but I refuse to let those parasites in Washington keep me from voting even though I usually don’t
want anyone to win. I guess it’s a choice between ballots and bullets. I’ve lost hope for the nation and now I’m
just trying to make sure my family survives.”

*All the original links can be found in this article on his website posted in March 2007.

Guest Post ~ Interstate Love Song (SLS)

Written by David Jefferson Bean (affectionately known as "Green Hell")

This was written, for me, well over a month ago. At the time, there wasn't a "guest post" category on my site. There is now. Amorously, it has been placed in it's third home: Jeff's site, my heart, and now my website.

Enjoy!

Affectionately dedicated to Margarita

I-85, one of the Southeastern United States' major traffic arteries, is ribbon of highway that begins in Montgomery, Alabama, snakes its way through Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina, and ends in Petersburg, Virginia. Like a river, it carries a stream of men and machines to and from the "islands" that are the region's major cities: Montgomery; Auburn; Greenville; Spartanburg; Charlotte; and others. Among these others, the two most significant to me are Atlanta, Georgia, and Greensboro, North Carolina.

In a story I once heard (a story that may very well have been apocryphal), I was told that Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots was en route to a gig here in Atlanta, when his vehicle became stuck one of the semi-notorious traffic jams on 85. According to the tale, he penned the lyrics to "Interstate Love Song" -- my favorite STP tune, for the record -- while waiting for the snarl to clear. If the story was true, then the truth thereof is strangely appropriate, to my way of thinking. The very first time I heard the song -- back in 1994, I believe -- I was immediately reminded of that very highway, and my own "interstate love song", as it were.

Five years before, I'd rented a car and driven from Atlanta to Greensboro, in a desperate attempt to win back my high-school girlfriend and first love, "Moose". I've related the story in detail elsewhere, but in a nutshell, I summed up my feelings for her in a multi-page, handwritten letter, and delivered it to her myself. In my youthful naivete, I foolishly believed the old "love conquers all" line, and was certain that if I still loved her as much as I did after so much time apart, then surely we were meant to be together, and she'd realize it.

To say that my effort -- probably the most painfully sincere and gut-wrenching thing I've ever done -- was less-than-successful is to understate to the point of mockery. If I may be so bold (and crude) as to employ a "Southernism", Moose "done stomped a mudhole in my ass an' walked that sucker dry", emotionally speaking. Not content merely to rebuff and reject, she condescended and patronized with a vengeance, as if she fully intended to see that I quit the field without so much as a shred of dignity or self-respect left to me. As I'd buried my only brother a little over half a year before, and had had a friend murdered not long before that, I was on rather shaky ground, psychologically speaking. Owing to my condition, she succeeded beyond her "most sanguine expectation", if I may purloin a line from a 19th century Abolitionist pamphlet.

The wounds she sought to inflict went deep, and -- owing in part, I'm sure, to my cyclothymic/manic-depressive tendencies -- were slow in healing. At times, I wonder if some of them haven't left permanent scars, but that's really neither here nor there. At the conclusion of the affair, I said only: "Be that as it may, I love you." I then turned on my heel and walked back to the car. I never saw her again, and didn't even speak to her again until last November. Sadly, nothing had really changed, so the less said of that exchange, the better.

After a few miserable hours aimlessly wandering around Greensboro and trying to make sense of things, I cast myself back into that stream of asphalt and concrete, and washed ashore in Atlanta again, during the wee hours of St. Paddy's Day, 1989, crushed, dispirited, and quite literally insane. An infinitesimal fraction of the experiences I had between then and now have been related elsewhere, and more will be related in the future, both here and elsewhere, for as long as I care to relate them. For now, though, we'll let this narrative raft come to rest at a metaphoric sandbar.

I've likened the highway to a river, as it carries men and cargoes from place to place. Time, and fate --or providence, or karma, or Divine will (however the gentle reader cares to refer to it) -- may also be likened to rivers, as they, too carry people and cargoes from place to place. In this respect, both are even more like rivers than is a highway, as one never knows what the current will bring one's way. I've likened them to rivers, but in my wilder flights of fancy, I wonder if it isn't more appropriate to liken them to the wind in Chesterton's Manalive.

"We shall see", as a very dear, very wise friend of mine is fond of saying.

