New York City. Present day.
I call him Two Dicks. Not to his face. Just in my meandering mind that disseminates judgments like a Wall Street ticker tape. I’ll bet he’s already engorged. I can see him salivating. His Mona Lisa must have cancelled on him. I guess his tagline didn’t work: I’m so good you’ll think I have two dicks. Word probably got around that it’s not the tool, it’s the craftsman.
That’s why he’ll never make it. He’s in it for all the wrong reasons. He’s in it for ego and personal satisfaction and a cool business card. He’s in it to fill his trophy case. He’s in it to have something to hang on his wall—the head of his prey, the hunted, the meek. He’s in it for superiority and fame and what he thinks is easy money. That crocodile guy said it best. He’d grab a big one in a stronghold and say what fits Two Dicks well: “Look how big my head is.”
Two Dicks thinks women don’t figure that out. That’s another reason he’ll never make it to this level. He’ll never have clients who recommend him without a disclaimer. Like mine. I’ve heard what his say, “Yeah, he’s hot but…”
He’s stalking me coyly but I know his game. He’ll start with the same shit: “I’m fucking rocking, Hank.” He calls me Hank because I don’t give him my name. He thinks that annoys me. Truth is, only he annoys me and he does so at such a profound level that the false words he bellows overshadow everything that got him this far. He fakes that he’s far more popular than he is, because if things were as great as he claims, he wouldn’t be on the hustle tonight. He wouldn’t be sweating like he is. And he damn sure wouldn’t come crying to me because everybody knows I only lend a shoulder to those with deep pocketbooks. And lonely eyes, not desperate ones. Those only suck you into a big, dark mess. And I’m already there. I don’t need to take on the despair of another. Especially when I’m trying to get a hard on. Desperate women are looking for more than you can deliver, missing the forest for the big honking wood. They’ve perfected despondent and wear it like skin. There’s no pleasing them.
He’s looking at me again, pretending to look past me. But there’s nothing in this overpriced pub he’s interested in but me. And I’m only here because it’s the street level of my grandiose building and it’s overpriced to keep out the riff-raff. From his presence, it looks like they haven’t been adjusting for inflation. That’s okay. The bartender will have my back if Two Dicks comes my way. The only reason he’s allowed to stand there, playing this game of hide and seek, is because he’s keeping his distance. Once his impairment kicks in, he’ll slide by and accidentally let slip the real reason he’s here: he has nothing for the night. There’s not one woman who will pay to sit on his dick because he doesn’t get it: they don’t pay for that. Women who’ll do that are the ones who get paid and no matter how hot he is or how big he claims his tool is, he forgets the first truth: women can get the job done all by themselves. Pussy doesn’t have to beg. All they have to do is spread ‘em. I’m the one who has to find the hole. To get in a position like mine, you have to offer what a plain dick can’t: benevolence. You have to fuck like you don’t need the money. This is strictly for her pleasure which has nothing to do with yours.
From the moment you spy her, it’s about allegiance, fidelity and zeal—the real A to Z’s. You round the bases like a Hall of Famer. You conceal her pride with a cloak of indecency. You make love to her exclusively. You don’t itch a scratch, don’t wipe away sweat, don’t adjust your position because you’re tired. You don’t get to get tired. You don’t get drunk. You don’t whine, don’t rest, don’t smoke unless she offers. Don’t speak until directed. You’re not funny unless she says she likes you that way. Always agree, always forgive, always give her the benefit of the doubt. You know her in ways she doesn’t. You order for her. You read her upon impact and, like the signs about 9-11, you never forget. You don’t for a moment let on that you’re doing her a favor. You let her feel exactly the way she wants to feel if she wasn’t paying: desired—desired so deeply that the look in your eyes makes her tingle. It’s the fantastical relationship she’d read in erotica and you’re here to make it physically manifest. And you do it with respect.
That’s why I’m sitting here and Two Dicks is still standing there thinking he has words so witty he can make me fold. Poor stupid thing. Most guys would die to have the biggest cock but sometimes that only makes you the biggest dick.
Our eyes acknowledge. He knows I know he’s here for me. I’ve seen that look before, that holding back a smile, got a secret kind of look. He’s sure he can get one of my culls for the night. Or…
For fuck’s sake. Suddenly I get why he’s here. It slams into me like a gust. He wants me. He wants me to do him. A gurgle of laughter almost sprays my tonic on the bar. That’s why he’s so nervous. It’s all about sex with him; any kind of sex. He’s an addict. The mind of an addict is a horrible place because any object becomes their desire. But the real problem isn’t desire, it’s possession. If they were honest and admitted they just want it, they’d be more at peace. But they pretend to desire it, and if it truly was about desire, he’d be home reading Twilight or Pride and Prejudice or watching Shakespeare in Love. Or reading one of those Harlequin romances that teases you for two hundred pages but never gets you off. But he’s not after that. He’s only happy when he comes. Addicts are only high when they launch from the highest peak. Then all that’s left is the crash. They’re never happy, never at peace. That’s why he wants to move up to a target like me.
But I didn’t become an expert on women by doing men. And with me it’s all about being an expert at every moment. I’m everything I need to be every second I’m with a Lisa. That’s my high. And that’s why Mrs. Robinson just texted me and asked if I could meet her early. She’s salivating just thinking of me. But she’ll only sweat if I let her. That’s why I get the big bucks.
My nod to the bartender lets him know I’m done with this stool for the night. The fifty I tuck under my glass ensures I get it tomorrow. The twenty I stuff into the piano player’s fishbowl thanks him for playing stuff I know, soft and low, void of lyrics because words never served me. The bill that accompanies my wink to the waitress who hovers around hoping to land, tells her I treat women special and she should pass the word to her high-class clientele. And the crisp Bennie I hand to the driver who’s waited for me to gear up, keeps the car warm so nothing distracts from my task.
Money picks the speed at which the world goes ‘round. Tonight, I need it revolving at the pace of Mrs. Robinson.
I mumble a direction. “The Peninsula.” I’ve had the name in my head since she texted me last week but now that I say it out loud, a smirk grows. Leave it to Mrs. Robinson to pick a hotel shaped like the one thing she’s after tonight.
by Cindy Falteich Comedian | Author | Blogger