The Gangbang Queen of Howell County, Missouri
In 1968 I became a minister in the Universal Life Church. This was when the ULC head honcho, Kirby Hensley, was ordaining entire stadiums full of people at one fell swoop just because he could, and I didn’t want to be left behind. So I mailed in my application, and before long I received my official minister card which entitled me to the full benefits of ministerhood, which included marrying, burying, and baptizing. I was set to go. With a joint or two in my pocket, and my minister card in my wallet, I was ready for anything.
I only performed one official act in my guise as ULC minister. That would be in 1971, when I baptized the Gangbang Queen of Howell County, Missouri in the name of drugs.
Judy and I moved to our first homestead in the Missouri Ozarks, two miles north of the Arkansas state line, in September 1970. The local ne’er-do-wells were intrigued to have some hippies in the neighborhood, and quickly made me part of their gang. It helped that I had a little stash with me, of course. But even as the winter wore on, and nobody had any dope left, and we were reduced to drinking sweet wine product to get high, they kept stopping by and picking me up for their little adventures. Judy willingly let me go, evidently figuring that going out on “runs” with “the boys” helped keep cabin fever under control.
The weeks kept rolling by, and before long it was summer once again. One Friday evening the Ronnie and Roger Hunt stopped by with Sharon, gangbang queen of Howell County. I had already heard about her. She was famous for putting out. She would fuck almost anybody. They brought her into our trailer and she sat there on the sofa, closed in upon herself, an unhappy look on her face. Looking back, I would say that she had probably suffered sexual abuse from an early age. I felt sorry for her, but what could I do but watch the karmic drama unfold?
After a few minutes Ronnie excused himself and took Sharon out to one of our sheds for a quick fuck. While they were gone, Roger told me a story about him and Sharon. He had just finished fucking Sharon and she said, “I want to kill myself.” He replied, “That’s OK, I’m through with you now.” Such casual callousness. So utterly unconscious, and so typical.
After about ten minutes Ronnie and Sharon returned. Sharon looked even more downcast than usual. She obviously didn’t enjoy being the gangbang queen of Howell County. Then they drove away.
As was typical during their wild weekends, they stopped back in from time to time, so I got to see occasional frames from their movie. The next time I saw them, on Saturday morning, they been up all night. They had picked up Floyd, an older guy (35 or so), sort of doughy and dweeby, who had the hots for Sharon. But she wouldn’t do Floyd. Even Sharon had her limits. So Floyd was just along for the ride, but not the one he really wanted.
I saw them again on Saturday evening. Ronnie (alpha male of the group) asked me if I was interested in Sharon’s affections. I declined. For one thing, Sharon didn’t turn me on. Not my type. I preferred spiritual-type chicks who you’ve got to get to know first. And more importantly, I believed in my marriage vow. Always did. In my book, a vow is a vow. To break my marriage vow would be to lack integrity. Integrity in that regard is one thing I always maintained, for better or worse.
Finally Sunday afternoon rolled around, and so did our carload of gangbangers. They were still at it, though everybody was obviously getting tired. (Speed will take you only so far.) They were headed for the local swimming hole at a nearby creek, and asked me if I wanted to come along. I said sure, why not?
We piled into the car and I found myself in the backseat, sitting next to Sharon. We didn’t have anything to say to each other. Driving to the swimming hole took about ten minutes and during that time we didn’t say a word. Really, what conversational gambits were there? “Having a nice weekend?” “Met any interesting people lately?” “What’s your Mom think about your hobby?” Sometimes the sheer physicality of a situation is so overwhelming, words are superfluous.
When we pulled up at the swimming hole I had an inspiration. An impulse is more like it. I turned to Sharon and said, “Wanna get baptized? I’m a minister in the Universal Life Church.”
She said, “OK.” We were not going to have any profound conversations, she and I.
Everybody thought that a baptism was a fabulous idea, and they lined up on the bank to watch while Sharon and I waded into the water with all our clothes on. This was going to be just like a regular church baptism: fully clothed, full immersion.
We slowly waded over to a spot where the water was about chest-deep. I had seen baptisms before, and had even been baptized myself, so I knew just how to do it. I stood her in front of me so that she was facing off to the side. I put my right hand behind her back.
“What would you like to be baptized in the name of?” I asked her. It seemed only logical that if you were going to all the trouble to get baptized, you might as well be baptized in the name of something.
“Drugs,” she replied.
Okey-dokey then.
Raising my left hand in benediction, I said, “I baptize thee in the name of drugs.” Now the ritual had reached its moment of truth. Enough talk, now it’s time for action. The credo here is: Just Do It. So I covered her nose and mouth with my left hand and tipped her back. Total immersion. Just long enough to totally cover her entire body. Then I brought her back.
Baptism of the total immersion sort is a ritual of surrender, death, and resurrection. You have to trust the baptizer. The baptizer can drown you if he wants to. You’re laying there helpless on your back, underwater, and all he has to do is hold you down for a minute or two while you drown. But no, the baptizer doesn’t drown you; he literally brings you back to life. Into a new, sanctified, life. A life formally devoted to, in Sharon’s case, drugs.
Sharon didn’t enjoy being baptized. She emerged into her newly-sanctified life choking and sputtering, looking like a drowned rat, more miserable than ever.
The boys thought that was pretty cool, having a baptism performed for them like that. We stood around and talked for awhile while Sharon and I dried off. Then we drove on back to my place. There was nothing to say; there never had been. I never saw Sharon again, though I heard about her from time to time.
