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Through the miracle of a good cell-phone signal, I spotted my friends Tiger and Ceci (not their real names).

I knew them through some of my guy friends who they’d been banging, though the romances had fizzled within a week or two. Both girls were attractive, but Tiger was a stunner who outshined everyone. Ceci was petite, five feet tall with short legs. She had a round face, dimples, bleached-blond hair, and angelic blue eyes. Ceci had been the belle of her small Idaho town before coming to California to pursue her dream of acting.

Tiger was the epitome of a P.B. girl. She’s what middle-aged men call a “firecracker,” and they all probably fantasized about taming her while jerking off in their showers. Tiger was the type of girl every other female hated, because of a flawless body she never had to work for. Five-foot-four with a fat-free figure, she had a shapely, firm ass and a naturally full set of tits. I’ve always secretly loathed skinny girls with big boobs. How the hell does that happen? When I lost weight, the D-cups were the first things to go. Anyway…Tiger’s body was almost always fully visible. She didn’t hesitate to romp around the streets in a string bikini with boots or heels. When she did wear clothes, they were skimpy shorts, skirts, and tight-fitting dresses with her cleavage visible. Sometimes she wore more outrageous items, like black lingerie beneath a fishnet suit, or she’d don a hot-pink wig. When she dressed up for Halloween, it was always in a bikini — a zombie girl in a black bikini or a gangsta bitch Barbie. I envied the freedom Tiger felt to run around everywhere practically nude without fear of degradation. She’d obtained her killer bod with a diet of cocaine, Cheez-Its, and late-night Jack in the Box drive-throughs. She wasn’t a typical blond California girl. She dyed her natural, ash-brown hair Hot Tamale red, and she decked herself out with tattoos and a bellybutton piercing. She was a beach babe with rebellion, always the spirit of the pregame ritual before pub-crawls, blaring her music and dancing around her apartment while draining a bottle of rum into her mouth. Jumping on her couches and pulling us up atop the vodka-stained cushions, her voice was the highest WOOOOOO! in the room. She’d fill her purse with dozens of mini liquor bottles so we could get wasted on a budget. A night out usually ended with us bringing guys home to snort up their blow or with five girls stumbling down an alley, rolling each other around in a stray grocery-store shopping cart.

Tiger was loud and bold, unafraid to shout out “Screw you!” to anyone who bumped into her or who mumbled a sarcastic comment under their breath.

On Memorial Day, Tiger, Ceci, and I filled Diet Coke bottles with Bacardi. Ceci taught me to do a beer bong, which I’d never been successful at before. She held the hose with her right hand while some shirtless guy prepared to pour beer in the funnel.

“Now, Maggie,” Ceci slurred, “open your mouth. Wider. Open your mouth, bitch!”

A group of boys crowded around us, aroused by Ceci’s dominatrix tone.

“Open up. Put it in your mouth and SUCK, SUCK, SUCK!” she screamed. “Open your throat and SUCK IT! SUCK IT, BITCH! SUCK IT! SWALLOW IT ALL!”

I obeyed. With all the will I could summon, I slurped down the beer, fighting the urge to vomit it back up. As the bubbly liquid filled my belly and dribbled down the corners of my mouth, a mass of rowdy guys cheered.

“WOOOOOO! THAT’S HOW YOU SUCK IT!” they shouted, giving Ceci and I pats on the back.

Before long, we had a group of cute boys following us down the P.B. strip. Ceci dubbed one muscular oaf her boyfriend, holding his hand and dragging him everywhere she went.

The guys were Marines. I had my eye on one named Jay, who had dark-brown hair, chestnut eyes, and olive skin. I remember little about him now, only that he was sweet and that, at some point, the two of us drunkenly danced to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” in a bar. All of the guys seemed polite and down to earth. Few were from Southern California, and they had that small-town quality of treating women like ladies, opening doors, and paying for our drinks. They reminded me of the aspects of the South that I missed.

