by Jen Ashton
Most of his conversations would start out strong. “Hi, my name is Joe.” But that's about as far as he ever got on his good foot. From there he would segue into comments such as, “I'm divorced. My wife was a stripper and she left me. I had a kid once, but she wasn't mine. I have three piercings in my penis. Do you want to see?” Almost always in that order, and yes, almost always in one breath.
You get the point. It was no secret that Joe was about as smooth as a serrated knife. Although I was always hiding in a corner watching from afar and laughing my ass off, neither Joe, nor the object of his abrasive introductions, were ever smiling when all was said and done. He needed practice and a stern talking to about the stench of desperation.
I explained to Joe on several occasions that desperation was like dog shit; it stinks. Sometimes you don't even know you’ve stepped in it, but when you do, it lingers. Everyone can smell it. We could wash his old shoes a thousand times, but chances were that a few sneaky remnants of poo would encrust themselves deep into the ridges of his 'soul' and remain forever. On this morning, he must've finally decided to change his shoes.
I fumbled in the faint light for my cell phone and dialed our friend Michele.
“Hello?” she answered in a scratchy voice reminiscent of a forty year old smoker.
“Michele!” I shouted in my best whisper-voice. “Wake up!”
“What? What time is it?” she asked, although it was more of a rhetorical question brought on by her grogginess. “Oh my God, Jen, it's 5 o'clock in the morning. What?”
She was half asleep, and although she was on the other end of my phone, I still prompted her to quiet down.
“Shhh...” I hushed her. “You need to wake up.” I waited a few beats for her to gather her wits and listen carefully. “Right now, right at this very moment, Joey is getting laid!”
There was a long pause as she tried to process the impossible.
“Shut up! Are you serious?” She raised her voice again briefly, but then quieted herself on her own accord as she remembered we were being secretive for reasons still unknown to her.
“I can hear them in the other room as we speak. He's got her moaning like a cat in heat. Get up, I have an idea!”
“Oh lord,” she moped. I could hear her rolling over in her bed.
“Michele, get up. Meet me in the party section of Walmart in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, alright,” she agreed reluctantly. “I can’t promise I won’t still be in my pajamas though.”
“What's new?” I joked and hung up.
Twenty minutes later I met Michele at the south entrance of the Walmart on the west side of town. She was dragging her feet and didn’t even smile at the greeter as we passed him on our way to the party section. I steered our cart around the corner and down the aisle, paying no mind to the tacky fleece, leopard-print pants and floppy, unkempt hair Michele was donning that morning. She was forgiven for the sheer fact that she showed up at all.
“Okay, what's this novel idea?”
It was clear that she was not only annoyed, but also required a tall shot of espresso to function in the a.m. I was hoping my plan would unhitch her from the chains of dreamland and inject her with enough excitement to keep her alive and kicking for the next few hours while we prepared for the celebration of the year.
“We're going to throw Joe a party!” I announced. “A Joey got laid party! Now, help me pick out some party favors.”
We walked up and down the party aisle filling our cart with streamers, noise makers, blue ribbons, kazoos, trophies and anything and everything else we could think of that would make for a proper cobweb-elimination soirée. Joe's ability to get laid on his own warranted nothing short of a cheap, plastic gold medal and the best party a roommate could throw. In my own sick and twisted way, I was awfully proud of the lad. I had every intention of convincing Michele to share in my excitement and chip in half for the supplies, as well as follow me home and help me decorate. Before checking out, she even suggested we make breakfast for the victim—ahem, girl—and somehow found the energy to join me in my enthusiasm as we headed over to the grocery department to grab some cinnamon rolls and orange juice.
Back at the pad, Michele and I tried to be as quiet as possible as we squeezed through the front door with our handfuls of plastic bags. It was almost impossible to keep those darn things from making a ruckus, but we somehow managed even as we tripped over a pair of unidentified high heels resting in my entryway. Michele preheated the oven while I rolled out some paper and began drawing giant block letters in fluorescent markers.
