Three true stories and the cords
Golfers never play alone. Sure,
it's more fun to play with friends, but that isn't
the reason. Golfers don't play alone because
they're afraid they'll hit a hole-in-one with
nobody around to see it. I've never hit a
hole-in-one before, but I have delivered two
snappy comebacks without benefit of a witness and
it's just as bad.
I swear these stories are true:
Story
One
I had been in Austin, Texas for
about three months and was living in a house with
three college-aged guys who didn't seem to mind that
I was 10 (all right 15) years older than they were.
Needless to say, we were all big Bukowski fans.
Treating me like a Gen-X peer, one of the guys asked
if I wanted to go out on a double date with him and
two 24-year-old grad students he had met at the
University of Texas. Sure, why not. I was only 37 at
the time and my last girlfriend had been 24. Why
should age matter?
We picked up my date first, then
drove over to the other girl's house. When he left
the car to meet his date, the 24-year-old and I
struck up a conversation. Despite my best efforts,
the subject turned to age.
"How old are you anyway?" she
asked.
I had a stock answer.
"I'm the same age as Kevin
Costner and Joe Montana."
"How old is that?" she asked.
"Thirty-seven."
"Thirty-seven!" she said. "You're
practically old enough to be my father!"
I sat there deflated, knowing my
night was now shot to hell. I took a deep breath
and finally said, "Well... maybe. What does your
mom look like?"
Story
Two
I
once worked as a doorman for a club called Lovejoy's
($2 pint specials every night) in Austin, Texas. It
was a pretty easy gig. My job was to make sure no
one sneaked in through the back door of the club and
the back door was always locked. Some people --
employees, VIPs and friends of the owner -- were
allowed to come in through the back door, so I did
have to make some executive decisions.
One
night the owner, Chip, told me, "The TABC (Texas
Alcohol and Beverage narc squad) has been making the
rounds tonight, so don't let anyone in the back
door, not even my mother."
"No
problem," I said.
A few
minutes later, one of the regulars, Doug P., came up
to the back door in a drunken stupor. I stopped him.
He looked at me with shocked and yet practiced
innocence.
"I
always come in through the back door," Doug said.
"Not
tonight," I said.
We
discussed the back door policy at length, until I
finally gave in and said, "All right, Doug, you go
get Andy (manager of Lovejoy's) and bring him back
here. If he says it's all right... you're in."
I
didn't think twice about it, figuring that once
inside the club Doug would busy himself with
Lovejoy's fine array of beers.
Sure
enough, Doug comes trotting back with manager Andy
at his side. Terrific.
"This
is Doug P.," Andy said. "Doug P. can come through
the back door any time he wants."
"Oh,"
I said. "So I should treat him like an employee."
Andy
ignored my remark.
"He
has the run of the club," Andy said. "If he wants to
fuck you up the ass, you gotta let him fuck you up
the ass."
"Oh,"
I said. "So I should treat him like management."
Story Three
(This
story is a bit different from the other two, since
there isn't any snappy punch line or witty retort
lost forever to the ozone layer. This story is my
version of a tale shared with another woman... and
yet another woman. Anyway, since she's been telling
her version for years and since she has left the
country for several weeks, it's time for me to tell
my side. Timing is everything, you know.)
So
I've got Mary tied to my futon with guitar cords and
she's nude and blindfolded. I was looking forward to
a great night for two reasons. First, Mary came from
a privileged upbringing -- her dad was a big wheel
in the porno industry. That meant I was going to be
rated against the professionals. Second, I would get
a good long look at her tattoo.
I had
been with her a couple of times before and noticed
that she had a tattoo the size of Honduras on her
thigh (I'm fifty percent sure it was her right
thigh). Of course, I couldn't just stare at it, in
fact I couldn't even acknowledge its presence. But
since the three of us had been having great sex, I
thought I'd check it out at some appropriate time.
As I said, timing is everything.
Anyway,
she's tied up and blindfolded, so while I'm stroking
her and kissing her and tightening down the nipple
clamps, I'm getting a real good look at... what? A
turkey in flames? I couldn't really tell, but since
she was blindfolded and tied to my futon I felt
brave enough to ask.
"What
is this Mary?" I asked. "Is it a bird?"
"It's
a peacock," she said.
"Oh,
yeah, I can see that now," I said. No fucking way, I
thought. Whoever tattooed this peacock was either
the world's worst artist or had an ax to grind with
NBC.
I
didn't talk anymore and continued doing whatever
sick and perverted things I had concocted for the
rest of the evening. Some time during a quiet
moment, there was a knock at my door, my unlocked
door (who visits me?).
"Who
is it?" I asked.
"Michael,
it's me," said a soft tentative voice. "Chiffon."
Great,
that's all I need, Chiffon. (Chiffon isn't her real
name, by the way. Her real name was even stranger,
like Bon Ami or Eraserhead). Chiffon had broken up
with me two weeks ago, so she really had no right to
be showing up at my door.
"I
can't see you right now, Chiffon. I've got company,"
I yelled through the door.
She
came unglued. "You're in there with someone else,
you fucker!"
I
heard the door start to open (I really should have
locked it). Fortunately, I had fastened the chain
lock, which keeps people out if they don't push real
hard. I sprang to the door, naked, and pushed
against it. Despite many long hours listening to Dan
Fogelberg records, Chiffon was strong. We struggled
and I believed I was winning. Meanwhile, Mary was
tied up, blindfolded and making like Houdini.
"Michael,
what's
going on?" Mary asked.
God
damn it, I thought, why didn't I gag her? And why is
everyone calling me Michael? Anyway, as I'm pushing
against the door and Mary's struggling with the
cords (all right, scarves, silk fuckin' scarves) it
suddenly hits me: Maybe I can have sex with both of
them!
Then
again, maybe not. Chiffon gave up on the door and
ran down the stairs. I locked the door and helped
Mary get untied. I think I said "sorry" 14 times or
so and "Wow, that was weird" another 114 times or
so, before we heard thumping noises against the
sliding glass window. Vegetables (fruits?) rained
down on my balcony. From the street below, Chiffon
was pelting my pad with tomatoes. Mary and I had the
same thought: Who has access to produce at 11:30
p.m.?
"Maybe
you better get out of here," I said. "I'll walk you
down."
Mary
drove away, while Chiffon glared at her from across
the street. Luckily, when Mary left so did Chiffon.
Mary
and I are still great friends, despite the weird
events and chaos of that night, because we shared
something special that only the two of us will ever
fully comprehend and appreciate. You see, no more
than two minutes before Chiffon ambushed our night,
Mary came real hard. Had she not, we might not be on
speaking terms to this day.
Like
I said, timing is everything.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be
funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're
on your own. Copyright 1997 by Mike Jasper.
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