At the end of the evening, Ceci and her boyfriend for the night took off to her place. Tiger went home. The other three boys headed back to my apartment. All of us were slowly sobering up and were exhausted from consuming so much alcohol in the heat. We sipped water and hung out in my living room.

We began chit-chatting about their hometowns and their enlistment. The boys were stationed at Camp Pendleton.

“How long have you been in?” I asked.

Almost two and a half years, they said.

“Oh, so, we’re the same age,” I said. I was giddy from Jay’s returning smile.

The second guy — also friendly — picked up on my attraction to Jay and offered to set us up. The third guy sat in the corner, watching us talk. He was skinny with a rectangular head, the most quiet and awkward of the trio.

My parents rarely lock their doors, and my cousins will carry on easy conversations with mentally ill homeless men for as long as they’ll follow them. But time in California had taught me not to trust the human race. Still, here I was at 21, regularly sharing my bed with random men, and I welcomed anyone into my domain.

I don’t know if it was my frequent use of foul language, my eye contact with Jay, or the messy state of my apartment after a weekend of partying, but in the midst of pleasant chatter, the quiet boy in the corner was suddenly no longer the quiet boy in the corner.

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Gekko4321 April 17, 2013 @ 10:20 a.m.

Great article! Takes me back to my own PB days. Good luck with finding yourself.


themaggieyoung April 17, 2013 @ 2:18 p.m.

Hey everyone! Thank you for reading! This is Maggie (the writer of this article). I'm also an author/ blogger. Feel free to check out my website www.themaggieyoung.com if you want to read more stuff or add me on facebook at www.facebook.com/themaggieyoung. :)



john5 April 17, 2013 @ 2:52 p.m.

This was very, very interesting. I'm from the East Coast, so I understand the flakiness inherent in SoCal natives all too well.

However, what I found most interesting is something that could be very controversial. Near the end, you describe what can only be called female-on-male rape.

"As I maneuvered myself on top of him, I watched him slip in and out of consciousness. I continued anyway." This is the exact situation in which many men get arrested, when the roles are reversed.

I understand this was a tell-all, but you seriously just admitted to committing a rape. Despite that, I'm not here to criticize you (again, honoring the spirit of the story as a tell-all).

This was the most fascinating part of the story to me. I've never read about that kind of situation before, although I've assumed that theoretically it could happen with a woman as the aggressor. I look forward to your next story, in all sincerity.


jnojr April 19, 2013 @ 9:33 a.m.

Gotta agree... a male who "maneuvered himself on top of" a semi-conscious woman and proceeded to get it on would be pilloried. Nobody would rest until he was hunted down, locked in a cage for years, and branded with his scarlet A.


themaggieyoung April 17, 2013 @ 5:08 p.m.

Thanks so much John! Yes, this was years ago and it was a very bizarre time in my life (This took place years ago). This story was definitely meant to document a disturbing experience. Thank you for reading and there will be more in the future.


Jay Allen Sanford April 17, 2013 @ 6:51 p.m.

Nice to see another first-person autobiographical cover feature from Maggie Young - been quite awhile since your (excellent) "Phony Navy Wife" cover story!


stingray April 18, 2013 @ 9:48 p.m.

Writing is not bad, still with the limited outlets for writers in this town it's a shame to give voice to someone who has nothing remotely profound to say.


jnojr April 19, 2013 @ 9:34 a.m.

I really enjoyed this tale, too. Thanks for writing.


TBD April 19, 2013 @ 10:32 a.m.

The problem with this article is that it negatively stereotypes women who frequent the bars in Pacific Beach as "skanks," drug users, drunk drivers, and people who are incapable of having "real friendship." I'm a female, white collar professional (think: accountant, dentist, whatever) who goes out in Pacific Beach regularly because (1) it's walkable, (2) it's affordable due to several great happy hours, and (3) there are plenty of taxis to hail at the end of the night. I've met some interesting, successful, intelligent friends at bars in Pacific Beach (yes, they were women!). Perhaps it's just that the author couldn't see through the tunnel vision of her stereotypes, and her obsession with coolness, to notice that the crowd and the neighborhood can't be so easily pigeonholed.


kelowry78 April 23, 2013 @ 10:37 a.m.

