Chapter Twenty-one
I was driving around Dallas one afternoon in 1970 listening to the continuing saga of the two announced candidates for Mayor of Dallas. One was former television sportscaster Wes Wise, the other was the owner of the local Burger King franchise who had entered the race and then pulled out quite hastily.
The newscast was featuring comments from the former, “If you're going to run for office, then do so and quit being so wishy-washy about it.
The little light bulb went off in my head upon hearing that and I decided, at 55 mph, to run for the office myself.
There was only one problem I could see and that was I didn't have the slightest idea how to run for public office.
I knew you raised money, gave speeches and got on talk shows, delivered sound bites and staged photo ops and such; but I didn't have an inkling as to how to make it all legal.
So I called my friend, newscaster Ron Jenkins, at KLIF-AM.
"I'm announcing my candidacy for the office of Mayor of Dallas", I said.
"Are you kidding?” he asked. He knew me to be a rather non-political type. He knew I published Claxon magazine and that it had a decent but not too powerful reputation.
"Yes, I'm serious!" I told him. "I'm really going to run. I don't know if I can win or not but I think I have something to say and I'm going to say it. You want to run some tape on me?"
At least I knew how to talk the talk.
"Ok! Stand by. And, Dave Moeller? Why do you want to be Mayor of Dallas?” he began the recording.
I said I wanted to show that just because a person was young it didn't mean they wanted to violently destroy the “establishment”. There were plenty of young people who were willing to work within it for the common good...and words to that effect.
Ron taped it all and promised to run it on the next newscast.
Before we hung up I said, "There's just one more thing. Uhh...you don't have to use this part. How do you run for Mayor? What do you have to do to qualify?"
He laughed and said he didn't know any more about it than I did. But he said the City Clerk's office could probably tell me.
I called and learned I needed to submit a petition, signed by at least 300 registered voters, to place my name on the ballot. It didn't matter whether they supported me or not, they were just agreeing to allow my name on the ballot.
I was advised it was a good idea to get twice as many signatures as needed to insure agianst “unqualifieds” -those not registered to vote. There was a $50 filing fee to be paid when I submitted the petitions. I could pick up the forms at their office during regular hours.
I was on my way!
The race got interesting pretty quickly. The power structure in Dallas at the time was the Citizens Charter Association (CCA); who had sponsored a survey to see who would be a viable candidate for them to back in the election.
Interestingly enough, by their tally, I actually garnered some votes... and then, only about 40 fewer than Ross Perot.
Wes Wise was the "independent" candidate.
I was the “flower child” –as hippies were called- candidate.
Then came, in no particular order: Al Lipscomb, the "black activist" candidate; Herb Green, the "this publicity will drum up business for my floundering ambulance chasing law firm" (my characterization) candidate who was also the "Remember: I actually almost beat the incumbent last time" candidate (true…in a two man race); Joe Bock, “the accountant” candidate (whose son and I had gone to Jr. High together); and David Wade, "the Gourmet TV Chef" candidate.
The Magnificent Seven rode into the fray. Only one would survive. Which man? Who would lead the 8th largest city in the nation for the next two years?
It was a fun campaign. I turned in a considerable number of petitions and thought I was cleared for take-off. Then I got a call and was told that there may be a deficit of eligible signatures.
I got considerably more signatures.
Again I was called and this time told there was still “a question” as to a few of them but, not to worry, I'd be allowed to run anyway.
They knew a fun campaign when they saw one coming.
Lipscomb was mad at everybody and ran a stereotypical repressed-black/activist campaign, albeit he was quite friendly and personable back stage.
He was elected to city council years later and served several terms before finally resigning after being convicted for accepting payments from Yellow Cab Co. in exchange for votes.
He ultimately served 27 months of a 41-month home detention sentence before a court overturned his conviction and he was set free.
Wade’s sole claim to fame was his style of checking the microphones before he spoke: "Tasting! Tasting! 1-2-3-4 Tasting!"
I was convinced, if he won, that school lunches would have finally started tasting good.
Joe Bock ran a very low key campaign, the way you'd expect an accountant to conduct himself.
