Qualified (Short Story)

I was nineteen years old when I found out what a clit really was.

Strangely enough, I was in the Army and it was my qualification day on the range. The last time I had qualified on my M-16 was almost a year prior.

Of course, it was another unit running the range. Some infantry unit. I was military intelligence, the butt of many jokes in the Army, not the least of which had to do with our oxymoronic title. I guess the others didn’t realize they were making fun of themselves with that, too.

Before every qualification fire, we were required to battlesight zero our weapon. A cool sounding name for adjusting the sights of our weapon so that what we aim at is what we’re actually shooting. It was simple enough: put three rounds into a 25-meter paper target within a four centimeter diameter in the middle of a human-shaped target.

I was having trouble. Normally you get between nine and eighteen rounds to do it. I was on round 36 and counting.

One of the range safeties was a grizzled old Sergeant First Class, a leftover from the Gulf War era, Grenada, Kosovo and every other conflict we thrust ourselves in after Vietnam. I’m pretty sure he was past the retirement age but one of those guys who loved it so much – or had nothing else to look forward to after the Army – that he refused to submit his retirement paperwork.

“It’s your trigger squeeze.” He was so matter-of-fact and yet still able to instill fear in me with the way he spoke. He pointed to my shot group which had three holes punched in it in a more or less horizontal line. They were on target. Just not good enough to call good by Army standards.

“Yes, Sergeant. I’ll try harder.”

“No! That’s the problem,” he explained to me as we walked back to the firing line. “Do you know what a clit is?”

I looked at him curiously. My mind wandered to the word ‘clit’. I’d heard the word many times before. I found a stash of Playboys and Penthouses when I was younger. It wasn’t a foreign word to me, I just wasn’t entirely sure what or – more importantly – where it was. I simply knew it as a part of a woman’s anatomy (the concept of the elusive G-spot was something much more foreign and something I still wouldn’t learn for many more years to come – pun intended).

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know what it was. He already looked down on me. I imagined him going back and telling his grunt buddies about this MI geek who didn’t even know what a clit was. I could see them all laughing at my expense around a case of beer and a blazing barbecue (cooking sausages, no doubt).

“Yes, Sergeant.” The uncertainty in my voice must have tipped him off that I had no clue. That and my long response time.

He played along anyway, “You see, you gotta be gentle with it.” He put his trigger finger and thumb together and gently rubbed them back and forth. “You play with it too hard and she screams in pain. You gotta do it nice and soft. Gently squeeze until she pops off. Now imagine the trigger is your girlfriend’s clit. Be gentle. Squeeze it, don’t force it. You got it?”

“Roger, Sergeant.” Clear as mud, I thought to myself.

And as I got myself positioned in the foxhole again, I thought about it. I truly didn’t know what a clit was. Had I been doing things wrong this whole time? Man, I thought I was good at cunnilingus. Apparently I had been fooling myself this whole time. Truth was, I knew a clit was down there somewhere.

I remember my first ever experience. It was high school. And I went down on her one night after a football game. I licked and licked and licked until my tongue got so sore I couldn’t lick anymore. I certainly knew when the time came I would have no trouble with where to put… you know what. Because that’s what I was licking.

I even tried the trick my friend had suggested in spelling the ABCs with my tongue. I got bored around Q and was pretty certain she knew what I was doing. Besides, I could tell it wasn’t really doing anything for her. I never ventured outside of that area enough to know there was something else I should be paying attention to.

I went through high school like that. Granted there were only two other girls I performed cunnilingus on, so it’s not like I had a lot of experience to begin with.

As I grabbed my M-16 and loaded three more rounds, I got the gist of what he was saying: gentle trigger squeeze – in more words than that complete with a visual.

And I did just that. I gently popped off three rounds in a four centimeter diameter, key-holing two of the rounds. It was a great shot group.

Even the Sergeant First Class congratulated me – in his own way, “Yep. I believe you’re ready to go qualify.”

I damn sure was. I was confident. And I shot well enough.

That night, I searched for my girlfriend’s clit. It took a little while and a sore tongue, but I found it. It was the first she or any other girl I’d ever been with had actually humped my face. She moaned and kept grinding her hips. And I thought to myself…

Yep, I’m officially official. I’m qualified.

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Halloween Hangover (Through Eyes of Today’s Kid)

Welp, this year I misjudged the amount of candy I would need. Turns out, I should have brought two oversized king pillow cases. Then again, I came across a lot of cheap asses who only bought one bag of candy that was gone by the time I got there and the ones who got stingy because my handful is bigger than the average kid’s.

Slap my hand again bitch. I dare you.

Some people have some pretty crappy ideas on what’s ok to hand out on Halloween. For instance, candy corn. Yeah, it gets a bad rap… For good reson. Really, what is candy corn but yellow, orange and white colored sugar. Why don’t you just give me your diabetes. Or better yet, give me some Sweet N’ Low so I can get cancer.

