Fellow comic and buddy of mine, Ian Lazarus the OCD freak. Forgive me, I know – he’s a little hard on the eyes, but take a look at this poor bastard, lol.
Now sit back and enjoy this blog tenderly written by Ian. It’s funny, now read on…
I told Jerrold I’d like to write an entry for his blog over a month ago when he appeared as a guest on the HV Funny Podcast, which I co-host, and he agreed. “Write whatever you want,” he said, “get it to me any time.” Because I am OCD and anal regarding writing, let alone someone who NEEDS explicit instructions and/or a firm deadline, I was at a loss. I started writing what I thought would (could) have been two interesting stories; one about the time a hooker took a shit in my hotel room that clogged the toilet, another about when I almost got a priest in trouble.
I wrote the first few paragraphs of each story, recollecting each moment as not to skip any absurd details.
About two weeks ago, I wrote Jerrold telling him the first part was written and progressing nicely. I told him how I felt writing to be torturous. Part of me hoped he’d tell me to hurry the fuck up and get it to him already but no such luck. All he said was something like, “cool man, you’re over-thinking this.” Because I am someone who needs explicit instructions and/or a firm deadline, I was still at a loss. OK, let’s face it; instead of being diligent writing, I masturbated. All the time.
Now is as good a time as any to put thought to paper. The story I am about to describe, though possibly pointless let alone weaker than the other two I started, is freshest in my mind because I just lived through it.
It is Saturday and I am in Atlantic City on business for my day job. I’ll be here through Wednesday. I was supposed to arrive by 6PM in order to setup my trade show booth and avoid doing it the morning as the show opens. Waking up with a car full of boxes that need my attention (with firm deadline) was the first of several personal tried and true rules that I regret to have broken.
I arrived at my hotel around 11PM and couldn’t shake a Percocet high no matter how many times I went to the vending machine trying to eat myself sober. At this point, sleep was an impossibility so I weighed other options. Any option would be smarter than trolling backpage.com for a late-night Asian masseuse, but you wouldn’t be reading this if I had been smarter.
This takes us to broken tried and true rule #2: NEVER GET A HAPPY ENDING MASSAGE IN ATLANTIC CITY. EVER. Not to brag, but I am quite a connoisseur of full-release body rubs. I’ve experienced them in countless states throughout the US, and I believe, 6 countries abroad. That’s another story for another blog, but let me just say that Atlantic City is one of maybe three cities where I do not partake in such activity. Don’t get me wrong, there is an abundance of said establishments with girls that are relatively attractive and willing to have you leave satisfied. Too willing in fact. I have no problem with a masseuse acting like a whore but I DO have a problem with a whore trying to act like a masseuse. Masseuses work methodically to pamper a client while whores keep the ride moving as quickly as possible. Atlantic City is brimming with “masseuses” who give your back two touches then flip you over for the ending before the massage really starts. Not to be disingenuous; of course I go for the hand job but I don’t order a sundae just for the sprinkles and cherry.
So I decide to venture out and get a rub. Here’s where tried and true rule breakage #3 of the evening takes place: NEVER GET A HAPPY ENDING MASSAGE THE FIRST NIGHT OF YOUR STAY. I can’t just afford to get these at will so I save it as a reward after a few days of hard work. In this case, breaking rule #2 helped persuade me to break rule #3 (and 4) because being in Atlantic City convinced my road-weary, Percoceted brain that I’d win the money back playing Blackjack.
Most of these establishments don’t take credit cards and even if they did, I wouldn’t use one there, except that one time, which is a story in itself. The only Chase ATM machine was four miles away forcing me to break rule #4: NEVER PAY ATM FEES. So, a quick trip to the hotel lobby and a $4.00 ATM fee later, I was off and on my way. Fuck it, I’ll just win it back playing Blackjack.
Because rule #1 was broken and over $30K worth of company merchandise was STILL in the rental car, I decided not to break rule #5: NEVER DRIVE A RENTAL CAR CONTAINING $30K WORTH OF MERCHANDISE ANYWHERE THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO. For full transparency, I admit that rule was born tonight.
Walking presented its own challenge. The “spa” was over a mile away and I had to break a sixth rule: NEVER BE ON MLK BLVD. Chris Rock mentioned it in his act, but growing up in Jamaica Queens, I was already well aware that I do not belong on MLK Blvd. I hadn’t been robbed or jumped since living in Queens and the entire time I was on MLK, I thought to myself, “If I call a friend and say I’m lost on Martin Luther King Boulevard, they’d say RUN!”
