I wanna hear... true stories Bukowski would like to hear (1 Viewer)

Lets hear true stories Bukowski would like to hear. I'll start...

Well, right after my cousins wedding reception, which was lame, (but I still managed to get drunk,) me and another cousin of mine went to the nearest watering hole, Your Fathers Mustache. We drank some more and ran into a mutual friend of ours, Julie.
We stepped out to have a smoke and it was piss pouring rain, so we went to duck into an ally to stay dry and puff, then some guy looked at us and said, "Hey, so are you dragging that girl in there to rape her?" He sounded very sincere. I looked at him and said something along the lines of, "At least we're getting some", the surrounding people laughed, and we continued into our ally for a smoke. Drunk as we were, we were having a good time.
As soon as we walked out after the smoke, I was being peppered with shots. Fists coming at me, hard. I put my hands over my ears and elbows guarding my face, I fell on my back onto the busiest street east of St. Catherine's O and made a pathetic attempt to kick assholes feet out from under him, like I said, pathetic. He whooped me good for awhile, I was as drunk as a fuck, but he never got me in the face. The night before I was watching a vintage boxing match and admired how they blocked their faces, thank fuck I learned something, I somehow got away during the onslaught and got back into the bar, played it cool, though obviously shakin; my cousin came in right afterwards telling me how huge he was and how he must have been a professional fighter; I knew, I could feel it.
I just wanted him to shut up, the bartender was real pretty.
True story, would tell it more often if I hadda got a hit in
Your turn
 
Okay. True story, except the names have been changed. This is how my blog, Carver's Dog, got it's name. Here goes ....

Trace hit the hotel bar early that night. He was there at six o'clock sharp when Jose opened the double doors to the windowless den with a frayed pool table, a jukebox stocked with rock classics, and uncomfortable chocolate brown vinyl booths on either side of the room.

Trace poured his weary frame into a stool at the bar and ordered a tall bourbon and water. His mood was as shaky and delicate as a fault line. Earlier in the day, his editor had bumped his two front page features to the next issue, which meant he had to make a quick duck into the porno ghetto in order to pay the rent on his room that month.

"Would you like to write an all-girl strap-on movie?" his friend Norman, the porn director, asked when Trace called pleading for work. "Not a lot of story but enough to make a cable sale."

"Give me a few hours to think about it," Trace had said.

Thirty minutes later he called Norman back.

"We'll do a spoof of Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club' called "Strap-On Club'," Trace offered.

"You mean the movie "Fight Club'?" Norman replied.

"The movie, the book, whatever, the idea remains the same. A secret club to help vent frustration but in this case it's chicks instead of guys and instead of fighting they screw each other with strap-ons."

Trace's left ear, always prone to infection, throbbed at the violent burst of laughter coming through the phone receiver.

"That's a terrific idea!" Norman enthused. "Go write it up and I'll have a check for you on Monday."

Three hours later, with the script complete and delivered, Trace sat in the hotel bar nursing his third bourbon and water, trying to chase the "Strap-On Club" dialogue out of his head.

TAYLOR BOURON: I want you to fuck me as hard as you can.

SUSAN: What? In your ass?

TAYLOR BOURBON: Surprise me.

SUSAN: This is so fucking stupid.

By the time he asked Jose for a sixth bourbon and water, "Strap-On Club" had receded to the back of his mind.

And then the dog appeared. As usual, Trace smelled the dog before he saw it. The animal was so old and decrepit that Trace couldn't determine the mongrel's age but clearly it was a very aged hound. It's brown and black coat had huge patches of fur missing and the exposed skin was red and scaly. The dog's black eyes were wet and glassy. Its left leg was game and its back was contorted in a painful arthritic hump. A tongue hung loose from the animal's moist, saliva-strewn mouth as if it were trying to escape the two rows of rotting teeth. And the smell of the animal was simply ungodly.

The dog's owner, by contrast, was a clean-cut, barrel-chested man in his late fifties. With the dog's leash firmly wrapped around his left hand, the dog owner occupied a stool next to Trace and ordered a beer. The two men exchanged a curt nod.

"What's the deal with your dog?" Trace blurted.

"How's that?"

"I can tell when you and your dog have been in the elevator because the smell lingers for an hour."

The man drank his longneck Budweiser straight from the bottle.

"The dog's old and sick," the man said blankly.

"How old is he?"

The man hiked his shoulders. "Don't know. He was a pup when I got him in '88 but he might have already been a year old then."

"What's his name?"

"Bath."

Trace laughed. "Isn't that ironic?"

"How's that?"

"You never bathe the damn thing."

