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

by Jen Ashton

Chad tried a few more times to get in on the action, but they took full advantage of his intoxication and just shooed him away. He was stumbling around the room, tripping over them and bumping into us as he looked for the door so he could finally excuse himself to the men’s room. By this time, I was getting raw and either wanted Popsicle to focus or let me break for a cigarette. I chose to be innovative and smoke with one hand and keep him hard with the other. It seemed to work.

  While I stroked my not-really-but-kind-of boyfriend’s ego, I had plenty of entertainment in front of me. It hadn’t been my intention to watch my friends participate in a two thousand dollar orgy, nor to screw Popsicle inside a strip club that evening, but I wasn’t complaining about the show. I was going to get off one way or another, and so it seemed, so were my two best friends.

  Somehow, Joe knelt down and ended up getting a blowjob. I was proud of him for taking such initiative. Hoodie Ass had been cock-blocking him all night. Michele got finger-banged and got to slurp up Chad’s sloppy seconds. Rachel enjoyed sharing her body with her patrons as good strippers often do.

  “I really have to take a piss,” Chad mumbled from the corner, still lost inside our ten by fifteen room. “Does anyone know where I can take a piss?” Again, no response.

  Joe was on the verge of losing his load. Michele was moaning and squealing like a chipmunk in heat while Rachel took it all like a champ. The moans and growls were getting louder and more frequent between the three of them. I knew a climactic moment was on the horizon for at least one of them, if not all. It was too dark to tell and I was in the heat of my own moment. Popsicle and I were minding our own business as I had loosened my grip and saddled back up. I was riding him like a thoroughbred. We were shrouded by darkness in the corner, so he was giving it to me good. I was moments away from screaming, “Oh yes!”

  The room was filled with naughty little sentences echoing between us all.

  “You like that?” Michele whispered.

  “Take it,” Joe scolded.

  “Right there,” Rachel would direct.

  “Hey guys?” Chad asked again. “I have to piss.”

  Just when I thought Chad had stole the spotlight, Popsicle groaned in my ear. “I’m there. Keep going. Don’t stop. Right there.” I knew I had him. Finally.

  As Popsicle exploded with vigor, the ménage à trois on the floor heated up to its boiling point as well and the three of them found their orgasms. The room filled with sounds of sexual pleasure as every one of us reached maximum arousal with our chosen partners. It was weird, like something you would see in a Woody Allen film. Despite the inhibitions that we all expressed that evening, none of us really exposed anything to the others that we hadn’t at least heard through the drywall of our rooms on previous occasions. Because we were in the dark and a clear view was limited, it was merely the same, just louder.

  As everyone was coming down off their sexual highs and relishing in the afterglow of flushed faces and tingling toes, there was a strange sound emanating from the corner.

  “What is that?” Rachel asked as she sat up. She squinted in an overly inquisitive way.

  “Did someone leave the faucet on?” Joe joked.

  “Where’s Chad?” Popsicle inquired.

  Just then, the door of our VIP room swung open violently. The manager and two security guards shuffled in, turned off the music and turned on the lights. Joe jumped to his feet and tucked his penis back into his pants faster than you could say prison. We all knew we were fucked. Rachel grabbed her small bikini and tried to cover her nipples with it while crossing her legs to cover her lady bits. She was definitely getting popped for prostitution. Michele, the nudist she is, moved slowly. She wasted no opportunity to show off her new boobs and droopy ass. She swiped her clothes up off the floor and stood in front of them with a smile.

  I could feel Popsicle’s popsicle retreating under my lap. I wasn’t too worried because we were covered. We just looked like an unassuming couple making out in the corner. If they asked me to get up, on the other hand, they may find the dirty little secret swept under my carpet. I prayed they wouldn’t make that request. I don’t know who I prayed to, because in all honesty I’m not sure that God would be there to help sinners like us get out of such a precarious situation, but perhaps a few of his high priests were listening and cut us a break because the security guards just smiled at me and nodded. It was quiet for only a split-second.