CONGRATULATIONS!
One down, one to go.
JOEY GOT LAID!
By the time the cinnamon rolls went in the oven, I had colored in the letters, hung the banners on each side of the kitchen and moved on to the streamers. I think my thumbs were raw and bleeding from the toothy edge of the Scotch tape dispenser by the time we finished decorating every inch of the room. We strategically placed the trophies in the center of the kitchen island, surrounded by the gold medal and blue ribbons. True to Jen and Joe form, no one was leaving my house after sex without a parting gift: a tradition passed on to us by one too many break-ups from my checkered past, and the random tokens of their strange affections. But aside from my sense of humor about the whole fiasco, I was compassionate enough to consider that the poor girl upstairs would likely need to replenish her electrolytes and nourish her body after a wild predawn romp with the king of sadistic sex moves such as the donkey punch and the one-eyed dolphin. Although something tells me he merely kids about using those techniques, it’s hard to put anything past a guy like Joe. So, the refreshments would be there, just in case.
As the house filled with the aroma of delicious cinnamon and the kitchen started to resemble a surprise party throwing up all over itself, Michele and I hatched a plan.
“Just text him and see if you can get them to come downstairs.” Michele suggested. “I want to be here when she does the walk of shame. I have to see who those heels belong to so we can give him shit later.”
We toyed with the different ideas of who the girl probably was and how Joe might have been able to convince her to sleep with him. After countless scenarios, we settled on the fact that she was probably a stripper from one of the clubs he frequented. And although we didn't believe he actually paid her to come home with him, her visit was probably a result of the many, many dollars he dished out on her behalf the night before. It was most likely due to those dollars that Joe was even able to converse with her in the first place. So we had that to hold over his head and tease him about, at the very least.
Hey, there's breakfast down here if you're hungry, I texted him.
He responded a few moments later. Sure, I'll be down in a few.
We could only hope, as we sat there with our fingers crossed, that he would come trolling down the stairs with the girl in tow. It would still be a great party either way, though it would be that much better if we could celebrate with the both of them. The intent was always to just embarrass Joe, and I suppose in hindsight, I never really considered that we may scare the poor stripper off; never to return, and ruin any chance of a continuance for their courtship. Perhaps it never crossed my mind, or maybe I just knew deep in my heart that Joe was more of a one-night-stand kinda guy. To be honest, I didn't know the girl, so she never really was any concern of mine. But for Joe's sake, and the sake of saving him from another year-long dry spell, I hoped to God she had a good sense of humor.
When we heard the door open upstairs, Michele and I took our places behind the kitchen island. The suspense was killing us as we squatted low, hidden from sight. I could tell by the sound of the footsteps on the stairs that the stripper was with him. We waited patiently until they rounded the corner at the base of the stairs and...
“SURPRISE!!!” we shouted, accompanied by twirling our noisemakers and blowing in our kazoos. Michele pressed play on the portable stereo on the counter and “Eye of the Tiger” blared f
rom its speakers.
“Risin' up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances…”
Poor Joe. He just stood there in the living room marveling at the tacky decorations and wishing the music would stop. His eyes widened as he read the banners, realizing that his secret was no longer a secret. JOEY GOT LAID! His embarrassment was quickly disguised by his ego's need to overcompensate and make fun of himself. I imagine he waged an internal battle of whether to laugh or cry at that point, and went with the more lighthearted of the two.
“Nice!” he shrugged with a smile, reaching over to grab the hand of the mortified woman still in last night's skin-tight mini standing next to him, who was still coming to terms with her own guilt by association. Looking over to her and trying for a hint of consolation, he introduced us. “Those are my friends. I'm really sorry about them.”