And the fresh fruit people kill me. Yeah, I really want some fucking fruit my mom puts in my lunchbox for school.

A fucking coupon booklet? I’m 6 not 65.

A pack of pencils. Fuck off, Poindexter.

Somebody gave me a slice of American cheese. You know that processed shit that’s barely better than velveeta? Ok, it’s not actually better.

To the lady that gave me a penny taped to a religious card, here’s my thoughts (for your penny): a cent doesn’t go as far as it did when you were a kid. In fact, a penny can’t even buy me a piece of candy nowadays that your cheap ass was too “frugal” to buy.

Anything that doesn’t come in a wrapper. Keep it. I don’t want it. You wasted your money because it’s going in the trash. Mom is strict about this. And you just fucked up my Halloween because it’s going to be a week before I can even eat any of the shit I got. Thanks, ass hole.

One old couple even handed out pint-sized milk cartons like the ones you get in the school cafeteria. How do you like those broken windows you cheap bastards?! Have fun cleaning the spoiled milk stench in your house! Ok, I’m sorry Grandma, but like you always told me: Don’t cry over spilled milk.

And then there was the guy handing out a travel pack of Kleenex. Really, dude?! The least you could do is hand out free condoms. Next year, I’m skipping his house and going straight to Planned Parenthood. I hear the girls there are easy. Two birds, one stone. Actually, now that I think of it, that’s three birds, one stone — if need be. Gotta love Planned Parenthood.

I guess it wasn’t so bad. No razor blades in my caramel apples. At least it was a lesson learned for when I grow up not to be such a douche on Halloween.

P.S. – To the lady giving out D batteries, you probably should have saved them for your vibe.

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“Facing It” by Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn’t
dammit: No tears.
I’m stone. I’m flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I’m inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson
I see the booby trap’s white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet’s image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I’m a window.
He’s lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.
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Music Mondays: “Africa” by Toto

Okay, I decided to have a little fun this Monday. This is a throwback in the worst way possible… 80’s music.

I decided to look up what the #1 song was on the day that I was born. Don’t ask why, just go with it.

And I found out this was the song:

“Africa” by Toto:

Most people would think it’s a terrible song. Or at best, a one hit wonder with a decent rhythm and beat. Actually, I consider it a win. Anybody who knows me knows why.

And apart from that, after actually listening to and reading the lyrics, it’s pretty decent. If they could only take away the 80’s portion of it and put it to music that is actually listenable, this could be a great song. Hope you enjoy it for what it’s worth.

What was the song on the day you were born? Do you think it’s telling of the person you are, or just more of that horoscope-type bullshit?

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Music Mondays: Talkdemonic and Ryan Avery (Chance’s End)

Let me be the first to say I’m not a fan of anything electronic or synthetic when it comes to music. But of course, there are always exceptions.

Especially when you can put a classical instrument as the centerpiece to synth beats. This is, by no means, my endorsement of electronica or synth music. I am simply saying there are exceptions to almost every rule.

And this is what Ryan Avery does with his music and particularly this song:

“Diamond in Disguise” by Ryan Avery (aka Chance’s End)

Likewise, the group Talkdemonic (yeah, I’m not a fan of the name either but the music is genuinely good) does something very similar. Although I’d say there’s is a little less synth and a little more modern instruments mixed with classical.

“Final Russian” by Talkdemonic:

Remember when I said I’d never post Rebeccah Black or Lady Gaga? Yeah, because I simply don’t value their music in the least bit for any reason. Call me old fashioned but I like real music that is at least partially made from pure talent and musical knowledge. The kind that makes ridiculous lyrics like the afformentioned obsolete because the music speaks for itself. And don’t get me wrong, I have NOTHING against lyrics… as long as they’re good. But nowadays lyrics just aren’t good the majority of the time. And those are just two of a multitude of examples.

If you haven’t already noticed by now, I’m a sucker for music made from classical insturments (Break of Reality and Yoshida Brothers). I guess I am old-fashioned. Oh well, take it or leave it. This music definitely doens’t need me to speak for it. Enjoy.

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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~Dylan Thomas

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Music Mondays: Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

One of my all-time favorite songs. And that’s saying a lot given my affinity for music.

Oh, Lord Please don’t let me be misunderstood. The trumpet and the Spanish guitar give it away as a Mexican tribute. I LOVE Mexican music and that flowing, yet quick Spanish guitar that sustains the rhythm of songs like:

“Cancion del Mariachi” by Antonio Banderas in the film “Desperado”. It’s extremely complex and hard to do. If you’ve ever even attempted to play the guitar, you know.

f you listen closely to the beginning of “Cancion del Mariachi” in Robert Rodriguez’s film “Desperado”, you;” notice an eery similarity to the beginning of  “Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)” by Nancy Sinatra in the Quentin Tarantino film “Kill Bill, Vol. 1”. Not a coincidence at all, I think.

But anyway, back to my original post, I particularly love Nina Simone’s version of this song. And this, by John Legend:

Just some food for your soul. Bon appetit.

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