Well, the date designed to blow away the storm clouds which hovered over Cunt Day was fine but ended weirdly with another two souls not ending up together for all the reasons and for none of them. It was sad to me. It's always sad to me.

I had been seeing another girl and we lost the ability to communicate during a round a texts and emails minutes before the date so that went south as well which was also very sad.

Then my football day sucked. I didn't win the pool. I fucking hate that.

Not only haven't I gotten more and more comfortable with disappointments, it's just the opposite. They take more and more out of my spirit every time now.

I'm so apathetic I don't even want to be writing this note but I sort of feel obliged. So please forgive the uninteresting, pathetic, unfunnyness of it and give me a pass this time. I promise it won't happen often.

All I could do Sunday as the afternoon games spelled my doom with three more losses was to troll Craigslist for hookers. I never get them because it never makes me feel good anymore, so I just, as if suspending disbelief while watching myself in a movie of what I'm doing, go through the listings, calling a few, believing I might actually have one over.

I thought to myself, just jerk off already and be done with it.

And the next thought was, naaaa, I have a headache.

That's how pathetic it's become. I make excuses not to fuck my own self.

This rivals pathetic heights hitherto only visited a few rare times. One was with Mark Ebner, my venerable old friend and author of a blog on this very excellent site.

In a similar Sunday funk years ago, he tried to bolster my spirits by offering to pay for a rub and tug for me. I had no idea what that was. Shocking, I know, but I have an old fashioned streak in me. Yes I've nearly fucked dead chicks back to life who had overdosed while we were fucking and only through the accidental smashing of my chest on theirs and breathing into their mouths while kissing did some sick CPR bring them back to life... but on the other hand, I also only just learned what a dirty sanchez was last week, so, there you have it. Yin and yang.

Anyway, Ebner took me to The Golden Palace, a third floor walk up on 57th between 6th and 7th. It was barren in midtown on a Sunday night. We were met by five not very attractive women (children of God mind you and precious beings as a result, but just not pretty ones). I was to pick one and they would shower me, rub me and tug on my dick till it came. Sounded just magical. Ebner took his, a plump one of course, (he likes his women Rubenesque) and disappeared into the back. I took mine, a middle aged mother of six probably, into another room.

It was uneventful and as described above, except somehow I charmed mine into blowing me for the same 40 bucks (yes my children it was a long time ago) Ebner only got manual for.

We were about to leave. I felt only marginally better than I did before and was trying to fight a slide into shame and disgust at the choice of using the previous event as a remedy for my blues instead of meditation or Ben And Jerry's even. That's when the hideousness happened.

A Simple Minds song or something like that came on (I've repressed the actual title) as the "ladies" were lounging around awaiting their next "clients" and Ebner yelled, "Dude! Dance for them!"

"What?" I said, about to vomit.

"You're a good dancer and shit. Dance for the nice ladies. They did you a solid, blowing you."

I sighed. I don't quite know how my brain orchestrated it, maybe it didn't have anything to do with it at all, maybe my autonomic nervous system was taken over by the ghosts of all the poor abused Korean sex workers from all of time and they were going to use my body as the instrument to exact their revenge right now; but my arm slowly started to rise in a dance like move... and that wasn't the end of it. No, not by a long shot.

I did an entire strip tease for them as Mark looked on guffawing with glee. I think it was truly one of the greatest moments of his life and to this day he maintains, against my protestations, that it was one of mine as well. All I remember were black rotting teeth smiling and sing- songy Korean chatter as they clapped along to the beat for me. It was like the Christopher Walken Russian Roulette scene in The Deer Hunter on crack... only I was stone cold sober."

The day I danced a strip tease to a Simple Minds song for the Korean rub and tug mothers on 57th street at 1AM on a Sunday night.

Wow. I don't feel so bad now. Fuck, I mean Monday night football! Life is sweet. And, there's a chance I might get another root canal at the dentist tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed. You know how I love root canals. Two weeks ago he said he'd know for sure tomorrow. We can only hope. Pray for me and just remember, any day you aren't getting a root canal or stripping for old Asian hookers is a damn fine day.

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 12:39 AM

Print Friendly · Digg it · del.icio.us · StumbleUpon · Netscape