Tits!
Dude, TITS!!
Mammalian protuberances. One of the great motivators for members of the Greek Fraternal system.
Several years of delivery in Berkeley had me convinced that all frat boys had been bottle babies. They didn't have the standard appreciation for nice-looking breasts that heterosexual men have in general: you sneak a peek, think "Hmm, very nice," and go about with the rest of your day, the moment only lasting a few seconds. For the fraternity brothers, it seemed to be a nearly pathological fascination. Any girl displaying even a modest amount of decolletage would prompt "Whoa!"s and "Damn!"s and be a subject of discussion for several minutes, long after the girl had gone. Their media intake, in any form, was influenced by whether there were visible breasts: frat boys would be rabid fans of Ingmar Bergman if Bergman had thrown in some random tit-shots. Budweiser promotional ephemera is everywhere in a frat house, as the posters, cut-outs etc. contain both breasts and alcohol!
Dumpster-diving at the end of the year, I'd come across layers of porn, discarded in favor of risking having their parents come across it when unpacking back home. Plenty of your standards (Fox, Hustler, Club) plus two specialty magazines: "Juggs" (which should be obvious) and "Leg Show," which, from what I remembered from when I sold the damn stuff, had since morphed into a foot fetish 'zine. Huh. Also some hardcore, which I didn't know even existed in print form any more, and some DVDs, which I kept to re-sell.... The whole point of my dumpster-diving escapades.
(I'll cover it more thoroughly in a different entry, but briefly, college students are wasteful and frivolous among their many other flaws. The end of the school year, they throw everything away.... Which I would retrieve after work, clean up, and sell. You know how archaeologists are always excited to find an ancient civilization's garbage dump? Same gig. You learn a lot about people from their trash.)
It was the presence of "Juggs" which intrigued me. They showed up in just about every dumpster at every frat house, often multiple copies of the same issue. And the thing about "Juggs" is that not only are the women not terribly attractive, but the, uh, subject matter themselves were not terribly attractive either, personally. These were not women with large, good-looking breasts, but women with cartoonish, oversized, gigantic breasts. These were freakish caricatures of femininity, some natural, some man-made, all carrying the sexual appeal of a junior high kid's lecherous doodle in his binder.
Large ones were preferred, but any size would do. These creeps would howl at a thirteen year old, provided she was in a halter top. Like I said, the collective attraction seemed to go beyond sexual attraction into full-blown pathological obsession: the interest was just plain too overbearing.
And while we're discussing breasts, we may as well get into the aspect of the Greek Fraternal system which carries the two 'X' chromosomes, the sororities. The sorority system seems to function primarily as a boot camp for young women to learn their base functions in the world they will live in, as breeders and hostesses. And, uh, that's about it as far as I can tell. Admittedly, I've actually seen evidence of charitable-minded thinking at sororities, in the forms of canned food and clothing drives.... And I applaud them for that. Overall, though, being in a sorority appears to have no more positive aspects of personal development than the fraternities do.
The level of 'humor' at the fraternities is about threatening to steal the pizza guy's delivery. At the sororities, the level of humor didn't exceed answering the door for the pizza guy topless. In both cases, neither group counted on getting me.
The robbery threats turned my rage/adrenaline levels way up. I'd point out that yeah, there's five of you and one of me, so you'll get the food, but I'll make sure that three or so of you can't eat it, because I'm going to knock the fucking teeth out of your heads, Jocko. The "fight or flight" switch would be thrown, and there was no way I'd back down from frat boys: "fight or flight" is incomplete: it should be "fight, flight, or homicidal rage."
I'd set the pizza bag down in front of me and pull my Mag-Lite (one of the big flashlights cops carry) out of my belt in one move. Then I'd yell, "All right, who's a fucking thief here? Who wants to try to take that bag? Come on, then!"
They'd glance back and forth at each other for several moments; this is not what they were expecting. Finally one would say, "Dude, we're just fuckin' with ya, ya know?"
"Then you need to work on your delivery and your timing, because you aren't fucking funny. Is anyone paying for this?"
One guy would edge forward a little, and pull cash out his pocket. "Very good. The rest of you, back well off. You threatened to rob me, and I don't trust you. Back off."
The rest of the little moblet would slowly amble back inside, while I exchanged money for food. I'd wish him a pleasant evening and leave. About a block or so away, I'd pull to the curb (disregarding driveways or hydrants), light a cigarette, and sit there until my pulse returned to normal and the adrenaline stopped making my ears ring and my hands stopped shaking. Then I'd shake tail to my next stop.
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No robbery threats at the sororities, just tits. A variety of shapes and sizes, but still, tits all the same. They would be attached to the girl who drew short straw, I suppose; the decision of "Let's answer the door for the pizza guy topless, tee hee!" having been reached after four or five Smirnoff Ices or whatever the hell they were drinking. (Zima and wine coolers had gone out of fashion, so I'm guessing Smirnoff.) So I'd knock on the door, which would be opened by a girl, her two primary thinking mechanisms, and a stupid smile on her face. (If Pete Puma's voice occupied solid space, it would match up to the smiles I'd get at sorority houses.)
