A true story about a deaf guy and a blowjob.
When I was in high school I had this beautiful blonde friend named Pam. I was the funny one and Pam was the hot one. We hung out all the time, rebellious and fearless. Not a good combination for a couple of teenage girls in Columbia Falls, Montana.
We would seek adventure and try anything twice: some dirty drug called Crank (which I’m pretty sure is just another name for Meth), acid parties, smoking literal weeds rolled up in Monopoly money, getting carnies to buy us alcohol and cigarettes, winding up in situations involving mullets and the Singles soundtrack.
She started dating this dork named Jeff, which meant I was constantly the third wheel stuck with whichever of his friends was hanging out with us that night. I would be in the backseat of his Geo, AC/DC blaring and Jeff driving 90 miles per hour thinking, “Great. This is how I’m going to die.”
One night Jeff picked Pam and I up and stuck me in the backseat with his friend who happened to be deaf.
The goal of the night was to drive to the woods and drink a keg of Icehouse.
We reached the woods and Geoff put on AC/DC, per usual, and started making out with Pam.
I sat in the backseat with my arms crossed. Pam looked at me, sighed annoyingly and said, “Just make out with him or something.”
The deaf guy nodded enthusiastically.
In this moment shone two of my most promising character traits: the ability to make the best of a stupid situation, and a stunningly impressive work ethic.
We started making out and the next thing I know there’s one hand under my bra and another hand pushing my head down. I was doing that thing where you try and dodge the hand on the head, hoping to avoid the inevitable. I didn’t want to be in the back of a Geo listening to AC/DC with a keg of fucking Icehouse between me and some guy who kept referring to his penis in a language I couldn’t understand. I wanted him to teach me sign language, and I was hoping to use the situation as an educational tool. When he spoke it just sounded like “my uh”.
“My uh”, he would say, pushing my head down with brute force.
“What?”, I’d sign, stopping a moment to try and remember what “h” is in sign language.
Hells Bells came on and I’m stoned and Jeff really suped up that Geo so you could feel the bass in your bones and suddenly there it is. There. It. Is.
Well, shit.
I guess I’m going to be that girl. I’m going to be that girl who gives the deaf guy a blowjob because there it is, I can’t understand what this guy is grunting, my best friend is making out with her future husband in the front seat and what else am I going to do? Talk about JD Salinger with this guy in the snow?
It was my first bj. I tasted success. Literally. And it tasted of stale beer and the awkward desire to give someone a sarcastic high five while sheepishly shrugging.
We pulled out of a snow bank to Back in Black and hugged goodnight. I signed goodbye, and realized it was just a wave.
Six years later I was the Maid of Honor in Jeff and Pam’s wedding.
I still want to learn sign language.