Joe forced a smile and nodded his head in my direction. I knew what that look meant. At some point in my very near future, I was in for it. There was no doubt in my mind that Joe was better equipped to one-up me in the embarrassment department. He was also more brutal, brash and undeniably creative. I knew then that I had it coming to me. And by the wink he sent my way to follow, I'll admit, for about half a second, I was scared. But then I remembered how I had predicted his retribution and adequately armed myself with a one-up arsenal of my own for an explosive grand finale to the morning's events; for no other reason than to simply just outdo myself this time. The sheer thought of what still awaited my best friend in the aftermath of his little party made me giggle inside. I couldn't wait for him to see what I was truly capable of. My ego desperately craved the due respect from my fellow prankster, and it was a long time coming as far as I was concerned.
Joe took the girl’s hand and led her into the kitchen where Michele had already taken the rolls from the oven and I was setting out plates for breakfast.
“We felt this called for a celebration,” I announced, placing the gift-wrapped trophies in the center of the dining room table for the two of them. “These are for you.”
She swallowed hard to hide her embarrassment, although something about the expression on her face read more like “I can’t believe this is happening again,” as opposed to believing this was happening at all. Something told me this wasn't her first rodeo.
“And these,” I added as I placed the blue ribbon badges in front of their place settings as they both sat down. “And this is for you, Joe.” I walked over to him and slid the mock gold medal over his freshly-fucked hairdo and let it come to rest around his neck where it hung like a shiny showpiece of humbled conquest.
“Wow, it must've been a really long time for you Joe, to deserve all this. I'm flattered.”
Alas, she spoke! And she did, in fact, possess a sense of humor. She winked at him and laughed aloud. We all followed suit and had a good laugh together. By the look on Joe's face, I don't think I was the only one who was pleasantly relieved that she was a real trooper about the whole thing. We all sat down and enjoyed a rather quick breakfast together as the red and blue streamers fluttered over our heads in the spring breeze coming in through the windows.
“Alright,” Joe sighed as he abruptly rose from the table, “thanks for breakfast...and the party. It's been fun, but I need to get her home.”
His machismo was taking over again. That, or he really was the one-night-stander I knew him to be, and was perturbed that we had invited her to stay longer than he had intended. To this day, I still don't know the answer to that. The fact that Joe lived with me for several more years and I never saw the likes of her again, makes me think the latter. But then again, my grand finale may have put the icing on that cake, sealing her fate to never return unless she was a glutton for more sick and twisted punishment.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said a little condescendingly, smiling bigger than usual.
“See you again soon,” Michele mocked from behind me.
We watched her do the walk of shame to the front door where she leaned down to strap on her heels from the night before. She half-smiled in our direction, pulled the hem of her mini dress down a bit, presumably not to look like too much of a stripper as she exited the building, and followed Joe out the door. Michele and I waited for a few seconds until the sound of her stripper heels clunking down the sidewalk faded into the distance, and then let out the gut-busting laughs constipating us for the greater part of the last hour while we had held our breaths.
“Bahahahaha!” We blurted out in unison. We were so loud. It never even occurred to us that they could hear our commotion through the open windows. I can’t imagine what was going through the poor girl's head as she walked away.
“Okay, Michele, lets count to ten,” I whispered, though there was no need to be quiet.
“Then we'll follow?”
“Yes. Grab your camera.”
We counted backward from ten together.
“Three, two, one!!!” We shouted aloud and ran out the front door.
Giggling like little girls, we snuck down the drive just in time to catch Joe and his companion nearing the end of our street where he had parked his truck earlier that morning. Michele set up her camera for the shot as Joe, and said stripper, turned the corner to witness Jen's Grand Finale; the end all, be all of my rite of passage into One-Upmanship.
As soon as Joe turned the corner, his shoulders sank into oblivion and his tail dropped between his legs. His girl friend held her head in shame and brought her hand to her mouth in amusement, or horror. I'm not sure which. Joe stopped dead in his tracks in awe. Staring him in the face was a decorative party mobile that had once been his truck. He looked down at the ground, shuffled his feet and looked back in my direction to pay tribute.
