Today was a cold day, the sort of cold you don’t get often in Sacramento. The air had that winter bite to it. I was transported 15 years back to Upstate New York, in Saratoga, where the winters are really cold and there’s a ton of snow.
I was on my way back home, bored on a weekend. My friends had all gone off after the end of the Nuclear Power School pipeline, and 10 people from my class were staying for ELT school. I’d like to say it’s for the cream of the crop – because it used to be – but the Navy had fielded complaints from the fleet about skimming off the best to become ELTs.
So now we had what was unofficially known as the “lower half” program, where a lucky few guys that tried hard were given a chance at being an ELT. I was the #2 mechanic out of prototype, behind Evans, so I think I was in the upper half (Evans chose a staff position on the S3G decommissioning team).
The streets were plowed – it hadn’t snowed in over a week. The days were intermittently above freezing and the snowpacks were compacting slowly. I pulled into the parking lot at Mike’s house.
Michael Gillentine was a lower half ELT. He was a nice guy, but not the brightest bulb. Well, maybe it was just that he didn’t care much about the Navy. He was a little older and lived with his wife in the middle of town, walking distance to shopping. He and his wife, whose name I don’t remember, were the first hippies I ever met. She didn’t shave her legs or her armpits. She walked to the grocery store and used a canvas bag of her own instead of paper or plastic from the store.
When I got there, she ushered me in quickly in her typical southern hospitality manner. They were from the suburbs of Georgia and both had the accents to match. I wasn’t stopping in for dinner but was sat down and fed some lentil soup while she heated up some tea.
Michael was just getting out of the shower. I briefly considered that I’d interrupted a quickie, but I reconsidered.
“Hey, Steve! What’re you up to?” Blah blah, nobody cares about the small talk. But Michael’s wife was visibly a little annoyed at him.
“Aw, she’s mad at me,” Mike finally admitted. Mike was tall and thin with perennially tousled hair. His face was slightly gaunt with thick features. She was heavier than him but not fat. She wasn’t particularly attractive and I don’t really know what could have brought them together. But this story is going somewhere else.
“Well, I should be, Michael!” Mike was laughing as he sat across from me and leaned back and crossed his legs, shooting a glance at me. My quizzical look said it all.
“She always wants to – ”
“What? It’s just STEVE! He don’t care – we can tell HIM…”
“Hmmm… yeah, but he -”
“Let me tell it!” Turning to me, leaning over the table with folded hands. “She always tries to poke my asshole and I don’t like it.”
“She was under the sheets and she was done with, you know, and then she always goes poking around my assho-”
“HE FARTED ON ME!”
Now I joined in the laughing. I thought this was going to a slip of a finger up to a knuckle in the ‘ol stinkhole, but no, it’s one long fart joke.
“I TOLD her not to mess with my asshole… Now, I told her I don’ like it. But she always likes to go off and start pokin’ her finger around -”
“It puckers up and moves in a little!”
More laughter. This kind of stuff you can’t get from most couples. It begs the question of why people think they can tell me this stuff. Not just think so, DO so. I don’t mind, I think it’s actually pretty fascinating. I’d like more people to tell me about their butthole poking escapades.
“Anyway, so I told her to knock it off. She didn’t, so I pushed one out!” He leaned away as she reached in to punch his arm.
“Well you didn’t have to fart on me.”
“You’ll think twice about playing with my asshole next time, won’t you?”
“No, and you’d better not ever fart on me again, Michael Gillentine!” She laughed as she razzed him, and he laughed back. I don’t know what happened to them, as I never saw them again after ELT school. Michael was transferred to the USS Batfish out of South Carolina, an old submarine long overdue for decommissioning.