The Pee Pee Haircut - January 3, 2007

(Reconditioning Batteries)

The summer of 1997. York, Maine. I was 17 years old and had only just begun to delve into all things booze-related.

My friend Pete had a huge, multi million dollar house right on the rocks of York Beach where we used to party almost every day that summer. What was even cooler than Pete's mansion was Pete's crazy mom. Being a responsible, conservative parent, she consistently made smart choices for her son and her friends, choices like buying us cases of Olde English 800, cartons of cigarettes and stacks of porn. She not only encouraged us to throw huge, underage drinking parties, but also enjoyed laughing along as we blew up propane tanks and hair spray bottles on the private beach behind the estate. I specifically remember waking up at Pete's house to regularly find his mom enjoying her morning breakfast-- a Marlboro Red and a glass of Johnny Walker Red Label on the rocks. I loved that loony lady.

This particular summer night we were fully stocked up courtesy of Pete's mom. The plan was to have a semi-mellow get together with our good friends BFB and B-Clay.

BFB got his nickname by being the sloppiest man alive. Every time he drinks, he ends up wearing half of a 6 pack on his shirt and half of whatever he finds in your refrigerator on his face. Slap a self-adhesive gift ribbon on his bald head and you have any given Baby's First Birthday photo. You know the one, with the little rug monkey in the high chair and the chocolate cake smeared everywhere.

B-Clay is the token diggery doo toting, peace loving, stupid hippie of our group of friends. His name came from a card he was given by one our friends on his birthday. He read it over and over again with his brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, he looked up and said, "What the fuck? What is a b-clay? I don't understand this at all." The card read "Happy b-day" and for some reason, even though it was his own fucking birthday, he could not figure out that what he thought was a lower-case "c" and "l" was actually a "d". He was referred to as B-Clay ever since.

As the sun was going down, I was waiting on the front yard with a beer for Pete to show up. He had taken off to find some girls at the beach to bring over to our little soiree.

About an hour later, his dented up maroon Caravan slid into the gravel driveway with "Hypnotize" bumping on a pair of blown out speakers. Pete stepped out with two of the sluttiest girls I had ever seen, slathered in makeup and clothing from what I could only imagine came off of a rack on the back lot of Pretty Woman. They introduced themselves and walked right into the house to grab drinks. Pete and I stayed in the driveway smoking cigarettes.

Me: "Petey, where the fuck did you find these chicks? I feel like I need to wipe my eyes with a Wet-Nap."

Pete: "Dude, I saw them at the beach. I talked to them for about 3 minutes, told them that I had a mansion on the beach, and they said that if they were invited that they would fuck everyone at the party!"

Me: "Awesome...wait, what! What the fuck are you talking about?!"

Pete: "I'm telling you Mikey, they mean it. Trust me."

Me: "OK, whatever man."

Shocked but completely fascinated, I walked into the house where the girls were already mingling with BFB and B-Clay, sipping on some Mr. Boston's Cape Cods in red plastic cups. Before you knew it, drinking games had begun, music started to play, people filled up the driveway with cars; we had a decent little shindig on our hands.

A whole bunch of girls had arrived which I was totally psyched about, but I could not stop watching the two girls Pete had brought to the house, staring intently to see what they were going to do. I still didn't believe Pete because he was always fucking with me. I just could not rationalize in my head that there were girls my age that did shit like this, aside from my teenage masturbatory fantasies, of course.

A few of us and the two girls, who I will now refer to as Cindy and Mary, headed upstairs to smoke some weed. Upon Peter shutting the door, one of the ladies opened up her cockwasher.

Cindy: "Tee hee, so when do we get this shit started fella's?"

Me: "What 'shit' are you talking about? Get a lighter."

Cindy: (noticeable slurring here) "No, not that shit. Are you guys ready to party or what?!"

Pete: "Hell yeah!! This is going to be awesome!"

Cindy: "I'm ready to get wild with you boys right now. So how much are you going to pay us?"

Me: "...Wha?!"

Pete had not only found the skankiest girls on York Beach, he had apparently picked up two 17 year old prostitutes.

I start laughing immediately. I had no idea that there were girls my age that actually accepted money for sex, let alone in New England. There was no way that I was going to bang either of these chicks, whether money was involved or not. I might have been a horny little devil but they were genuinely, flat out disgusting - Cindy had a nice ass coupled with the generous bosom of an 8 year old Asian boy and a killer set of peach fuzz muttonchops. Mary was blatantly horrible looking in the general face area with a less than average body and a set of teeth that looked like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. I honestly felt bad for everyone that would eventually fuck these two.