For now, let's let this wind -- this "good wind that blows nobody harm", in Chesterton's words -- pick us up and deposit us "like a flying wheel of legs" on the riverbank, beside a distraught, disconsolate and quite demented boy. To be sure, he was twenty-one years of age when the stream of asphalt and anguish disgorged him upon its concrete banks, but at the age of thirty-nine, I can't help but think of him -- or of anyone his age -- as anything but a boy.

Looking at him, I'm reminded of a line spoken/sung by Early Williams on a child's record I owned years and years ago, a "Russian doll", of sorts; a capsule version of the movie musical version of Twain's Tom Sawyer. I can't, for the life of me, remember the name of the song, but two lyrical passages will resonate in my heart, my soul, and my mind (and may God see that they do so forever), for however long I may live:

"River runs warm
In the summer sun
River runs cold
When the summer's done

But a boy's just a dreamer
By the riverside
'Cause the water's too fast
And the water's too wide"

and;

"Then the world turns around
And the boy grows tall
He hears the song
Of the river call

River song sings:
'Travel on! Travel on!'
You blink away a tear
And the boy is gone."

I don't suppose it's entirely accurate to say that he's "gone", per se, only that he buried himself in music and madness, politics and pornography, anarchy and apathy, writing and rebellion, and then called down a hailstorm of martial arts, philosophy, survivalism, gardening, history, and many, many other things to form a cairn above him. When he managed to dig his way from beneath it all, he was still very much in existence, but somewhat changed by his experiences.

He/I began blogging not quite a year ago, at which point the river began bringing all manner of strange and wonderful things his/my way. My way led to my friend Barry Eisler, and thence to MySpace, whereupon Barry suggested I might increase the size of my readership. Other websites have promised that should I choose to purchase the products they sell, I might increase the size of something else, but I digress...

I write for the sake of writing alone -- because I love writing. In order to make a living at it though, a writer (however devoted to his craft he may be) needs an audience, and MySpace seemed a good place to find one. As I'm not a "mainstream" writer by any stretch of the imagination, finding an audience has proven to be an exercise in "looting" my friends' pages, doing keyword searches, and trying to locate individual readers with whom I share common interests.

In the hacker- and spammer-ridden wasteland that is MySpace, this has proven rather challenging, and I've had to learn an entirely different form of "Cyber etiquette"(if you will) when approaching such prospective readers. At present, my preferred method is to send a letter of introduction in which I explain who I am, what I hope to accomplish, and what element of a given person's profile leads me to believe that he or she might be interested in reading what I have to say. In the past, though, I'd simply pick likely "targets" from my friends' pages, hoping that they'd check my profile and say: "Oh, he's a friend of So-and-So's. He must be OK." As the Friends Lists become ever longer, though, this method becomes increasingly difficult to employ.

As I've essentially abandoned said method, the gentle reader is probably wondering why the hell I mentioned it.

"Why the hell did you mention it, Bean?", screeches he/she. "I have fifty bucks riding on the outcome of tonight's episode of American Crack-Whore, so this better be good!"

It is. And so is that which came of it.

Not long ago, while "looting" Barry Eisler's friends list, I spotted a woman's face. Upon said face was the most irritatingly cocky and insouciant expression I'd seen in ages.

"OK", says I, slapping the blue paint onto my face, "Who's this chick? I reckon I'll go give her page a look see!"
"Where are you goin'?", asked Ma Bean, who'd entered the room quietly and unannounced.
"Ta pick a fight!", said I, with a wicked grin. "Now put that baseball bat down. I saw yer reflection in the monitor."
"You shouldn't end sentences with prepositions, Mr. English Major", she said, slapping me upside the head before she left the room. "And do something about those empty beer cans! You weren't raised in a barn!"
"But Ma", I hollered over my shoulder, "they're a tribute to --"
"Don't give me that Andy Warhol bullshit again, sonny boy. I wasn't born yesterday. Besides, not even a week ago, you spent three hours ranting and raving about what a pretentious fuckwit Warhol was, remember?"

"Be careful! Your face might freeze that way!", she said, poking her head back into the doorway.

I ignored her, proffered my middle finger (the splint came off yesterday, for all that a dainty work-boot and a part of the chair in which I was sitting have yet to work their way out of my ass), and clicked on the woman's face. I noticed that she actually posted blogs, and decided to read one.