Mays was very soft. He couldn't stand up to Wise's personable style honed by years in broadcasting.
He was a good and successful businessman, but he didn't instill that faith people wanted in their Mayor in those “don’t trust anyone over 30” days.
I was the only one in the line up that was under 30.
I ran a very straight, intelligent campaign. I had no money to spend so I relied on my ability to create photo ops and grab press, camera time, and sound bites away from the two front runners, Wise and Mays.
I received a letter from the North Dallas Chamber of Commerce inviting myself and the other candidates to dine at their weekly luncheon, but only Mays and Wise would be allowed to speak, "due to time constraints”.
All the candidates would be seated at the head table.
At first I thought “Screw this!” but a plan began to form.
The day of the luncheon I waited in the parking lot of the Northpark Inn until just moments before I felt all the schmoozing and gladhanding had been done.
All eyes, and news cameras, were on me as I strolled leisurely and confidently to the head table, pulled out a chair on the end, and slowly, and with great dignity, sat down.
Mind you, when the waiter brought my meal I pulled down the gag and claimed my prize. The N.D.C.C. didn't say I couldn't eat; I just couldn't talk!
Lesson: Never pass up a free meal!
That night all the TV stations carried the story at both 6 and 10 pm and again on their morning shows the next day.
While they touched lightly on the same old stuff the candidates always said at those luncheons, the bulk of their video was of me -including audio- explaining my campaign platform. Neither Wise nor Mays speeches were aired.
The luncheon reached 200 people. The newscasts covered the entire city and several counties.
Coverage I could never have afforded to reach through paid advertising.
Early in the campaign I was visited by an old hippie buddy I knew only as Texas Jack. We use to hang out in our Phantasmagoria days.
He'd bragged he was a Bandido, a member of the notorious Texas motorcycle club. He even produced a signed note from Hell’s Angels President Sonny Barger okaying his “colors” (his biker jacket). It was dangerous to enter a biker gang’s turf wearing another set of colors. The note supposedly allowed safe passage.
To me, Jack always seemed a little too sophisticated to be an outlaw biker.
He had the tip of a finger missing: "Bit off by an alligator when I used to wrestle them in Florida", he'd say.
He was friendly enough but I could never shake the instinctive feeling he was a cop, even though we smoked a lot of grass together in those days.
On this day he just appeared at my door with another man.
Jeanette and I were again living in the Oak Lawn house, no longer the commune it had been. I invited them into my office and we sat and talked.
Jack was there to see about my campaign and said he wanted to help out any way he could. He wore a suit and tie but he never told me what he'd been doing in the three years since I'd seen him last and was vague and non¬committal when I asked.
And he never satisfactorily introduced his buddy, either. Another “suit”.
I was surprised crowds weren’t gathering at the sound of all the bells that were going off in my head.
We were having a nice reminiscent chat, that's all, going nowhere when, unceremoniously, he pulled out a joint and asked if I'd like to "do up".
Without missing a beat I said no, not while I was running for Mayor: I wanted to keep a clear head about things, I explained; but I didn't mind if he and his buddy smoked it.
He pushed it a little, "Come on…for old time's sake", but I held fast.
Very shortly, perhaps a little to obviously, after that the two made their excuses and left. They never did light the joint and I never saw them again.
That sealed it. I knew they were cops.
Lesson: Always trust your instincts.
I really was a hippie. I had modestly long hair and sideburns; but I knew, if I was going to achieve any credibility in the race, I'd have to make a positive "statement" about myself and what I represented.
I had good relations with the Dallas press, including WFAA-TV's news department.
One day I called them and said I was getting a haircut, did they want the exclusive story?
They almost wet their pants in excitement!
Stop the presses! Hippie cuts hair! Is job next? Film at eleven/ten central.
I made an appointment at one of those new men’s hairstyling shops that were becoming popular, and set it up for them to film the "shearing".
They came. They filmed. They ran it on all their newscasts that night and the next morning.
On camera, the shorn locks fell to the floor while they played The Cowsills’ version of “Give me a head with hair! Long beautiful hair...” from the rock opera “Hair” (which had been banned in Dallas, by the way).
