*The subject of this piece, a guy who may or may not be named MIKE, wants to categorically deny all of the allegations about to be made regarding his SEX life. He has actually only slept with around 35 women since 1/1/09, and states that less than 11 of them are married or temporarily estranged.
So my buddy Mike and I were kicking back at the bar in one of those chain saloons – the kind with the scientifically aged and rustic-looking leather bar-chairs (too high up for my stunted legs to plant firmly on the foot rest – a circulatory nightmare) and newly-manufactured dust-bowl-era farm implements and washboards hanging grotesquely from the the rough-hewn (made to exact and absolutely annoying laboratory standards) walls - the layout creepily similar at each and every location (which I guess is comforting to SOME people, but certainly not me), when (whew! Was that a long sentence or WHAT?) he let it be known that, since the beginning of this year, he has had sex with AT LEAST 50 women, with about half of them being married.
"It’s easy, Johnny. REAL easy. I feel bad for some of the married ones, because their husbands are such A**HOLES, and don’t pay attention to them, but they need a chance to get WILD, just like everyone else, right?"
I nodded dumbly and choked back a peanut from the cheap metal pail at the bar. I had to crack the salty shell to get at it. (What an idea! Fresh whole peanuts, nestled in their natural armor!) I thought glumly about all the sexy and fresh-faced married women I know, and the fact that none of them even want to TALK to me…but I had to be positive…at least the legumes were free. I tried to lounge nonchalantly, but my tight Eddie Bauers were hot and uncomfortable, and kept digging into my arse. Was I sweating? There were definitely a lot of sexy married women in this place, most of them gabbing with their gal-pals, but always on the lookout for a stud horse like Mike.
He nodded at a cute little Bohemian across the bar. She had long and wavy black hair, and oval black-framed glasses. She looked like a naughty librarian, a crafty and purring devourer of erotic literature, with a Ferrari long-stroke engine humming between her legs….
CRACK! Mike swatted me on the shoulder.
"Stop daydreaming, Johnny! Jesus…get with it! You THINK too damn much.You’re like a hermit with that blog of yours – you need to get out there and tag some P*SSY!"
He laughed harshly and savagely destroyed a peanut. The eros maven across the bar gleamed and smiled at him. Her incisors almost seemed to be…filed…like a succubus…a
"Yeah. I could have THAT. NOT! What a freaky little bitch!"
He winked at her and snuffled down a peanut, followed by a long quaff of beer. He belched and rubbed his stomach. He had DESTROYED his abs in his Navy Seal workout that morning. Tomorrow was deltoids – pure and absolute punishment.
Then he got serious. He gave me the eyeball and told me he had a plan. For me.
"Johnny – I’ve got it figured out. You like to read and write and all that – and I’m a pretty damn smart guy too (true enough – he’s got a Masters in some kind of robotics field even though he makes his living in collections – go figure) – so here’s how we’re gonna get you laid – and I’m gonna be your WINGMAN!"
I cringed and waited. Anything having to do with me even SPEAKING to a woman makes my hands wet and my forehead drip moisture. My brain clouds up. I try to talk and, ahh…don’t know what to say! What is that…THING on the wall?…Oh…kay…nice to meet ya! See ya next time! Gotta go!
I wondered if hives were breaking out on the bottom of my feet. They felt all itchy and greasy. What about potential body odor? Did I smell all right? Had I remembered the Old Spice stick?
"Listen…think of all the older and divorced and unhappily married women who take those creative writing classes. Studies show they’re sexually frustrated and are looking for an artistic outlet. We could write some CRAZY FANATICAL TOP-DOWN stories for those bishes and they would be ALL OVER IT - AND US!"
He snorted and flexed and stretched, a satisfied lion in the hot equatorial sun. He yawned and let me in on a little something:
"Women don’t like guys who dot their I’s and cross their T’s and do all the right things. They like guys who DON’T GIVE A F**K! When they never know what a guy’s gonna do, that’s when they WANT HIM!"
He told me to get writing – something sinister and covert and full of languid ladies and angular creased-Fedora guys…who didn’t care what they did or who they did it to. He told me to have it ready by Friday night. We had a class to go to, and no one was going to get in our way!
He grabbed his keys and took off out the door.
I looked across the bar at the little imp who had shown such interest in my friend. She stirred her drink, bored. For some reason she didn’t make eye contact with me.
I thought of a new super-hero…ERASER MAN…he’s always there but no one ever sees him…he blogs in his spare time, and likes to nap on Sunday afternoons.
Was there a possible market for a character like this?
I reached into the peanut pail. It was empty. I wondered what kind of costume a guy like ERASER MAN might wear…it probably didn’t matter, since he wasn’t that noticeable to begin with. Maybe something in courduroy, with a little splash of yellow….