I get there. In one piece, still just high enough to enjoy this to its fullest. The place is ok by happy ending massage parlor standards but subpar by any other. I was greeted at the door by a pleasant 30-something Asian woman who offered me water and a peppermint sucking candy. I took a candy. As she escorted me to my room, I noticed a picture frame hanging on the wall over the front counter. The frame appeared to still be shrink-wrapped and had a white piece of paper inside it with just three words: Certificate of Certificate. I was impressed.
Once in the room I replaced my clothes with a pink bathrobe and handed-over $60. The nice lady asked if I wanted a table shower and frankly the table shower is a good part of the reason I go to these places. I could write an entire blog entry about the art of the table shower and my love thereof but for now, I will just say that I replied, “Yes, please.” Of course I want the table shower, in fact I will not even patronize an establishment if they don’t have one. The table shower rule is one that don’t get broke.
The table shower was good. Almost enough so to make me think I had a chance at a decent Atlantic City massage experience but I didn’t. We get back to the massage room and I lie face down, ready. The lady asks, “You wan hahd or medium?” to which I relay my standard answer, “soft.” The masseuse gave my back two touches, flipped me over and the massage was over before it really started. I muttered “are you sure the massage is done?” but Asian whores, I mean masseuses, have an artful way of only comprehending English during the negotiation. She turned on a small lamp and pointed at her mouth, then did a jerking motion with her hand and gave me the “how much do you want to spend here?” look. I am a happily married man and feel that receiving a blowjob from a masseuse would be wrong so I elected for the hand job.
A funny line here would be “Boy, I was glad I came” but I wasn’t. I’d spent $100 for a ten-minute experience, an hour if you count the walk over there. Judging by the waning Percocet high mixing with my sudden endorphin rush, something told me the walk back would take even longer.
It did but it was only 2AM and the bar at my hotel was still poppin’. I have no rules against a nightcap but DO against socializing with clients after midnight. It’s like the movie Gremlins; weird shit happens between my clients and I pass the witching hour so I avoid those interactions, particularly drunken ones. Wouldn’t you know it, the first person I see is my client “Tony.” I’m gonna’ call him Tony because that’s his name. Tony and I go back a few years and have had little conversation outside of business.
Tony is a six-foot-something black man who’s always well dressed. He was drunk. It was after midnight. He bought me two drinks and we spoke of nothing I can remember. That’s until I commented on some girl’s ass. That kick started the Gremlins moment. He said, “you wanna fuck that girl?” “Of course I do,” I said. He insisted he could make it happen. Before I could tell him I was just talking shit and have a wife I don’t cheat on, he walked this pleasant young lady over to me. She was maybe 23 and as it turns out, attending a different trade show in the same convention center, having come all the way from Newfoundland.
“This is my friend Ian, blah blah blah.” She wasn’t the least bit interested and that’s good because of the plethora of my rules she could potentially have broken. She was a redhead in a black dress. The dress was sexy but not too sexy. Awkward conversation ensued for a minute or two before she blended back into the crowd and it was just Tony and I.
“Nice try dude.” I said to Tony.
“If you really want to fuck that girl, you can.” He said. “I can make her.”
Before I could ask him what he meant by that, he took his iPhone from his pocket and said, “Check this out!”
He had a series of pictures of this Newfoundlandian on his phone which were mostly close-ups of her face. Then he showed me a picture where her face was painted like a clown. She had a white face with two red circles that nearly matched her hair color.
I thought, there was a reasonable explanation for this. I knew the pics were real because they were clearly taken in a room in the same hotel I was staying in, and I could tell they weren’t photoshopped. Before my mind could create any reasonable explanations however, he says, “wait until you see these,” and scrolls through the next dozen pictures.
The pies de résistance is a series of pictures of this relatively innocent-looking redhead, in clown makeup, inside a dog cage, in Tony’s hotel room, drinking from a dog bowl with her dress hiked-up above her waist, not wearing underwear.
“Bitch wants some beer, she’s gonna drink it this way!” Tony told me.
I was dumbfounded. Speechless. It was now clearly bedtime. Before I excused myself, Tony explained how since he’s been divorced and owned a motorcycle, he’s been able to make women do almost anything he wanted. He then showed me a close-up he took of her vagina.
What I should have said was “goodnight” but all I could muster-up was, “You mean to tell me that you travel everywhere with face paint and a dog cage?”
He smirked and bought me a few more drinks and simply answered, “And a dog bowl…it doesn’t work without the dog bowl.”