I bought suits and wore them to every speaking engagement. I was just as straight looking as Avery Mays and Wes Wise, but they still called me the "hippie" candidate.
I didn't mind it; but I thought, and hoped, I was coming off sensible and, more importantly, believable.
It became apparent I was causing some commotion in the establishment when the Dallas Times Herald ran a photo of me on their front page they’d retouched to give back the hair I had so publicly discarded.
They had duplicated a portion of my hair and added it on again to give me the appearance of having 2 or 3 extra inches.
It's hard to spot, but by comparing the waves in the hair, it’s obviously retouched.
Lesson: What man wouldn’t want a couple extra inches?
I don't know if the "establishment" felt I was actually a threat, or not; but they certainly felt they needed to keep my image as that of a longhair.
Lesson: Don’t believe everything you see in the papers.
An interesting footnote to the campaign was that same Times Herald's assessment of it all: "Moeller, a 25 year old former 'flower child' trimmed his beard and hair, and put on a suit to make a serious pitch for the titular leadership of the nation's eighth largest city. Moeller talks the way a lot of the young are talking today. He has come on as one of the best speakers of the seven." (My emphasis)
I came in 6th of the 7, beating Herb Green almost 3 to 1. It was the largest voter turn-out in Dallas history! I captured an even smattering of votes throughout the city in every precinct but two.
Months later I beat Green again when he represented a man who had knocked me off my motorcycle with his car and “failed to stop and render aid”.
After the judge sentenced his client to pay a small fine, I couldn’t help rubbing it in a little more by smiling at him and holding up the two-finger peace sign to him as I left the courtroom. “Gotcha again!” I said.
Two raised fingers forming a “V” can signify several things: "That's two!", "Peace!", and (when flipped upward) the British equivalent of "Go Screw Yourself!"
Not to mention a Roman ordering five beers. (Think about it)
I let him derive his own meaning.
There was a runoff election between Mays and Wise. I gave my support to Wise and he won. He appointed me to his Mayoral Advisory Committee to serve as long as he stayed in office.
(Click For Full View)
The first thing I did was advice-through-action: I got out of town.
It was just after the following summer’s “Lee Park Massacre”.
Because of my support of Police pay raises (I don’t trust them, but they do earn their money) during the elections, I was approached by a representative of their Public Affairs squad and asked to head up my local chapter of the Neighborhood Watch Committee.
I told the professional young female officer there was no way I wanted to have anything to do with a police force that thought it had the right to do what it had just gotten away with in Lee Park.
I told her I was leaving Dallas as soon as I could and that it would be quite a while before I'd call it my home again.
I thanked her for coming and told her I considered it an honor they'd asked me to do it, but that the Dallas Police at that time were not my kind of people.
So, Jeanette, our new born daughter Stephanie, and I headed for San Francisco and about 6 weeks of living in the Tenderloin district.
Stephanie, all of three months old, lived in a suitcase.
We'd rented a furnished room but there was no crib so we put her inside a large canvas zip-top suitcase to sleep. She was comfy and secure: we kept it on the floor.
The apartment we rented was in a 6 story building down the street, and removed from, the seedy strip clubs and clip joints and bars popular in the district, a rougher version of North Beach. We lived on the top floor and, as most tenants there, had little to do with anyone.
I had first gone back to the Dante Hotel, where I’d lived before; but, when they saw we had a baby, refused to rent us a room. I knew it was cheap, but it had evidently gotten considerably more dangerous in the last couple of years.
Now and then there'd be an ambulance called to our Tenderloin apartments. Overdoses were not as common due to the lower transient population and higher rent, but they occurred.
We came back one afternoon as they were wheeling out a man with severe cuts to his eye and on his chest and arms.
His girlfriend was being led out in handcuffs. She kept muttering, “I told him not to go to sleep. I told him.” as she passed.
She had gotten tired of his beating her, waited for him to go to sleep and attacked him with a Coke bottle: breaking it in the process and severely cutting him with it.
I got a job in one of the smaller topless/bottomless clubs in North Beach down the street from where I'd worked before.
I worked for about a week and realized I was bored of that kind of life. I had, indeed, escaped it once and I was foolish for even trying to re-establish any connection to it, now.
