Ruminating On: Pickles

…well, pickles and advice, just to be clear.

Today’s Ruminating On might be offensive to some. You have been warned.

When I was fifteen, my first sexual experience (with someone other than myself, of course) was to be with a seventeen-year-old girl named Pickles. My sophomore year I played center position for the Yellow Jackets at Colton High in Colton, CA. Pickles liked football players, but moreover, liked blowing football players. She had an affinity for pickles, and said semen tasted like the garlic dill variety. To each their own. All I knew, was when my turn came, I wasn’t going to turn her down. I didn’t want to know why a young girl had such a promiscuous mouth. But, looking back, I realize I was a douchenozzle for even trying to take advantage of a girl with obvious low self esteem. That being said, my turn came on a warm August day after football practice. Pickles approached from the bleachers and whispered her plans for me in my ear. Seemed all this would go down that very night. Her parents worked evenings, so she had the house to herself. Cool beans. My excitement ramped up and I made my way through the locker room, boasting my luck.

I had this buddy named Merle back then. He was a running back, quite popular, and had been to Pickles’ house on more than one occasion.  When he caught word of my fortuitous happenstance, he shared a bit of advice with me.

“The smell can turn her off,” he advised.

“Cool,” I said. “I’ll take a shower before I go over.”

“You ever smell your dick? Even after a shower? It still has a funk, dude.” I didn’t ask how Merle knew this bit of info.

“Well, what did you do when Pickles blew you?”

“Dipped it in Listerine. It tingles, but it kinda adds to the fun.” He shrugged like it was the most common knowledge in the whole wide world.

I haven’t always been a well informed individual. There were times, when I was younger, that I would jump into situations whole-hog without thinking first. I believe we’ve all had this time in our lives. Mine went on a little longer than normal. But, after Merle’s advice, the way I collected and analyzed advice changed.

I wanted to make sure that my penis-cleansing didn’t wear off before Pickles got her chance to perform, so I filled one of my mother’s empty prescription pill bottles half way with mouthwash and used scotch tape to seal the cap so none would leak out. Then, I walked the half mile to Pickles’ house. She answered the door with a smile. Her tongue snuck out from between her lips and drew a circle around her mouth with saliva. Boy, I was hard enough to mine diamonds.

She gave me my chance without me having to ask. She said, “Wanna clean up?”

I think I would have ripped my cupid’s bow if I’d smiled any wider. “Yep.”

She showed me to the bathroom, and I locked the door behind me. Removing the bottle from my jeans, I dropped trough—even took off my shoes and socks—and stepped into her bathtub. I ripped the tape off the bottle with my teeth and popped the cap. Cupping my palm, I poured the entire contents of the pill bottle into my hand and slathered my junk with it. Balls and all, son!

My screams stirred her dog, and soon the thing was barking at the bathroom door. Over the barks, I heard Pickles asking me if I was all right. No, Pickles, I was not all right, though I couldn’t form the words to tell her that at the time. My good sense dripped back in (where it went during the time I was splashing my crotch with an alcohol-based mouth wash, I’ll never know) and I started the shower. I soaked my shirt in the process, but at that moment, I didn’t really give a fuck. When I was done, I toweled off. Pickles was still hollering, but I wasn’t listening. Finally dry, aside from my shirt, I dressed and left. In silence. Sure, Pickles had her questions, but I didn’t give any answers. I walked home, damp from the waist up, cussing Merle with a fire that could have melted steel.

The next day, all Merle had to say was, “Oops,” so I decked him. Everyone on the team got a good laugh. Seems Merle knew what would happen all along. Sure he did. I was the butt, or in this case, the dick of the joke. Or maybe that was Merle. Don’t quote me, either way.

I told you all that to tell you this. Advice can help you, or burn you. The choice is really all yours. Though I clocked him a good one, listening to him had been my own fault. I didn’t think. And because of that, I suffered. Sweet Tom Cruise, did I suffer. So, no matter what you are advised to do in life, always research for yourself. I try not to give bad advise by informing myself on whatever topic it is beforehand. In turn, when given advise, I look into it before subscribing to it. Someone once told everybody that the world was flat. Everyone believed them until another researched it and found out otherwise. No one is all-knowing. Remember that.

Still, to this day, the smell of Listerine makes me tremble.



4 thoughts on “Ruminating On: Pickles

  1. A particularly captivating story to ‘frame’ your excellent advice. No one is all-knowing and we should all think for ourselves.

    I do have a question though. Do you really consider that your first sexual experience or did Pickles receive a second visit?

    And no…I can’t believe I just asked that either.

  2. If you re-read, Jo-Anne, I said “was to be,” as in, it should have been. So, no, I don’t consider her the first. 😛 I was playing the part of an unreliable narrator. 😉

    But, if I may be honest, my first “experience” was soon after. Not with Pickles though.


    1. Ah…well, now you see, I was barely awake when I read this the first time and I may have been distracted by the topic…I forgot Papa Mader’s emphatic words of wisdom: “It’s ALL fiction”. Sorry!

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