Again, they weren't counting on me.
At the time, sorority girls with their tits out would actually enrage me. My assumption was that they figured anyone delivering pizza was some kind of horny mental incompetent whose brain would collapse like a soufflé at the sight of nipples. Obviously they had no way of knowing my previous work history: I'd spent time around countless dozens of completely naked girls; we'd be outside smoking cigarettes and chatting, some of the girls actively and emotionlessly masturbating while we smoked and talked, so she could stay wet for her next scene. (Female porn performers don't get fluffers, they're just handed a bottle of Astroglide.) I'd spent several hundred hours interacting with naked women: some waiting to start work, some still wiping the seminal fluid off their faces after the money shot. When it came to some sorority girl and her nay-nays, I didn't care less.... Other than being offended that they thought I'd be impressed.
I figured out later that they were expecting the same reaction they got from their male social equals. B-b-b-b-breasts! N-n-n-n-nipples! Whoa! Duuuude! Frat boys really would get psychologically severed at the brain stem by this sight. The deepest I ever involved myself was, "Are those attached to someone I like? Are we personally involved? The answers are 'No' and 'No,' so go put a shirt on, you silly bitch." So the girls wanted the impression and affirmation they were used to receiving from frat boys. It was probably bad customer service, but I always let them down.
The first time it happened, I did raise my eyebrows. Then I said the first thing that came to my mind:
"Did you need to count to twelve?"
Her face froze while she processed what I had said (another 56K brain), then folded into a slightly angry scowl. I interrupted the silence by saying, "I have an order her for.... Sheila. Are you her?"
"No-- I mean yes--- (*sigh*) I have the money for the order."
We did the transaction like any other, I bid her a good evening, and headed back down the path. I could hear loud voices from inside, and one rang out above the others: "I can't believe he said that! Just figures the delivery guy would be a faggot!"
Soooo.... I went back to the front door, rang the bell. A different girl answered the door. I said, "Tell the girl who bought the pizzas from me I'm not queer --- I could hear her --- I'm just bored. They're nice, but they ain't all that." The girls eyes grew like manholes, and I took my leave.
While not a constant occurrence, this would happen often enough that I inadvertently developed a set of stock lines for when greeted by a sorority girl and her twin sources of ego. It all depended on my mood, really. I kept the "counting to twelve" line, adding, "Oh, you don't have shoes on either. Counting to twenty-two?" Another 'okay mood' line was, "Yeah, after they're done with the estrogen therapy and surgery, I hope mine come out like that." (I think they had to work that one out well after I'd left.)
Another response was to give 'em a good, appraising stare, then look up at the girl and say in a pointed tone, "Well, they're almost as nice as my wife's." This one was guaranteed to turn the girl beet-red: it was a situation that had never occurred to them, and I think they managed to immediately process: if I was married, would I want some girl doing this to my husband? Shit, my name is on the delivery slip, what if his wife is, like, really jealous and protective? Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit....
And the thing was, I started using this line four years before my wife and I even met. It just worked well as a zinger and blush-inducer.
My 'not good mood' responses were deliberately insulting. One was to eye them briefly and then say, "I give 'em eight years, tops." ..... Purposely letting what would happen in eight years be unspoken. A couple did angrily ask, "Eight years till what!?" I'd give them an enigmatic smile and say, "Oh, you'll find out, honey."
My other main 'not good mood' response was to silently, with a slight frown, stare the girl directly in the face for about four seconds. Then I'd stare at her breasts for about five seconds.... An eternity when being passed in silence, do a five-count right now. If she spoke, I'd ignore her. Then I'd look her in the eye and say, "You can't pay, can you?"
Dunn -- Dunnn --- DUUNNNN.
Yep, nothing to win hearts and minds at work then to indirectly imply to a customer that she's not just a whore, but a cheap whore who barters, one who will fuck (or at least blow) the pizza guy for an $11 order of cheese sticks. Oh yeah, I can charm the ripe fuck outta my customers! You, the dumb ho-bag with weird booze breath and the problem-solving skills of a squirrel with a Dilaudid habit! I'm only marginally impressed with your boobs, but tell me, how good are you at suppressing your gag reflex? And you won't mind if I grab the back of your head if I think you're working it too slow, right? Actually, it doesn't matter if you mind or not. But that skill will get you the cheese sticks, and I'll throw in the spare six-pack of Sprite I found in my car. Hey, just be glad you didn't order a full-size deluxe pizza: for that I get to do anal. Don't worry, I got a few Fiestas in my trunk; they show as having expired, but you know they exaggerate those dates. Unless you wanna go bareback. The sores are almost healed over, so you should be fine. Nothing you haven't had to deal with before, I'm sure.
