March 16, 2004
A PUDDYHEAD STORY
I've often threatened to put up a Puddyhead story, but felt shabby about having sport with a friend's travails. I'm over that, now that I realize Pud would enjoy the notoriety, and the trips down memory lane he may not recollect on his own.
I've known Puddyhead for 30 years. The Bride has known him longer, having gone to elementary school with him. He has suffered great tragedy in his life, losing a father as a toddler, a brother in Vietnam when he was ten, his mother in his twenties, and his sister to suicide in the weeks after his mother's passing. But he remains a hale fellow, well met, and I cherish his friendship. But enough blubbering. Let's hear a Puddyhead story.
I don't mind telling this one, because Pud was actually between wives at the time. He was mid-thirties, I reckon, and had landed the object of his affections, a 19 year old barmaid at his local watering hole. It was January, and freezing, but they went out to her car for a bit o' honey. Just when they were en flagrante delicto, which is Latin, or French, for buck-assed naked and horny and wet, Puddy, being of his own account drunk, determined he must urinate.
Most men understand the glory of a pee boner. 'tis an eternal erection, and allows one the opportunity to play Johnny The Wad for as long as one's amour chooses to make love. After satisfaction of the lady in question, a man may delicately excuse himself for a moment, piss furiously after a minute or two of leadening, and return to the fray, and his own eventual orgasm.
Not Puddyhead. He wanted his now.
So after recusing himself to the bitter winter night outside the car, our protaganist begins his urinary void, only to have the car door slam shut and lock with his finger in the crease.
The tables have turned. Puddy is now buckled in pain, naked, exposed to God and Man and Sheriff and the Rubbernecker, begging the girl to open the door. She, however, is bobble-heading to an old Duran Duran tune in the car, smoking a fag, oblivious to the Pud's plight.
Between the Arctic air, and the numbing pain, when the world is finally made right, Pud's pud is kaput.
The only girl to ever get naked with Puddyhead and not be Puddified, to hear him tell it. He also spoke of the Pain, which anyone who has ever had their finger slammed in the door understands. Hell, it was a Right of Passage in my childhood.
I take allowance for exaggeration, and boast, in a tale. But this one rings true, for the simple fact that I would never admit I had it in my grasp, and let it slip away.