It’s all Suzanne’s fault. Suzanne Fulton of Dayton, Ohio.
“Hey, I still don’t understand what the big deal was,” Suzanne starts, taking a drag from her Virginia Slim Ultra-Light. “Everyone acts like I’m Hitler or something.” She sips from her cup of “Parisienne Mocha Fantasia” instant coffee. Suzanne offered me a cup of the same earlier, but I politely declined. That stuff is crap.
I am sitting in the quiet, teddy bear adorned living room of Dave and Suzanne Fulton‘s ranch style home, trying to get to the bottom of the problem. I’m also trying to avoid knocking over any more Precious Moments figurines. I am on a quest for information. A holy pilgrimage for answers. Suzanne and I stare blankly at each other for a moment, before she sighs and begins again.
“It was 1981, I was a freshman at Ohio State. Go Buckeyes, right? They’d been doing some construction on one of the residence halls and I was just walking to class. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m being crucified for this.”
I try to hide my disbelief. Suzanne ruined everything on that fateful September day. How could she be so blind?
Construction was indeed underway at Canfield Hall during the mellow Indian Summer of 1981. But the carefree 18 year old Suzanne barely noticed the scaffolding as she waltzed past the building. “I was thinking about some assignments I had due, and about a party that my roommate told me was going to be “totally bitchin’,” you know, that sort of thing.” Then it happened. As Suzanne’s pert young ass jiggled past Canfield Hall, a clarion call echoed over the campus.
“Shake it don’t break it, baby!”
“I looked up, I couldn’t quite figure out who said that. At first I thought it was God, or something, ha ha.”
It was not God (and Suzanne is not funny). As Suzanne paused to shield her eyes against the September sun, her firm woman-child breasts quivering, the call was joined by another. And another.
“Daaaamn, I‘d like to saddle up those ponies for a ride around the park!” “Them titties look good girl!”
The comments were coming from the construction workers high above Suzanne’s (newly frosted) head.
“Hubba huuuu-BA!” “Now that’s an ass I could bounce quarters off all night.” “You got some all day suckers on you, sweetheart.”
“Why don’t you come up here and suck my dick, baby!”
That’s when Suzanne betrayed all womankind. Because she did.
Her taught haunches barely constrained by her Olivia Newton-John-esque short shorts (“Hey, those were cute shorts! I had the matching headband, too.”), Suzanne made her way up 4 stories of scaffolding and presented herself to one Michael Rodriguez. Her moist, glistening lips had barely engulfed Rodriguez’s engorged member before the news began to spread. Spread like Suzanne’s gaping, cock-slobbering jaw.
“Holy shit, it WORKED!”
Like a crackling wildfire the news went down the line of bricklayers and carpenters. The second string place-kicker for the Buckeyes glimpsed the scene from his dorm window and raced to pass it on to the rest of the team (presumably after furiously masturbating in a fit of voyeuristic passion). Within minutes, every male on campus knew. Knew that a guy got his dick sucked, merely by asking a total stranger 50 feet away from him to do so.
“I mean, it was just a BJ.” Suzanne takes another drag from her Virginia Slim (I swear to God, those don’t even look like real cigarettes. There can’t be more than a single thread of tobacco in the things.).
“But you had to know, didn’t you? There was no way that would be the end of it.“ I finally speak, trying to choke back my tears of frustration and rage. “How could you think that it would just stop there?”
Because it didn’t stop there, of course. Like a viral infection spread by an army of horny monkeys, the news swiftly went beyond the Ohio State campus. Into the city of Columbus, the account spread with the honking of cars in the street. Businessmen in diners whispered it behind copies of the Wall-Street Journal. When it reached a truck stop on I-71, the damage was irrevocable. Truckers immediately left off fueling their diesel powered big-rigs and hopped on their CB radios. In less than three hours, the news was barreling down every highway, every interstate and toll-way.
Within 24 hours every man in the country knew there was a distinct possibility of sexual favors for anyone brave enough to yell “Do those legs go all the way up?” or “Shake them titties!”
Why, Suzanne, why?
“You know, I still don’t see what the fuss was all about. You know? I mean, I guess I knew there was a little buzz on campus, but I went to the party that night, and everyone was really sweet. All the guys were so cute, yelling across the room that they’d like to smother my sweater puppies. That’s where I met Dave, even. We started talking, or you know, I was talking. He kept pointing to his crotch and grunting, but he was a good listener. We started dating, got married after graduation, he got the job in Dayton, and…Here we are!” Suzanne smiles, sighs a little. Stubs out her tiny, skinny cigarette.
“But did you even think about the consequences? Did you think what you were doing to every woman who wanted to walk down the street without hearing about the junk in her trunk, or the jiggle in her jello? You gave those men HOPE, Suzanne. Dirty, filthy hope.”
Suzanne looks at me brightly, nods. “You’ve gotta have hope, right? That’s in the bible, I think.”
Once again, we just stare at each other blankly. The moment is lost when I get distracted by a powder blue teddy bear that I’m pretty sure is giving me the stink eye.
“Oh, you like Mr. Fluffington? Isn’t he cute? Dave bought him for me. I’ve got a great collection. Almost 300 bears. Did you want to see it?”
No, Suzanne. I do not want to see your bears. I just want to walk down the street without being whistled at.
It’s all Suzanne’s fault.
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