Off Season Post 3: My Big Sex Scandal

Hello and welcome to my most controversial post of the off season. I realize I’m posting this way early, but the Final Four is on Monday and I have plans. Besides, I figured I’d give you some extra juice as you slide into your weekend. Actually, I don’t know how much controversy this will evoke, but it’s a hell of a true story. First, some background. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover this week, so I’ll dispense with the salutations. I’m glad you’re reading. Now, the background.

My best friend growing up was a guy who I’ll call Mike H. Mike and I met when we were probably 8 or 9 years old. We attended the same elementary, junior high, and high school. It was during the first part of the latter that we became very close friends. We played sports together, went on double dates together, ate together, drank together, and whatever other heterosexual male bonding ritual was common during that time. Ours was truly one of those rare friendships between males that went a lot deeper than sports, women, or superficial concerns. I literally trusted Mike with my life and he trusted me with his. We were true friends in every sense of the word.

Now Mike may sound like someone new to you; however, he’s actually been a die hard reader of the blog for about 4 months now. Over time, Mike and I lost touch. He moved to Hawaii. I moved to Austin. We put down roots in different places and we eventually stopped talking, not for any reason other than time and distance. A few months ago through sheer coincidence, Mike happened to look over the shoulder of his wife and her friends one evening as they sipped wine and laughed hysterically into the screen of his home computer at a blog written by a local writer.

As he began to read the blog, Mike noticed the small half-inch picture of the author and realized that I was, in fact, Some Guy in Austin. After an email or two, we realized that we lived only about 20 miles apart and worked just 5 miles apart. We reconnected and eventually met up at a local bar for some Lone Stars. He picked up the bill. Thanks, Mike.

As we reminisced, we belly laughed over dozens of antics and recounted the trouble we’d avoided and some of it that we didn’t avoid over the years. Most of you know him as “MH” on this blog now. It’s been great to meet back up after almost 12 years of silence and below is a story that brought us to tears the other night. Mike and I talked like we never missed a day in each other’s lives. My face still hurts from laughing. I hope I can do this justice. I’d like to apologize in advance to Mike’s lovely wife for telling this story—online no less. Apparently, she has a sense of humor. She’ll need it.

Disclaimer: As I’ve stated before, I often use hyperbole in order to make my point a lot of the time. However, like my Worst Date Ever story, the following story, with the exception of some condensed timeline and location facts is substantially and literally true. I’m good, but I’m not good enough to make up a story like this. I hope you enjoy it as much as Mike and I did during its retelling last week. With that said, let’s get to it.

As many of you know, I grew up in what was then a small town just to the North of Houston. My family moved there when I was 6 years old. The town had just a few thousand people in it, but was destined to one day be annexed by the City of Houston. That happened after I graduated from college. It wasn’t Mayberry but it wasn’t Wisteria Lane either.

As I grew, so did the town. Streets were widened, amenities began to pop up, and we no longer had to travel into the neighboring town for groceries. Schools were built, churches began to burst at the seams, and sports leagues filled to capacity. As the population grew, so did the need for local law enforcement. Because the town was not a part of Houston, 3 local constables from the nearby precinct were added to patrol the mean streets of my hometown to protect, serve, and eventually harass the hell out of my friends and me in the name of “upholding the law.”

Because of the lack of any “real” crime in my town, it was not uncommon for the constables to lie in wait in order to bust up a teen gathering at various local parking lots, parks, or house parties. We all knew the names of the three officers and they knew the names of the ones who were usually in the middle of things. Mike and I were usually in the middle of things.

To appreciate this story is to appreciate the stereotype of the local constable during that time and in that place. There was a fat, angry, middle-aged cop named Officer Bates. He was famous for calling us “chief” and asking “where’s the fire?” when he handed out speeding tickets like Valium in a pysch ward. Officer Bates preferred a ticket over a warning seven days a week and if you had a date in the car with you she was sure to be asked to step out in order to “ensure her safety” during the stop.

