Scott's Cock 

"He is still distraught over the laughter of the lightweight"

Go back to the "Valentine’s Day: Why Bother?" table of contents page

We met at Third coast, on Dearborn, and when the guy arrived he went to another table. I guessed that he was intending to perform a "flyover," seeing that no one in the room met his criteria. I identified myself. He joined me, with a terse apology: "You were writing so intently." Scott ordered a scotch and invited me to order anything I'd like. I requested a Caesar salad with grilled squid, and the evening became the "Calamari for Boobs" date, seeing that once the salad arrived the guy just slurped his scotch and spent the entire night addressing my rack. He also told me how beautiful his ex-wife is. "Once, we were in Morocco," he said to the top of my left one, "and I was offered one thousand camels for her." I paused midbite and wondered: Did he know the market rate? What if the going price for an attractive woman was two thousand camels? I couldn't help but speculate: This guy obviously doesn't think I'm a thousand-camel woman. Am I a five-hundred-camel woman? Do I hear two hundred?

The check arrived and we departed, but kept talking on the sidewalk. "Ninety percent of Earth's population doesn't believe in evolution!" Scott sputtered in disbelief.

"Ninety percent of Earth's population has the primary concern of hoping that the guerrilla fighters don't come to their huts to kill the goat," I responded. Scott paused as we approached Dearborn and Chicago. "Monica," he said. "I'm going to learn a lot from you." Seeing that I had no intention of having another conversation with him, I wondered how said learning would occur, but did not pursue this line of inquiry. We were at the bus stop.

Weeks later, Scott comes home drunk and IMs me. He doesn't recall who the e-mail belongs to. "Who are you?" he types.

"Monica," I type. "We met at Third Coast. The 'Calamari for Boobs' date."

"Oh, yes. They were lovely." He begins to complain that a woman just laughed at his penis. "A nice girl, but not much going on upstairs." He's still distraught over the laughter of the lightweight, and asks if he can e-mail me a picture for evaluation. I type "Sure," but point out that an object to scale has to be in the frame for the endeavor to have any validity. Compared to a cocktail gherkin? The Chrysler Building? "There's a woman's hand holding it," he responds. For all I know the woman in question is a midget and my point still stands, but I say OK. He sends me the file. I click it open. Nothing remarkable. "Nice manicure," I type.

"Thanks," Scott types back. "I did it myself."

"I'd say just a little smaller than average," I type. A full inch, actually, but I'm far too generous natured with these assholes.

"Really?" he types. I glance again. Yeah, not too far from average, not the tragedy of microphallus.

"Awww . . . thanks," he types back. I never hear from Scott again.

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Performing Arts
The Christians Steppenwolf Theatre Company, Downstairs Theater
December 01
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