Issue #11/92, June 8 - 22, 2000   

By Mark Ames

NEVER BEEN WENDELED

Monday May 15 2:23 PM ET
Green Bay Packer Charged With Sexual Assault
WAUKESHA, Wis. (Reuters) - Green Bay Packers Pro Bowl tight end Mark Chmura was charged on Monday with third degree sexual assault, a felony punishable by up to 10 years in jail, in the aftermath of a post-prom party incident last month.

I’d been looking forward to going to the senior prom all year. I was even more excited than my date, a seventeen-year-old American pixie who would be known as “jailbait” back home, but here, to me, is known affectionately as “The Jew-broad”. The prom would be a chance to rub elbows with Western, particularly American, kids, which is something no hairy perv like me would be permitted to do back home. Here in Moscow, I’d be hand-in-hand with the Anglo-American School’s naughtiest princess, in full view of teachers, deans, principals—a species I once hated with a Columbinian passion. (My fourth grade teacher, seventh grade history teacher and eighth grade PE teacher all hated me so much that they each beat me; I was thrown out of one private school, and nearly kicked out of high school after getting busted for drug possession; but now I’m winning, because most of them are dead or dying, while I’m attending their proms and fondling their precious lambs, all legal I might add, under the progressive Russian criminal code, which permits sex with a fourteen-year-old, so long as you had reason to believe she was sixteen, the legal statuatory age.)

My recollection of my first senior prom, seventeen years ago, is one of sober humiliation. My girlfriend at the time promised that that night, we’d consummate our two-year relationship. We’d finally have sex. No more dry humping, no more jerking off. In order to get the courage up, she got drunk. And before we even made it to the dance hall, she puked all over our hotel room. She slurred that she didn’t think the time was right, then passed out on the queen-sized bed. I mopped up the bathroom, quietly calculating the bill in my head, grateful as a slaveboy that she let me soak up her sour-smelling vomit. I went out with that girl for four parched-dry years. I racked up a lot of experience in dry-humping. Mighta been the best dry-humper in the Santa Clara Valley for all I knew. For some reason—probably because I was a moron—I put up with it. Because any contact with her was, in my mind, a tectonic shift. If she granted me a thirty minute clothes-hump session, I’d blow three times into my pants and ended up more satisfied than an SS officer serving in occupied Poland. Those awkward sessions left me shaking in ecstasy, and wincing from the denim burns on my balls.

I emerged from the hotel room the next morning the only guy in the group who didn’t score so much as a handjob. I wore the humiliation on my face at the breakfast buffet, while she laughed and bubbled. Then we split apart. After four frustrating years. High school years all gone to waste, four years of hatred, humiliation, yellow stains in the Jockey ball-huggers instead of in her Hello Kitty underoos, and an education that left me like Rain Man when I showed up for school at Berkeley. A miserable waste. A typical, though highly censored, American youth.

This prom, put on by the Anglo-American School (AAS) of Moscow was bound to be different. Now I’m awake. If the Frenchman was right when he complained that “youth is wasted on the youth”, then as a thirty-four year old ped, I’d already opted out of the negative equation. I couldn’t possibly waste any youth—not mine at least. But like Dracula, I could drain some youth-juice from necks of those who would otherwise waste it. And savor it for myself.

According to court documents Gessert was hosting the party for friends of his daughter after the Catholic Memorial High School prom in Waukesha. Alcohol was served to the high school students.

About 3:30 a.m. Chmura, Gessert and a third unidentified man arrived intoxicated at the party and took part in a drinking game with the students, the documents said.

Wearing only their underwear, Chmura and Gessert got into a hot tub with the two alleged victims and other students, the records said. The 17-year-old girl got out of the hot tub and Chmura followed her, leading her into a bathroom where he removed her jeans and underwear and had sexual intercourse with her on the floor without her consent, the records said.

Krazy Kevin and I ordered a ZiL limousine for the night. He wore a Mexican banquet waiter’s ruffled blue tux shirt and a maroon jacket, while I wore a $34 blue corduroy nigga outfit that I bought in downtown D.C. and a pair of cheap Filipino beach sandals and socks. With our eXile propeller caps proudly spinning, we looked like a pair of John Wayne Gacy groupies, or at the very least, a pair of unbelievably sad assholes.

A third high school couple joined us, and we sucked down Kevin’s flask of Scotch on the ride from the Jew-broad’s house to Ambassador James Collins’ residence, site of the great senior prom. Not nearly enough scotch to catch a buzz. A buzz would have been useful. A senior prom always boasts its vomit-soaked cheerleaders, its coked-out kewl krowd, its bathroom scandals and dancefloor fights, and usually result in at least a half dozen threatened expulsions.

The street in front of Spasso House was jam-packed with exactly what Kevin and I expected: Lincoln limos. Ours was the only ZiL, a nerd’s car, which, like a good nerd, dutifully took its place in the dark, down the street, after we disembarked. The students we ran into on the way to the house were remarkably sober and undramatic, pod kids who didn’t radiate any light, just platitudes. Inside, we saw the whole school obediently lining up for group photos, while a few others danced to the same latino-techno crap you hear in every fucking bar in Moscow. Two wiggly dorks even proudly showed off their steps. You expected some zinc-nosed seal trainer to toss a sardine in their mouths from a bucket. The AAS classes are small, about 40 kids in each, but still enough of a mix of hormones and excitability that you’d expect a minor scandal.

I took the Jew-broad’s hand and we loudly stalked before a clique of teachers, who were seated and not the least worried that their students were causing trouble or intending to do so. Only one kid even offered us liquor, which they’d stashed in their limo (even though liquor for these kids is essentially legal). No one fussed, everyone pretended that they loved each other dearly. It was as if they were imitating their parents’ most superficial, bland manners, but so effortlessly that I began to take them (excepting a certain loud jock-type and a scarily self-assertive proto-sorority girl) as dull adults. Good, obedient, Soviet kids, these AAS students.

“This is why Columbine happened,” I moaned. Kevin was about to say the same thing, and the girls we were with couldn’t agree more. What this prom needed was a armed, angry nerd in a trenchcoat to liven things up. But the coaptation process was clearly so powerful here that no trenchcoat mafia, no individuality of any reasonable kind, could sprout without getting stomped on by dullness. You either bought into the game, or opted out and counted the days, as our dates did.

Feeling depressed, we sulked out towards our nerd-ZiL less than thirty minutes after arriving; half the students were also leaving, preparing to finish off their evening at the Hippopotam Club, the same place they spent dancing the previous weekend, and the same place they’ll go the following weekend. For more latino-techno.

After some cruising about town, we wound up at Club XIII, where we were treated with respect by an obsequious door thug who knew by the sight of our ZiL that we were people with taste. I spent most of the time stumbling from the opium den to the men’s bathroom and back, pissing out of my mouth into the lone stall for reasons that I’d rather not get into. In fact, I kept pissing out of my mouth even after I got home, and didn’t stop until around eleven that morning. I spent a couple of hours nodding my way through Fire Walk With Me, then crawled into bed until nightfall. Hey, somebody had to vomit on Prom Night, and if it had to be the thirty-four year old ped, then let it be.

As Mark Chmura proved, it takes a thirty-something-year-old to liven up an American prom party. The only difference is, here in Russia, you don’t go to jail for it.

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