“Did you just say your old roommate was a Yeti?” Tommy asks this over the breaking up cell-phone, while he’s driving back home from O’Hare in Boston just returned from his vacation in the Bahamas.
I roll my eyes, and laugh out loud: “Yeah that’s the exact reason why she left, I said: ‘You’re a Yeti?! Yeah, sorry you gotta go…”
We both laugh in unison for a moment.
“So,” Tommy starts, “while I was in the Bahamas you’ll never believe who was there.”
“Who?”
“Dover.”
“No.”
“He witnessed me getting piss drunk and doing some ‘mondo’–yes, that’s his word: ‘mondo’–air guitar on top of the bar at Senor Frog’s.”
“Yeah, I know the place. That’s crazy, dude.”
“So, he’s engaged.”
“Are you serious?” I get up and start pacing the room, this could easily be the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Hell has truly come to live on Earth. You see, Dover in college was Tommy’s roommate. He would constantly be on AIM talking to various people he met in a chat room until late and would do unseemly things not worth mentioning here while on the top bunk and Tommy on the bottom bunk. The kinds of things you don’t do when someone else is in the room. A situation that will forever remain framed in my mind as to Dover’s character happened sometime our sophomore year at the only bar we could get into. Dover was talking to some girl, and appeared to be doing well. After he was done talking to the girl and it seems that numbers were exchanged, Dover came over to us to celebrate his victory. A friend asked him, “Hey, Dover, looks like you were doing well there. Did you get the girl’s number?”
“No,” Dover replies. “I got her AIM screen name.”
So at this thought, over the phone, hell had truly come to earth. I manage to stutter out: “Dover. The man who met a 15-year old in a chat room, met up with her, slept with her and then went to jail for statutory rape, is engaged.”
“Yup.”
A moment of silence passes between us.
“Hell has arrived on Earth,” I finally say. “Our economy is going to shit, John McCain and a woman who believes the dinosaurs existed four thousand years ago will become President and Vice President and Dover is engaged. This is my worst nightmare.”
We sit in silence for a while. This profoundly disturbs us both. How can two far superior human beings like Tommy and myself be defeated by a pedophile? He is engaged, and we are still toiling away in single life. Just typing that gives me the dry heaves. Of course, Tommy has to turn the tables.
“So, besides that…on my way back from a client meeting in Boston, I make a stop at my favorite little place.”
“Oh yeah? What stop is that?”
“This little strip club off the Mass Turnpike.”
“Right.”
“So, I go in there, by myself at two in the afternoon on a week day. I mean, I don’t know about you, but going to a strip club by yourself on a work day in the afternoon is hitting rock bottom.”
“I don’t know about that, but you’re also talking to a guy who hasn’t been in a strip club since Old School’s bachelor party.”
“No. Let me tell you, dude: that’s hitting rock bottom. So I go in there, and I’m one of like two other guys in there. I buy myself a Bud Light and just sit at the bar for a while, and the women come up, ‘hey, baby, wanna lap dance?’ and shit. I say, ‘no, thanks for asking, but I’m just going to sit here for a bit and enjoy my beer.’ So, I’m sitting there, drinking, and I start thinking about which one [stripper] would give me the best lap dance since I kind of have my run of the place. Should I get the one with the biggest tits, who is probably uncreative? Or the one with the nicest body who is probably a bitch? I can’t decide. So I turn to the bartender and start talking to her, you know me, interviewing her. She’s giving me one word answers, and, finally, at some point she let go that she’s been working here for six years. Six years. Of course, I immediately start thinking that this is her. The one one that would give me the best possible lap dance. If she’s been…”
“…there, six years, than she must know her stuff,” I say, finishing his sentence. (I have a nasty habit of doing this).
“Right. So, I’m talking to her, and talking to her some more and I eventually get her to give me a private dance. She does so on a couple of rules: she’s allowed to touch me anywhere she likes, and I’m allowed to touch her anywhere except for in the, you know…”
“…the business.”
“Yeah. So, she’s giving me the lap dance and is doing a wonderful job. Just bumping and grinding on me and I’m behaving myself like the upright citizen I am, and she suddenly drops to her knees, and literally, starts sucking me off through my pants.”
“You are fucking lying,” I exclaim. “This is total bullshit, you’re making this up.”
“No, I am not. I mean, I don’t go, but seriously, the best lap dance I’ve ever had.”