I am also a white collar professional who has resided in Pacific Beach for over 8 years. While I do admit that many of the senarios described do exist, they are not the norm and are easy to avoid. Pacific Beach is a wonderful place to live and stories like this one only perpetuate the negative stereotypes of this community.


maria52 April 19, 2013 @ 4:21 p.m.

What I don't comprehend is the writer's lack of insight into how she became so stupefyingly shallow. I have no patience for women that are hung up on their looks, then blame society for making them that way. Perhaps if she admitted to being caught up in this dangerously empty lifestyle only because she was an alcoholic and it kinda went with the territory. . .or that as a child, she was told relentlessly she was worthless. . .that would explain embracing this vacuous lifestyle.

There are plenty of places you can go where people won't judge you by your looks and you can make connections that are meaningful and substantive. This writer is not dumb. . why didn't she pick better places to hang out? And has she had any kind of epiphany about the utter lack of importance being hot is in the big picture of life?


ImJustABill April 20, 2013 @ 8:57 a.m.

I think going through a "wild youth" stage is OK and can be fun (although I can't say I would condone slurping vodka while driving).

What surprises me in PB is that there are people in their 30's and 40's still living that kind of lifestyle - I don't think that can last forever.


LWeiss April 20, 2013 @ 7:03 p.m.

I read the article and thought it was great and well written, I was hooked and wanted to know what happened. I also wanted to give an opinion about Pacific Beach and your constant reference to Southern Californians and their supposed flakiness and superficiality.

I was born and raised in San Diego, though I grew up in a humble, small beach town. I HATED Pacific Beach and hung out there very few times, and I will tell you why- it did not feel like San Diego. I realized more and more that it was actually a place full of Americans from other states running away from and wanting to find themselves in a party beach environment that they themselves have made larger. This story is emblematic of what I am talking about- you arrived with insecurities and like thousands of others, drank away your problems and issues, acting out to find yourself. The few times I saw girls/men acting like you, I felt embarrassed for you and it also made me never want to return to PB, and I love the beach! You immersed yourself in a superficial microcosm with others just like you, and immediately pegged it as Southern California lifestyle.

PB does not represent San Diegans, nor Californians, nor the San Diego lifestyle. Some may agree or disagree, but that is my opinion.


themaggieyoung April 21, 2013 @ 4:53 a.m.

Coming from the writer, to answer a lot of questions and comments, this story took place when I was 21. It's actually based on a piece of a book that I wrote with a much larger/deeper story. But in a nutshell, I was 21 when this took place. I was a baby. Remember how important being pretty and cool was back then? By no means am I condoning that mind frame. I'm just bringing attention to its reality. Thanks for reading, everyone! :)


maria52 April 21, 2013 @ 1:37 p.m.

Thanx for explaining...i also agree with some of the other comments: your writing shoes a lot of promise...like your use of analogies. other than your lack of insight into physical appearance, your other insights are really quite excellent..


cyclette April 22, 2013 @ 3:03 p.m.

Maggie, I think you need to be more careful about your historical comparisons: "I felt that this must've been what it was like to be black after the Civil Rights Movement." You have no idea what it was like or what it is like to be of color or assume what it feels like. I think rather than use a comparison like this, you might want to examine your white privilege and perhaps use a narrative that better describes yourself in the context of your own life as a young, white woman. I think the comment is a poor choice and rather insulting in conjunction with your story. I understand the hyperbole and your frame of reference, but it is worth investigating alternatives and reading some Richard Wright, Dorothy Cotton, and bell hooks on white privilege.


beenthere53 April 25, 2013 @ 12:42 p.m.

Great read. Those comments about you "raping" that Navy Seal are ridiculous. They are not looking at the context of the evening. Everyone knows that P.B. is the place for hook-ups. You can get me drunk and take advantage of me anytime! u is fine!


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