Lesson: Escape is a one way street.
Since we didn't have much money, Jeanette and I amused ourselves by inventing a board game we called "San Francisco".
A Monopoly-like game, the object was to tour the City by the Bay -by throwing a pair of dice to determine moves- and have fun. Along the way players would earn or lose "Fun Credits". Very little money was needed to have fun in "San Francisco". There were cards to draw from: Taxi, Hotel, and Fantasy.
Taxi cards would move you along, too, and might cost money. Hotel had funny occurrences and might also cost money. Fantasy was a hippie's dream. Anything could happen.
It was laid out as an actual map of the city. And players would land on various landmarks.
For instance, when landing by the beach an old sea captain would tell a ghost tale and the player who landed there had to tell the tale he was told; i.e. he had to make up one!
At the museums a player might have to name a painter or two. Duplications were not allowed. Explorers or mountains might also have to be named at other corresponding points. As the game progressed all the popular names were used up and it got progressively more difficult...and funny.
At one point a quick "charade" might have to be performed. At another food would have to be eaten: a case of “the munchies”.
Fun credits were awarded, or deducted, for correct/incorrect responses.
The first player to accrue 100 fun credits won.
It took quite awhile for 4 or 5 people to play and rivaled Monopoly's pedantic action.
Making it was one of those things couples do that bridge tough times with wonderful ones. We were proud of that game and thought it should be marketable, but neither of us followed through.
Lesson: Sometimes a crossed bridge is just that.
I decided it was time to become a great and famous writer. I'd begun to write prolifically.
I also began observing the ancient ritual of the collecting of the rejection slips.
The Tenderloin was not a good place for child or mother so we moved to Denver where Jeanette's brother, Richard and his family lived.
We found a nice little apartment on Sherman Street just two blocks down from the Colorado State Capitol Building.
We didn't have a car and it wasn't too far to walk to the grocery store. Along the way we'd walk by the Molly Brown house.
She and her husband discovered silver in Denver and became legends. The musical "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" is about her adventures and survival of the Titanic’s sinking.
This was 1972 and I was still churning out the prose. I wrote a horror story about mosquitoes loyal to a pioneering scientist. I wrote essays about the “sleeping giant” Japan eventually buying up America and then evicting us: winning the “war” without firing a shot.
Nothing was getting published but I was determined to keep trying.
I even tried writing an “adult” novel.
I had an old copy of "Writer's Digest" and learned certain publishers would pay around $1,500 a title.
I never got too far into one, though. I kept getting aroused and stopped for "research" breaks. Jeanette didn't seem to mind.
One snowy morning we met a woman with a little Cockapoo puppy outside our apartment. She wanted to give it away and we thought it was cute and before you could say "Alpo Dog Food" we had a second dog.
We named him "Spot" because he was all black: like a spot. We already had a wonderful dog who’d traveled with us, named Pooh. A german shepherd/sheepdog mix, she took to him right away and everyone was happy.
Denver didn't turn out to be the magic address for becoming a great and famous writer after all and we completed the circuit by returning to Dallas.
Jeanette's father, Preston, and mother, Christine, drove up in his pickup to load and haul us to Amarillo. The plan was Jeanette would stay there till I found a place in Dallas and then they'd bring our stuff down.
I rode as far as Amarillo curled up in the bed of the truck with all the goodies we’d acquired in the four months we’d been gone; and, then, hitchhiked to Dallas from there the next day.
I found a house for rent in University Park, an incorporated city next to Highland Park (another incorporated city), both of which are completely surrounded by Dallas.
Each has its own city government, police force, and fire department.
The house was quite large with more room than we needed but, after having been cooped up in smaller places, we were more than happy to stretch out a little.
This was when I enrolled in Elkins Institute and began my studies on how to become a great and famous radio disc jockey.
I had already “developed” the voice during those months of barking in front of Coke's in San Francisco. All I needed was to pass the Federal Communications Commission's Radiotelephone Operator's License exam for a third class license, which was required of all jocks at the time.
In 1972, a third class license meant you could officially turn a radio transmitter on and off and were capable of taking hourly readings of its metering system.