  “Do you guys know that there are cameras in here?” the manager asked.

  We all looked at each other with guilty expressions like misbehaved children sitting in the principal’s office. We knew we were caught; not just by management, but on camera. We were all going to jail. My knees started shaking and my ass began to twitch. It does that when I am either really nervous or really scared. I couldn’t take it. I looked over at Joe, who was zipping up his trousers. He sighed in defeat. It had been all fun and games until someone got caught with their dick in the stripper’s mouth. I pursed my lips and put my tail between my legs. Joey did the same. He knew he was going down, and not the kind of going down Michele had just displayed on Rachel. He had missed the boat on that good time altogether.

  “Just get it over with,” Joe finally fessed up, holding his hands out in front of him to be cuffed.

  There was a look of confusion on the manager’s face. The security guards looked at each other and frowned.

  “What? Not you. We’re not here for you,” the manager told him.

  I looked at Rachel. She had turned white with fear. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be her first trip to the slammer for prostitution. She flinched as the security guards walked toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for them to haul her away, but instead they stepped right over her. That’s when we all became privy to why they were there in the first place. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, there was no mistaking the scene in front of me.

  “Excuse me,” one security guard said in a deep, husky voice after clearing his throat. “Sir?” He reached out and tapped Chad on the shoulder. Startled, he flung around quickly, spraying urine all over the floor. “That’s not a toilet,” the security officer informed him, pointing to the planter.

  Chad stood there in a drunken haze, unable to register where he was or who was speaking to him; still pissing all over the floor at the base of the potted plant. “Huh?”

  “That’s not a urinal,” the officer repeated. “You can’t relieve yourself there. You’re going to have to come with us.”

  They escorted Fat Chad and his dribbling member out of the room, turned off the lights, resumed the music and closed the door without saying another word. I couldn’t believe it. We all just sat there stunned. With all the illegal things going on among the five of us, the only thing worth stopping in that VIP room by their standards was a grown man pissing in their precious vase. It took me a moment to process what had just happened; apparently, there is sex in the Champaign room. What a relief! But unfortunately the awkward silence that followed Chad’s departure was a sure sign our fun-filled night was now over. As I stood up to gather my things, Joe began unzipping his pants.

  “That was close!” he admitted. He looked at Rachel, unwilling to let Chad cock-block his trip downtown. “Who’s ready for round two?”

  CAPTAIN COCK-BLOCK

  Although Joe’s sexual conquests and disasters are the butt of most of our jokes, he is not the only one who faces scrutiny for his personal affairs. I must admit that my love life isn’t much better. I have Vagina Goggles. I see a cute boy and I immediately wonder what he is like in bed. This inhibits me from seeing his flaws right away and ending up in the sack with someone I don’t, and probably shouldn’t, want to be with. Since Joe possesses a tree branch with a stainless steel ladder, his vision is not impaired by such goggles, and so I rely on him to be my eyes.

  Joseph looks out for me. He knows I have a habit of getting caught up in the moment and getting carried away. He is there to remind me that everyone i
s shiny when they are brand new, but that eventually they will tarnish and I will be left with what he is able to see; which in one case was a man with no eyelashes. His approach is never suave. It could be compared to pulling the elastic strap of my goggles and snapping it back hard to knock some sense into me. After a few Advil, I am usually able to get a clearer picture of my situation. I would rather this than one of his famous speeches.

  Joe is not always the voice of reason. His words are never eloquent. His thoughts are composed into a series of random examples that aren’t related in the slightest, but somehow still end up having cohesiveness throughout their absurdity. Like the time he compared my crush on an MMA fighter to the Tree of Love with broken branches and the wrong names carved into its trunk. He then used the word bark to steer his sermon toward referring to my crush as a dog that couldn’t be tamed. That dog was reversed to God. He further pointed out that the fighter was a devout Catholic and continued to remind me what happened the last time I tried to date a member of the church. (After our wild night at Treasures, T-Rex Popsicle had suggested we head directly to Sunday morning service and repent.) I never quite understood how Joe was able to transition like that, but in some sort of roundabout way, he was able to make a valid point. Reluctantly, I chalked it up to genius and I have been listening to his advice ever since; against my better judgment. Nevertheless, Joe’s rants tend to have one common theme that always leads to a moral of each story. Regardless of the subject matter or the object of my affection, the thread that weaves his stories together is always the same; Joey is just looking out for my best interest.