If there’s anybody who died young, it was probably Sharon. It would have been a mercy, though getting there would have been the hard part.
I only performed one official act in my guise as ULC minister. That would be in 1971, when I baptized the Gangbang Queen of Howell County, Missouri in the name of drugs.
Judy and I moved to our first homestead in the Missouri Ozarks, two miles north of the Arkansas state line, in September 1970. The local ne’er-do-wells were intrigued to have some hippies in the neighborhood, and quickly made me part of their gang. It helped that I had a little stash with me, of course. But even as the winter wore on, and nobody had any dope left, and we were reduced to drinking sweet wine product to get high, they kept stopping by and picking me up for their little adventures. Judy willingly let me go, evidently figuring that going out on “runs” with “the boys” helped keep cabin fever under control.
The weeks kept rolling by, and before long it was summer once again. One Friday evening the Ronnie and Roger Hunt stopped by with Sharon, gangbang queen of Howell County. I had already heard about her. She was famous for putting out. She would fuck almost anybody. They brought her into our trailer and she sat there on the sofa, closed in upon herself, an unhappy look on her face. Looking back, I would say that she had probably suffered sexual abuse from an early age. I felt sorry for her, but what could I do but watch the karmic drama unfold?
After a few minutes Ronnie excused himself and took Sharon out to one of our sheds for a quick fuck. While they were gone, Roger told me a story about him and Sharon. He had just finished fucking Sharon and she said, “I want to kill myself.” He replied, “That’s OK, I’m through with you now.” Such casual callousness. So utterly unconscious, and so typical.
After about ten minutes Ronnie and Sharon returned. Sharon looked even more downcast than usual. She obviously didn’t enjoy being the gangbang queen of Howell County. Then they drove away.
As was typical during their wild weekends, they stopped back in from time to time, so I got to see occasional frames from their movie. The next time I saw them, on Saturday morning, they been up all night. They had picked up Floyd, an older guy (35 or so), sort of doughy and dweeby, who had the hots for Sharon. But she wouldn’t do Floyd. Even Sharon had her limits. So Floyd was just along for the ride, but not the one he really wanted.
I saw them again on Saturday evening. Ronnie (alpha male of the group) asked me if I was interested in Sharon’s affections. I declined. For one thing, Sharon didn’t turn me on. Not my type. I preferred spiritual-type chicks who you’ve got to get to know first. And more importantly, I believed in my marriage vow. Always did. In my book, a vow is a vow. To break my marriage vow would be to lack integrity. Integrity in that regard is one thing I always maintained, for better or worse.
Finally Sunday afternoon rolled around, and so did our carload of gangbangers. They were still at it, though everybody was obviously getting tired. (Speed will take you only so far.) They were headed for the local swimming hole at a nearby creek, and asked me if I wanted to come along. I said sure, why not?
We piled into the car and I found myself in the backseat, sitting next to Sharon. We didn’t have anything to say to each other. Driving to the swimming hole took about ten minutes and during that time we didn’t say a word. Really, what conversational gambits were there? “Having a nice weekend?” “Met any interesting people lately?” “What’s your Mom think about your hobby?” Sometimes the sheer physicality of a situation is so overwhelming, words are superfluous.
When we pulled up at the swimming hole I had an inspiration. An impulse is more like it. I turned to Sharon and said, “Wanna get baptized? I’m a minister in the Universal Life Church.”
She said, “OK.” We were not going to have any profound conversations, she and I.
Everybody thought that a baptism was a fabulous idea, and they lined up on the bank to watch while Sharon and I waded into the water with all our clothes on. This was going to be just like a regular church baptism: fully clothed, full immersion.
We slowly waded over to a spot where the water was about chest-deep. I had seen baptisms before, and had even been baptized myself, so I knew just how to do it. I stood her in front of me so that she was facing off to the side. I put my right hand behind her back.
“What would you like to be baptized in the name of?” I asked her. It seemed only logical that if you were going to all the trouble to get baptized, you might as well be baptized in the name of something.
“Drugs,” she replied.
Okey-dokey then.
Raising my left hand in benediction, I said, “I baptize thee in the name of drugs.” Now the ritual had reached its moment of truth. Enough talk, now it’s time for action. The credo here is: Just Do It. So I covered her nose and mouth with my left hand and tipped her back. Total immersion. Just long enough to totally cover her entire body. Then I brought her back.
Baptism of the total immersion sort is a ritual of surrender, death, and resurrection. You have to trust the baptizer. The baptizer can drown you if he wants to. You’re laying there helpless on your back, underwater, and all he has to do is hold you down for a minute or two while you drown. But no, the baptizer doesn’t drown you; he literally brings you back to life. Into a new, sanctified, life. A life formally devoted to, in Sharon’s case, drugs.
Sharon didn’t enjoy being baptized. She emerged into her newly-sanctified life choking and sputtering, looking like a drowned rat, more miserable than ever.
The boys thought that was pretty cool, having a baptism performed for them like that. We stood around and talked for awhile while Sharon and I dried off. Then we drove on back to my place. There was nothing to say; there never had been. I never saw Sharon again, though I heard about her from time to time.
If there’s anybody who died young, it was probably Sharon. It would have been a mercy, though getting there would have been the hard part.
posted by Gordon Solberg at 5:58 AM
1 Comments:
Fascinating story... Amazing rendering of one of the memories you carry around with you, that so well reflects the complex nature of what it is to be human.
Thanks for sharing that one...
Jacques
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