I was at Elkins merely to learn the rules and regulations, acquire the license and become proficient at operating the control board of a broadcast studio.
The school had its own live radio station, a National Public Radio affiliate, and I became it’s first ever student program director.
Once I passed the licensing exam my plan was to get a job and quit the school.
That's exactly what happened.
The program director of KIXL-AM/FM came by looking for an announcer to work vacation shifts from midnight to 6am on their automated FM station. It would require reading live newscasts and doing weather reports four times an hour.
Nothing heavy. Just be there all night.
I was suggested as perfect for the job and got it after a perfunctory interview. I started the day after my 27th birthday.
I had very little to do, but I was as proud as some of Hubert Humphrey's proverbial punch to be there! I'd wanted to be a DJ ever since I was 16.
Lesson: Believe in your dreams.
The routine was simple: I was to change prerecorded tapes when they ran out. At the assigned times, I'd stop a tape for a newscast or a weather report and then restart it.
The rest of the time I talked on the phone to lonely, horny women who called and talked dirty to me.
I talked dirty back. The music was slow and easy and soothing and romantic so there was no wonder I'd be getting calls like that.
Who was complaining? It comes with the job. All dj's get them.
Because our newscasts came on the quarter hour, I hold the dubious honor of being the first newscaster in Dallas to "break" the story of the massacre of Jewish athletes at the Munich Olympic Games.
All the other stations’ newscasts were on the hour and half hour.
I liked working the graveyard shift but I'd help out during the day, too.
I was also a producer for Meg Healey’s weekend talk show. She'd been with the station for almost as long as it had been on the air and it was her mission to interview the various celebrities and dignitaries currently in town.
One of the shows I produced was with Helen Hayes and Anita Loos: two grandes dames of American Theater. They where on a book promotion tour touting their paean to New York City entitled "Twice Over Lightly".
L-R: Helen Hayes, the author, Anita Loos, Meg Healey
Loos wrote "Lorelei", the musical version of her 1925 novel, “Gentlemen Prefer Blonds; The Illuminating Diary of a Professional Lady” which went on to become the film with Marilyn Monroe, and; of course, Helen Hayes was the “First Lady of The American Theater” and a two time Academy Award Winner.
They were, naturally, charming and awe inspiring. It was marvelous being in the same building with them, let alone being able to chat with them for awhile.
What'd we chat about? Who knows? I was star-struck.
After only a few weeks the program director, Phil Gibson, asked me if I'd be interested in having my own show on the AM side. FM radio had yet to come into its own, then. This was live radio and played current hits.
I jumped at the opportunity.
The AM station was a “daytimer” meaning it only broadcast from sunup to sundown. That also meant it didn't hold as high a ratings position in the market as did other, 24 hour, stations. But it held its own with its "Middle of the Road" format of hits.
It had just been sold by Robert Strauss, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee, to Crescent Communications when I came on board.
So it happened that after it had signed off for the day, I went into the control room and literally performed a one hour show complete with patter, music, commercials and anything I could think of to entertain an imaginary audience.
I recorded it and handed the results to Phil for his approval. If he and management liked what they heard I'd be hired as a full time jock. If he didn't I'd stay on the FM side till I improved.
The next day he called and offered me the job.
Not only was I now a rock and roll DJ, I was the new "Morning Drive" Rock and Roll DJ!
I'd been offered the coveted top slot!
I was the Top Banana. The Big Cheese. Head Honcho. In the 8th largest market in the country!
In the radio business where you start your career says a lot about you and your talent. To have started in a top ten major market was big magic, indeed.
To be the morning drive jock on the first full time gig was major big magic.
Lesson: Major big magic and 75 cents will get you a cup of coffee at any radio station in the country. (Coffee’s gone up by now!)
I held forth and swung and swayed and bopped till everybody dropped.
I wasn’t square, I was there!
I had some cake and I was eatin’ it too!
The horse’s mouth was shut and I wasn’t lookin’!
If there were flies, they weren’t on me!
My abra had the cadabra.
I had the ball and was running to beat the band.