  Aside from his ability to steer me right from time to time, Joe also has a natural talent for cock-blocking his Monkey. It is a gift. One that is carefully acquired over years of camaraderie, monitored appropriately and deeply appreciated. Joe’s method of cock-blocking ranges from what I need to what he thinks I need. Sometimes his services are requested, and sometimes they are simply just offered. I can’t say I have always been happy about the results, but I am definitely indebted to his loyalty. The indirect cock-block is directed toward me, not my counterpart, by way of lecture as previously mentioned. The direct cock-block is a blockade that directly affects my counterpart’s ability to have sex with me. I often require the latter, and Joe is always there with an emergency rescue plan. He once played my retarded brother and pissed himself to get me out of an awkward date. He is the best wingman a girl could have. It’s obvious his role as my best friend extends far beyond the normal duties of a side-kick. I can’t imagine that Robin would fly across the country to interview a potential mate for Batman before he committed. My Joey did this for me. He is way better than Robin and looks pretty damn good in his Captain Cock-block leotard, if I don’t say so myself.

  There have been more than a handful of times that Joe’s cock-blocking skills have saved me from my own dating disasters, but unfortunately I am usually knee deep in Shit, I don’t want to sleep with this guy again before Joe jumps in. It’s that shininess thing that gets me every time. I typically don’t even see the baggage or mental illness attached to my new glistening phallus until it’s too late. But, better late than never. Once I realize I want out, I point my backwards Chanel logo spotlight into the sky and call upon Captain Cock-block to save me like the super friend he is. He doesn’t show up in his red-hot pleather jumpsuit with cape and mask wearing one boxing glove, though I wish he would, but it’s the fact that he shows up at all when his Monkey needs him most that counts.

  Roger Roger

  (Roger Roger was an MMA fighter who lived in Minneapolis. He got his nickname because Joe took an airplane to meet him. Seeing that Airplane was one of my favorite movies as a child, I only saw it fit to quote Captain Oveur when I dropped Joe off at the airport. “Roger, Roger. What’s your vector, Victor?” But the story begins before the airport.)

  I met Roger online. Don’t judge, eHarmony claims three out of four relationships begin online these days. Mine was a massive fail, but that means I have three more tries left to get it right! Anyway, Roger and I chatted each other up for a few weeks before exchanging numbers. That led to endless nights talking on the phone until the sun came up. Most mornings I would wake up with my cell phone stuck to my face and if I listened closely I could hear Roger snoring on the other end. We were inseparable, despite the two thousand miles between us.

  “You should come out and visit me,” Roger suggested one day. “I’ll fly you out.”

  “I would love to, Babe, but I don’t like to fly.”

  “Just get on a plane and come see me. I’m dying to meet you.”

  I was dying to meet him too. Ever since I saw him on T.V. and looked him up on Myspace, I had been fantasizing about having sex with him. I thought long and hard about my fear of flying, weighing out whether or not it was worth the risk of crashing to sleep with this twenty-three year old stranger who had the body of Adonis. It wasn’t, so I told Roger the only thing there was to say.

  “I’ll just drive.”

  That was the dumbest decision I’ve ever made, and Joe wasted no time telling me so when I gave him the news later that day.

  “You’re going to do what?” he mocked me.

  “I’m going to drive to Minneapolis to meet Roger.”

  “But it’s the middle of winter, Monkey! Are you retarded?”

  “Yes. I am.” I was willing to admit I was entranced by the thought of a shiny new toy. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Why doesn’t he just fly out here?”

