Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) (7 page)

“I heard they fucked,” I interjected.

“Yeah, but he didn’t want to. She kept pulling on his zipper and begging, so Andrew was like ‘what the hell.’ She locked the door and they started going at it. He reached around to grab her ass and felt something squishy. He looked in the reflection of the mirror and realized it was her ass!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He said her ass was super saggy and it hung half way down her thighs. He tried to grab it a couple times, but it was deflated or something. He said it looked like the hoodie of his sweatshirt!”

I tried to cover my mouth before I exploded, but my laugh burst right through my fingers. “What the
fuck
? That’s hilarious!”

“The best part is,” he continued, “that he had to turn off the light to finish. She turned around and wanted him to do her from behind, but he couldn’t look at it. He said it was just hanging there like a saggy, old lady ass and he wanted to puke. He almost lost his hard on, so he asked her for a blow job.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore. I was going to puke too.

“So now what?” I asked. I was worried what we might tell Michele. I didn’t want to deflate her ego any more than her hoodie ass.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I’ll try to distract her for awhile while you finish your game.”

I loved how Joe knew my priorities and catered to them. He was the best friend a girl could have.

Joe b-lined for Michele and I was out one man in a serious game of Makeout Bowling. Luckily, there were two young men hanging around our booth when I returned and they asked about our lane.

“How long until you think you guys are done?” the fat one asked.

“Not sure. Why?” I answered.

“We’ve been waiting for a lane all night. We’d just like to get some bowling in before we go home.”

“Well,” I suggested, “we have room for one of you right now if you want to hop in! There’s a catch though.”

“What’s that?” The fat one was still the only one talking.

I looked his friend in the eyes and winked. He was cute. Short, but cute. “We’re playing Makeout Bowling.”

“What’s that?” they both chimed in.

I briefly explained the rules, excluding the tailoring of said rules based on who you want to make out with, and invited the cute one to join me. He obliged, happy to cockblock his buddy, and we resumed what turned out to be my best game ever. Turns out Shorty was a proficient bowler who had once earned himself a ring and a perfect score, something I was still striving to attain. I was envious. My ego got the best of me as I tried to impress him with my skills and he responded by beating me. Needless to say, we ended up hogging the lane with our strikes and French kisses.

Joe and Michele got bored with my flirtation and called it game. I got the cute boy’s number and promised to call. I did, and we dated for six months. One fateful morning while he was eating oatmeal in my bed, I noticed his arms looked unusually short. I asked Joe later that day if he had ever noticed. From that day forward, Joe made every attempt to measure my boyfriend’s arms.

“Hey, can you get me a bowl?” Joe would ask him, pointing to the highest shelf. “Did you know your fingertips are supposed to reach the middle of your thigh when you dangle your arm?” he would demonstrate, reciting a scientific factoid. “Catch this!” Joe would yell as he lobbed him a football. He tried everything to help me make a decisive conclusion. We never got proof, but it was enough evidence to achieve a moniker; thus, T-Rex was born. Popsicle came later. Literally.

After bowling, someone suggested checking out a swinger’s club. I can’t remember whose bad idea this was, but I assume it was Joe’s since he had been there once before and given it two thumbs up. His initial visit must’ve been better than ours, or he must just have a stronger stomach. It’s not that my experience was awful as far as swinger’s clubs go; it had all the necessary orgies and gang bangs and supplied copious amounts of couples willing to share. But I saw things I wish I hadn’t, and those things seared my eyeballs and burned disturbing memories into my brain forever. I even gagged once, and not because I had something in my mouth.

It all started when we pulled into the parking lot. It was dark and dirty, the kind of parking lot you buy male prostitutes in. Not that I would know. There were two hole-in-the-wall clubs, The Green Door and The Red Rooster. Judging from the names, I assumed The Red Rooster was a gay club with plenty of cock and we wouldn’t be going there. The Green Door seemed a fitting title for something that swings and so I drew my conclusion. That was a test and I passed.

Joe, Hoodie Ass and I shuffled out of the car and followed a couple to the door, which sadly wasn’t green. It was red. Go figure. The bouncer checked our identification and waved us to the register. There was a menu above the teller that read like smorgasbord of human trafficking. Admission into the club was priced by the number of women in your group and how often you frequented the establishment. Discounts were given to those who came there often, no pun intended.

“One couple, one extra?” the clerk asked.

We looked at each other in bewilderment and shrugged our shoulders.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re together or not, it’s cheaper that way. I’m trying to save you money,” the lady added. She was older, wrinkled beyond her years and clearly didn’t give a damn.

“Sure,” I agreed. “That’s fine. How much?”

“One hundred and fifty dollars.”

“One one hundred and fifty dollars?” I repeated. “Is that with the discount?”

“Yep,” she scoffed. “It’s a hundred for him and twenty-five for each of you.” She pointed at Michele and me, staring at us with her beady little eyes.

We all looked at each other again and, not wanting to look cheap, forked up the cash and paid our entry fee. Joe and I were given red wrist bands and Michele was slapped with a green one. We later found out this was a “green light” for singles and couples to recognize her as available. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.

We walked in to the bar. It was a juice bar. They don’t serve alcohol in places like that. Someone might get drunk and lose their inhibitions, or worse, fuck a stranger. Michele ordered an apple juice. I was afraid and opted to remain parched. We found a table in the center of the room, surrounded by pool tables and stripper poles, and took a seat. It wasn’t your typical nightclub, but the place was jumpin’. Michele was in heaven, looking at both men and women. She’s been known to be bisexual. Joe made himself at home. And I tried not to touch anything, desperately wishing I had brought my hand sanitizer.