And I was pretty good at it, too. So much so I was made Chief Announcer of both the AM & FM stations.
To this day I have no idea what that meant. I didn't get a salary increase with it. I didn't get a name on the office door I already had as Public Service Director.
It didn't get me any more days off a week than I already had. It didn't get me any extra responsibilities, either. I didn’t have to go to any more meetings than usual.
It just got me a title.
Chief Announcer.
Lesson: Leo’s are happy with just a title.
Things were going along pretty well when I got an offer from a station in Oceanside, California –the San Diego market- to be their Mid-day man.
I took it.
It didn't mean much more money but it did mean a free trip back to sunny California and a closer proximity to the Los Angeles market.
I learned upon arrival that the management of KUDE-AM in Oceanside was rooted in severe right wing conservatism.
I was uncomfortable with them from the first moment I saw the company policy posted on the studio wall forbidding fraternization with fellow employees.
I don't like anyone telling me who my friends are, or are not, going to be.
I lasted six weeks.
I made good friends with a fellow DJ, Bob Hudson, and he helped me produce and send out demo tapes to get me out of there.
I was hired almost immediately by KOWN-AM in Escondido about 20 miles away.
Both stations were considered part of the San Diego market, but were physically located in what's known as the "North County".
KOWN was a much better station to work for because it had a stronger signal that could be heard as far away as Los Angeles. It was also better because I was their 6 to midnight jock and could play anything I wanted.
The station played “middle of the road” hits during the day, but at 6pm I took it to hard core rock and roll!
I played heavy duty rock from groups like Jimi Hendrix, Led Zepplin, Alice Cooper, Grand Funk Railroad, Brownsville Station, Styx, and their ilk from 6 to 8pm and then began mellowing it out till 9 when I shifted into an "alternative" style of play with eclectic rock groups like Cheryl Dilchard, Leonard Cohen, Johnathan Edwards, Gordon Lightfoot, Van Morrison, Stevie Wonder, Johnny and Edgar Winter, etc.
KOWN had its studios in the Escondido Village Mall. I was known as the Mole (from Moeller!) but my handle became: "J David Moeller, The Mole...America's Favorite Freckle: I get into the friendliest places!" and, thus, I was the Escondido Village Mole!
Lesson: Puns are our friends.
People shopping in the mall could watch us work through a large plate glass window and it wasn't uncommon to toy with observers while on the air. The mall closed at 9 so I had a pretty good audience of fans till then.
There was a girl's boarding school that came to the mall every Wednesday and after a few weeks they'd start calling and flirting after their visits: "Did you see us?" and "We waved at you. I was the one in the pink shorts!" etc.
After a few calls they started telling me about one of the girls whose parents had, basically, abandoned her.
They'd dumped her at the school, they said. They'd never contacted her or written to her. All they did was pay the fees.
She was 16 and they wanted me to adopt her.
Literally!
They wanted me to go to court to legally adopt her. I was flattered, but I told them I had enough trouble keeping up with my wife and my own daughter without having a 16 year old to contend with.
It didn't deter their enthusiasm; and, fortunately, they didn't stop listening when I told them I was sorry I couldn't do it. It became kind of a joke greeting over time: "Hey! Mole! Wanna adopt?"
Every DJ has fans who want their bodies. I had my regular callers who flirted mercilessly over the phone. Some wanted to meet me after the broadcasts. Others just wanted to talk dirty. All had voices that were sexy and appealing, and they knew it. Their physical attributes rarely matched the "look" their "sound" implied...but that never deterred me!
These calls were more easily accommodated during the latter hours of my shift when the music sets were longer and afforded more uninterrupted time on the phone.
One woman had a husband who drove a truck cross country. She'd call from time to time and request Credence Clearwater Revival. After a few times I began to recognize her voice and we struck up a friendship over the lines.
Her husband would be away for days at a time and when he got home they'd make wild passionate hot monkey love to catch up.
She got very turned on when she listened to CCR and that's why she requested it. They'd make love listening to me on the radio.
It got so when she called I knew she was getting ready to make the two-backed booger so I'd really lay some on for her.
One time she called and I figured it had been at least two weeks since they'd been together so I played a full 30 minutes of Credence for them.
