"You can still fuck me if I pass out.
Updated: Feb 22, 2019
a true tale by Scott Allen Perry
“You can still fuck me if I pass out.”
This phrase has bounced around my brain for 30 years. Sometimes it bounces in the way-back with memories of ice cream cake from my 6th birthday and spotlight slow skate dances with Crystal G at Roller City before it was bought out and became a born again Christian skating rink they called…. wait for it…. Holy Roller City. Memories that stick with you and randomly peekaboo their way to the synapse center because of a song, a smell, or merely opening my thought freeway to the old days.
Her name was Jeannie. Well, that’s what I’m calling her for the purposes of retelling this very personal moment. She was a hostess at Chili’s when I worked there back in 1989. She was 20, smiled constantly, and giggled. A lot. She looked like Betty Boop if she had been created in the late 80s. Because of her bubbly, dare I say effervescent personality, she was swiftly moved into the world of waitressing. Customers loved her. What she lacked in skill she made up for in dimples.
Jeannie was not the brightest ember to spark off the campfire. She was not good at math and she was terrible at remembering things. Especially things that just happened. Like a table of 6 giving her their drink order only to have her instantly forget it and SOMEHOW between leaving the table and arriving at the POS system she would also manage to lose the pad she wrote the drink orders on.
“Uuuuuuhhhhhmmmmm….” was a sound that escaped Jeannie’s mouth at a staggering rate when she waitressed. Coworkers like myself would help pick up the slack she created. That often meant waiting on our own tables and all of her tables while she smiled and sweet talked them, blaming the delay on all the problems in the kitchen or with the system and whatever stock waiter excuses we all used whenever we fucked something up and had to cover our asses. With Jeannie, her ass was always exposed. She could barely handle one table, much less the four to eight each waiter was responsible for during their shift. She was quickly limited to six tables, then four, then, for the first time since this particular Chili’s opened, two. Working for $2.13 cents an hour in a sub-minimum wage state means that your entire income is tip based. Jeannie charmed her way through horrible service and, sometimes by summoning tears, made almost as much in tips off her two tables as the six table waiters made. Had she been able to remember anything she would have been a millionaire.
Waiters tend to run in packs, especially after night shifts. We’d get out at midnight and our only dinner options were bars. Fortunately, in Lafayette Louisiana, there was incredible bar food. Max’s was our main hang and if we got out too late for last call we would have impromptu parking lot parties. A BBQ grill, ice chests full of beer, and wine coolers were always procured by coworkers who got out early knowing their fellow Chili’s staff members would be screwed without them making a provision run for us.
With these after work gatherings came the inevitable coworker hookups. I usually avoided these because they always added unnecessary drama to our shifts. They were also borderline incestuous. Out of my 23 fellow waitstaff I think there were maybe 5 who hadn’t exchanged bodily fluids at some point in their employment. And it always caused backlash, sometimes entertaining, but mostly negative. Imagine if you were friends with both people in the relationship and they broke up. There’s always that pressure to pick sides in the breakup. Imagine that you had to pick sides involving the same people twice a month, or even twice a week. It was exasperating.
Which brings us to Jeannie. She had hooked up with a few coworkers but she was never involved in any drama because she didn’t actually “date” anyone. Just hookups. One and done. It was known that she didn’t want a boyfriend. So, when the night came that landed us alone at her place after the after work employee shenanigans, it seemed like a no brainer that it was our turn to share nature’s embrace. She was adorable, cute with beautiful, big, brown eyes, lashes 3 feet long, and, on this night, she was particularly smitten with me. No drama would follow as we would not be dating after. I was also nearing the end of my run in town as I would soon be heading off to Austin, TX to seek greatness and fame singing in a band. Why not hook up?
We had ingested absurd amounts of alcohol that night. In addition to the usual spirits there were shots. Jaegermeister, Rumple Minze, and, that old standard, Tequila. Fortunately, all of the employees at our Chili’s shared the belief that José Cuervo tequila was the devil’s piss and we would drink nothing less that Patron whenever this misunderstood Mexican spirit was to be swigged en masse. We were drunken 20 somethings but we were drunk on what we thought was the classy stuff.
A few of us landed at Jeannie’s apartment and danced to Madonna’s Immaculate Collection. I made a great set of Madonna-Titty-Cones with two paper towel rolls and did a rump bumping rendition of Express Yourself. The key was stripping down to my boxers and stuffing most of the excess underwear bits into the waistband, crotch, and asscrack, creating a thong like genital housing that would surely merit a blessing from Lady M herself. As friends hit their fun limits and headed home it became crystalline clear that Jeannie wanted me to stay. How did I know this, you ask? Because she pulled my ear to her lips, kissed it, and said “I want you to stay.”
Her place emptied out around 3:30am and we drunk stumbled into her bedroom. She was in high giggle gear as she took off my shirt, playfully flashing a naked shoulder. She took off her clothes in inebriated seductress fashion. Her motor skills were running on empty so it was clumsy and uncoordinated, like an intoxicated ballerina. She hopped onto the bed and broke out into an au naturel reenactment of my earlier performance, changing the lyrics to “Don’t go for second breast, baby,” and tweaking a nipple as she sang. She gave me the come hither finger and we fell to the bed. Sloppy kisses flooded the full size mattress, hands roamed, fingers diddled. It was a testament to 1980’s post high school sexuality. She grabbed my giant penis (I’m writing this so I get to describe it this way) and squealed with joy as she gleefully stroked it. I ninjad a condom on so fast she didn’t miss a stroke. Then I noticed her eyes had been closed since we hit the bed. She pulled me close and with every ounce of strength left in her eyelids, pried them open long enough to lock eyes with me and say, “If I pass out you can still fuck me.”
I laughed. I thought it was hilarious. For about 3 seconds. Then she snored. I laughed harder thinking this was the cherry on top of her original joke. It wasn’t. She was out. Cold stone zonked. I was baffled. What was happening? That phrase. She said it so casually. How many times had it trickled off her tongue? How many times had this scenario played out before this night? My mind was as muddled as the mint in a mojito. And my giant penis was still throbbing in her limp palm.
After whacking off into the condom, took about 3 seconds, I immaculately collected myself in the bathroom and returned to tuck Jeannie in, mesmerized by her catatonic, ear to ear grin. I cuddled up beside her, on top of the covers, fully clothed, and passed the fuck out.
Jeannie woke me up that morning with forehead kisses and flower tickles on my nose. She asked me if I enjoyed our ugly bumping. She was shocked when I informed her that we did not consummate our hormonal tango. Silence. Confused, lip biting stare. Then she asked why.
I was frozen. I had no words, just shrugs and falsely started phrases. I told her that once she was unconscious I handled my own side of things and cuddled up for the night. She repeated her pre-coma sentiment; it would have been okay with her if I had sex with her even though she was passed out. I fumphered again. I told her it would be weird for me to do it with her that way. She told me she does it like that all the time. I clarified that it was not okay with me. I explained that I’d rather us both be awake and not drunk. She told me she only had sex when she was drunk. It was “more fun that way.” She loved waking up after a night she could barely remember knowing that she had sex with someone, or more to the point, they had sex with her, and it was fun. She voiced surprise that I had stayed over and not left while she was in Snoozeville. I was unable to process anything she said as logical at this point and also no longer able to speak words. Jeanie’s go to “Uuuuuuhhhhhmmmmm….” was the only sound I was able to utter. She responded with another round of confused lip biting. I kissed her. She wasn’t into it. By not having sex with her unconscious body I had somehow offended her. She walked me to the door and high-fived me goodbye.