“Wow!” He called back to me, smirking in assurance that I had earned my rite.
HONK IF YOU”RE HORNY was written in giant text across the back windshield of Joe's truck in fluorescent paint. His tailgate was appropriately adorned with streamers and coke cans dangling from its bumper. His passenger door window was labeled VICTIM. The driver’s side was a bit more of a challenge to draw, but I had somehow managed to paint Captain Morgan in his signature pose with the phrase CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN across the entire left side of his vehicle. And nothing says party like a little silly string, so we topped off the design with a shit-ton of it. Actually, more than a shit-ton, we may have gotten a little carried away in that department.
“You've really out-done yourself, Jen!” A defeated Joey flipped me the bird in a gesture of both annoyance and endearment.
“Oh, you just wait” I mumbled to myself, waiting for yet one last surprise at the end.
Finally, when he lifted his tailgate and closed it, Joe came face to face with the piece that tied the whole theme together again. Rolling his eyes, poor Joe came to the realization that he would be driving across town that morning in his new, freshly-fucked-mobile that announced his milestone in big, bold pink letters that read, “I JUST GOT LAID!!!”
STUPID CUPID
It was Valentine's Day. I was standing on the front porch of Joe's house with him and his girl waiting for my date to arrive. The sun was setting fast and we were already late for our 6pm reservation. That should've been the first sign to indicate the evening that followed would be a bust, but I was new to town and excited to go out with a local boy. His name was Anthony and we had one thing in common. We were both married.
I met Anthony my first night out as a newly, somewhat single gal. My husband and I had separated pretty quickly after relocating. Seemed the bright lights and late nights of Sin City were luring him away from our marriage and I didn't have the patience to wait out his wild oats. So, upon being given my freedom, I grabbed Joe's girl and hit the town one wintery Vegas night. Enter Anthony, the smooth talking bartender with the crystal blue eyes that melted my soul. A flirty conversation ensued and we were quick to discover we were both treading water in our unhappy marriages. He, too, was estranged from his spouse. Something clicked with us.
Perhaps it was the need for companionship, a lending ear or the excitement of a shiny new person to start over with in the event our spouses never returned, but it was enough to suggest that we spend Valentine's together that year.
Here came Anthony barreling up the drive in his beat up, blue Dodge Neon, throwing it into park even before the car stopped like an eager beaver in heat. His floppy, blonde hair bounced out of the car before he did, and then I saw those steely blues. It didn't matter that his best dressed was jeans and a collared shirt, complete with two year old tennis shoes, nor that he rocked a five o'clock shadow that was reminiscent of a Brillo pad. He was cute, and like I said, his eyes melted me.
“I almost forgot!” he called out, tripping over himself as he turned back around, tangling himself in the seat belt that still clung to him and hadn't quite been given the proper chance to retract after his departure from the vehicle. He was kind of a goofy fuck. He reached inside his car and pulled out a basket. Walking toward us, he overshot Joe and his girlfriend, and walked directly to me. Kissing me on the cheek, he asked, “Mind if I give you this inside?”
We were already late and the front door was locked, but Joe let us in anyway. He rolled his eyes and gave me the hurry up look. I followed Anthony as he blindly led me to Joe's office where he took a seat on a leather chair.
“Sit” he insisted, patting his thighs and signaling for me to sit on his lap.
“What's this?” I asked, trying to speed up the delivery of what seemed to be my Valentine's gift.
“This,” he said, pulling a hardback journal from the basket, “is for you.”
I took it from his hands and opened it. It was a scrapbook. At first I thought it was sweet; a cute sentiment, a token of his affection, a gift that he had put some thought into. It wasn’t often I met a man, or boy as I like to call them, that actually put romantic intentions into a gift. I usually ended up with socks or a blender for Christmas, only to find out later that my partner was pumped up about a new smoothie diet he resolved to start in the New Year and his feet were cold. Fail.
