The thing ya gotta keep in mind about tattoos is that they’re permanent. Can’t just slap one of those bad boys on willy-nilly. Once upon a time, Ricky was real serious about getting a tattoo. He’d recently been seeing this broad he met at the bus station. This gal was a real piece of work. Tough as an elephant’s toenail. Worked on diesel truck engines mainly, but also did some volunteer firefighting in her spare time. In 1971, made headlines as the first female to ever compete in the Stokes County Arm Wrestling Invitational. Made even more headlines when she finished third.
Never knew her real name, but we called her Cube Steak on account that just as soon as she and Ricky finished a screwin’ session, like clockwork she’d sprint to our bathroom to release the chocolate hostage. Strange what Foxy’s pocket rooster could do to a woman’s insides. Anyway, the real curious thing was that, without fail, her handiwork always smelled like a well-prepared cube steak. I’m telling you, that smell was potent and it would linger for hours. Sometimes it smelled like we had opened a Western Sizzlin franchise in that restroom. Make no mistake – she was damn proud of her ability to light up the place. Used to walk out of the bathroom grinning, right before asking real loud if someone was cooking stroganoff.
Anywho, Cube Steak liked her men manly and after a few weeks of rootin’ her, Foxy started to get a little self conscious about his lack of body hair. Wasn’t his fault, you know – when your mom drinks strychnine throughout pregnancy, there’s bound to be some side effects. Nevertheless, Foxy knew Cube Steak was a tough bird and wanted a man with some testosterone. And that meant body hair, particularly down south.
Ricky started researching his options and got real close to pulling the trigger on a tattoo right above his crotch trombone that would have mimicked a healthy patch of ruddy brown pubic hair. Even drew up an illustration to give to the tattoo artist, which I suspect was the first pecker Foxy ever drew on a piece of paper, as opposed to painting on the front door of a society house.
Me and Kreebie and Country talked about it and decided we needed to confront Rick and try to talk him out of it. We knew that given Foxy’s history, Cube Steak wasn’t likely to be around much longer. This pleased Kreebie in particular, who had grown tired of Cube Steak intentionally leaving fresh monkey tails behind in our toilet bowl. Just her way of taunting the rest of us Raiders.
So one night, the four of us sat down over some grass Country called Krakatoa. Supposedly it descended from a reefer plant that was the only scrap of vegetation to survive the famous 1883 volcano blast. Those Indonesians knew how to grow it. We knew from experience that Krakatoa would give us a mellow high, so once we were good and lit, we talked to Ricky about his plan to tattoo a set of short and curlies and convinced him it was a bad idea. Too permanent. Likely pretty painful. Ricky understood that. From posting on this board, I’m sure you’re all aware that Ricky is, first and foremost, a reasonable man.
After some additional research and careful deliberation, Ricky wisely ended up going with a merkin instead. Very realistic. A real nice looking bush. Gave Foxy the chance to experiment with all sorts of different shapes and colors, which he did with a great deal of enthusiasm. Being honest, I probably saw Foxy’s nethers a thousand times and, if I hadn't known the truth, I would never have been able to tell it wasn’t a genuine man muff.
Of course, the irony is that Cube Steak never even got to enjoy it. Broad ended up getting tossed in the hoosegow for assaulting a police officer or highway patrolman or some such nonsense. Got in the news because apparently she petitioned the court to be placed in a men's prison rather than be locked up amongst all the other female jailbirds. I'm telling you, Cube Steak was one brassy senorita.
