ConstantCommentary® Vol. I, No. 10, **Greatest Hits** 1997-1999

So Sue Me . . .

by Mike Jasper

 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-age 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!," 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 Chip, the owner, 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 Prince, 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 (Porter, the 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 Prince," Andy said. "Doug Prince 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 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?" she 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.

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.