The Night we Invented the GM Margarita

It was October of 1962. The place was Southeastern Wyoming. I was Pad Chief at missile site 13, located 40 miles North of Warren AFB which was situated on the outskirts of Cheyenne. The call came in around noon: Defcom 1. Full Alert!
We were all as skittish as cats. World War 3 was about to begin. In the truck as we headed for the secure bunkers to wait for armageddon, the crew began to talk about the things they would miss after global thermonuclear war.

It suddenly occurred to me that at age 19,  I might die a virgin. I had never been laid. The prospect of dying without ever knowing the pleasure that the other guys bragged about, was more disturbing to me than the prospect of a world on fire with everyone turned into steak tips.

To make a long story short, the war was won by about 10:30pm when the Ruskies blinked. No shots were fired, no missiles launched, no bombs exploded. Their ships did not confront the blockade and scuttled back to port with their rudders between their legs. We won. And I might yet know a woman before I died.

After the war was over, a bunch of us went back to town and stopped in at the Mayflower bar. We were off duty but still in uniform. We picked our usual table in the darkest corner away from the band. A plump, dark haired angel came out of the shadows and sat down next to me. Her skin was smooth and the color of ice tea. She had thick red lips that smiled at me with a glad-to-see-you honesty that turned my legs to rubber. She wore a low-cut maroon dress that struggled to contain a lusty pair of boobs.

I was drinking Grand Marnier on the rocks, my favorite relaxer. She ordered a Margarita with Jose Cuervo Gold. When the drink came, she took a big swig and then leaned forward, showing her ample bosoms, to whisper something to me but I intercepted the talking with a kiss. Our lips fused and her hot probing tongue was in my mouth. I could taste the Tequila and the salt. We tongue-wrestled for a minute before coming up for air. She looked at me with big inviting eyes and took a sip of my Grand Marnier.

"MMMMM," she closed her eyes and smiled. "Go ahead and drink some of mine. But don't swallow."
I did as she asked. She took another full drink from my glass. Then we were locked again in a wet embrace. The tastes melded in our open mouths, spilling onto our chins and necks. Rivulets of the liquid streamed into the cleft between her breasts. I chased them down with my hungry tongue. She was undoing my pants and we copulated right there on the table while the band played "Lonesome Cowboy."

It only took 30 seconds (She wasn't wearing underwear) to strip me of my virginity. She asked for $20. I only had $15, which she took, and then she was gone, leaving behind an empty glass and the damp scent of wet fur.

Afterwards, my buddies spoke often about the night the future DFM (they called me Mad Dog Eddie back then) got his first piece of ass. I never did get her name, but I had a long-term infection as a remembrance of the night we won World War 3 and the night we invented the GM Margarita.

These days, I just mix it in an old fashioned glass. Chilled. Not too much ice.

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