The next cop was a short, 100 pound lesbian named Officer Betty. She was, by far, the nicest and most lenient of the three. She preferred a stern, yet well meant, talking to over anything else and would regularly have us pour out our beer and throw it in the trash as opposed to hauling us down to the precinct and calling our parents. She was reasonable, cool, and although we never showed it, respected.

Then there is one of the central characters of this particular story: Officer J.R. Sharman. J.R. Sharman was probably in his late 20’s at the time. He was approximately 5 feet 9 inches tall and weighed about 115 pounds, including his utility belt, gun, and nightstick. His blonde hair was carefully manicured into that pseudo-military flat top specifically chosen by lower rent cops and security guards. He wore perfectly shined combat boots with his constable uniform and had the standard issue mirrored sunglasses that to this day I would swear he wore even at night like the bad terminator in Terminator 2.

He was the type of guy that became a cop, not to right the wrongs of suburban towns, but to get even for the beatings he took in high school. He used words like “vehicle,” “confiscate,” and “perpetrator.” He assumed guilt and loved to hide behind the authority of his badge. We all swore his gun was empty but were certain that he had one bullet in his shirt pocket just in case things went South.

Now to be fair to the fine law enforcement officers in my community, at the time of the subsequently chronicled events, Mike and I were about 17 or 18 years old. Mike was about 6’3”, 225 pounds, had a 30 inch waist, 18 inch arms and could probably turn over a car if he felt like it. I was about 6’1”, 165 pounds and could dunk a basketball and spike a volleyball with deadly accuracy. We were lean, tan, on summer vacation, and felt invincible. In short, we were your standard cocky, smartass, teenage sh*theads without a worry in the world. If I met myself at that age today, I would probably hate me. Granted, I would appreciate my good looks and beguiling demeanor, but I would hate me.

As I stated before, Mike and I were usually in the middle of whatever trouble occurred in town. Mike drove a black GMC pick up truck with red racing stripes and illegally tinted windows. Everyone in town, including our friend Officer J.R. Sharman, knew the truck and knew that we were usually in it. Mike and I both worked at a local pizza place where the ownership had a tendency to blatantly ignore state health laws as well as some federal drug laws. Mike delivered the pizzas and I cooked them. I could throw a mean pizza dough and Mike usually paid for the after hours beer with his tips since I was an hourly employee. Incidentally, the way we got back at the owner for firing us is another good story that perhaps I’ll share one day.

Mike and I were smartasses, but we were hard workers. We both worked full time during the summer at the pizza place and did some landscaping on the side for extra cash. Mike also worked for his father’s company down on the Houston Ship Channel loading boxes into shipping containers and 18 wheelers. We created a lot of noise, but generally we were decent kids looking for a few cheap thrills in a small town after dark. We would have characterized most of the fun we had as harmless. Officer J.R. Sharman had several words for it: criminal mischief, disturbing the peace, and disorderly conduct, just to name a few.

Since Mike graduated a year before me, he was preparing to enter his first semester in a college about 70 miles north of Houston and regularly spent time up there preparing his apartment, registering for classes, attending orientation and all of the things that accompany a young man’s first leap from the nest. I remember Mike calling me early in the week from Huntsville to let me know that he was coming home for the weekend. He suggested I take a couple days off and we could grab a few beers and meet up with some friends. I agreed.

Friday night came and went uneventfully. If I’m not mistaken, Mike, my twin brother, and a couple of friends bought some beer from the local country store just over the county line. The manager there had a fuzzy memory for faces and a very difficult time subtracting 21 from the current year. We headed out to the local baseball fields and drank some beers on the tailgate until we went home. Before he dropped me off, Mike suggested we hit the local athletic club for a workout in the morning. We agreed that he’d pick me up around 11:00.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Mike pulled up and honked his horn at 10:59 and we both waved to my father who was mowing the lawn as I jumped into the passenger seat of the truck. About a mile from my house, with the radio as loud as an air raid siren Mike misjudged a stop sign and jammed on his brakes before hitting the accelerator and spinning his wheels through the intersection. We giggled hysterically while inhaling the rubbery smoke around us. Just as the smoke was clearing we both unleashed an expletive as we saw the familiar sight of red and blue lights in our door mirrors.

