Wild Horses

Prologue:

I was age 42 when I got hooked on smoking crack cocaine early in 1995, as my 85-year-old father lay slowly dying on the couch in the parlor, that had also conveniently served as his bed the last couple of decades or so.

The number 42 jolted me.

I was still unmarried, still no girlfriend and worst of all – not even close to ever getting one.

My crippling fear of intimacy had left me with a wasted lonely life without love.

But it was too late now.

I could not go back in time to fix the damage.

I cannot ever go back. No one can.

It’s too late!

What have I done!

A short while later, I was drinking in a seedy neighborhood bar on a late afternoon. I noticed a skinny local skank chick with frizzy hair sitting in a booth, wearing dark glasses.

I took one look at her and wasn’t interested. But I kept glancing at her from time to time.

There was something odd about the way she just sat there unmoving, looking straight ahead. She seemed to be waiting for someone, or something.

Later, we just happened to be leaving the bar at the same time.

We paused awkwardly at the back door exit, each politely uncertain over who should go first.

I looked at her and then asked if she needed a ride to wherever she was going.

She turned out to be a crack addict.

What followed was an insanely delirious mother-of-all crack binges that lasted several months. It ended abruptly when, still buzzing from an all-night crack smoking binge, I had an emotional nervous breakdown at work.

It was my first day back on the job, several days after my father had died alone at home of an apparent heart attack in March, 1995.

The “Wild Horses” incident occurred sometime during my near-suicidal binge. I don’t recall exactly when.

Wild Horses

I’m sitting in my car parked outside the Wild Horse strip joint, making a last-minute check of my stash.

I finger my jacket’s inner breast pocket to feel for the half dozen rocks of crack cocaine, each dirty yellow chunk about half the size of a pencil eraser.

Should be enough hits, I think.

I also feel in my pants pocket for my small glass pipe wrapped in a paper towel, along with two Bic Clic lighters.

I learned the hard way to have a backup lighter.

My head is already starting to tighten behind my forehead, and my body is feeling a creeping unpleasantness.

I need another hit.

And soon!

At the bar’s entrance, I pay twenty dollars to the unsuspecting long-haired cashier in the booth. The fee includes a free drink.

I’m trying to keep my expression neutral even though my face feels tight.

Just hold on, I tell myself. Only a little while more.

I step inside the bar, and instantly engulfed in a swirl of deafening rock music while nearly naked women in g-strings are walking around the cavernous bar.

A virtual Disneyland of flesh – and thanks to my friend King Crack, my new playground of living fuck dolls to enjoy!

No need to be shame or scared after taking a monster hit from the pipe.

I take a seat at the tables near the back wall.

 

After ordering a Budweiser from a skinny gay-looking Oriental guy, I head for bathroom.

Finally!

I enter a stall and close the door, feeling sickly, shaky excitement.

I take out my pipe, carefully place a chunk of crack on the steel wool bunched near the end.

Careful now, don’t drop it!

Tilting the pipe upward, I flick my lighter and hold the flame over the crack chunk.

I begin sucking on the pipe, which pulls the flame down toward the crack.

The dirty chalklike rock begins instantly melting, making slight sizzling and crackling sounds as it disappears into the steel wool. 

Streams of smoke begin flowing down the pipe, which I slowly rotate to heat the steel wool evenly.

I continue to inhale the smoke until my lungs can’t take any more — holding it in . . . holding . . . holding . . .  waiting for the freight train to hit. 

When I feel a slight dizziness, I let a whooshing stream of smoke that bounces off the wall and fills the small bathroom stall with icy smoke.

Ahhhhhhhhh. Yes! It’s all worth it.

This is where I really live!

The straight world is an alternate reality of fear and loneliness. That dreary world of normal people is the actual illusion.

We each create our own reality anyway – whether sober or high.

This reality is so much fucking better.

I’ve entered another heavenly dimension where all things are possible, Whatever was holding me back has vanished.

I’m in the Wild Horse lapdance strip joint high buzzing on crack – so now I’m gonna go out there and grab me some ass!

As I leave the bathroom stall, I worry slightly about the lingering smoke, glad that no one is coming in.

The smoke will dissipate in a few minutes.

