4.74% ABV canned
Yesterday’s post reminded of an even more interesting tale of Super Bowls past. May I present…
The Hooker Lottery
In Super Bowl XXXVII the Tampa Bay Buccaneers scored early and often on Bill Callahan’s pathetic Raiders’ defense and the game was rendered quite boring quite quickly. Likewise boring were the commercials, finger foods, and lite macro beers we consumed. Our beer of choice at the time was canned PBR, which I still think is the best macro on the market by an order of magnitude. It was just a bunch of slovenly guys, not a single member of the fairer sex in the tiny UES apartment where we watched the game. JT, despite being a major league deviant was also a helluva classy guy, even from an early age. Wanting to spice things up, with a thought he went to his kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a nice sterling silver serving tray heavy with a few decanters of booze: Scotch, bourbon, gin, vodka, maybe something else.
As we got loaded on liquor, we did as men are want to do and the conversation became ribald if not downright sleazy. Tales of conquests past beget tales of scandalous sex beget tales of downright sordidness. Eventually, the conversation turned to a discussion of prostitutes. It was not unknown that JT had had numerous in his life, but we quickly learned a few of the other fellas had as well. Even more guys had gone as far as semi-prostitution in visiting an Asian rub ‘n’ tug. About half the room, me included, had never paid to ejaculate.
Regardless of our level of hooker expertise, JT was the connoisseur and we pelted him with questions:
“Where do you find one?”
Village Voice. Back pages.
“Are they attractive?”
Sometimes. Sometimes not.
“Do they look like their pictures?”
Again, sometimes. Sometimes not.
“How long do you get?”
Depends. Usually an hour. Or til you come.
Believe me, they are just as interested in not getting a disease as you.
“And the cost?”
$200 on average.
Upon hearing that, every guy in the room had the same thought. We all looked around, silently counting the attendance in our heads. The tally ended up coming to twenty of us. $200, twenty guys, that’s ten bucks a head. Highly doable.
I’m not sure who came up with the stroke of obvious genius, but in the future we would all take credit for it, all co-creators of the idea: the hooker lottery.
Each man pulled a $10 bill from his pocket, a Sharpie was passed around for us to put our John Hancock on Alexander Hamilton, and then the bills were thrown into a hat.
First, though, we had to pick out the girl and come up with some stipulations. Jonathan sprinted down to the lobby to grab a Village Voice while the rest of us debated the logistics. Blond or brunette? Asian or Eastern Bloc? Lithe or voluptuous? Fake tits or real? And what would the nineteen losers get as a consolation prize for their efforts?
Ultimately, we decided on a fake-chested Ukraine beauty and the rule that the lottery winner would have to convince said escort to do ten (10) naked jumping jacks for the entire room before he fucked her.
Girl picked, rules set, we drew from the hat: Fred.
Looking around the room, you quickly could tell for what reason each man entered the lottery. Upon Fred’s name being drawn about 33% of the room gritted their teeth in anger, while the other two-thirds discreetly breathed a sigh of relief, they wouldn’t have to puss out, wouldn’t have to admit to their friends that they didn’t want to, that they were scared of having a hooker and were just paying $10 for the proxy thrill of saying they had entered a hooker lottery.
Fred had no such qualms though, turning his victory down briskly, and with no prejudice. The hat was shook again and JT’s brother Terrence won, gladly accepting his prize, dancing around the room like Warren Sapp.
Thirty minutes later, we buzzed in our hooker and Terrence answered the door. We couldn’t see the apartment’s entryway from the living room, but we could hear some negotiation, some haggling, going on in the foyer between Terrence and the prostitute.
After a few minutes, a pencil thin Asian hooker with a pageboy haircut came into the room and did a truncated set of ten naked jumping jacks. “You see me nekkid now, OK?” she said in a heavy accent as she sprinted back to the bedroom.
Giggling like children, we then listened for the next ten minutes as Terrence loudly railed the hooker, intentionally slamming the headboard into the adjacent wall so that we were forced to hear all the gory details.
As the wall reverberated like a metronome, I think all twenty of us realized that a new tradition had just begun…