Mike quickly pulled over and turned down the radio as I reached into the glove compartment in search of his insurance card. Preoccupied, I quickly knew we were in for lecture as I heard Mike say, “Oh sh*t. It’s Officer Sharman.” I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but I think my response was something like, “Here we go.”

Officer Sharman emerged stone faced from his police cruiser and sauntered up to the truck. With a smug look on his face he said, “Mornin’ Mr. H-----, Mr. DP, where are we headed today in such a hurry?”

Glad that I wasn’t called “chief” and asked where the fire was, I spoke up. “We’re headed to the gym, Officer Sharman. How are you today?” I said looking at my reflection in his sunglasses. Ignoring my inquiry, he took Mike’s license and insurance card and walked back to his car after suggesting that we “sit tight.”

When he returned, we got a five minute lecture about safe driving and a written warning for “exhibition of acceleration,” or what normal people call “peeling out.” We were told in no uncertain terms that if Officer Sharman smelled any more rubber anywhere around town, he’d be looking for us. Relieved, Mike and I proceeded to the gym. Incidentally, we worked chest, shoulders, and triceps that day. After all, beach muscles are important this time of year and I certainly didn’t want to miss an opportunity to get adequately pumped.

While at the gym Mike and I ran into two nubile female friends of ours and eventually met them at the outdoor pool after we worked out. Both of them were friends of ours and were a lot of fun. They told us about a house party about half a mile from our houses (Mike lived two blocks over from me). Kegs, drinking games, and music were on the agenda and, apparently, everyone knew about it but us. We agreed to meet them there around 9 o’clock. Mike and I socialized a little more and went in to talk to my mother who was the Events Planner and Front Desk Receptionist at the health club.

Keep in mind that strapping teenaged boys live by different rules. Our workout took almost two hours and our socializing took at least another hour and a half. It was almost three o’clock when we pulled out of the health club parking lot and headed home. Mike and I agreed that he would pick me up around 7 in order to grab some beer at our favorite look-the-other-way convenience store and hit a couple of standard rendezvous spots to look for other like-minded, bored teens before heading to the big kegger to meet the ladies.

With the radio blaring louder than an air raid siren, we headed down Northpark Drive on our way home. As Mike turned off into my neighborhood he goosed the accelerator and quickly rounded the corner. To our shock, he almost rear ended a car and had to stand on the brakes to avoid it. As the screeching of the tires stopped, we both collected ourselves from the forward jolt and looked out the windshield.

Insert blue and red lights.

As we sat there with our jaws on the dashboard, the car door opened and—you guessed it—Officer J.R. Sharman emerged from his shiny police cruiser, clipboard in hand, glaring at us from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Mr. H----, it appears you’re having an exceptional day today. How was your workout?”

Ignoring the pleasantries, Mike handed him his driver’s license and insurance card as if on cue and I sat there next to him trying poorly to stifle my laughter. Seeing this, Officer Sharman stopped mid sentence and walked across the front of the car and over to my window. I let him stand there staring into the illegal tint for a bit before rolling down the window with the hand crank on the door as slowly as I could stand to do it.

I slowly turned my head to meet my double reflection in his sunglasses as a drop of sweat rolled gently down the side of his neck. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re laughing at, son. You’re just as guilty as he is.”

I wanted to point out that we were in Texas and not London and, therefore, I did not have a steering wheel and an accelerator within my control. Ergo, I was, in fact, not as guilty as Mike—allegedly. However, I thought the better of it and simply returned my gaze to the front windshield. As Officer Sharman walked away I began to roll up the window. Before I could get the window closed, Mike let out a chuckle and said, “What a dick,” loud enough for Officer Sharman to hear it. He stopped, turned around and approached my window again.

“What the hell did you say, Mr. H---?” Silence. “What in the hell did you say?”