I glance at the wall mirror on the way out.

I seem OK except for the shiny glint in my eyes. To the casual observer my glazed eyes might just mean I’m drunk.

Out on the main room, I take a seat and wait for a dancer to pass by.

On the giant TV screens mounted on the walls, I see blonde porn star Amber Wave sucking a naked big man’s huge dick.

 

I flashback to my fucked-up encounter with Amber – which occurred at this very bar about a year ago!

Amber had been making a nationwide circuit of strip clubs as the headliner, including the Wild Horse in Honolulu.

Between performances, I had seen Amber sitting alone at the bar – so I giddily seized the day.

I walked up to Amber and offered to buy her a drink.

She was surprisingly friendly.

What I still remember (besides Amber’s giant tits), is how creamy white her skin was. 

Amber started telling me how beautiful Hawaii was, and the fun she had at the North Shore the previous day.

I tried to visualize Amber in a bikini – strolling along Sunset Beach with her 44-inch EEE chest. Wow.  The mind boggles.

But this was my golden chance to realize my ultimate fantasy.

Fuck a huge-tit porn star!

“Do you give private sessions?” I asked Amber.

She stiffened and suddenly glared at me.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?”

What?

I was caught off guard.

Haven’t I repeatedly watched a porn video of Amber in my bedroom while high on dope – where Amber is sandwiched between two studs with huge dicks, both fucking her ass?

Two big dicks impossibly squished inside Amber’s asshole!

There Amber was – on my small TV screen, lying on one guy, her huge breasts squished against his chest, while the other stud lies on top of her, their huge pricks simultaneously reaming her amazingly expansive anal orifice.

Amber was even managing to smile like she was enjoying it!

I even recall masturbating to orgasmic release, calling out “Oh Amber!” in delirious longing, visualizing myself as the guy in the video, as Amber’s huge breasts were squishing against my chest while she’s groaning in pleasure from our huge dicks cruelly ravaging her creamy-white asshole.

 

Amber glared at me.

“Who do you think you are?” she said.

Amber’s voice began rising.

“I make more money in a day that you could make in a year!” she snapped.

“You know what? I think you better leave right now,” Amber said. “Yes, you better leave right now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, retreating in shock.

I was unsure whether to be angry or contrite. I was mainly confused.

I only knew that I somehow stupidly blew my chance to fuck Amber’s huge tits!

Amber seemed mad enough to call the bouncer.

Above all, I hate making scenes, with strangers looking curiously at me. 

I quickly got up and walked out of Wild Horse in dazed confusion.

 

What the fuck just happened? 

Later, I formed a theory that made sense.

In a twisted way, Amber must think she’s like everybody else – except for getting gang-banged by guys with twelve-inch dicks in front of a camera.

Afterwards, I had my usual obsessive “if only” fantasies that I would replay over and over in my mind . . .

If only I had been the nice guy, maybe took Amber sightseeing like some tourist.

If only I had treated Amber with respect, be like a friend to her – then everything would have been different.

I could have paddled Amber out on the ocean, tandem style on a surfboard, out to goat island off Malaekahana Beach that is normally deserted on weekdays.

Smoke some joints, turn her on, and then . . . anything goes! 

Rub some coconut oil on Amber’s massive tits –  and tit-fuck Amber on the sand or the shoreline under a baking merciless sun!

 

Later, I also had another unpleasant stoned encounter with a young lap dancer, which forced me to avoid Crazy Horse indefinitely.

The dancer was young and petite.

She was hovering over my lap, rubbing her exquisitely soft ass along the fabric of my pants covering my swollen dick.

Nudity was not allowed, so clothing was an extremely regrettable barrier between pussy and dick.

I was in my pervert mode, roughly grabbing and kneading my young dancer’s ass like bread dough, and rubbing my dick deep in the crevice between her pillowy ass cheeks – until I shot my load.

When the dancer felt moist stickiness on her bottom, she jumped up and said, “You came on me!”

She furiously demanded twenty dollars for a tip, which I stupidly refused to give her.

I argued loudly that isn’t the purpose of a lap dance to stimulate a man to ejaculation?

The infuriated dancer ordered me out of the bar, following me and cursing.