About an hour later she called back; and in a very low, very tired but very satisfied sounding voice said, "Thank Youuuuuu!"
Lesson: Music soothes the savage breasts.
I got off at midnight. Before leaving I‘d reset the tapes for the automated FM side and then drive the 22 miles home to Carlsbad, where we'd rented a one bedroom, fully furnished, all bills paid apartment across the street from Tamarack State Beach...for a whopping $125 a month!
Jeanette and I had our troubles and, after a couple of months in California, we had split up and she’d moved back to Amarillo.
There was a Jack in the Box across the street from the mall and before getting on the highway home I decided I needed a snack for the road. I gave my order to "Jack" and when I picked it up was told "The girls in the car in front of you said they'd wait for you around the corner in the parking lot."
"What?" I asked as I paid the guy.
He repeated the message saying he didn't know anything other than that's what they'd told him to say to me.
I thanked him and pulled next to them in the lot.
There were two very good looking women sitting in the car. They invited me to join them and I crawled into their back seat.
"No names", said the driver, who looked to be the older of the two. "We want you to come home with us."
"Ok", I said and followed them to their house a few blocks away.
Once settled in the living room the first girl said, in all sincerity: "You can fuck either one of us, but you can only fuck one of us. Which one is it going to be?"
I asked them to repeat their offer and made sure I understood exactly what they were saying.
I did, indeed, understand; and they were, indeed, serious about their offer.
The two were totally different in appearance. One, the speaker, was plump with large breasts and bright blond hair. The other was silent, mousey, rather skinny with small breasts and brown hair.
Both were quite sexy women in their own ways, making it a very difficult decision.
I don't know why but I chose the speaker and was ushered into her bedroom where I learned she was considerably more limber than her size seemed it would allow: she actually got her feet behind her head with her knees behind her shoulders; a feat I had fantasized having a lover do but had never experienced.
I was impressed.
After we cooled down I asked if they meant it that I couldn't make love with the other girl. She said no, that was the deal, but I was free to ask her.
I didn't bother getting dressed. I just went into the living room and knelt down next to her as she lay on the divan and began asking her if she would accompany me.
She made a point of watching me fondle my penis and I could sense a shift in her breathing pattern. She was excited but she was quiet about it. She said I'd made my choice and that was the deal.
I said the first girl didn't mind if we made love, too, why did she? She said that was just the deal. One or the other. I accepted her response, got dressed thanked them both for a lovely evening and spent the drive home wondering what the story was behind this little encounter.
Had it been an argument over who was the more attractive with a field trip to decide the winner? Was it a lesbian turn on fantasy? Why would two attractive women pick someone up and offer them one or the other but not both...in bed?
Lesson: Man cannot fathom the woman’s mind.
There was one caller constantly flirting with me telling me she was the most beautiful woman I'd never seen and such. I kept trying to get her to come to the mall and let me look at her through the glass. She said she might some day.
She kept telling me how lovely her breasts were in particular. I knew I had to see this lady or I'd die, an emotion not lost upon her, I’m sure.
I told her I couldn't stand the teasing another moment and got her to promise to visit me someday.
She followed through on her promise. It was a fairly busy evening on the mall. She called and said she was coming. I said I'd be right there waiting.
When she arrived she wasn't as lovely as she thought she was but she was,nonetheless, quite attractive.
I invited her into the station "for a tour". Once inside we chatted in the control room for a few minutes as I was doing my show.
The early part of my shift was pretty hectic: pulling records and commercials and cueing them up and preparing copy to be read live, etc. There wasn't much time for talking.
The conversation came around to my asking her about the magnificent breasts she said she had and she asked if I'd like to see.
Of course I wanted to see. I really really did.
We went into the hallway connecting the control room and the production studio. Both studios had big plate glass windows on the mall side but there was a two or three foot space where you could stand in the hallway unseen by any passersby on the mall.
We stood there while she unbuttoned her blouse and presented her breasts to me for approval -both visual and manual. I admitted to her, after a thorough and intense examinations for heft and malleability and nipple contraction and extension that they were indeed breasts any woman would be proud of and that any man who had regular access to them, as her husband no doubt did, was indeed a lucky son of a gun.