Although I was just a mere 16, I still possessed an innate ability to think on my feet. I spoke for Mike who was dumbfounded. “Mike was just telling me that he doesn’t believe these charges will stick,” I said with a straight face. Choosing to pick his battles, Officer Sharman walked away angrily shaking his head in order to write Mike a ticket for failing to do something and an improper application of something else--allegedly. After another—more spirited this time—lecture on obeying the law, we were on our way down the road.

I got home, ate, relaxed, did my share of the edging and weed eating in the yard, and showered and musked up in anticipation of my impending trip to the party down the street. My scent of choice back in the day, for the ladies (and Derek and the boys in South Beach) who are interested—and I know you’re interested—was Drakkar Noir. I found it masculine and enchanting yet not overbearing. It was the cherry on top of my well-tanned, six-packed, chest-shoulder-tricep pumped, athletic, teenaged body and I applied it liberally like an elephant bathing itself in an African watering hole with its trunk.

Incidentally, I was walking through a Big Lots recently and they had a bottle of that stuff for like $2.50 American and I opened it to take a whiff. I have no idea what the developmental curve of teenaged smell glands is, but mine were clearly underdeveloped. It smelled like jet fuel. Annnyyhooo . . .

With one warning and one ticket under his belt, Mike arrived equally musked and pumped promptly at 7 and off we went to get some beer. Careful to pay homage to silly things like speed limit and stop signs, we made our way to the county line slower than we liked but were happy to avoid our good buddy Officer Sharman.

It was 7:15 now, we reasoned. We pictured him at home in his sloppily kept one bedroom apartment sitting there on an old sofa with a weight bench as a coffee table surrounded by old issues of Soldier of Fortune and Hustler magazine amidst empty pizza boxes and fast food containers cleaning his gun as he talked to it while recounting his twice in a day bust of two young scofflaws who would have otherwise continued to intrude upon the quiet seclusion of the honest, taxpaying, citizenry of “his” sleepy little town. What a dick.

Mike and I had a couple of beers on the tailgate before making our way to the party around 9pm. Like all good keg parties, it was filled with a cross-section of the usual faces we’d see roaming the halls of our high school. We found the owner of the house, paid our $3 all you can drink cover charge, grabbed a plastic cup, and went out back to find the keg. On our way back, I heard my name and turned to see the two girls we’d run into at the health club. They were—as is always the case with women—in a pack with three other girls who we also knew. Game on.

After drinking and socializing a bit, Mike and I began to get bored. Mike let one of the girls know that we were going to take off and suggested they come with us. After all, we had some booze in the truck and some stories to tell about evading the law that were guaranteed to impress them. They agreed and we walked to their car so they could pick up the standard party pack for teenage girls: wine coolers and menthol cigarettes.

For the record, smoking is my number one deal breaker—followed closely by certifiably crazy. However, in high school Mike and I used to have a saying about teenage girls’ use of tobacco products. “If they smoke, they poke.” These girls smoked.

Mike and two of the girls got in the cab and the other three got in the bed with me. “Where are we going?” one of them asked. It was then that I had a brilliant idea. I suggested we take a drive to the local community pool that was located in the epicenter of the neighborhood we were in. The community pool is where I swam as a child. I spent many hours during the summer there. Mike and I lived on opposite sides of the pool which was centrally located about 30 yards off the side roads in the woods. There were bike trails, playground equipment, and benches in the woods around it. Plus, it was dark which gave us the cover we needed from the Five-O and provided some ambiance—you know, just in case. Everyone agreed and Mike drove the mile down the street into the parking lot.

We stopped, unloaded the beer, wine coolers, and cigarettes and headed into the woods. The community pool was your standard public pool. It had 20 yards worth of swimming lanes, a deep end with a couple of diving boards, life guard stands on either side, and plastic yellow and green patio furniture strewn about. The entire thing was surrounded by an overly optimistic 6 foot wooden fence. Mike and I made quick work of the fence as I hopped over and he assisted all five girls over it with me helping them down the other side. The pool was dark and still and the only light available was the faint, florescent glow of a mosquito-ridden halogen lamp mounted on the back side of a nearby tree. It was perfect for a makin’ out. I digress.

