CORPUS CRUSTY

The Texan: Corpus Christi. The sixteen hour trip…

My fight out of LAX was at the ass crack (7 a.m.). I took some xanex (or xanadu as my friend calls it) around 9 p.m., but didn’t actually fall asleep until 11 p.m. or so. I was hoping to get more dreamtime, but I felt pretty good when my alarm went off at three. Shower. Shave. I ate some hot cereal. I packed light, it being such a short trip. I thought we were meeting one of his buddies for dinner and drinks, so I wanted to look cute upon arrival (a little more so than usual). Even though my make-up never seems to last while traveling. I got the feeling from the Texan that dinner was at a nice place. Not sure what constitutes fancy in Corpus, but I’m sure I had it covered. I got a bloody mary on the plane. The flight attendant gave me a look, but I feel like a bloody mary is a proper (acceptable) cocktail to order in the morning. So what if it was only 6:30? I could have been hungover, I wasn’t, but I usually am. Anyway, I was paying for it, so I get to do what I want. My layover was in Houston. I downed two skinny margarita’s and a shot of tequila as I ate a chicken sandwich without the bread. How very California of me. I drank whiskey on the second leg, knowing I was about to have brown libations with The Texan. I was feelin good. When I landed in Corpus, I got a text telling me that some of his associates were around, so I had to keep it cool. Aka, not run up and kiss him. Which was A-OK with me. He was set to land around the same time as me, which I wasn’t thrilled about. Left me zero time to do my prep: Go to the bathroom to check my make-up. Do drugs. Take a deep breath. Stop at the airport bar for a shot. Yadda yadda. But the associates at the airport meant no chance for a mouth attack, and this was welcome news. I don’t mean to shit talk the Texan. Honestly, he’s a good man and he does right by me, but he also does so many things that bug the shit out of me. Such is life.

I didn’t see him by the baggage carousels, I checked my phone again and realized he has text me while on his flight. I sat on the bench and waited, wishing I hadn’t rushed my bathroom time. He showed up nine minutes later, but gave me a sign that said, “you don’t know me”. It reminded me of the hand gesture Ashley Judd gave to Val Kilmer in the movie Heat at the condo while the cops were waiting. Covert operations make me happy. I grabbed my small roller bag and walked out the side door to the rental cars. He came out shortly thereafter. Our rental was in a stall against the building. I had no idea Corpus Christi’s airport was so small. He opened the vehicle and pulled some bourbon out of his suitcase. Basil Hayden’s. I was pleased. I started slugging. On our way to the hotel, we dropped by a southern booze chain to get snacks and more hooch. After the booze run, he informed me that I would not be accompanying him to dinner. On one hand, I was excited to have the time to myself, but it also meant no food. I would have grabbed something to go had I known, but fuck it. We had lots of booze, drugs and chips. The hotel was really cool. Converted condos from the 70’s or 60’s. He said his old number one girl would be bummed if she know I was there, it used to be their place. The sun hadn’t gone down yet and there was a semi-warm, soft mugginess to the air, which made me feel good. We pulled up to the hotel (which sat right on the beach), the room was great; two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room and full kitchen. I liked the whole vibe. The Texan had a hair of time before he had to go, so we squeezed a sex session in. I wanted him to come at least once before he did a bunch of drinking with his buddies. He did, and then I got the place to my lonesome. For the next four hours! That never happens. I have days free while he’s working (on my two night trips), but I usually spend them recovering. I had so much fun. Drinking. Snorting molly and meth. I called Elizabeth at one point and chatted her ear off. I also sat on the veranda in my pajama pants, as I watched the rain hit the sand. I was high and happy.

Before he left, the Texan told me how much he was giving me for my Christmas bonus…which added immensely to my heightened euphoria. The number he quoted was much more than I ever expected. Thank fuck, because I knew December was going to be lean (this time of year is notoriously slow for the sex biz). By the time he returned, I was fuuuuuucked up. I was in rare form. The rest of the night is fuzzy. He was pretty drunk as well, and was catching up on the powders. We banged it out for a bit—no porn or music, just the sound of our babble and rain. He kept wanting the ass. I think we tried, but it hurt too much. Funny how I can take Twenty Minute Man (who’s dick is bigger…but he’s gentle and ejaculates within minutes), unlike the Texan, who can go on for an undetermined amount of time. At some point (I have no concept of time), I really just wanted to sleep, so I slipped myself some sleeping pills. I have to do this on the sly if we are in the middle of our fuck fest. He was tired too. No amount of uppers can compete with getting older, a long day and whiskey. He wasn’t coming, which was annoying. He probably would have if my asshole were on the menu, but one never knows. It’s not really my problem. I do what I can. I’m fairly talented, but I’m no magician. He suggested that I lick his balls while he jacked off. Good plan. He could probably tell that I wasn’t really feeling it by that point. I don’t think I was faking it very well. After a big swig of Fireball, I took my position by his nutsack. As I stuck my tongue out, I thought two things: I didn’t really need that Fireball, and, I wondered if the cinnamon booze was stinging him. If it did, he didn’t seem to notice. Oh, wait, I forgot, we passed out in the middle of the first fucking. This ball bout happened sometime around 4 a.m. I don’t remember falling asleep, I guess my pills worked, but he woke me up with his erection jabbing into my backside. Realizing I had passed out before he came, I knew I had work to do. Especially after the bonus. Although I don’t think Christmas bonuses should come with extra expectation, but that’s just the way the cookie gets off.

