Dave Reuss is the managing editor of Outside Bozeman Magazine. His work has been featured in Mountain Gazette, DeadPoint Magazine, and Troubadour 21. He enjoys cheap beer, oxford commas, and writing about the weirdest shit he can think of.

Southern Hospitality (January 20, 2012. Issue 34.)

"So what are you doin' in a town like this, anyway?" she says just sweet as fresh honey, wiping the diner's countertop in lazy circles. Pinned crooked just above one of her big D-cups, the gold "SALLY" nametag reflects the florescent lights in little flashes. "Ain't you a long ways from home, city boy?" A strand of her long brown hair falls across her eyes, so she pouts her lower lip and blows it back into place.

Smiling back at her, my cheeks feel hot. I look down at my coffee. "I'm exactly where I wanna be, promise."

I'm in the Deep South, and I wouldn't be here if I hadn't masturbated six years ago.

Everyone remembers their first big session. The game-changer. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that made you look down at your red, still-steaming junk and say, "Wow. So that's what this thing is for." And it's funny, because that first time can have a huge impact on your life.

My first big episode stands out like a tarantula in an empty bathtub. I was sitting in my parents' living room, cross-legged with a bowl of warm popcorn in my lap, ready for our weekly movie night. Mom popped in Gone With the Wind, and as soon as Scarlett O'Hara started talking, I felt a strange stirring.

The bowl of popcorn started to rise with every word out of her mouth.

My eyes went wide. Nothing made sense. I pushed the bowl back down, twisting it into my lap. That only made things worse. Frantic, I folded my little member up into the waistband of my sweatpants and scurried upstairs to my room. As soon as the doorknob clicked, my hand—still greasy from the popcorn—rocketed down the front of my sweats and grabbed my dick, thin and stiff as a roll of dimes, and I tugged at it, sweat beading on my forehead. Right before the first big explosion of my life, I prayed for Jesus to send me back to the '30s and turn me into Rhett Butler.

Like most people, I blame my personality on my childhood.

It was that exact moment I promised myself—still Kleenexing the front of my shirt—that as soon as my bank account would let me, I'd drive to the South, find myself a gorgeous southern belle, then haul her back to Cali, where she'd spend every day just talking to me, my head resting in her lap. I'd just listen and smile, watching the big fluffy clouds roll by and drinking sweet tea. Endless days of perfect blue skies, sweet green grass under our blanket, and her voice. Her beautiful voice. Maybe she'd read me War and Peace a few times—each word coming out southern-fried and dipped in butter.

Until I graduated from high school last week, it was years of making do: Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama, Renee Zellweger in Cold Mountain, and most of the cast in Fried Green Tomatoes. Hate to admit it, but even Foghorn Leghorn could make me weak in the knees.

Now, surrounded by real live Southern people—with their "y'alls" and their "hankerin'" and their "reckonin'"—I'm in hog heaven and hard as a railroad spike. And just imagine the odds that I found my future wife in the first truck stop I came to.

"You didn't drive all the way out here for the coffee, I know what much. It tastes like dishwater," she says, only she said it like "dishwhad-uh"—all cute and adorable—so I couldn't help but laugh. I felt that strange stirring again—only this time, I knew exactly what to do about it.

The front of my jeans stretches even tighter. I can't help it. It's a Pavlovian response—only instead of slobbering every time I hear a bell, I get a hard-on every time I hear a southern accent.

I can see the scene playing behind her eyelids. There we are, the two of us cruising down the coast in San Diego in my Audi, her long brown hair dancing around her face from the wind. She puts a warm hand on my right leg and I rev the engine, throwing her back into the seat. She giggles and runs her hand a little higher up my thigh.

If I play my cards right, I just might be going home with Sally after she gets off work. In the morning, I might just take her back home with me and save her from this tedious truck-stop life. And if she says, "Why, I do de-CLAY-uh," all breathy and innocent and fragile, I might just jizz my pants.

The bubbling rattle of a truck engine blasts in from the parking lot, jerking both of us back to reality. I whip my head around to the sight of a greasy redneck stumbling out of his pickup. He trips over a concrete parking divider, swears, kicks it hard, swears again, and then throws his beer can into the ditch across the road, foam rooster-tailing out of it as it spins through the air.

"Lordy. Not this guy again," she mutters as she stares at her shoes. It comes out like "Lawdy" and I smile. "You might just wanna take off. He's kinda famous 'round these parts for sendin' people to the hospital."

The redneck kicks the diner's door open with one shit-stained boot and scans the empty room. His eyes lock on me as the tiny brass bell above the door rings out. He gives a loud snort, reels back, and spits a fat gob of green mucus onto the floor. "Zat your piece-of-shit car out front, Faggot?" He asks, prying open a coin-operated peanut dispenser near the entrance with his pocketknife. "The fuckin'…" he looks back over his shoulder, "Ow-Dee with Cah-lee-forn-yuh plates on it?"

I turn back to my coffee. "Leave us alone, man."