We quickly walked to the far end of the pool away from the halogen lamp and put the booze on a table and pulled up some chairs. We chatted and drank as some of the girls smoked. We laughed, talked about college, the party, and all of the things teenagers worry about. Mike and I had fun teaming up in order to tell our Officer Sharman stories. Of course, we exaggerated in the name of impressing the ladies.

At some point, two of the girls retreated to the bathroom together and emerged giggling about 5 minutes later as they dropped their clothes on a nearby chair and quickly jumped into the pool. Laughing, Mike and I quickly stripped down to our boxers and jumped into the deep end with beers in hand.

For me, this is one of those quintessential moments of my youth. I was young, in incredible shape, smart, safe, tan, and surrounded by 6 people who to this day are still the best of friends. It’s a shame that it took me years to recognize that. If I had I known what I a perfect moment I had on that night, I would have begged God that it would never end.

Mike and I ended up down at the opposite end of the pool where the girls sat on the pool stairs with their bodies carefully below the water and we leaned back against the side trying to act like we weren’t peeking. Mike asked the other girls to bring the remainder of the 12 pack of beer to him and all three got up and brought it over. Laughing, they told us that they were going to walk back to the party. Much to our delight, the two remaining—and naked—girls opted to stick around after we promised to take them home. Mike and I jumped out of the water in our boxers and we said goodbye before hoisting them over the fence.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

As we watched the shadows of our friends make their way through the woods one of the girls began swimming to the other end of the pool. She motioned for me to join her and I did, leaving Mike and the other girl alone. Now I know what you’re all thinking, but let me clarify some things. The two girls we were with were in my class—a year below Mike. To this day, they are two of my dearest friends and aside from a stolen kiss nothing ever happened with the one in the pool. I talked to her recently and we actually discussed this story fondly. She was a close friend and—as you’ll soon see—was trying to do her friend a favor.

As she and I frolicked in the deep end she told me that her friend had the idea of going skinny dipping because she was interested in Mike. Their plan was masterfully executed and, although it was dark, I could see that Mike took the hint well.

About 10 minutes into Operation Make Out with Mike, we were startled to see a pair of headlights pull into the parking lot and park next to Mike’s car. My girl opined that it was probably the three girls who left returning to hang out or return her purse. Being on the opposite side of the pool, I could not make out if that was the case.

As I was squinting to make out the details, I heard Mike exclaim, “Sh*t run!” Without time to ask questions I sprung into action. Mike and I jumped out of the pool and I ran to retrieve the 12 pack of beer along with the girls' clothes. Visions of watching my mother faint after she’d been told that I had been caught drinking and cavorting with naked girls after trespassing in the community pool raced through my mind and pushed me to act as quickly as I could possibly move.

As they threw on their shirts and shorts, we told them to walk back to the party and we’d meet them on the way to take them home. We helped them over the fence, threw the beer into their hands and turned to retrieve our clothes.

When Mike and I turned around we saw the light of a flashlight mere yards from the fence—and the chair that contained our clothes and the keys to the truck. Refusing to accept defeat, Mike and I carefully and silently got back into the pool like some scene from Deer Hunter and prayed that after a cursory inspection, the flashlight would turn around.

With my head barely out of the deep end water I heard some rustling and saw the jiggling of the flashlight as its owner hopped the fence into the pool area. “Alright, I know you’re in here. Come out now,” I heard as Mike and I struggled to keep our hearts from beating out of our chests.

As our eyes fought to focus in the dark, I could make out a shadowy figure behind the flashlight and as soon as I heard the next sentence, I knew our goose was, in a word, cooked.

“Mr. H---, I know that’s your truck out there. Three times in one day. Now come out of the water.”

Mike and I simultaneously popped our heads over the deep end ledge and revealed ourselves. Standing there just feet from the edge of the pool directly in my line of sight were the unmistakable shiny black combat boots of Officer J.R. Sharman. What a dick.

Mike and I exchanged a glance as if we were seeking the other’s consent to surrender. Realizing it was hopeless, we exited the pool as Officer Sharman inspected the premises for other people.

“Who else is here?” he asked, indignant and confused.

