by Dee Simon
“Pardon the mess. I’m planning to clean this weekend. What would you like to drink?”
“Do you have any whiskey?” I wondered whether the liquor would adversely affect my intestinal war.
“I have Makers.”
“All right.”
Gigi filled two tumblers to the brim and walked over to the couch, handing one to me, spilling some of it on my arm. She apologized and laughed softly as she slumped onto the couch next to me. She took a huge sip of whiskey and removed her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I stared at her naked breasts. They were perfectly shaped D-cups, and best of all, they were real, which was a rarity at the Ruby Club.
“Let’s do some blow,” chimed Gigi.
She dumped the contents of the bag onto the mirrored glass top of her coffee table and cut out five massive, perfectly formed rails. She snorted the first two before handing the small straw to me. Trusting that the anti-diarrheal medication was winning the war, I took a sip of whiskey and snorted two lines. I scanned the room, trying to determine where the bathroom was located just in case I had to make a quick escape, but my stomach seemed fine for the moment. We proceeded to polish off that bottle of Makers, half a fifth of Grey Goose, and snorted at least two grams of blow over the next several hours. I’m not sure when we made it upstairs to her bedroom, but it was light outside, and we were both naked and heavily inebriated. I think we had sex two or three times before finally passing out from drunken exhaustion.
A few hours later, I suddenly awoke severely disoriented and with a splitting headache. I had passed out on top of Gigi, and she still lay beneath me on her stomach snoring loudly. My throat was parched. I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a glass of what I thought contained water, but it was filled with whiskey and cigarette butts. I regretfully returned the glass to the nightstand when I felt a cold wetness between my legs. “What the hell?” I thought as I slowly lifted up the duvet and was overwhelmed by a fetid stench. I pulled the blanket back and dry heaved when I discovered that my crotch and inner thighs were layered with thick brown-green diarrhea. “Oh my god, I shit her bed,” I almost cried out loud.
Despite my severely hungover state, an all-encompassing sense of panic shot through my system, shaking me to my core. I dry heaved again, this time feeling warm liquid surge in the back of my throat. This was an absolute worst-case scenario. I glanced over to Gigi, and thankfully, she was still sleeping soundly. I had never been so happy to hear someone snoring. I couldn’t just get up and leave her bed in this state. But there was also no way I’d be able to clean up the mess without her finding out what had happened. I broke out into a cold sweat. It hurt my head to think, but I had to think of something before she woke up. Maybe I should just wake her up, explain that I got sick, and tell her that I would clean up the mess and buy her new sheets. On second thought, I can’t fucking do that. She’d never understand. Due to years of hard drug abuse, strippers are void of any feelings of compassion. She’d ruin me. Everyone would find out about this in a matter of days. I’d have to move to a new city. Maybe I should just go to Las Vegas. It’s mecca for strip club DJs. I’ve heard that Vegas DJs can make $3,000 a night. But I knew this was a ridiculous notion. There was no way I could relocate to Vegas without a job or any reliable connections. I’m seriously fucked, I thought as I felt myself begin to hyperventilate, but the sight of Gigi still fast asleep calmed my frenetic breathing. Suddenly, a thin ray of light shot through a crack in the curtains and shone directly in my face, blinding me momentarily. I think it was the comedian Larry Miller who said that when you’re over thirty and after a night of binge drinking, the sun is like “God’s flashlight.” Now, I don’t believe in God and perhaps I was still high or so hungover that I was incapable of rational thought, but this was as close as I had ever come to divine intervention. And during that ephemeral period of celestial brilliance, I prayed to whomever or whatever may be out there and swore that if I managed to escape this debacle, I wouldn’t do drugs or drink alcohol for the next two weeks. And at that moment, as I shielded my eyes from the harsh, glaring light, I experienced what the Greek poets called an epiphany. All at once, it became manifest what I had to do and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Taking great care, I shifted my weight to the left and slid my upper body away from the sleeping girl. Propping myself up in the bed, I reached down between my legs, cupped my hands together, and scooped up a handful of lukewarm feces. I delicately deposited the diarrhea over Gigi’s buttocks and, with the tips of my fingers, gently spread it across the back of her thighs. I then gingerly moved her legs apart and watched as vile ordure slowly seeped down between her inner thighs. She jerked, inhaled deeply, and I froze with my shit-covered hands in the air. But thankfully, it was a false alarm, and I let out an audible sigh of relief when I heard her snoring resume. She was in a deep sleep. I hastily scooped up another handful of shit and carefully placed the mess over the lower portion of her thighs before managing to remove myself from her bed without causing the sleeping woman to stir. I found her bathroom and hurriedly washed my hands and crotch with soap and water. I checked to see if I had left any articles of clothing near the bed but didn’t find any, which meant that we must have disrobed downstairs. Before I left, I gently grasped her feet and repositioned her body so that she was lying directly on top of the puddle of diarrhea. It was time for me to exit this crime scene. I tiptoed downstairs, picked my clothes up off the floor, dressed, and left her apartment through the front door. The daylight stung my eyes, but I didn’t care because I felt liberated. I had overcome. I walked seven or eight blocks before I found a yellow cab barreling down 16th Street. I went home, showered, and slept for ten hours straight.