He staggers toward us. "It is yours, ain't it, Yuppie Faggot? Hope you didn't drive all the way here from Cah-lee-forn-yuh just to… make eyes at Sally here." He crams a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chews once, twice, then blows them out all over the floor. "These taste like shit," he says, scraping off his tongue with two dirty fingers. He stumbles over into the seat right next to me, leans both elbows on the countertop, and drags his eyes up and down the front of Sally's tank top.

"You know, Sally an' me used to date back in middle school, 'fore I got kicked out." He gives her a sloppy drunken smile. "You 'member? Best years of your life—ain't that right, Honey Puss?" He stands up and reaches over the counter, trying to pinch her nipple with fingers still black with engine grease.

Another scene plays behind her eyes. She's barefoot and pregnant in a year, stuck wasting her life in a double-wide, microwaving another TV dinner, watching her inbred husband pick his nose and pop open beer bottles on edge of the coffee table.

She lets out a little yip and slaps his hand away. "Go to hell, Sam," she says, trying to spit the words out—but it comes out all cute, like "Say-um" with two syllables. She crosses both arms across her chest and says, "Just you get back in your pickup and head on home. I'll call Sheriff Mike if you cock off and cause trouble again."

Sam turns back to me, his pupils rolling around in a desperate attempt to focus on my face. "So's you know Yuppie, ol' Pumpkin Tits over there an' me were thinkin' 'bout hookin' back up here real soon… so just keep your little fuckin' pecker in your pants, alright?" he says, slapping a greasy hand down on my shoulder and squeezing, his fingers digging into my collarbone.

I slap his hand off, turn around, and stand up. "Why don't you just go home, okay? Sally and I were having a nice—"

"Gawdamn!" Sam guffaws, blasting a big cloud of whiskey-stink in my face. "Lookit Yuppie fuckin' steppin' up to me!" he laughs to the empty diner, jerking a thumb at my chest. "Yuppie must have a fuckin' death wish or sumthin'."

Sally slams her bar towel on the counter, rattling the silverware. "Just leave him alone, alright? I'll call the sheriff this time, I swear." She picks the cream-colored phone out of its cradle.

"Gawdamn it Sally!" he barks. His eyes narrow, one burning at her, the other rolling lazy and staring at the countertop. "You press one button on that phone, and Yuppie'll be a grease stain on the floor 'fore you say hello!"

"I can assure you, I'm crazy. Really. I'm only going to warn you once," I say, standing my ground and balling up both my hands tight, sweat beading on my forehead. To get out of this, it's gonna take crazy. Drastic. Anything.

"Yeah, you're crazy… if you think you're gettin' outta here without an ass whoopin', that's fer damn sure. I beat the shit out of three out-of-towners just last week, and they were all bigger 'en you," he says, hot whiskey stink fogging the air like diesel exhaust. He rolls one big knobby fist in his other palm, letting out a string of thick crunches. Then he leaks a fat ribbon of spit onto the floor and smiles at me, flecks of tobacco and peanuts smeared across his crooked teeth. "I aim to fuckin' kill you Yuppie, I do de-CLAY-uh."

With about two seconds until one of his honey hams crushes my skull, I decide what to do.

I kiss him. Slow and passionate, at first. I grab the back of his greasy mullet with one hand and cup his ass—lost in the baggy seat of his jeans—with my other hand, massaging it, kneading it like biscuit dough. Then I kiss him harder, with urgency. I French kiss him, rolling the numb slug of his tongue around with mine, tasting secondhand moonshine and salty peanuts and tobacco. I keep my eyes open the whole time so I can see his reaction.

I am no longer getting laid tonight.

Not by Sally, anyway.

I pull away slow, giving his lower lip one last little nibble, my head spinning from the residual tobacco high and alcohol fumes.

I blame it on my childhood. I couldn't help it. It's a conditioned response.

"You're… what the… you're fuckin' sick man," he says, stumbling backwards, his eyes big as white hubcaps. He trips over a chair, still trembling, and says, "I'm… going to my pickup. I'm gettin' my gun Yuppie, and we're gonna have words… me and you." A bell chimes again, and the drone of crickets fills the diner until the door closes.

I sit back down, shaking, and take a long pull of coffee, swishing it through my clenched teeth to wash the taste of redneck out of my mouth. "Wanna get outta here?" I ask.

"Wow," Sally laughs. "You really," she says, then stops. She stares off across the diner, shakes her head, and picks up her bar towel. "You look like a real good kisser." She smiles. "We better go. You got less 'an minute 'fore he gets back here."

I still might get laid.

Once I scramble over the counter, Sally grabs my arm and stops me from hurdling over the cook's window into the kitchen. She stares down at my jeans. "Uh, Darlin'… did you… um… spill some coffee or sumthin' down there?" She points at a damp half-dollar stain leaking through the front of my pants, her eyebrows pulling together and her top lip curling up to show her teeth.

I might not get laid.

My face burns white-hot and the tiny brass bell chimes again. "Uh, that's not super important right now, but… uh… have you ever heard of a guy named Pavlov?"