I didn’t mean to get so wasted. Thankfully, the Fireball tongue worked, he finally came. I noticed that instead of shooting it onto his stomach, like he normally does, he came mostly in my hair. I didn’t care, I just found it amusing, it had that pissing on your woman quality. I was right. He said as much a few minutes later. Men are such dorks. I got up. Washed my hands, peed, did a half-assed hair jizz rinse, and brushed my teeth. I was beat. Although I hadn’t exerted that much energy, the lack of sleep and food had done me in. I guess the pills, drugs and bourbon also played a part. I’m such a lovely garbage can. I set my alarm to go off in forty minutes, and we both fell immediately back to sleep. Actually, come to think of it, I honestly couldn’t say whether he slept that first round. He may have been jabbing his dick at me the whole time. Too bad he doesn’t have a jack off onto the drugged, passed out Jewish hooker fetish. I’d be a shoo-in! When alarm went off, I wanted to die. But I got up, sloshed some toothpaste around my mouth, and got dressed. He was super groggy too. I felt bad that he had to drive me to the airport so early, I don’t normally choose such early flights, but there weren’t many options in Corpus. So we rallied. My head hurt something awful, and I felt malnourished, but otherwise surprisingly on top of it. At the airport, I downed an orange juice like it was the fountain of youth, and ate one of those small pretzel and hummus dealios. I could tell within minutes that both items were a bad idea. My stomach was protesting. The flight was packed. Who were these people flying out of Corpus Christi at six-thirty in the morning? Hell, who was I? We borded. I wasn’t feeling so hot. Luckily the flight was only thirty minutes back to Houston for my layover, I could manage. Or so I thought. The plane was taxiing when the sweats kicked in. Shit. Breathe, I told myself. Hold on. Don’t puke yet. Wait until we hit ten thousand feet. I could do it. I’ve controlled this sort of thing a million times. I’ve always made it to a bathroom.

But something was off. I wasn’t going to make it. Please Lord, no. I have never thrown up into an airplane baggie…up until that morning. I reluctantly pulled it out of the pouch. It was pretty small. I worried about its capacity and liquid proof-ity. In all my years flying, I’ve only seen one of these things used once. Or was that in a movie? I had no choice. This was happening whether I liked it or not. I felt bad for the nice older lady sitting next to me. In fact, I felt horrible for everyone within eyeshot of me. Sorry morning commuters. I did the deed. It was mostly OJ and stomach acid. With a hint of hummus. Thank god I only filled up half the baggie, my overflow fear wasn’t realized. The flight attendant (who had served me a cocktail not but ten hours previous), unbuckled her seatbelt, and let me deposit my poor life choices in a big garbage bag as she handed me a fresh vomit bag. I apologized. I didn’t need the second bag. The sweats were calming down. I expressed my apologies to the woman next to me. She seemed more concerned than grossed out, so that was nice. I half hoped that it being so early in the morning, perhaps people would think it was morning sickness, that I was pregnant, and not a fuck up. But I probably smelled like Bourbon Street after Mardi Gras.

I felt better, but not by much. No way I wanted to fly again in an hour, not to mention that I also discovered a drop-by in Oakland that wasn’t listed on the itinerary. I decided that I would switch my flight when I landed. I found my gate and explained my situation. I must have looked like death, because she was sweet and gave me zero guff. She changed my flight to a 7:30 p.m (nonstop) at no extra fee. This gave me nine hours to sleep in a nearby hotel, which is all I needed. I called a few places, some of them wanted more money because I wouldn’t be staying the night, which is ludicrous. Thankfully, I found a guy who quoted me less than the others, no bullshit fee, and he offered to pick me up in the hotel van. Perfect. I bought pretzels, water, and a Sprite, then waited outside in my puke-shame hair-jizz glory. The cash in my purse acting as guidance counselor and moral compass. The motel was clean and quiet. When I got to the room I immediately changed into my jammies and slept for four solid hours. Then I ordered a pizza and watched a movie on HBO. Completely worth a hundred bucks. As the universe would have it, the Texan had miscounted my dough—it was a hundred over—and had told me to keep it. The universe knew. I felt a thousand times better, and this new flight put me arriving at LAX much later, which meant no traffic. A win all around. The ride home was uneventful, but long. I was thrilled when I got to my car, and even more so when I walked into my house. Guess I can cross the airplane puke bag off my list.

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