It was approximately 9:30 am on a lovely Saturday morning in Genoa, Nevada. Looking out from my perch in the pro shop, I saw hawks soar by at eye level as deer ran freely on the fairways below. It was enchanting.
“Hey! They got their goddamned porn music on up there. Better get somebody on it!” an old man shouted as he stuck his head in the door to notify us.
Porn music? Like bow-chicka-bow-chicka-bow-wow porn music? Isn’t that just a cheap form of smooth jazz? One had to have an extremely refined ear to even notice “porn music” without actually seeing the porn that it was set to.
I had to investigate this. Not only did it sound intriguing, but it gave me ample reason to get out from behind the counter. Something I always looked forward to.
As I approached my golf cart – lucky number 51 – I popped open the seat to expose the engine. I then grabbed a tee out of the console, sprung open the carburetor and shoved the tee in the gap. Now this puppy was gonna cruise at full-throttle. Wide-open baby. A little trick we in the industry were savvy to.
Cruising at a healthy 14 mph, I zoomed up fairways and dodged errant shots from our lovely guests – a group of retired car enthusiasts from Stockton, CA – most still drunk from the night in the casino before. Their leader, Earl, was the indignant bastard who notified me of the unsettling “music” that he’d been exposed to.
The golf course sprawled out in the Carson Valley below Job’s peak. A beautiful setting. The first 6 holes were on the valley floor. When you reached #7, you started climbing. By the time you got to #9, you were probably a hundred feet or so off the valley floor with views of the surrounding high desert.
As I sped up #8, I started hearing something. It wasn’t the usual smacking sound of a golf ball into the broad side of a tree or someone shouting in anger at another failed golf shot – the usual golf course sounds. It was an amplified noise. Coming from a house on the ninth hole.
Many of the homes on the golf course had speakers on their patios and decks so you could listen to music or the evening news as you sipped your pinot grigio and ate nuts with your retired friends discussing your stock portfolio or retirement packages and trying not to look at each other’s pale, veiny, wrinkly thighs exposed from your too-short golf shorts.
This muffled noise was growing louder and louder the closer I approached the ninth tee. A group of the Stockton Cruisers leaned on their drivers awaiting the fairway to clear and pointed at the house positioned to the right of the tee box.
Now the sound was definite. Moans and groans and slapping noises with generous profanity and the word “daddy” blared from the porch speakers of the house. Someone was watching porn in that house and didn’t realize (or maybe they did realize) their porch speakers were on. Cranked up to 11.
Like a shining palace of ill-repute, the McMansion broadcasted an audible net of hard-core porn far and wide across the beautiful retiree-laden Carson Valley. The men teeing off were hopeless. Some of them laughed and made foul gestures with their drivers between their legs thrusting at the house. Some shook their heads in disgust and defiantly stared in the opposite direction. They say golf brings out your true personality. I’d say golf while subject to a compulsory heavy stream of audible porn brings out one’s true personality.
They say golf brings out your true personality. I’d say golf while subject to a compulsory heavy stream of audible porn brings out one’s true personality.
As I approached the Cruisers, I noticed my good buddy, Dan, our cart staff supervisor, had beat me to it. He was hanging out of his golf cart laughing uncontrollably just out of sight of the group. We both paused and took it in. This was incredible. People live their whole lives and never witness anything this absurd. It was beautiful, really. I could have watched how these guys
We both paused and took it in. This was incredible. People live their whole lives and never witness anything this absurd. It was beautiful, really.
Things were “building” on the audio and the voices were getting louder. The female screaming was like a bad Stephen King flick set to smooth jazz. The male character had reached full primal mode and was growling like a wildebeest on ecstasy.
That was enough. I felt bad at this point. Someone was going to have a heart attack. All these guys were on Viagra. Not a good combo – old retired men, viagra, all night drinking, greasy casino breakfast, and a straight shot of hardcore “porn music” could likely mean death for someone.
Much like EMT’s or a rescue crew, Dan and I approached the group to make sure no one was bleeding. We assured them that everything was going to be fine and headed over to the house. We knocked on the front door. No answer. We tried the back door. Negative.
The porn blared on.
Soon, we were faced with a pickle (pardon the pun).
After failing to get an answer at the door, Dan and I walked back to our golf carts and were met by an angry group of elderly women. Yep, the Stockton Cruiser’s wives had reached the 9th tee.
“You’d better make them turn that shit off or we’re outta here,” shot one of them. She had a look in her eye that meant business. As the howls from the speakers reached their full crescendo, I looked back at her, then I looked at Dan, and knew what we had to do. Get the authorities involved.
Minutes later, the police showed up. By that time another flick had started – this one with two female costars.
Dan and I met the officer in front of the house and explained what was going on. He took in what we said, raised his sunglasses, observed what was happening, creepily stroked his mustache, and then chuckled, “Hell, guys, you shoulda made some popcorn.”
Officer slimeball was able to conjure a mid-30’s male to the door, dawning a bathrobe and a 4-day beard. Some slight discussion took place, the man retired back into his cave (or, his parent’s cave), and the “music” stopped. The golfers went back to golfing and I went back to the pro shop. All was well in the Carson Valley.