Loose Lucy

After a Sunday afternoon facial delight at Skin Thera P, I headed up to Manny’s On Second (formerly Blondie’s East) to meet Jimmy Whisk, Annie Smalls, and Annie’s boyfriend Otis for a little Sunday Funday action. As we ordered a pitcher of beer and a few bloody Mary’s, I caught Jimmy Whisk eyeing up the backside of a tall, attractive brunette in a tight, green t-shirt standing at the bar as our waitress repeatedly asked him what he would like to drink.

I kicked his shin under the table to get his attention, “Jimmy, you haven’t even had a beer yet. Keep your pants on and order a damn drink.”

Flustered, Jimmy quickly ordered a Heineken and immediately returned his focus to the girl at the bar.

“I think I slept with her,” he finally divulged. Before we could ask for further details, Jimmy had scooted his chair out from the table and beelined toward the mystery girl.

Annie, Otis and I carefully watched their brief interaction and couldn’t help but notice it was somewhat awkward, even from our seats across the bar. He swiftly returned to his seat at our table and immediately chugged his beer before any of us could ask what the hell kind of interaction the usually suave Jimmy Whisk had just had with the girl in the green.

Jimmy finally came up for air and admitted, “She had forgotten my name.”

As Annie, Otis and I cracked up, Johnny Fuego sauntered over to our table and pulled up a chair. Johnny Fuego was Jimmy’s childhood friend from Brooklyn who fought fire by day and moonlighted at Tin Lizzie on Saturday nights.

“Johnny, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Jimmy chuckled as he pointed towards the bar.

“It’s just some broad he slept with, which could be almost any semi-attractive, single girl with two breasts and most of her body parts intact that has walked through the doors of Mad River within the past six months.” I interposed, rolling my eyes.

“Actually, Jimmy and Lucy spent a very magical night together—after her he pilfered her away from me.” Johnny Fuego cynically stated.

“That’s pretty dick, Jimmy. You know Johnny never gets laid.” I said as I poured Johnny a much needed beer from our pitcher of Coors Light.

“So what happened with Lucy, anyways?” Annie Smalls asked.

“Well one Saturday night after I closed up Mad River, I headed over to Tin Lizzie to see Johnny,” Jimmy began. “When I got there I found him talking to this smokin’ girl named Lucy. So I pulled up a stool at the bar and joined in on the conversation. Johnny was too busy dancing on the bar and doing shots of Jameson to remind me that he had been casually dating this girl, so I took my fair shot at her. Plus, there was no way in hell Fuego would ever seal the deal with Lucy when it came down to it, anyways.”

“Asshole.” Johnny muttered under his breath as Jimmy continued his story.

“Wait so you knew Johnny liked her!?” I interrupted. “You are an asshole.”

Jimmy ignored our comments and carried on with his legend of Lucy, “It was getting late and I wanted to get the show on the road, so I told Lucy that Johnny wouldn’t be done closing up the bar for awhile and that I could walk her home. I could tell she was torn between waiting for Johnny and leaving with me, but I think we all know what she ended up choosing.”

“On the way home she mentioned hitting up a diner, but I knew it was best to just get her home—my home, that is. I made sure that we crossed Second Avenue before passing Midnight Express so she couldn’t sneak in the door and order the bacon, egg, and cheese she had been talking about since 86^th street. When she saw we were passing the diner from the opposite side of the avenue and suggested we go in, I told her it looked way too busy and we would never be able to get a table, even at 4:30am,” Jimmy explained.

“She seemed disappointed and a little confused about the whole not having a reservation thing, so I suggested we just go back to my place and order in. It worked like a charm too. Before I knew it, she was on my couch kicking her shoes off and making herself comfortable.” Jimmy recounted with pride.

“I’m totally pulling the diner trick next weekend.” Johnny announced.

“So what happened next? You spoon fed her home fries and the rest is history?” I asked.

Johnny and Jimmy looked at each other knowingly.

“Let’s just say it turned into the most interesting late night snack I’ve ever had…”

Stay tuned to find out what made Lucy so loose…

The Accountant

It was a cool fall night and I had just wrapped up my usual Friday night happy hour stint at Mad River. Jenny Saurs had consumed an entire bottle of Firefly Sweet Tea vodka during our ninety minute shift and was now hallucinating ants and pizza bagels. Annie Smalls had headed home for a date night and Jimmy Whisk was manning the bar until the last Bud Light-chugging, Jagermeister-slamming, former frat boy crawled out of the bar and headed home to drool himself to sleep.

That left Red Rider and me to fend for ourselves on the Upper East Side. Predictably, we headed a few blocks up and over to East End. Not fifteen minutes in, Red Rider had found himself a spot in a game of beer pong with three blondes and I was left to chat with our friend Mumbles. As Mumbles was burbling on about a below-the-belt injury he had sustained during a recent street hockey game, I felt a vibration in my back pocket. It was a text message from my latest beau de semaine, The Accountant.