The question of payment was still unanswered, and nobody wanted to give these girls any money. Out of nowhere, some random kid came into the room with a checkbook.

Random Kid: "Here you go, here's a check for $30,000. Split it between the two of you. My only stipulation is that you both have to get naked and walk around the party completely naked for the rest of the night. Deal?" He handed the check over without even cracking a smile.

Cindy: "Fuck yeah! You got it! For this kind of money we'll stay all weekend!!"

What kind of a knuckle-dragging mouth breather would accept a check for $30,000 from an eighteen-year-old boy you might ask? These two, that's who. My jaw dropped wide open. Mary quickly snatched up the check, and before you knew it they both started getting naked in front of us while we smoked weed and watched. I felt like I was an extra in the movie Kids. I turned to the random kid; he just smiled and winked at me, then motioned with his head to watch the show.

Once completely naked, the amateur hookers each grabbed one of my friends. Cindy grabbed BFB and headed to the bathroom while Mary and another guy began making out and fondling each other right in front of the rest of us. I couldn't hold it in anymore; I started laughing so hard that I actually had to stifle a few puke burps with tears streaming down my face. This was the funniest thing I had ever seen unravel in front of my eyes. I decided not to hang around and perchance catch a glance of one of my buddies' erections, and made my way downstairs to drink more.

Once downstairs, I manage to tell a handful of people what had happened before I got dragged into a Johnny Walker Red Label shot competition. Eight shots and some toilet time later, I rinsed my mouth out and headed out the side door to smoke a cigarette. Once outside, I ran into B-Clay and immediately told him about the goings on in Peter's room.

B-Clay: "Mike that is ridiculous. They took a check from some random kid and just got naked?"

Me: "I swear to God, B-Clay. I wouldn't go near them if I were you; you know they've got to have some serious vagina leprosy."

B-Clay: "Wait, I remember some kid in the kitchen talking about how he found a checkbook on the side of the road today. Did he have a green t-shirt on?"

Random kid definitely had a green t-shirt on. He had just paid for seventeen year old whores with check fraud. For some reason that felt worse to me than paying for seventeen year old whores with cash. I immediately felt pangs of disgust and resentment about the whole situation. All I wanted to do was drink with my friends, and all of a sudden I had been unwittingly dragged into a Lolita brothel.

I was an awkward 17 year old boy, unable to control or understand the emotions and ideas that come with being drunk. Maybe I was just sensitive to this like that. The whole situation made me uncomfortable, but I didn't want to leave; I was drunk at a party with my best friends - one of the greatest feelings a kid can have. It's right up there with getting your first blowjob. It's freedom. Liberation. You're socializing. You are doing something that you are not supposed to be doing with your peers. More specifically, you are being seen doing something that you are not supposed to be doing by your peers. It is truly a defining part of growing up.

Nevertheless, I felt dirty, and the only solution my drunk 17 year old brain could pump out to rectify the situation was to act out against it.

Me: "We need to fuck with those girls somehow, B-Clay."

B-Clay: "Duuuuude, just let them get passed around the party, maaaan."

Me: "Dude, no way. I am going to fuck with them. Are you going to help me?"

One thing about B-Clay is that he buckles under peer pressure like the floorboards under a Lane Bryant fitting room.

B-Clay: "...I guess. Ok."

So B-Clay and I walked back inside, and sure enough, Mary was in the kitchen pounding Red Label out of the bottle and groping stranger's crotches. This would be our target.

We watched her saunter out the kitchen door and into the backyard like a crippled kid sans polio crutches, only to plop down on the grass, totally annihilated, half naked and giggling. B-Clay and I snuck behind her like a pair of drunken ninjas.

We looked at each other and knew exactly what we were thinking without saying a word.

We were going to pee on her.

We both unzipped our pants and got ready. One...two...three...

I saw B-Clay let loose a stream of urine splashing directly onto her back, soaking a good portion of her hair.

Mary: "Ughhhh...what's warm?" totally unaffected by the horrifyingly rank yellow fluid splashing all over the back of her head and neck.

I started laughing, which propelled the piss out of my dick in a more hurried fashion. It hit her right arm only for a moment before she started getting up. For some reason my reflexes made me feel like it was important to not get caught mictorating on a teenage hooker, so I turned around and pretended that I was pissing in a bush the whole time.