All this was fine and good. But the only problem was, during all this examining we sort of edged out of the safety zone of invisibility and into a sightline that afforded anyone strolling our end of the mall the opportunity to stop and watch.
I realized this as the seven and half minute version of Richard Harris' "MacArthur Park" came to an end and I made a mad dash to the control room to start the next record without any dead air.
My guest, smiling from ear to ear, re-buttoned her blouse and took her trophies home forever.
Alas, she held no candles to my San Francisco flasher.
Over the next few minutes there were appreciative nods from male shoppers on the mall and a few mild glares, along with some smiles, from the women. Interestingly enough, the glares weren't all that threatening. Some were actually more...wish it had been me-ish.
Lesson: Women still yearn to be appreciated physically.
Just before Jeanette and I got back together again, I met a woman who scared me a little.
Her name was Carol. She'd been married and had a son who'd been adopted by her parents living near Vista (between Carlsbad and Escondido).
She was a casual caller and after a few chats I asked her out. She sounded interesting on the phone: not like the usual flirts who called.
We met after work and went and parked on the hill overlooking the beach across from my apartment. We necked a little, but I got the feeling she wanted to go slowly.
Slow was no problem so slow it was.
She was having trouble making ends meet and had agreed to let her parents adopt her son so she'd be assured he'd be taken care of. She didn't want to get married again or have any more children. She was sympathetic to my marital problems.
For a first date, we seemed to get along quite well.
We went out again a few nights later. She had "scored" some potent grass and we went to my place to smoke it up. It was called African Gangi. I’d heard of Jamaican Ganja, but this was a new one.
We got properly stoned on about two tokes and talked about her trip earlier that day to Black's Beach -the nude beach- at LaJolla, above San Diego. She'd gotten pinkly sunburned over 100% of her lithe body, but she said she liked the sting of the burn. It was quite intimate, she said.
Especially around her nipples.
We continued to get quite high on the weed and started to make love. I was conscious of her sunburn at first and tried to be gentle and not cause her any discomfort. She said it didn't hurt at all...that much...and told me not to worry about hurting her. She'd let me know.
We were in the middle of an embrace when she cooly and sexily said to me, "Dave. You can do anything you want to me."
"What do you mean: anything?" I asked.
"Anything. You can do anything at all you want to do to me. Just don't kill me", she replied.
"Don't kill you? Why would you think I'd kill you?"
"I know you won't. That's why I told you that you could do anything to me you wanted to do", she offered in response.
Well, I'd never been told anything like that; and, frankly, I didn't know what the hell it meant. The "don't kill me" part worried me.
We spent the rest of the evening doing whatever I wanted, which was more of the same we were doing at the time.
Our schedules didn't permit our going out for a few days and by the time we could sync up, Jeanette had contacted me and we had gotten back together again.
I got a letter from Carol after awhile saying she had moved back to Chicago but that she might be back out to California in a few months.
She never knew Jeanette and I'd gotten together again and I didn't write to the address she gave in the letter.
She thanked me for being the most understanding and gentle man she'd ever met.
If Jeanette and I hadn't gotten back together I know I would have liked to get to know her much more intimately. She seemed genuinely attracted to me and appreciated my style of lovemaking.
The general manager of KOWN pissed me off one night and I quit in the middle of my shift. I'd had the remaining three of my wisdom teeth removed in the ten day period prior and was taking pain killers right and left. Also, I had been doing a lot of grass at the time and the combination of the two got in the way of my judgment.
Lesson: Never work stoned.
I spent the next few months looking for paid work and co-producing/co-¬hosting The Last TV Newscast, a cable TV show with Bob Hudson.
We were doing stories on entertainers, mostly music news, and improvised comedy bits on the half hour show.
We even sold a few ads and made some cash. Not much, but enough to make us feel we were doing something professional.
Meanwhile, I was offered the job at WEEP in Pittsburgh that pulled me to Amarillo; and Jeanette, Stephanie, Pooh and her 6 puppies, Spot and I headed East.
No comments:
Post a Comment