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