Nervous, wet, and caught off guard, we answered in unison, “just us” without thinking. Officer Sharman walked over to the table where we had put the beer and cigarettes and as his light hit it I realized that while I had thrown the beer to the girls because it was on our side of the pool, I had not gathered the wine coolers and menthol cigarettes.

His light panned over to our clothes and then quickly back on us as he walked toward us. As his light hit me, I stood there in a pair of thin, yellow boxer shorts dripping wet looking like some guilty Greek statue of an unlawful trespasser—allegedly. All I needed was a discus to complete the picture.

Without saying a word, Officer Sharman moved his light to highlight Mike. As I looked over I made eye contact with Mike and as my eyes panned down I noticed for the first time that Mike had previously removed his boxers during his little make out session. Mike also looked like a Greek statue except instead of a discus, Mike was sporting a javelin.

Granted, 16-18 year old boys walk around in a perpetual state of arousal. The bad news is that your every thought as a teenage boy focuses on that particular area of your anatomy. The good news is that you always have a place to hang your towel after you shower.

Officer Sharman took a moment to gather himself as he slowly moved his light from Mike, then to me, then to the wine coolers, then to the menthol cigarettes, and eventually back to us.

“What the. . .? I mean . . . I. . . You two are here ALONE?” Confused and flabbergasted I actually noticed him subtley reach for his shoulder radio and for a moment feared that he was calling for back up. He didn’t.

Realizing we had no choice but to stick to our story, Mike and I again answered reluctantly in unison, “yes,” as visions of my father fainting now inhabited my head.

“What in the world?” As he asked this, his light panned down Mike’s torso and we both noticed that Mike’s “javelin” now looked more the hour hand on a watch somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock.

“For crying out loud, would you cover yourself!” he exclaimed as he actually turned off his flashlight and turned his back on us. “Clean up the bottles, get dressed, and meet me at my car,” he managed as he quickly made a hasty jump over the pool fence.

Stunned, Mike and I took our first breath in minutes and quickly tried to pull denim jeans over wet skin not knowing what was in store for us once we reached the truck. We deposited “our” wine coolers and cigarettes into the trash can along with our wet boxers and hopped the fence before making our way down to the parking lot in dreadful anticipation of our fate.

After inspecting the truck, Officer Sharman asked how close I lived from the pool. “We both live about half a mile from here,” I said sensing that he was more embarrassed than he was angry.

“Look, I don’t know what in the hell was going on in there. I don’t want to know. I know you’ve been drinking and you, Mr. DP, are not supposed to have tobacco because you’re under 18. I’m going to treat this like I never saw anything. You’re both going to walk home and Mr. H.--- you can come and get your truck tomorrow. If I EVER see either one of you so much as sneeze the wrong way again, we’re going to have a problem. Is that alright with you gentlemen?”

Again in unison, Mike and I answered. However, this time we looked police Officer J.R. Sharman squarely in the face and said, “Yes, Sir.”

As I walked home that night and processed everything it hit me that Officer Sharman now considered us to be the town’s only homosexual teenagers with a propensity for sport sex in public places. I laughed to myself until the wee hours of the morning as I stared at the ceiling fan in my room and pictured Officer Sharman shaking his head in angry disbelief as he sat at home in his sloppily kept one bedroom apartment on an old sofa with a weight bench as a coffee table surrounded by old issues of Soldier of Fortune and Hustler magazine amidst empty pizza boxes and fast food containers cleaning his gun as he recounted his run in with homosexual trespassers at the local pool.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of my mother’s voice outside my door. “Pick up the phone,” she said. I rolled out of bed, walked over to the phone on my desk and picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Mike. Want to go work out?”

“Yea, come get me at 11.”

Well, there you have it. My big sex scandal. Mike, I know that no one is laughing harder at this than you are. I’m certain Officer Sharman is still scarred by what he thought he stumbled upon that night. It’s good to have you back in my life. Oh, and by the way, if we were gay, I’d totally be the top guy. I’m just sayin’.

Until next week, if you need me, I’ll be sipping a wine cooler in a public pool. DP