"Hmm", said I, "This is interesting. I sure as hell don't agree with all of it, but I can't resist commenting!" Having said this, I sent a friends request, and posted a comment. Not long afterward, we began IM conversations, during which we got to know each other as best we could, given the inherent dangers and difficulties posed by internet communication.

For the life of me, I don't know what got into her, but one day in March, she suggested that perhaps she should come and visit me. I was rather taken aback by the suggestion, but consented, nonetheless.

And so the arrangements were made.

Fast-forward to Saint Paddy's Day, 2007. She was scheduled to arrive that day, and had taken out a room in a nearby hotel. I was (pardon the cliche) as nervous as John Holmes laying carpet nekkid in a roomful of rocking chairs, and so, as it seems, was she. Her friends were completely against the idea of her coming to see me, as they were sure I was a latter-day Ed Gein, or worse. I myself entertained the notion that perhaps she was some sort of "black widow" killer, so I suppose we were on a level "playing field", in that respect.

Needless to say, Murphy's Law was both the law of the land, and in full force that day. I was late getting out of work. I hadn't had anything but a one-night stand in over ten years, so I couldn't remember the mechanics of dating. Shit! What should I do? I know I'm forgetting something! Ah! Of course, Bean, you dipshit! Flowers! I bought her a bouquet from the floral department in the store at which I work, and drove home to shower and change clothes.

I then realized that my car was a regular hog-wallow. Shit! I spent twenty minutes scooping assorted detritus into a Hefty bag, emptying the ashtray, vacuuming the interior, and spraying the seats, floor-mats, and damn-near everything else with an almost certainly toxic mix of Renuzit, Lysol, and Neutra-Air. I then cranked the vehicle up and backed down the driveway.

Only to realize that I'd left both the flowers and my camera in the house. I pulled back up the driveway, ran inside, grabbed the bouquet, and leapt into my car again.

Only to realize that I'd left my keys on the kitchen table when I'd retrieved the bouquet.

I raced back into the house, seized my keys (by this time, Ma Bean was loading tranquilizer darts into a Cap-Chur gun), started the car, and backed down the driveway.

Only to realize that I'd forgotten the camera.

I burst through the door, raced to my bedroom (Ma Bean having eschewed the dart gun for an .08 gauge elephant gun by now), shoved the camera into my pocket, and backed down the driveway at half the speed of sound. Apologies to the jogger, by the way. I suppose the experience will teach him that wearing a walkman while jogging is a very bad idea.

Ripping down the road at slightly above the posted speed limit, the Chieftains blaring over the car's stereo, I made a beeline for her hotel.

Only to realize that I hadn't bought us a bottle of wine. Turning around and heading back in the direction from which I'd come (apologies to the day-laborers. Stay out of my blind spot and use the fucking crosswalks, willya?), I hied me to a nearby package store.

Wine and roses are "traditional" gifts, as I suppose, but today was Saint Paddy's, after all, so I settled for a bottle of Carolan's, instead, and hit the road. (Apologies to the guy who was standing in front of me in the checkout line. I only punched one kidney, after all -- that's why the Good Lord gave ya two, right? -- and the last thing I want to hear when I'm late for a St. Paddy's Day date is a mind-numbing disquisition over the relative merits of various and sundry brands of overpriced horse-piss. It's booze, dickhead. Ethanol. Meditate while you recuperate.)

Finally, I made it to the hotel. I asked the desk clerk to ring her, to let me know I was there, and after a bit of confusion (I haven't gone by "Jeff" in years), I was given a key and directions. I have no idea what manner of figure I cut as I let myself into the room. Faded jeans, a Kelly-green sweatshirt, Celtic cross necklace, black leather jacket, thinning, overlong, red-brown hair, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of Carolan's (in a brown, paper bag, no less!) in the other.

As I've said, I have no idea. But neither do I care. Standing in front of me was the woman upon whose picture I'd clicked just a few days before. She wasn't "dolled up", which was an immediate relief, as odd as that may sound. I gave her the flowers and the bottle of Irish Cream Liquor, and she gave me much, much more in return.

I've mentioned that I-85 is a river of sorts, have I not? As it happens, one of its tributary streams is US Highway 52, which leads to Winston-Salem, a city that lies a mere stone's throw from Greensboro. Eighteen years before, I'd paddled up the river, as it were, to declare my sincere, heartfelt, and undying love to a woman who thought me the lowest form of life on earth. I'd returned to Atlanta on the morning of Saint Paddy's Day of the same year, thinking of myself as she thought of me.