I had met The Accountant a few weeks ago when a mutual friend and he had come into Mad River for a few beers. He reminded me of Paul Rudd a la the incestuous stepbrother in Clueless, and although he hailed from New Jersey, he sported respectable denim and proper footwear. We spent the evening flirting and playing eye footsy*, but unfortunately, no tonsil hockey or hanky panky for Bacchus that night.

Over the next week we developed a textual relationship via Verizon Wireless, complete with picture messages and emoticons. But tonight it was time to take our relationship to a non-cellular level.

The Accountant was coming from the Yankees game and wanted to meet up. I parted ways with Mumbles and Red Rider and met The Accountant a block up at The Bullpen. He had clearly had an intoxicating time at the game, but I had no room to judge considering my liver-damaging level of Jack Daniels consumption over the past four hours.

We commenced our “date” with a shot, his chilled Stoli O, mine J.D., followed by a short game of darts that ended after my first two throws missed the board by a good three feet and my third throw narrowly missed an innocent bystander. It was time to go home to the Love Shack and I was bringing the Accountant with me.

We stumbled out of The Bullpen and swung through a bodega for some water when The Accountant spotted the produce section. He excitedly grabbed a package of strawberries and we were on our way. We headed straight to my room where The Accountant proceeded to feed me strawberries in between our make-out sessions. It was more sloppy than sexy, but I appreciated the effort and the Vitamin C.

Soon enough, the strawberries were out of the picture and so was my shirt. The Accountant’s fondling of my breasts accompanied by an occasional ass grab eventually led to a full on melon sucking session. While The Accountant was getting to oh-so-intimately know my rack, my gaze fell to the package of strawberries on my nightstand—the package of blue, fuzzy strawberries on my nightstand.

But before I could fully process the fact that I had just been force fed moldy strawberries by a slobbering berry lover, I felt a sharp pain on my left breast.

“Oh my god!” I cried out.

The Accountant came up for air, alarmed and confused.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“You just bit my nipple, you asshole!” I snapped.

“Oh really?” he asked with surprise.

“I can’t. You need to leave.” I said as I grabbed my shirt, guarding my throbbing boob with my arm and cursing under my breath.

After a good seven minute struggle of retying his shoes and putting on his coat, I guided The Accountant to my front door.

“But where I am supposed to go?” he asked, staggering towards my door.

“You can go curl up in a sewer for all I care, but you’re not staying here.” I replied, slamming the door shut as Red Rider came out of his room to see what the commotion was.

“What’s going on out here? Who was that guy?” Red Rider asked, half asleep, half drunk.

“That was The Accountant. He fed me moldy strawberries and bit my tit.” I unhappily informed him.

“Rough night, Bacchus, rough night.” Red Rider uttered as he shook his head and headed back to bed, leaving me alone in our living room, holding my punctured milk jug.



Bacch-tionary

*eye footsy [ahy foo t-see] n. First base to eye f*cking.

Sex & the UES: Saving Second Base

Cans, melons, knockers, titties, pom poms, airbags, coconuts, jugs, hooters, headlights, chesticles, tatas, racks, honkers, pillows, milk-makers, ninnies. There are countless names for a woman’s breasts, as well as a myriad of things you can do with them: squeeze, nibble, suck, grab, twist, milk, motorboat, titty f*ck, bite, and lick.

The lists of comical names and stimulating activities that go with them are never ending—and so is the number of women who are affected by breast cancer each year. At any moment, breast cancer can strike anyone we know—our mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, daughters, cousins, friends, neighbors, co-workers, our favorite barista at Starbucks. In fact, every three minutes another woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.

So how did I help to fight this devastating statistic? Rather than another Benjamin meets vodka meets All My Children drama-filled episode or a late-night backseat rendezvous with The Realtor, I focused my time and energy on a very different affair this weekend—breasts. Along with my teammates, I helped to raise more than $14,000 over the past nine months and dedicated my weekend to walking 39.2 miles with four thousand other participants.

But during my 39.2 mile trek through New York, I noticed that only a small percentage of my fellow walkers were men. They sported “Real Men Wear Pink” and “Save Second Base” t-shirts, rubber gloves for “Free Mammies”, and sadly, “Walking in memory of my wife/sister/mother” signs.

I decided to approach these few and far between men along the way and ask them why they were participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer and what did they love so much about boobs that they were willing to walk a marathon and a half for them?

While their responses varied in terms of what they each liked to do with a set of hoo-ha’s, whether it be sucking the life out of a nipple or squeezing ‘til the sun don’t shine, the reasons they were walking alongside me were overwhelmingly consistent—someone they knew and loved had been affected by the disease.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. So whether you are a woman with her own fabulous rack of jugs or a man who values milk-makers, everyone can help in the fight to save second base. Do something today.

Back to storytelling next week…