Brilliant … But Bouncy

Oh, How I Wanted That Shirt!

In addition to huge, non-stop musical performances on an enormous stage in the campground, pop-up events happened everywhere. This included the ever-popular hot dog pull where chicks were beaten in the face by strung-up hot dogs, beauty contests which were obviously popularity contests for women with very large breasts, wet t-shirt contests, and vendors selling pasties and sex toys.

I gave tit-shots every few minutes without giving it a second thought.

Biker life was full of fun for women who wanted to be objectified and/or humiliated. In spite of my blasé attitude and overwhelming alcoholism, I had enough self-respect to avoid these events like the plague … except for one.

There was a guy with a microphone standing on a box announcing, “Ladies, get a free SHIT HAPPENS t-shirt right here!”

There is honestly very little in the world that makes me as happy as a free t-shirt. And “Shit Happens” was the latest, greatest bumper sticker craze; I loved the hopelessness and humor embodied in that phrase.

Oh, how I wanted that shirt!

I tugged at Larry and squealed. “Can I get one?”

“Sure, Baby,” Larry said. As we headed toward the guy with the mic, we noticed that he wasn’t alone. There were dozens of men in a circle nearby, and a half-naked woman dancing around in the middle of that circle, wiggling for all she was worth. When we arrived at the circle, the guy said, “The lady gets a t-shirt!” and all the guys hooted and hollered.

I did not understand. So I watched. Another woman ripped off her shirt and danced around with a hat in her hands. Guys shoved money into the hat. Within two minutes: “The lady gets a t-shirt!” More hooting and hollering.

“I don’t want to dance,” I said to Larry.

“You don’t have to fuckin’ dance,” he said. “You just gotta get money.”

I watched more carefully with the third woman, who took off her shirt and walked around with the hat. Her boobs hung down to her stomach, bouncing as she walked. Whenever she got close to a man, he shoved money into her hat. Minutes later: free shirt, hooting/hollering.

“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

So I did. I got the hat from the guy and tossed my black t-shirt onto the ground.

“As soon as you get ten dollars, you get a shirt!” the guy announced. “Go!”

I stood topless and frozen in the middle of a circle that suddenly seemed ominous. I had no idea what to do with myself.

I was naked, exposed, and not nearly drunk enough for this.

I walked around the circle believing I was strutting, holding out the hat, hoping someone would have pity on me. “I want a free t-shirt,” I murmured. “Will you help me get a shirt?”

I was not a performer. I did not smile. I had tiny breasts and felt incredibly shy in spite of the booze.

I walked and held out the hat but no one gave me money. Guys took one look at me begging like a homeless person, and shook their heads. One guy turned and walked away, dissing the whole event.

Eventually someone gave me a dollar. Another guy threw in some change. After what seemed like an hour but was probably less than ten minutes, the guy with the mic said, “Here’s your shirt, young lady!”

No one hooted or hollered. It was just finally over.

“Thank you,” I said, nearly in tears.

I pulled the SHIT HAPPENS shirt over my naked breasts and didn’t take it off for days.