On this day, though, a woman who'd never even so much as met me had taken to the same stream and driven three-hundred miles, for the sole purpose of meeting me.

Just to see if the man behind the stories and the photos was real.

"Internet stalker!", snorts the gentle reader.

"Git ta fuck", snorts the not-so-gentle Bean. The woman in question is a professional and published author. I, on the other hand, am an amateur, and a "swearblogger", at that. She writes for magazines. I write for the hell of it. She does readings. I do rants. She's "out of my league", but for some reason, she wanted to meet me. The guts it took for her to do what she did impressed me beyond my ability to express myself, and her desire to become better acquainted with me left me similarly humbled, honored, touched, and flattered.

As I've said before, we chatted quite a bit before she took to the road, and in the course of our conversations, she somehow divined that I was of Irish and Scottish stock. As the "Blood of Emeralds" (apologies to Gary Moore) does indeed flow through my veins, courtesy of my Mother, and as I'm damned proud of the fact, my heart was in my throat when this woman -- Italian/Mexican herself -- handed me a sweet and precious gift, one which I keep in a secret place, alongside a strip of tartan given me by a clanswoman on my father's side some years ago: A set of hand-sewn, linen dinner napkins; White, but printed with tiny green shamrocks.

As if this weren't enough, she'd brought me a jar (yes, you read that correctly! A jar!) of my favorite whiskey. The whitest of white lightning, with a special touch added thereunto. Upon receiving it, I suppose I sported as much of a "blush" as did it! This was true, Southern, corn whiskey. Distilled by a true artist, a master of his craft, it went down as smoothly as pudding, without even a hint of bitterness or "burn". Nary a trace of fusel oil was in evidence, and for all its glorious, Homeric ("...dawn, with her fingertips of rose...) blush, was clearly -- as clearly as it was clear! -- the work of a Hillbilly, Highlander "Musashi of mash". It looked like vodka, but went down like the best of bourbons.

And yet we had to fill our glasses with more than this! Time was short, after all!

This woman had taken a gander at the pictures I'd posted, and had expressed a desire to see the covered bridge I'd put on my page, so without further ado, I took her to see it. As per the terms of an agreement I'll not relate, we crossed it hand-in-hand, and then repaired to the north shore of the stream, whence we wandered the woods until we came upon waterfalls and ruins. Photographs were taken.

And then the battery-light in the camera began blinking!

By this time, night was falling upon Roswell, GA, USA, and an unseasonable chill was whistling its way through the quiet streets, as well. We sought higher ground -- Founders' Cemetery, to be exact -- wandered among the stones for a while, and spoke respectfully of the dead, both those beneath us -- whom we did not know -- and those who'd preceded us into "death's other kingdom" -- many of whom we did know.

We repaired to the car -- it was chilly, after all -- and she being Italian/Mexican and I Scottish/Irish, had a non-argument over where to pack our craws, during which exchange -- held in the relative warmth of the vehicle -- I did my level best to show her that not only the man she'd come to see, but the town which had shaped him in so many ways were real.

We took our evening meal at a Chinese buffet, wherein we both told each other more about ourselves and of our lives, "had eyes bigger than our stomachs", and wherein we both laughed when I became the only man in the entire history of the state of Georgia ever to have been "attacked" by a dead, dismembered crab.

Dusk saw us returning to the hotel (and the bastard probably took photos of us, as well!), at which point the both of us bade the outside world a fond "Piss off!", and faced yet another set of catastrophes and inconveniences with Aurelian stoicism and Irish logic and humor.

The rest, as I suppose, is no one's business. Ergo, I'll leave it to the gentle reader's imagination, however chaste or unchaste the products of said faculty may be. I will say, though, that if we awoke in each other's arms and kissed before parting, she can no more be faulted for having slept and awakened always smiling than can I for having sped off -- late for work, as usual -- with the words of my fellow Celt's "Brown Eyed Girl" echoing in my head.

The tale is far from being told in its entirety. More to come.

Te amo, Margarita.

Dave: Revisited Part 3

Written by Dawn Scovill

A few of you already know this story and have likely been biting your nails and pacing, waiting to see how long it would take me to share it with the rest of the world. (It took 34 days, in case you're wondering--someone needs to let me know who won the pool.) But please don't let what you know stop you from reading on; there might be a couple of details that surprise you. I don't think even Dave knows everything. He is a guy, after all, and how much do they really know?

