So you can read in its full form and context, here is the grad school piece Gifted Hater unearthed for his video today. It was published on my old website in 2005 as part of my portfolio. Pretty unsavory, so when I redid my site in 2020, I left it out. Along with hundreds of other articles and interviews that were perfectly savory. I just wanted to choose select works rather than have everything I ever wrote or published there Like I used to.
I wrote "Stirring" in 1999 or 2000, for a grad school non-fiction course. We had a memoir assignment, but the purpose was to tell a true drunken tale of being an absolute shithead. "Boys will be boys" bullshit. An honest account of how some men behave, along with the entitlement men think they have to women and women's bodies and sex.
My actions at the diner on this night in 1998 or so are not something I'm proud of by any means. Its deplorable and gross and the piece was intended to read at such a base, caveman level because that's what this behavior is.
But as far as memoir goes, and the assignment I was given, I don't really carry any shame over openly sharing my past experiences and behavior, even if they make me look terrible. That's what writers do.
Real memoirs can be ugly; real memoirs can be incriminating; memoirs are not always fluff pieces but stories of really fucked up people and things—life.
Much like I mentioned a few weeks ago in "The Robert Brink Problem" ... these older works and cringey moments can be used as learning tools now. How not to be. How looking to the way we behaved in the past can help us be better. How much things have changed, for the better, but also knowing we still have a long way to go. I am saddened by when I read this. Saddened that I felt and acted this way and that this is how women have been treated for far too long, many still are being treated this way today.
I'm working on a book. It’s a memoir. It is offensive and dark and incriminating and honest and disgusting and, just like anything else I publish, it's my story to tell however and whenever I please. If you don't like what you're about to read, you probably won't enjoy the book either.
The story below is unedited and full version, even though the editor in me was tempted to fix some 25-year-old typos.
The girl in the story and I were friends before the diner, and remain friends to this day.
⚠️ Trigger Warning: The following memoir contains graphic sexual material. ⚠️
Stirring
I was scanning the table for the half and half, stirring two and a quarter sugars into my tea with my right hand. While making a conscious effort not to entangle the spoon in the tea bag string, I was going for the “gold” with my left. I have always bragged to others about my ambidexterity, and this was a perfect example of a worthwhile application of it, although optimally, I would have preferred her to the right of me.
You see, “somehow,” her pants had gotten unbuttoned, unzipped, and my hand ended up in her underwear and I knew damn well I had no business going there. But that wasn’t the point. Sometimes, what makes everyday special is simply taking advantage of the spontaneities that life tosses my way and seeing just how far I can go with them. And the point was -- I was going to take this one as far as I could. She was an attractive enough girl. Big brown eyes, hair some sort of dyed over again and again rusty orange color, and the tiniest little body. She seemed friendly enough. I think she was single, but I didn’t need a relationship. I didn’t need the sex either. This was not about sex. This was not about all that “I had a great time tonight, we should go out sometime, can I get your number," courtship bullshit. This was for fun. This was for the story that would make the other guys proud when I told them at night’s end in that masculine “goodbye huddle” in the parking lot. But mostly, to fulfill my own curiosity. “Will she let me do it or will she stop me? And if she does stop me, will she do it discreetly or will I get some dramatic, ‘Days of Our Lives’ slap in the face? Will anyone else even notice what is going on under the table as they converse and have their coffee?” No matter how I looked at the scenario, it seemed potentially entertaining from any angle.
I mean, if she likes it and lets me continue, then hey, good for her and me. If she doesn’t enjoy it, but lets me continue, then good for me. What I don’t know won’t hurt me right? If she likes it but stops me, at least I got as far as I did, after all, my hand did make it into her underwear. Her loss. If it is horrendous for her and she feels violated and has to stop me, well then, the way she goes about doing it should be interesting as hell. She was in a “Catch 22” of sorts - the victim of my infinite quest to provide quality entertainment for my friends and me.
The Six Brothers Diner had evolved into the “Tuesday, post-night club drinking hangout.” I take pride in the fact that I reside in North Jersey -- the land of the twenty-four hour diner. Where else would escapades like these occur? There were nine of us around the table that night. Six of my guy friends, a girl I know named Sunny, and this girl next to me. She was a friend of Sunny’s. I had met her once before. I didn’t know her age. I did not know her sign. We never talked about the weather. In fact, we never talked much at all. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted more beer. I wanted another tea and my cheeseburger deluxe. I wanted to see what would happen if I put my hand down this girl’s pants. So that is what I did. I mean, after all, she sat next to me. What the hell did she expect -- conversation and some free fries? No way.
Normally, I would never behave like this, which is precisely why I drink. I am far too boring and introverted when I am sober. I find, after many nights of rigorous experimentation, that Heineken seems to provide me with personality, hours of enjoyment, and an abundance of interesting situations -- to say the least.
I cannot recall the actual moment I made the initial move to put my hand between her legs, that much is still a blur. I am convinced that the vagina has some type of special magnetic forces that pull innocent male victims in against their will, when they least expect it. I think that’s what may have happened, but once I was there, I liked it. I wasn’t going to fight it. Anyway, I was caressing her over her pants when she leaned towards me and put her lips to my ear.
“What are you doing?” She whispered, sounding a bit surprised. Now this was a much better response than I had expected. I moved my hand up to the button on the waist of her pants and undid it. That’s right, I unbuttoned her pants with one hand, a skill that required years of intense training to perfect. As the button popped open I could have sworn I heard choirs of little angels singing from the heavens, with their cute little hands folded, they exalted: “Hallelujah.”
I was still mesmerized by my swirling cup of tea. I probably should have looked at her once or twice. If not to be polite, then at least to observe some of her facial expressions as all this was happening. Instead, I replied with what I now realize is the best excuse give to a girl when she asks you what you are doing -- when you know damn well you are doing something wrong: “Nothing.” And while I was saying that, I was slowly undoing her zipper. Now the path was clear. All systems go. I didn’t even go for the “over the panties fondling” bit. I had no time for that type of nonsense. I was living on the edge. I was going in for the kill. The pinnacle of a boy’s existence -- the vagina.
As my hand meandered to its destination, I began experiencing a few navigational complications. Despite how good her silky, what I fantasized to be Victoria’s Secret, underwear felt on my knuckles and fingertips, the teeth of her zipper were digging into the top of my hand. This made any type of movement almost painful. She noticed my discomfort and shifted her hips to accommodate my drunken, clumsy digits. For this, I was appreciative. I could feel the warmth of her as I ventured onward. I was getting closer when she leaned to my ear again.
“This feels so good, but I don’t think my boyfriend would like it.”
Those words screamed defeat inside my head, but I pretended not to hear that nonsense. I had no time for her infantile shenanigans. I had no time for her games. If she was worried about Mr. Boyfriend, she wouldn’t have let me go this far. I had traveled too great a distance to throw this all away. I had become the Lewis and Clark of that diner. I would go the extra mile. It wasn’t until my fingers were terribly twisted, that I finally re-evaluated the situation and made an expert decision. Her size three hot pants were just too tight in the crotch for me to do my business in. Slightly embarrassed and feeling a bit defeated, I withdrew. My fingers thanked me as they assumed their usual position. I ceased stirring my tea for a moment and reached under the table with both hands to zip up and re-button her pants. Although the main objective was not accomplished, I was content. My cheeseburger had arrived, and more importantly, I could not wait to tell the guys.