In full view of everyone, she even roughly shoved my back several times to hasten my exit.

I didn’t respond and fled the scene like a cowardly weasel, because I got what I wanted.

But after that encounter, I stayed away from Wild Horse.

But now here I am, back again – because anything is possible with King Crack!

 

“Hey there!

Hello! Want a lap dance?”

I snap out of my flashback reverie and glance up.

A tall, statuesque brunette with clear blue eyes is smiling down at me.

“Uh, how much is it?” I ask.

“Twenty dollars, for as long as the song lasts.”

I look at her curvy, toned body – all mine for a twenty.

But my crack high is already fading.

So fucking fast!

I’m only feeling a light buzz no, which I know is going to feel very unpleasant soon.

I need another hit.

“We can wait until the next song starts,” she says.

“OK then – have a seat. I gotta use the bathroom.”

 

I enter the bathroom and go into the stall.

But when I’m lighting up another rock, I hear a guy entering the bathroom just as I’m taking a hit. I realize he can hear the sizzling and slight popping sounds of the melting crack.

I hold in the smoke, exhaling slowly and quietly, waiting for him to leave.

Hoooooo. Hurry man, hurry!

I gotta get back out there before this intense part fades.

So fucking fast!

He leaves and I exhale a blast of whooshing smoke.

I come out from the bathroom stall just as another guy enters.

Shit!

I quickly avert my eyes and walk past him, hoping he doesn’t go into my stall full of lingering crystalline smoke.

 

I then walk quickly to the dancer, who rises up, standing maybe three inches above me.

I’m a typical short Asian-American, short with a slim build.

“OK I’m ready now,” I say, taking a seat.

I hand her the twenty dollar bill, which she tucks in her G-string.

 

She then straddles me as I lean back in my seat.

Facing outward, she lowers herself and cushions my penis between her exquisite ass cheeks.

Even though a big hit of crack makes my dick quickly go limp, the brain-blowing sensation is still unbelievably exquisite.

She slowly begins rocking up and down on my groin.

My hands start caressing her back in circular strokes, marveling at its smooth suppleness.

She increases the tempo as the blasting rock song escalates the beat. I move my hips to match her pelvic grinding, almost feeling like I’m riding a galloping horse.

Oh man, how good this feels!

I gather her long black hair into a ponytail and pull gently, taking the reins on my magnificent mare.

She arches her head back, submitting totally, pumping in rhythm, the rock music blasting.

In my unholy euphoria, I’m magically transported.

We’re no longer in a bar.

Her big sexy body has magically transformed into a magnificent stallion galloping under me – taking me to a fairy-tale land of rolling green hills and misty mountaintops.

I can almost hear thunder and lightning flashing, illuminating her transformation from stripper into a gorgeous wild steed – our joined hips rocking in rhythm, taking me to the mystical Land of Make Believe – where everything is fine forever.

 

The song ends as she slows to a stop, then gets up.

“Thank you,” she says. “That was nice,”

“Yeah, maybe we can do it again later,” I reply.

Funny, even though the lap dance was almost better than orgasm, my dick wasn’t even hard because of the monstrous crack hit.

 

I take another sip of beer, and watch Amber deep throating a black guy’s dick on the TV screen mounted on the wall.

I get up and start walking toward the bathroom.

I seem to hear the big black bartender suddenly calling out across the room, “Hey druggie! Where you going — taking another hit?”

I look back. What did he say?

He can’t be talking to me.

I look back at him behind the bar.

The bouncer is standing at the bar too, both of them looking at me.

Did I hear right? 

I hesitate.

Nah, must be just crack paranoia. No way he knows what I’m doing.

The music is so loud and my brain is buzzing so much from the crack, sometimes you hear things that aren’t real when you are high.

 

Lately when I’m in my room at night firing up the pipe, watching the porno in all night binges, I seem to hear noises outside my bedroom, like people talking in hushed voices outside in the backyard.

But when I look out my window in the darkness I can’t see anything.

After that I taped cardboard over the windows.

Yet still I felt vaguely uneasy whenever I smoked crack in my bedroom in the dead of night.