We'll have to ask him when I'm done...

Once upon a time--or about 25 years ago, if you're not into fairy tales--there was a boy who changed my life. He wasn't a good boy. Some called him a bad one. But, to me, he was Christmas, and I was addicted from the moment our eyes first met.

At 18, everything feels so much bigger than it really is. Reputations matter. Friendships and relationships are believed eternal. When something goes wrong, the pain is unbearable. And life outside of school appears overwhelming. Imagine, then, finding someone in the chaos who understands and forgives and loves in exactly the same way you do.

He was my waking thought in the morning, my last conscious thought at night, and every minute in between was spent finding a way to see him again. Be with him again. Because there was nothing I wanted more than to feel his presence near me...around me...in me. I couldn't touch him enough, fuck him enough, listen to or look at or breathe him in enough. He made me whole. He made me strong. He made me believe I could do anything. I wanted to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone about the gift I'd found--the gift we'd found. But, despite our intense relationship, I couldn't tell anyone about him. Not even my closest friends.

For starters, what we were doing was illegal; he was only 16 when we met. I was seeing someone else and so was he...well, actually, we were both seeing several someone elses. It was complicated. When I got married at 19, I kept "in contact" with him. When he got married at 18, I assumed he'd want to stay in touch, too. But things didn't happen that way.

I got divorced and made plans to move to San Francisco. It had been a while since the two of us had gotten together, but I wasn't about to leave without saying goodbye to the boy who'd lit my fuse. To be honest, the fact that we'd never fuck again hadn't sunk in yet the day I drove to his house. But, with or without sex, it was obvious to me that we were soulmates who were meant to be together. I couldn't comprehend a life without him. When he refused to see me, I couldn't comprehend even more.

At 20--like at 18--everything feels so much bigger than it is. To say I mourned his loss doesn't begin to describe the ache that followed me from that house. And there wasn't a single person I could tell. Not a shoulder I could cry on. Yes, I'm a tough farm girl, but a broken heart is a broken heart. Maybe if there had been someone, they might have discouraged me from ripping out three years' worth of entries in my Diary. (Those who know me well enough will understand that's a big deal.) But I didn't want to hold on to anything that reminded me of him.

Over time, I moved on. Years passed. Details blurred. And I lived without him. But I never forgot. Then, in December 2006, I wrote a series of blog posts to introduce myself to MySpace. Some were erotic. Some weren't. All were deeply personal and written specifically to highlight events or periods of time I'd considered to be life-changing. Among those first posts was the story of how I met Dave.

I didn't have many readers at the time, but it still felt good to finally shout his name from the rooftops. And the magic that is MySpace even made it possible for me to connect with someone else who, as a kid, had known and admired him; the instant Chip and I discovered we had Dave in common, we knew we'd be dear friends.

Did I post the story in the hopes of finding Dave? I don't know. Maybe. There was obviously something about him and whatever it was we had or I would never have written the post in the first place. But I'm very happily married, as you all know, so I'm not sure what I could have hoped to gain by finding him. Although, I can't say I wouldn't have been pleased if the story had flushed him out, so to speak. I even admitted so at the time.

But I'll never know, because Dave found me on his own. On May 1, 2007, to be exact (34 days ago). Classmates.com made 15 bucks that day, which is what it cost me to join so I could retrieve the message in my inbox. Part of me worried that he might be reaching out to try to rekindle something. But the rest of me was screaming too loud for the little worrying part to be heard. I didn't care WHY he'd contacted me, I was simply blown away that he did.

The minute I read that he was married and happy and just saying hello, my heart soared. I sent him news about the book I'd just published and forwarded the post I'd written about him. He joined MySpace, started reading the blog, and reconnected with Chip. At some point, I confessed how difficult our goodbye had been for me. He apologized, saying he had no idea I'd been so hurt. He told me he'd never forgotten me, either, and that how I felt about him was the same way he felt about me. Then he gave me "Dig."

I had no idea how I was going to break this news to my husband. We've talked about Dave, and Scott had read the blog post in December, but we've always agreed that the past was the past; our present and future belongs to us. ONLY us. Given the fact that the single, most obvious and tangible thing Dave and I had in common was sex, I couldn't imagine my husband would be completely okay with the reunion.