There was a Jacuzzi room to our left. Joe had raved about it on the trip over. But when I looked through the steamed glass, all I saw were four fat people stuffed in it like Vienna sausages in those little cans. The hot tub was no more than three feet in diameter, and not even Joe’s scrawny ass was squishing into that thing unless one of them left for beverages.

“It seemed bigger last time I was here,” Joe admitted. He must have seen me ogling it.

“You went in that thing?” I asked. The only thing I could think of while watching the bubbles struggle to reach the top between the mountains of flesh was how much chlorine would be needed in order to convince me that it was safe to go in the water.

Suddenly, one of the fatties rose from the caldron and flashed his tiny testicles and miniature Vienna to all of us. I wasn’t sure if they were actually small, or just looked small on his extremely large body. I have never been very good at ratios. Nevertheless, that was the first unsettling image burned into my retina that evening, but it surely wouldn’t be the last. We were off to the couple’s cove next.

Upon entry, we were told that Michele would have to stay back. Her green bracelet restricted her from the couple’s area. She took it like a trooper and opted to mingle in the main room while we explored the cove. I might have worried about her had she not walked away with a shit-eating grin. It was obvious she was on the prowl. I feared what we might return to if gone too long, so I mentioned to Joe that we should take a peek inside and be quick about it. He agreed, took my hand in his and we disappeared into the dark.

Aside from a few cubbies with curtains shrouding our view of the deeds going on behind them, we didn’t find much. There were a lot of other couples walking around looking for the same excitement we were. I was at a swinger’s club. I wanted to see people swinging. I wasn’t sure if that meant actual swinging, as in from the rafters, or if I truly wanted to see a couple sharing another human being like two cannibals hovering over a piece of steak, but there was definitely none of either going on. I was just about to say the place was lame when an older man and his hot, young wife passed by us, dragging a super hunk behind them. What was
this
about?

The couple was the equivalent of Casey Kasem and Pamela Anderson, only Vegas style. He looked more like a mob boss and she was wearing some plastic/pleather get-up with her tits hoisted up to her chin. The handsome tiger in tow was tall, dark and ripped. They must’ve been in such a hurry to steal him from the male review he danced in, that he forgot his shirt. That or he is required by law to walk around like that. I would support that proposition. He had my vote.

Joe and I followed quickly. I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get a front row seat to this show. They hurried into a two-way mirror room and locked the door. We didn’t get there in time to have our faces pressed up against the window, and instead had to settle for bobbing up and down in the back row, peering over heads and trying to squeeze between people for even a bad view. I was pissed. I wanted to see some action. Turned out the husband only wanted to watch as his wife screwed the hunk. He must have been impotent or something. There was no threesome to be had here. We were moving on.

We headed back to find Michele. It didn’t take us long. She was on the pole removing her top and taking tips from the other patrons. She was so proud of her boobs. She didn’t come down immediately and Joe and I had to endure at least three dances by her before we could venture upstairs.

Once upstairs, we took a brief tour. There was a dungeon, but no one was being tortured. There was a room wrapped in plastic. It scared me. There was a golden shower, literally. There was another juice bar, a room with one lone toilet in the center, a stage with gynecological chairs placed under spotlights, a giant bed to sleep twenty and another room lined with more cubicles. We made our rounds and decided to hone in on the gang bang in one of the cubbies. It wasn’t hard to miss. There was a line out the door of eager Mexicans waiting their turn.

We snuck past the others and made our way to the cubby next door. Joe and I stood on the bench and peered over the top of the cubicle like school children peeking over a privacy fence. It reminded me of when I was a little girl. There was a teenage boy in my neighborhood that was having sex with his girlfriend. Though I was too young to know what that meant, my brother and I would ride our bikes over to his house and lay them down in the grass underneath his bedroom window. We could hear them through the screen. Our little fingers would grip the sill tightly as we lifted our heads to peek in. We never saw anything, but we heard enough to know we were being bad, and this moment at The Green Door was similar enough to make me feel naughty all over again.

We were giggling to ourselves, but Michele was complaining. She couldn’t see anything. Her disappointment turned into hostility and she was about to boil over. Although Joe and I were just curious voyeurs, she had clearly come to fulfill her fantasies and we were getting in the way. Just as Michele pushed us aside to get a view of her own, a tall black man interrupted our little party.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, clearing his throat.

We all turned around with guilty looks on our faces. Though we weren’t doing anything wrong, we all felt like we had been caught with our hands in the cookie jar. I swallowed hard; something you should ever do in a place like that.

“You guys wanna watch?” the man asked. But before we could answer, “Come with me.”

He motioned for us to follow him. He led us around the corner and pulled up a chair for us. One chair for the three of us. Joe sat down first. I sat on his lap and Michele sat on mine. We looked weird. Three people stacked up on a chair next to a woman getting reamed by man after man after man while her two pimps cheered her on. I felt indescribably uncomfortable, but what was I supposed to do? Everyone in line was staring at us. Michele was watching the sex up close and personal. Joe kept laughing underneath me while he imitated gurgling noises, and I started praying. The last thing I needed at that moment was Joe getting a hard on. I would’ve puked.

Michele was loving every moment of it. So much so that she actually made conversation with the pimps and asked me if I had any female condoms. She wanted to have sex with that woman, even after all the men that had just visited her vagina. And she probably would have if it weren’t for what happened next. It was the single most disgusting thing I have ever witnessed in person. Video is different. I would like to put a disclaimer on that. When you watch a porno, it’s not real. It’s real enough to get you off, but not real enough to make you sit and think about what’s really going on. Seeing things first hand, though, bring a whole new element of the senses. You can almost smell the germs. It’s different. Trust me.