"Can't. He's in too much pain. Can't touch the poor thing really."

"Cancer?"

"Don't know, can't really afford to take him to the vet."

Trace then felt bad for both the dog and it's owner. The man spoke again after another pull off the beer bottle.

"Not exactly ironic in the literal sense of the word."

Trace hated having his talent with words challenged.

"Well, sure it is," he said. "When you got the dog I'm sure you didn't think that the day would come that he'd be so sick and decayed that you couldn't bathe him. Hence, the name Bath is very ironic, I would say."

The man ordered another beer and contemplated Trace's words for a moment.

"I named him Bath after a Raymond Carver short story called "Bath'. I got Bath in Port Angeles, Washington, in 1988 right after Carver died. That's where he lived, you know, Port Angeles."

"Uh-huh." Trace signaled Jose for a refill.

"I was doing yard hauling for a guy who lived down the street from Carver. He got three dogs from Carver's dog's litter and he said I could have one if I cut my rate just a little bit as he was on a limited income."

"Wow." Trace regarded the pile of leashed mange on the floor with new respect. "Raymond Carver's dog, huh?"

"Yup."

"But why Bath?"

"It's my favorite Carver story. You know his stuff?"

"Absolutely."

"Bath is the story about the mother who orders a birthday cake for her little boy but on the way to school on the morning of his birthday party the boy is hit by a car and -"

"Yeah, yeah," Trace interjected. "I remember that one. Altman used it in "Short Cuts'."

Two Union Pacific railroad workers swaggered into the bar. One of them fed a dollar into the jukebox and punched up "L.A. Woman." Trace knew the two men. They would shoot pool and play Doors songs all night long.

"Well, goodnight." he said to the dog owner as he slipped off the bar stool.

Back in his room, Trace searched his book shelves for the Carver volume. There were books everywhere in his room. In the entranceway there was a bricks-and-board shelf laden with books. One of those Office Depot particle board bookshelves stood next to his bed. More books were piled behind the ratty sofa and even more rested in boxes in the closet.

After an hour of searching he finally located the dog-eared paperback of Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." He stretched his legs out on the bed - they were throbbing from the psoriatic arthritis - and lay down on his back with the Carver book in hand.

Instead of reading, though, Trace fell asleep and he dreamed about naked women with large strap-on dildos being chased by an insane and rabid dog.
 
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"TAYLOR BOURON: I want you to fuck me as hard as you can.

SUSAN: What? In your ass?

TAYLOR BOURBON: Surprise me.

SUSAN: This is so fucking stupid."

AaaahAHAHAH!!! Great story,
Thanks for sharing ! Now I'm going to listen to L.A Women and wait for another....
 
Glad you enjoyed it. The movie is now available on DVD at smut retailers everywhere. Seriously. (We even did a sequel -- the damn thing did that well on PPV)
 
No, I was not plugging. That story (and the attendant movie referenced) is two years old. What I was doing was playing along with your request -- did you notice how few members have taken you up on that? -- and I made a sardonic remark as a follow-up ("The movie is now available on DVD at smut retailers everywhere"). My suggestion to you is to go back and read the story again with your reading comprehension skills on hyper-overdrive, my friend. Does it sound like some dreck like "Strap-On Club" is something I am proud of? Something I want to plug? Me shameless? Look at my profile. I'm kinda new around here but I do have 339 posts to date. You think I'm hanging around here plugging porn? Jesus. Thanks for stopping by.
 
Oh God. When I was writing for AVN (Adult Video News), I reviewed a lot of product in that "big ass" sub-genre. I was always willing to take product for review that none of the other writers wanted ... big ass, Joe Francis' ridiculous "Girls Gone Wild" crap, tons of amateur porn like the Homegrown Video stuff, Rodney Moore (though I drew the line at Max Hardcore).
 
Sorry Carvers dog, I did read you story to quickly after too many beers last night. You fooled my drunk wits with "Seriously. (We even did a sequel -- the damn thing did that well on PPV)"
I enjoyed it even more today, hungover and all. Thanks for it.
And I also thought this thread would have been entertaining, don't know why there's no response, any ideas?
 

hoochmonkey9

Art should be its own hammer.
Reaper Crew
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one night years ago when I was in my early '20s a bunch of friends and I were at a small beach town on vacation. we were standing in the parking lot of the only bar in town trying to figure out how to get back to our cottage. I overheard a girl standing with her group of friends say she was cold. so I walked over, took off my shorts, handed them to her, and walked back to my group.
someone asked why I did that and I said "Because I'm a gentleman, motherfucker."
that got a few laughs, but the kicker is that the young woman after a while decided to take me home with her.

ok, that may not be my funniest story, but it has the best ending.
 