But I refused to treat Dave like a secret--been there, done that, threw out the t-shirt 20 years ago--so I told Scott about the Classmates message. And then I started crying. To date, that was the second most difficult conversation I've ever had with my husband. (I won't get into the first.) By telling him about Dave, I risked the possibility of Scott putting his foot down and saying, "You're out of your fucking mind," in which case I'd have to choose between losing my husband's trust by talking to Dave anyway or saying goodbye all over again. But not telling Scott wasn't an option, so I spilled it, and he told me I was out of my fucking mind.

He did, however, agree to give me enough rope to hang myself. From where I was sitting, that was better than, "No." I've gotta give my husband credit: He's put up with an awful lot of shit from me, but he holds on. I'm guessing that's why I love him so much. (It's definitely why he gets blown so often.)

I'm sharing all of this with you for a number of reasons. One is to come clean with my frequent readers. I've thrown a lot of hints out there over the past month, and some of you have put a few of the pieces together. Before you jumped to the wrong conclusions, I thought it best to let you know what was going on.

Another reason is to get all this out of my head. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of trying to remember who I told what and how much I've let slip. And tired of agonizing over how all this will effect my marriage and my writing and my pre-menopausal psyche. I'm fucked up enough as it is, I don't need to worry about this shit, too.

I also wanted you to know that there truly are people out there who have the ability to lift you up and help make you a better person. Your instinct--your gut--will tell you who they are. And age doesn't matter. I was 18, he was 16, and all we seemed to have in common was sex. But I walked into his life as one person and walked out as someone else. He literally transformed me. Today I'm 42, and, over the past month, he's done it again.

My commitment to my marriage, my family, my writing, and my friends has never been stronger than it is right now. Issues I'd been struggling with in the book have become crystal clear. Doubts I had about my ability to make CKR a success are gone. Yes, I was doing fine without him--doing very well, in fact--but, with him, I've noticed a considerable difference in my attitude AND in my writing. My family's noticed it, too. As have several of you. It's as if a piece of me had been missing all this time and, now that it's back, I feel whole again.

And maybe now that I've told this story, I can finally leave my poor friends alone and get some fucking sleep.

The first one to respond to Dawn's blog was...

You guessed it - Dave!

With a short, but sweet:

"just crazy enough to be fun.."

Thanks to both of you for making " my space" much brighter.

Guest Post ~ Dave: Part 2

Written by Dawn Scovill

"I can't—" I started.

"You can't what?" he interrupted again, sitting next to me. "Can't kiss me?" he asked. "You know you want to."

"I…" But this time, I interrupted myself. I wanted to say, "I can't be here." I wanted to say, "I should go." I wanted to say a lot of things. I wanted to jump up and run out the door and never come back. But the fire in the pit of my stomach wouldn't let me say or do any of it. I was drawn to this man—this BOY, which is something I'll never get used to—from the instant his eyes met mine. The urge was undeniable and stronger than I'd ever felt before…or since.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, matter-of-factly. "And you're going to love it."

Instead of saying, "Don't touch me, you son of a bitch!" I responded with, "What about your mom?"

"Don't worry," he answered, tucking my hair behind my ear. "She never comes in here."

"But she's—"

"Right outside," he finished, touching my breast and whispering in my ear. "Adds an element of danger, doesn't it?" He kissed my neck.

I was his.

Dave tore off my clothes and kissed nearly every inch of my body, taking his time. He was rough and gentle and smooth and rhythmic and spontaneous and powerful and he knew every button to push. I'd had sex a few times before that, but Dave was the first to bring me to orgasm and he did it with his tongue, which seemed unfathomable to me until it happened. I didn't know it then, but I'd never meet anyone else who could lick pussy the way he did. He totally spoiled me. I couldn't get enough.

When it was my turn to go down on him, I felt myself not merely wanting to please him, I wanted to drive him mad with ecstasy. I wanted him to want me so bad he could taste it. So bad he couldn't stand being in his own skin. I must have succeeded, because he flipped me over, onto my back, and climbed aboard. That first fuck was one for the history books. We were both panting and drenched with sweat before it was over. His hair cascaded onto my face and I can still remember the combination of sweet musk and tobacco and the way his blonde locks, wet with sweat, clung to my cheeks and danced in and out of my mouth as he pounded into me.