Mary: "What was that? It's all warm and sticky..."

B-Clay: "Oh don't worry, that was just a Super Soaker. You should probably go back inside and grab a drink."

I don't know how that worked, but it did. By some miracle, she found her footing and Franken-walked back into the party to troll for more cock.

After laughing for twenty minutes, B-Clay and I headed in as well. We didn't tell anyone about what we had just done in the hopes that someone else would fool around with a girl that was unintentionally marinating in our collective piss. Nobody in the kitchen was talking about a sloppy girl who reeked of pee stumbling by them, so we assumed that the coast was clear.

BFB spotted Cindy who was standing in the kitchen naked as a jaybird, looked over at me, smiled and walked her outside. Jesus, it had been about two hours since the girls had arrived, and as a team they must have fucked at least six or seven guys. Mary, who we had just relieved ourselves on, was nowhere in sight.

The topic of conversation in the room had shifted to whether or not I could pound an entire 40 oz. at once. Being Captain I'm-Seventeen-and-I-Can-Do-Anything, I accepted the challenge.

On the way to the bathroom to forcibly empty the contents of my innards, I noticed Mary, slumped over against the wall, still conscious...but barely. I don't remember seeing her drink, but I imagined that if I was a hooker I would rather be drunk than sober if I had to have sex with [a roughly estimated] ten anonymous men. "WHOOORREEEEE!!!" I closed the bathroom door and spewed forth an angry foam hurricane into the shitter.

The next thing I remember is being outside and alone on the porch, holding on to the railing and emptying the last ounce of bile from my body. When I finished, I had a seat and sparked a cigarette...only to begin to hear faint moaning coming from the rocks on the private beach that extended a bit past the backyard. I walked down a little ways to investigate, and sure enough...it was Cindy on top of BFB. Squinting to make the spins stop, I saw him put his clothes on and walk back towards the house. Cindy was still naked.

Cindy: "You're next, right? I hope so, you're a cutie..."

Me: "Uhhh...you make me uncomfortable."

Cindy: "I'm getting mad dick here. I love it."

Me: "Congratulations! It's official - I am never having a daughter. Ever."

Cindy ended up going outside while I questioned BFB about what happened at the water.

Me: "You better have used a condom, man. Please tell me you used a condom."

BFB: "Fuck yeah man, of course I used a condom. She was on top the whole time 'cause I was lazy, but she was so dry that the condom broke. I got right up and told her to find me when she got wet again. She wasn't happy, dude!"

Me: "B-Clay and I totally peed on the other one."

BFB: "With B-Clay?! I totally saw the two of them disappear upstairs right before I went outside with that chick with the mummy vagina."

Me: (post-vomit adrenaline kicking in) "There is no way he is banging the girl we just pissed on. How drunk is he?!"

BFB and I ran into the house, bolted up the stairs and into the living room. We could barely make out two figures writhing around in what sounded like a nylon sleeping bag. All I could smell was the stench of stale urine and cigarette smoke. Please God, no...

BFB and I in stereo: "B-Clay?!"

(About seven or eight seconds of silence)

B-Clay: "...What?"

This is possibly one of the most disgusting things one of my friends has ever done. B-Clay was pounding out the girl that less than an hour ago he was using as a toilet. Poetic justice. We didn't even bother stopping him, there were way too many bodily fluids involved to approach without biohazard suits. Instead, we went back downstairs and drank more.

2:00 a.m. - I had somehow gotten my ninth wind and was drinking scotch in the mahogany paneled library with a few guys when a couple of chicks from the party walked in.

Chicks: "Who the fuck is the girl in the sleeping bag upstairs? She's sitting up against the wall mumbling about who is going to fuck her next."

Me: "Wonderful, B-Clay must be done with Mary."

I explained what had transpired earlier to the girls that had just walked in. Suprisingly, they loved it. As it turned out, these girls already knew Mary. Apparently, all of the guys that they had crushes on in school had fucked her at one point. Somehow they convinced me to mess with her again, probably because they were good looking and my seventeen year old penis got hard at the flip of a light switch, so naturally I went with it.

We debated on what would be worse than peeing on them for some time. Someone thought of peeing on her again. Another thought of drawing on her with a permanent marker...and then someone came up with giving her a haircut.

Yes, that is much worse. Upstairs I went.

