It was a hot and humid summer night, just a week past my 28th birthday, and I was out drinking at a sports bar with Teddy, an old friend from high school who I hadn't seen in years. We'd recently reconnected through Facebook, and when business brought him to Baltimore, where I was living at the time, we made plans to meet up.
So there we were, on neighboring bar stools, slamming down brews, catching up on the good ole' days. Before long we started talking about our favorite subject then and still now- women. I was single, getting some here and there, but far from a Casanova. He'd gotten married to his college sweetheart, shortly after graduation, and had a boy with her, who's now two years old. Teddy said that ever since the kid came into the picture, well, the sex life with the Mrs. wasn't what it was before. Told me they didn't even do it for a year after she gave birth.
"A year? A whole year?" I asked, my eyebrows rising up in amazement.
"A year. A whole... year." He sorrowfully replied, putting special emphasis on the word "whole."
"Yeah," he continued, "I survive mostly through jerking off to computer porn. It's like I'm a teenager again. I'd probably fuck around with someone else if I could, but being out of the dating scene for a while has left me with serious lack of mack. Plus, I don't get out much anyway, so I can't imagine it happening. Though I'd kinda like it to, to be honest..."
"I wonder if she feels the same. She doesn't seem too interested in doing anything sexually. I mean, every so often she'll give me some, but it's like it's out of pity, like a mercy fuck. And instead of being the wild chick she once was, she'll just lay there, dead fish style..."
"I fantasize a lot about fucking other people, even during the seldom times when I'm with her. I'll close my eyes and picture myself fucking girls from work, one I saw on the street, Megan Fox, whoever. I think I really need a hot lay. It's been years since I had a hot, hair-pulling, ass-slapping, nasty type one. "
The four beers I'd totaled and consecutive whiskey double shots I'd just slammed down began to take their toll on me, and I half-drunkenly looked Teddy dead in the eyes.
"Listen," I said. "It's a total sausage fest in here, but I know a good pick up bar down the street that's crawling with dimes. Wanna go?"
"Ah, those places are meat markets. Look at this spare tire I'm packing?" He exclaimed, pointing down to the bulging beer gut hanging well over his belt, completely obscuring the buckle. And since he was now speaking with a slight slur, I knew the drinks were starting to affect him too.
"That and the tan line on my finger from my ring, nah, I'm rife to be shot down for sure. I hated those places even when I was single."
"Fair enough, but if you're really interested in getting some action, we could, well..."
I cut myself off because it'd been a while since I'd last seen Teddy, and I didn't really know how he'd react to what I was about to suggest. I must not have been as drunk as I thought due to the fact that I was still thinking before speaking.
"What, exactly, could we do?" He asked, leaning in closer to me, sporting that toothy, devilish grin I remembered from the time we snuck into the girls locker room during gym class, broke into nearly every locker, and stole nearly every pair of panties and bra we could find.
His devilish grin caused me to put on my own devilish grin and I nodded my head and went on.
"There's a place I frequent every so often when the dating's slow. It's an Asian massage parlor where you can get a little more than a massage, if you know what I mean..."
"Wait, I've heard about those places. Thought about visiting one but never got around to it... yet." He replied, really starting to perk up, his eyes bulging.
"Alight..." I got a serious look on my face and broke it down for him.
"It's only fifteen minutes from here by cab. Costs $50 at the door, then a girl'll give you a table shower. After that she'll massage your back for a few minutes and ask if you want more. 'More' usually costs around $120-140. But if the girl likes you, she might go lower."
"You in?" I asked, with an even more serious look.
"I'm 'bout it, 'bout it!" He slurred, drumming his hands on the bar counter.
That Masta P, late 1990s hip hop phrase sounded really stupid, I thought. I wondered what the fuck we were thinking back then, listening to such shitty music.
"Okay, I gotta take a piss first and stop by the ATM."
"I'm 'bout it with that too!" He yelled out, sloppily wiping beer foam off his goatee, then grabbing at his crotch, which let me know he's really pretty fucked up at this point. (He might be fucked up and he might be on old pal, but if he keeps on quoting Masta P songs the whole evening I might have to kill him, I thought to myself.)
After pissing and withdrawing cash, we stumbled out of the bar, laughing and backslapping, and hailed a cab over to the massage parlor.