I didn't scream that time, because his mother was in the next room, but I screamed plenty thereafter. Dave was the reason I went on the pill. I was 18 and he was 16. I was a Good Girl and he was a Bad Boy. But, when we were together, none of that mattered. It was all about the sex and we had it as often as we could, wherever we could, however we could. His was the first cock to slide into my ass and, man, I've gotta tell ya'—the pleasure and pain that shot through me was indescribable.

I didn't stop seeing what's-his-name, because Dave didn't want us to be exclusive. He taught me how to fuck and sent me on my way to practice on anyone I wanted. I granted him the same courtesy. Thus began my whirlwind sexcapades that carried me through the next seven years, giving me more stories than I can count and more pleasure than anyone has any business having.

He pissed me off one day. I honestly can't remember why. To teach him a lesson, I decided to smoke all the cigarettes he had stashed in my car's glove compartment. He caught me mid-cough and said, "If you're going to be a big girl and smoke those, you can be a bigger girl and smoke this." He stuffed a joint in my mouth and lit it. Then, after we'd finished smoking, he fucked me in the back seat. I wasn't mad at him anymore.

My first orgasm. My first ass fuck. My first cigarette. My first joint. My first taste of sex without strings attached. Dave set the stage for me and I ran with it. To this day, every time I smoke a cigarette or light up a joint, I think of him (which, if you're keeping track, is quite often).

But all good things must end.

I think what we had, whatever it was, lasted nearly three years. He eventually met someone, got married, and stopped seeing me. I tried to say hello once, but his friend stopped me in the yard and said, "Dave doesn't want you to see him like this." I didn't know or care what he looked like. I just wanted to hold him. Thank him. Tell him I'd never stop loving him or thinking about him. But the wall was up and it was over. If there was a moment in my life that I could change, it would be that one. I should have pushed his friend aside and ran into the house. But, I suppose I would only have made a fool of myself. In the end, I was devastated and cried all the way home.

You can say our relationship was dysfunctional. If you want to. You can also say smoking and debauchery aren't exactly the kinds of things one should be thanking someone else for. But Dave and I know what we had and it was incredible. Impossible to reproduce. Even here, in this little blog post, I've not done him justice.

If you happen to run into Dave, and I know he's out there, please tell him thank you for me. My life wouldn't have been the same without him and I'd give almost anything for the opportunity to tell him so. And to say, despite what anyone else might think, he's still loved and dearly missed.

When Dawn posted this story on her website, one of Dave's old friends left a comment. I wanted to include his words in this blog.

Without further ado:

“Dave was my hero and my friend. Dave was also the kind of Bad Boy who would 'bang' you doggy style while smoking a Marlboro with the ashtray on your back. I wouldn't want him doing my sister but I wanted to do his. Some combination of fear and respect kept me at bay on that account.

I smoked my first joint with Dave.

When I had a beef with the Olashay twins, Dave actually had my back.

I heard Van Halen for the first time at Dave's. Dave got his girl friend pregnant when they were both 13. The guy was without fear. To someone filled with all the real and imagined phobias of puberty it's easy to see how attractive that fearlessness is.

I was told not to hang out with Dave. I did any way. I was forbidden to hang out with Dave. I got caught hanging with Dave and took the 'whoopin'. My step dad wanted me to end the friendship with the 'Either you kick that kids ass or I'll kick your ass' ultimatum. When I approached Dave saying, 'I have to fight you,' he just restrained me. Wrestling me to the ground and pinning me until I surrendered.

Most of my heroes have been those like Dave that refused to back down, not even an inch. I think the people who wrote the cowboy epics had the hero ride off into the sunset in the end because nobody wants to see John Wayne be vulnerable.

Dave's Dad died when he was about 14 or 15 and it really affected him. His dad was kind of the good natured rough neck that towns like ours produce. The kind of guy that will come over and help you lay acres of fence on a Sunday - as long as the beer is cold.

I haven't seen Dave in years. I'd like to. Heroes are important, Just don't hold them up to too much scrutiny because in the end they are human. I think God gives us our heroes to lead us across dangerous territory showing us what’s possible and what great things we are capable of. Our heroes need to be human in order to show us that we are good and capable of great things too - if we can find the courage to just try.

I'd love to write something smoking about Dave sharing a hot church cheerleader in an 'If you want me....' story. I don't have stories about double dating with Dave. Dave went to another school in 8th grade. The qualities that my version of Dave comprises are of honesty, generosity, and loyalty; pretty good qualities for a rowdy kid from the wrong side of the tracks.”