  “Because he’s on house arrest.” Joe looked at me sideways. “Shut up. Don’t ask, it’s a long story.”

  “When are you leaving?” Joe asked, knowing he couldn’t stop my stupidity.

  “Thursday. But I need you to do me a favor before I leave.”

  “What?” he hesitated. The look on his face told me that he wasn’t happy to help but that he would because he owed me for getting him laid the week before.

  “I need you to fly out and meet him first.”

  I could tell this wasn’t what Joe expected to hear. He probably thought I was going to ask him to take my car to get an oil change or lend me money for new tires. Perhaps I would even request a AAA map of the road construction and gas stations on my northern route. Anything but conducting a preliminary interview for me. His mouth dropped wide open.

  “Are you fucking serious?” he asked, then followed it up with, “Fuck. Fine. When?”

  “Tomorrow. I will tell him you’re headed out that way for work and the two of you should have lunch.”

  “And why am I doing this? You spend every night on the phone with him. Don’t you know enough to feel confident about meeting him?”

  “I think he might be too short for me,” I admitted. “I want you to go stand next to him and tell me where you come up to.” Joe is my measuring stick for men. He is short like me and I like to feel safe and protected. Joe knows this and often obliges to my requests to be a yard stick.

  “He’s a fighter. Does it really matter how tall he is? He can still protect you.”

  “It matters. I like to wear heels. I can’t wear heels with short guys. I like to look up to people.”

  Quirky or not, Joe knew what he had to do. Regardless of whether I was willing to buy an airline ticket or simply ask him to walk across a room and pretend to be a statue for a few moments, he knew the measure of man was important to me. We got online and purchased him a flight to Minneapolis. I set up the luncheon and Joe met Roger.

  “How tall is he?” I asked when I finally got Joe on the phone.

  “Average,” he answered, reluctantly. His voice was strained like most are when they’re calling from another state. For some reason talking long distance makes people think they have to yell so their voice will travel the distance. It’s weird.

  “Average? What does that mean?” I had a feeling he didn’t want to tell me.

  “He’s average, you know, not tall but not short either.”

  “
Omigosh, Joe, just tell me.”

  “Look Monkey, he’s not tall. He’s only an inch taller than me, but he’s proportional. I’m not trying to be gay by saying this, but he’s handsome. You’ll like him. Just don’t tell me I came all the way out here to sit and listen to his dumb ass stories to have you back out.”

  “Would I have sex with him?”

  “Yes. Yes you would. So get your ass in your car and drive out here.”

  And that’s just what I did. While I drove through snow and ice storms across the northern plains, Joe flew back to Vegas and waited for me to report home once I arrived. He was right. Roger was short for my taste, but he was sexy. The first three days of my five day visit were a whirlwind of romance. We couldn’t leave his house because of his ankle bracelet, so we stayed in and had lots of sex. While the snowflakes fell outside and winter settled in on Minnesota, Roger and I hibernated under blankets in his basement and made out over and over and over again. That was, until he looked at me on the third night and said, “I think you should leave. This isn’t really working out.”

  What…the fuck? The guy who was too short, too young, on house arrest, lived with twelve roommates and punched people for a living was dumping me? I was floored. I felt like such an ass. More like a fool, really. The first thought that crossed my mind was the heyday that Joe was going to have at my expense once he found out. It wasn’t a broken heart that made me cry, it was knowing that I would never live this down as long as Joe and I remained friends. I was going to have to “break up” with Joe when I got home if I ever wanted inner peace again.

  It was bad enough the weather wasn’t going to permit a safe trip home, but to add, my car was stuck in Roger’s driveway. No amount of salt or roommates was able to dig it out in time for me to depart during daylight hours. And to boot, Roger took his “work leave” that day so that he didn’t have to say goodbye. I was the discarded cougar from Las Vegas whose ass got hit with the door on her way out. The roommates tried to console me, but after six hours of hard labor to dislodge my car from the snow, they were happy to see me off as well. It was a nightmare.