Stories from the Midway
My First Butt
Enchanted Forest is a quaint fairy-tale-themed park nestled in the foothills of upstate New York's Adirondack Mountains, which, as a result of an early Eighties identity crisis, added a state-of-the-art water park. The water park featured slides with menacing names like "White Cobra" and "Sawmill." Most disturbing was the 280-foot vertical drop, ominously named Mount Killermanjaro.
I would like to imply that on the day in question I was too pint-sized to ride ol' Killermanjaro. The truth is, my nose peeked handily over the head of the wizened wooden Hawaiian guarding the gate, and the disinterested pimply faced teenage attendant flagged me on. While I hated losing face in front of my gooney brothers, their mocking jeers weren't enough to get my 11-year-old body on a water slide that openly threatened to kill me.
Dejected, I joined a cousin four years and several inches my junior at the foot of the slide. Michael and I stood there, watching as stout-hearted slide enthusiasts tested their mettle against the mount. The ritual was always the same: Said enthusiast would sit on the lip of the slide, wide-eyed and obedient, silently following the instructions to cross their arms over their chests and their feet at the ankles, which seemed the only way to prevent the sheer force of gravity from ripping the sliders limb from limb as they plummeted toward the ground. The slider would eventually hurl themselves into the chute, skidding across the 275-foot stream of rushing water, screaming bloody murder. In the blink of an eye, the slider would plunge into an impossibly small "landing pool," and immerge, ashen and shaky-legged, tugging the bathing suit out of the crack of their ass.
Witnessing the same thing so many times, we kind of got used to it, and I started considering taking a turn on the terrible beast myself. But just as I started to get comfortable, something happened to change all that.
A woman slider, quite a bit bigger than most, began her ride normally enough: the limb crossing, the screaming, the descent into the landing pool ... it wasn't until this ill-favored woman pulled herself out of the tiny splash pool, ashen and shaky-legged, that we learned that something had gone terribly wrong. Unfortunately, that's when she figured it out, too.
Although the force of gravity was not enough to rip off any limbs that day, it had done quite a number on the poor woman's bathing suit. From my vantage point, it seemed that her suit was completely nonexistent from the waist down. It's hard to say, really, especially considering that the woman herself didn't have any idea what had happened to her absent suit. In fact, it took her a full minute to stop fishing around her ass-crack for it and devote her attention to looking for a place to hide.
Of course, there is nowhere to hide at the bottom of a water slide ... no little hut, no lifeguard's stand, not even a wall to lean up against. And with precious little of her bathing suit in attendance, the woman scampered around with her bare and ample, pale-as-you'd-imagine-from-upstate-New-York-keister, hanging out for all too see.
I was only 11 at the time, and hers was the first adult ass that I had ever seen. I was totally mortified and kind of intrigued. I looked over at Michael, but he refused to meet my gaze. His eyes were glued to the fanny, bouncing and sagging as the woman scurried from the slide. Indeed, he refused to look or even speak to me until a lifeguard finally took pity on the woman and handed her his towel.
Needless to say, I've never considered a turn on Mount Killermanjaro again.