Gerard K H Love

Appreciate your friends
I typed a whole short story and timed out and lost it all.

A guy I met, Mark, was in San Quentin for armed robbery-liquor store like $187-he did 10 years. He was a nice guy otherwise. He was big and was a great talker. While he was in three young guys who had a master key for phone booths had just been placed in with him. They took over $300,000. before they got caught. It was a famous case since they were traveling all across the U.S. before they got caught.
Mark had just been turned down for the third time for parole so he was flaming hot pissed off so the whole prison yard knew it. One of the young phone booth bandits heard about it and came over to ask him. Mark being the eternal smart ass poured it on heavy. When the kid asked him, "I heard you got turned down for parole. What did you do?"
MarK said, " You know you can rob banks or stores and it's easy 4 or 5 years, but just take a little bit of lousy chang out of a couple of pay phone and they act like you shot the president."
He went on," Whatever you do , man, don't fuck with the electric company, the gas company and espeacially don't fuck with the phone company. Their gonna' see to it That I never get out over $32 lousy dollars in change."
 
Thank you for the apology, Saul. I appreciate it. And I apologize if I responded rather harshly. I, too, was enjoying a few bottles of suds.
 
alright, i got a few but this one is my "stopper".
so me and a friend are going to the local dive bar, and instead of driving drunk as usual, we decide to do the right thing and ride our bikes the 4 blocks and be good citizens.
we drink a few hours at the bar, and when it's time to go back home we take our drinks to go(very frowned upon in this town for some reason). as we're peddling out of the parking lot, a cop car pulls in and hits the lights. i hightail it into the wooded area behind the bar but my friend isn't so lucky. for the next hour he's handcuffed in the back of the car, and since he's on probation for 3 previous dui's, he figures he's about to do 11 months and 29 days. he is eventually released with a public drunk ticket that'll cost $150.

now the good part. we get back to my house but my girlfriend is passed out drunk inside and can't hear us banging on the door. we go down the street to a friend's house to use his phone but he's not home. but, the door's unlocked so we go inside, get a few beers and use the phone. we finally get inside my house and commence to tackle a handle of whiskey. there's a party going on across the street, so my friend starts throwing a football into the crowd of drinkers, and someone keeps throwing it back. then the cops come to break up the party, the kids go inside, we go inside, the cops leave, we go back on my porch, my friend yells to the party that "we won", and from out of nowhere the cops bum rush my porch screaming "don't move, you're under arrest!!!"
instinctively we go inside and lock the door. they're pounding, beating on the door, screaming "open the door or we're gonna break it down!!!"
so i finally open it, the cop wrestles me to the ground, they drag me out of my living room, literally, into a cop car. now there are about a dozen cop cars on my block, blue lights flashing like someone was murdered. i try to kick the back window out of the car for a few minutes, but i give up when the cop threatens mace into my eyes. i go to jail for the night, the cops turn my house upside down looking for god knows what(finding nothing) and i get out the next day with no charges against me whatsoever. i guess they realized i did nothing wrong but they had nothing better to do.....
 
Classic, laughed out loud when you said you hightailed it into the woods. Your lucky you didn't get a licken from them James for booting at their window.....
 
Well, I can't top James' story, but one very hot July or August night in 1989, or '90, at a New London, CT reggae bar, the L&G Club, I got hammered. And the line for the men's room was horribly long, and people were hanging out in the street. The girl I was with was hanging outside much of the time with her lesbian friend, who was hotter than she was, but no matter.

So, I've got to piss like a race horse, and I come outside and duck into the alley next to the club, unzip, and let go. No sooner had I done felt the engorgment of my urethra when I feel a rather authoritative tapping on my left shoulder. In mid-stream; a drunken, full-bladdered mid-stream, by the way, I turn to see what's up, and it's a New London cop looking none too pleased. He was about to be even less pleased as it took a little while to cut the flow before it hit his polished shoes.

Well, I was not completely successful on cutting it off, but I did do a little hip-duck to back away (it's amazing how quickly you can sober up when need be) and missed his shoes by inches (hell, I'm sure it splashed). I got put hands-up against the side of the building, and, after answering several questions that I can't remember (poorly, I might add), I managed to produce something that Buk would not have had: an ID for a local company that employed many people and was well-respected in the area.

So here ends the debacle; I got off, sent sheepishly to wait in line to take a piss like all other civilized human beings, and I may have even gotten some that night (fucked if I can remember), but damn, that lesbian had some sprightly tits...
 

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