~ Sick Trucker Chip

I know you think this is the end of the story...

Far from it.

Part 3 will follow.

Guest Post ~ Dave: Part 1

written by Dawn Scovill

Of all the men I've had in my life, and we'll just say that number lies somewhere between yours and Wilt Chamberlain's, there's one guy that—in the sex department—stands out above all the rest:

Dave.

Just hearing/reading/seeing/speaking his name sends chills up my spine, raises my hair on end, and starts the juices flowing in my nether regions. I'd fuck him today if I had the chance, but I know better. No one, not even Dave, could live up to the idealistic image I have of him. I'd only set myself up for disappointment. Plus, I'd ruin a perfectly good memory.

And it starts like this…

I was a senior in high school, an honor-roll student, and a nice little Mormon girl who'd only recently started questioning the teachings of the church. Not that I was an angel, but I tried very hard to stay on the straight and narrow. I didn't smoke, didn't swear, didn't drink caffeine or alcohol, and—for the most part—attended church every Sunday and kept to my safe, Mormon circle of friends. I was also in the high school band (percussion section), which is where I met a trumpet player who introduced me to a loser I started dating who, for whatever reason, turned up missing one day. So, I set out to find him.

The first place I thought I'd look was my loser boyfriend's friend's house, which was actually a mobile home, or trailer, if you prefer. I'd never met the guy, but I'd heard about him. Although he was only 16, he'd quit school recently and was rumored to be in a gang, which made him a full-on "Bad Boy" and someone I wanted no part of. I'd dropped my boyfriend off there once or twice, so I knew where the guy lived, and, as I drove down his dark, dense, tree-lined driveway, I felt a sense of foreboding. I shouldn't have gone there. But, I told myself, mustering the courage, it had to be done.

I remember I was nervous as hell and sweating when I knocked on the door. Don't ask me how many seconds went by, because it felt like an eternity and an instant, all at once. When the door opened, he stood there, shirtless, with a quizzical look and said, "Hey."

If back in the day you were a fan of David Lee Roth (and if today you're a fan of Kid Rock), you'll understand when I tell you this man—this BOY—could have commanded legions. He was tall, but not too tall, muscular, but not bulging, and had long, dirty blonde hair that begged to be pulled. And his voice…his voice…was husky, but not overly so, and his pitch was low. And sultry. And seductive. And…

He's a Bad Boy! I screamed to myself, standing on the stoop. A Bad Boy, I repeated, with two capital Bs. Don't even think about it! But I DID think about it. And I couldn't STOP thinking about it. At some point in those first nervous seconds of meeting Dave, I asked him if what's-his-name was there.

"Nope," he replied. "But you can come in and wait for him." He opened the door wide and gestured for me to enter.

Don't do it, my inner voice screamed as I stepped in, but I calmed when I saw his mom sitting in the living room, watching TV. I recognized her immediately as the woman who'd delivered our mail every day for years.

"Hi," she said.

"You know Dawn, right?" Dave said to his mom.

Had I introduced myself in a stupor? "You know my name?" I asked.

"Everybody knows who you are," he answered. "This town ain't that big."

He had a point.

He rattled off some explanation to this mother about my stopping by to look for my boyfriend, but all I heard was, "We're gonna wait in my room."

Again, the bells and whistles starting going off in my head. Don't do it. Don't go there. Don't follow him. I followed him. Into his bedroom. And he shut the door. The faint strains of some Ted Nugent song were playing from a cheap cassette player.

"Are you scared?" he asked and I swear—as Bob is my witless—twenty years later I heard that same voice on a Kid Rock CD. It still freaks me out.

"No," I answered, lying through my Good Girl teeth. "Should I be?"

I hadn't ventured far into the room, so it was easy for him to back me up against the door. "Yes," he said, his breath warm against my face.

"I'm here for—"

"I know what you're here for," he interrupted. "And I won't disappoint."

Cocky bastard. "But I'm not—"

"Ssshh," he whispered, touching his finger to my lips.

Dave took my hand and led me to his bed and I followed, silently and obediently, as if we were participants in some weird ritual. I sat down while he adjusted the volume of the music, so his mother couldn't hear us talking. Eventually, that wasn't all she wouldn't hear.

(To Be Continued...)