Sometimes while driving back home at night wired on crack, I would seem to see people standing on the road in the distance – but freak out when the “people” turn out to be a fire hydrant or a street sign or something.

I wonder, are people in Wild Horse noticing me going to the bathroom so often?  

 

After taking another hit inside the stall, I emerge from the bathroom, and walk up to the bar next to where the bouncer is standing.

“Can I have a 7-up, please?” I ask the bartender politely. He looks at me briefly and gets me the soda.

I look at the bouncer and say “howzit.” He nods his head in acknowledgment.

I thank the bartender and leave a 2-dollar tip.

I’m cool, no problem.

 

I take a seat at the chairs lining the stage, the radiant overhead lights bathing my face that feels flushed, like a mild sunburn without the sting.

Everyone seems to be looking at me.

I gaze back at them calmly, feeling a total lack of fear or worry.

My heart is pumping and my head buzzing, but I’m in control.

In the first flush of crack euphoria, I’m feeling only warmth and a desire to connect with others.

 

I look at the young local Jap guy sitting across the stage, looking at me curiously.

Yeah, he’s probably a lonely guy trapped in his solitary fantasy, just like me.

I feel like saying to him, “What’s up?”

The young local guy is probably cool, maybe wishing he could joke around and laugh with somebody like me – and not feel ashamed to be by himself in a strip bar in the afternoon.

Everyone just wants to be friends really.

If only I could feel like this all the time.

 

The stripper on stage kneels in front of me, spreading her legs.

I smile back and stick a five dollar bill in her garter.

I get up and sit in the chairs along the back wall, waiting for the next dancer.

A few more songs go by and no one comes by.

I’m getting antsy again, feeling worse with each withdrawal cravings between hits.

 

I move to the back rows of seats, where a pillar blocks the view from the bar.

They can’t see me from here, I think.

I load up my pipe and slide my jacket over my head, and take a hit, careful not to singe my jacket with the lighter flame.

I fill my lungs and slide my jacket back down, then exhale the smoke downward along the floor in the darkened bar.

Ahhhhh. Relief!

All’s well in the world.

 

I start clapping loudly to the rock music, yelling, “C’mon, let’s get it on! I need some action here!”

The dancers seem to have all disappeared.

Where is everybody?

I glance over toward the far wall, and suddenly notice the full-length mirror along the whole upper half.

From where I’m sitting in my deserted row of seats, I can see the reflection of the entire bar and the bartender.

Which means they can see me!

The bouncer is walking toward my table.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says. 

Busted!

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, jumping up in shock and horror as I start to walk quickly toward the exit.

What if they called the cops!

From across the room I can hear my brunette lap dancer saying loudly, “Awwwww!” in disappointment at my leaving.

Despite my shock and shame and fear, I smile to myself.

She doesn’t want me to go.

 

Heart pounding, I push out the exit door and step out into the harsh sunlight, walking quickly along the sidewalk, putting distance between me and my accusers.

They were watching me all along!

The druggie.

I look back at the Wild Horse entrance.

I’m all alone.

No one has followed me. No cop cars are racing up.

I feel so weird and disoriented.

I just stepped out from a surreal dark universe – and now I’m suddenly standing on the blazing hot Kapiolani boulevard sidewalk – with cars whizzing by and glaring sunlight assaulting my dilated pupils. 

I’m just another pedestrian walking somewhere.

I’m not harming anyone or committing a crime.

I try to calm my racing heart, telling myself that only the people in Wild Horse know what just happened.

It exists only in my mind now, as a memory.

If I don’t tell anyone – it will be like it never happened.

Yes.

Never ever tell anyone about this.

 

I walk toward Backseat Betty’s video parlor porn arcade in the next building, and enter.

It’s deserted except for the attendant behind the counter.

I say “Hi” to him as I walk to the small wooden booths lining the wall.

I enter a booth, closing and locking the thin door.

I’m safely alone now.

I sit on the small seat, and shakily slip several quarters into a slot on a TV screen mounted in the wall.

Instantly the booth lights up from a porn video on the TV screen.

A moaning girl is giving a blowjob while she’s getting fucked in the ass by another porn stud with a huge dick.

I take out my glass pipe and feel in my jacket pocket for another rock.