The next day I returned to work wondering what I was going to say if questioned about the incident. But, to my surprise, no one said a word. No one at the club knew anything about it. I didn’t work with Gigi again till the following Thursday, but she avoided me all night. We briefly encountered eachother at the end of the shift, but she stared at the ground and strode by without a word of acknowledgment. It was obvious that she was too mortified to face me. I completely understood. Even though I was going to miss having random sex with Gigi and felt mild pangs of remorse for my subterfuge, I could still sleep at night without ever having to confess to anyone that I had befouled a woman’s bed.
Acknowledgements
There were many people who helped with the writing and publishing of this book. I will try to thank you all for your individual contributions, but note that I greatly appreciate all of you for your tireless support and encouragement through the years. First, I’d like to thank my sister, Stephanie, for her unbridled enthusiasm for all of my inane endeavors and, equally, my brother, Jeffrey, for his constructive criticism of all my inane endeavors. Second, I'd like to thank David Kessler, to whom this book is dedicated, for being a dear friend, collaborator, and accomplice. David was a brilliant raconteur and possessed an uncanny ability to recall minute details of events that occurred over twenty years ago. That being said, he was indispensible in helping me outline the “Frustration McLonelys” story. I only wish you were still here for me to give you a finished copy of this book.
I wish to acknowledge the help provided by the following friends (I purposely excluded your surnames so that you wouldn’t be directly associated with such smut): Jeff W., thanks for your creative input and assisting with editing the “Mariah Carey Rainbow” story. Dave J., thanks for giving me ideas for the front cover design and taking the photograph I used for the bio page. You always catch my best angles. Thanks to Lance K. and Pat D. for listening to my endless blathering and providing new perspectives and suggestions. Special thanks to Dallas Stoeckel (D-Stoke) for snapping the sexy cover photo, and to Sasha L. for designing the stunning cover of this book. And thanks to Karen G. and Jason K. for assisting with book publicity.
I’d also like to express my sincere gratitude to: Lenora Claire for inspiration, sound advice, and promotional ideas.
And Ryan Keely for being the beautiful model on the cover and not being ashamed to pose with a microphone shoved between her breasts.
I cannot thank my editor, Naomi Long, enough times for her exemplary work and limitless patience in dealing with an obsessive-compulsive client. And many thanks to author Scott Sigler for helping me to realize that it’s possible for an author to publish his own book. And for explaining how that process is done.
Finally, I would like to extend my appreciation to all of the gorgeous dancers I worked with over the years at the many clubs in San Francisco. Despite the tone I may have used in some of these stories, I sincerely enjoyed working with you all.
About the Author
Dee Simon is the author of Play Something Dancy and the host and producer of the Sick and Wrong Podcast. He is a graduate of the University of Michigan and lives in Los Angeles, where he is pursuing a career as a cruise ship magician. His hobbies include velvet painting, mahjong, and reading Proust.
Table of Contents
Lexi
You Can’t Make a Ho a Housewife
Frustration McLonelys
The Bigger the Bills, the Bigger the Thrills
The Ghost of Strip Club DJ Future
The Red Light Special
The Blowjob Adventures of Dr. Fellatio
Doug the Retard
The Birthday Boy
Fiona
Play Something Dancy
Mariah Carey’s Rainbow
Run to the Hills
Dick Has a Sore Throat
Kashmir
Acknowledgements
About the Author