I'd tell my girlfriends, and later my wife, about these little incidents. My wife's reaction was always grim amusement. The reaction of girlfriends depended on the individual. Some thought it was hilarious, after I told them my response line. Others would get fire in their eye, their lips would draw back from their teeth.... "So what fuckin' house full of sorority cunt bitches was this again?"
"Uh, I don't know the Greek name, I don't for any of 'em...."
"But you have the address, right?" The corners of her mouth curled upwards into what might be called a 'grin,' but it's the same grin rabbits see on mountain lions.
"Look, it's no big deal, I embarrassed the hell out of her, there---- "
"Address. Now. Will kill me some fucking sorority cunts. Need your machete. Baseball bat. Gasoline, ten gallons. Kill them now. All sorority cunts die. Kill now."
"Maybe you should relax...."
"No, must move, have plan. Kill sorority cunts, cleanse earth with fire. All die now...... Um, honey, can I borrow your car please? I'll have it back in ninety minutes, promise!"
"No."
"But hooo-nneeyy! I need to go kill! I've got too much stuff to carry to take the bus!"
Admittedly, in her case it was less about jealousy over me and more about having found an excuse to grab a bat and go wrecking at a sorority house, just because. The Class War instinct was strong in this one. (She was annoyed that I delivered to fraternity and sorority houses at all. "Can't you just, like, throw their pizzas away or something? You at least gob in 'em, right?" She prompted me to revise my "age of date-able women" litmus upwards. Drinking age, not just voting age.)
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Something I did --- a few times, to varying degrees --- was, in retrospect, cruel, frightening, and a mind-fuck. I didn't process it that way at the time, now I do. Back then, all I was doing was a bit of "scared straight" methodology. This was the worst.
As I've mentioned, the whole "Let's answer the door topless, tee hee" gig angered me: did they really think anyone delivering pizza is so horny and stupid they'll just flip their lids at the sight of breasts? Did they think we were all so simple? I decided to find out, in the most terrifying way possible.
A Thursday or Friday night, late in the year, finals approaching in a few weeks. Time to bear down and get work done, not time for clowning, one would think.
I was in a not-so-good mood. I was delivering to a sorority. The law of averages said I wouldn't be greeted by a pair of breasts and their support system, but I was. And I just wasn't in the fucking mood.
The support system had the usual "aren't I naughty?" smile on it's face. I looked at her, and them, then back at her, and asked, "So why don't you have a shirt on?"
"Um, I--- "
"Because the implication I'm getting here --- and you're not the first ones to do this routine --- the implication I get is that you and your little friends assume that anyone delivering pizza to make money is a fucking mental cripple who's also sexually frustrated, and is gonna go ga-ga at the very sight of breasts. I'd call that a really fucking arrogant attitude. And what if---- "
---- While I was talking, I was edging toward her, just a couple inches at a time, every couple of seconds. Just enough for her to realize I was crowding her, forcing her to step back ----
"---- what if the pizza delivery guy really was a horny mental cripple? One that has seen a lot of porn and has seen this set-up a thousand times, where the woman fucks the pizza guy, so he assumes now it's his turn? Oh, that's right, you and your friends were just joking."
"I jus----"
I cut her off. "But you know what? He doesn't want to hear you were just joking. What if he doesn't want to take 'no' for an answer? The signals he's gotten --- you know, being a mental cripple --- are that it's his turn now, he finally gets to live out all those fantasies. He's already turned on, why should he take 'no' for an answer? The topless girl can fit in the trunk of his car, and he can go out San Pablo Dam Road where he'll have time and space and quiet and solitude. Or he decides to stay here, he's got a pistol with him, where he can have his own private party. Sure, someone will hit 911 on their cell, and that turns this house into a fucking bloodbath."
I had her into the middle of the entry way now, two or three inches at a time. "And all this because a few little girls who got into the wine coolers decided to play a joke. What stupid, reckless, arrogant behavior."
The girl had gone bedsheet white. Her friends were peering around the corner, wondering why Jocelyn wasn't back with the food yet. I stared her in the face for a few seconds..... Then broke off the stare, pulled the pizzas out of my bag and set them on a table, and said, "Anyway, that's $27.25. I believe that was on a credit card; I'll need to see the card please."
We had the old-school credit card slips, the ones with the carbon. We processed the cards electronically like anyplace else when the order was placed.... It was insurance that the customer had the card in their possession. I took the imprint using the side of a ball-point pen and held the pen out for the girl to sign. She was now desperately trying to keep covered using her arms. She wrote in a $5 tip and handed me the pen.
I gave her he copy of the carbon and the card back. I said, "Thank you, ladies, you enjoy your evening." I looked at the credit card slip. "Oh, and, uh, Jocelyn?"
The topless girl spun on me, her eyes wide.
"They're all right, but my wife's are nicer," I told her. "Have a nice night."
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