The small group of conspirators from the library and I had come up with an ingenious plan: Step 1) They would turn off the lights, Step 2) I would sneak over and cut Mary's hair, Step 3) Run away. Brilliant!

I had forgotten to grab scissors before I headed upstairs, so I ran back down into the kitchen to find a pair. Three minutes later, I had found nothing that remotely resembled scissors; However, I did find a rather dull, serrated steak knife. I was wasting time...this would have to do.

I ran back up the stairs and scanned the room quickly. Mary was still leaning against the wall, oblivious to the world around her. I noticed that her hair came down to the middle of her back. Everyone else had gathered around the light switch, awaiting me to acknowledge that I was ready. I look over to them and almost immediately the lights went off.

I tiptoed over to Mary, and without hesitation I squatted down, grabbed a handful of hair and began sawing at it with the steak knife. It was barely cutting; the knife was just sliding back and forth over it. I had to bear down with a considerable amount of force to begin tearing through it. I kept sawing for about 45 seconds, hastily completing half of a bob.

Mary: "Whaaa...??! Who is that? What are you doing?"

She began to squirm. I shot up like a lightning bolt, dropped the knife, and ran like hell towards the staircase, down the stairs and into the kitchen where the majority of the party was hanging around, nervously laughing the entire way. I looked in my hand, and there was a clump of light-brown hair, about four inches in length.

The people in the kitchen stood there and listened to me tell them what I had just done upstairs while I was hunched over, holding my knees and panting after sprinting for what seemed like forever. Once I finished my story, the entire kitchen roared with laughter and applause. I was a hero. I had just peed on a prostitute that had been compensated with a bad check, gave her a haircut with a steak knife...and I was a hero in the eyes of my peers. I wanted to laugh with everyone, but I couldn't. I didn't know what to think of myself. I just kind of stood there, getting patted on the back, holding the lock of hair, replaying the night in my head over and over. My stomach got queasier every time I got to the part with the steak knife. Everyone kept laughing. I was mad at myself for what I did; I was genuinely upset, something that I wasn't used to feeling, but I was discovering that I was even more upset with the crowd for approving of it. I mean, how could they? What I did was disgusting. I wanted to project my self loathing on the people around me, but I knew that wasn't possible - I was the only bad guy in the room. I felt like I was about to have an anxiety attack. I left the kitchen, went back upstairs, drank half of a bottle of cheap vodka and passed out alone with my demons in the bathtub.

I woke up around noonish with a staggering headache. Crawling out of the bathtub and into the living room, I saw unconscious bodies scattered everywhere...some clothed, some not. My first thoughts were of the whore twins from the night before. After briefly scanning the room I saw no sign of the pair, and I wasn't about to take the chance of being spotted by one of them by lounging around.

Seeing a chance to escape, I ducked outside and raced home on 95 South as fast as my jalopy '87 Buick Regal would take me. I cleaned my room and nervously filled out college applications for the rest of the day.

Posted by KungFu Mike at 10:56 PM

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I can't believe you didn't know about the York Beach 17 year old hookers...Man, where you been???

Posted by: at January 4, 2007 07:11 AM

I somehow stumbled upon your site while browsing myspace profiles like the lame ass that I am and began to read this story... with absolutely no intentions of reading it all the way through, I read the first paragraph and just couldn't fuckin' stop. Great shit, man... really great shit.

Posted by: at January 4, 2007 09:33 AM

B-Clay would be so proud

Posted by: josie at January 5, 2007 06:00 AM

Thi sis the biggest pile of horse-shit ever and I feel dumber for having read it. Million dollar mansion and he drives a beat up caravan w/blown speakers... million dollar "mansion" and old english.. this story is the worst fictin loosely based on american Pie ever... take your computer... throw it out a window and do the world a favor you clown -- Lets see if you have the balls to publish my comment .. bitch

KUNGFUMIKE'S SUPER BALLSY EDIT: If anyone has any doubts about this or any of my stories being true, go to my Myspace page (www.myspace.com/kungfu_mike), click on the people at the top of my friends list and ask them. They are my good friends and they were there for most of the shit that I write about.

Also, this specific story is in my Myspace blog as well. Go there and look at the comments from people who were at that party. Better yet, ask them about it if you still aren't convinced.

I may be a lot of things, but I'm not a liar.

Posted by: WishingIWasIlliterateNow at January 7, 2007 08:10 PM

Sir, you are a god.

Posted by: Klaus at January 9, 2007 09:37 PM

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