COLUMN SIXTY-THREE, SEPTEMBER 1, 2001
(Copyright © 2001 Al Aronowitz)
GIFT TO WOMEN
(Copyright ©2001 Josh Alan Friedman
[More writing by Josh Alan Friedman can be found by clicking on http://www.joshalan.com.]
The year was 1986. I had just
suffered a month hanging out with New York's reigning "strikeout
king"--an otherwise brilliant men's magazine editor, whom we'll call Sammy
Grubman. Poor Grubman spent his summer dreaming up endless ruses to score
women---bogus rock video auditions, swimsuit contests, photo "test
shoots" for his mag. Dumbstruck, I joined him in his nightly rounds at the
Palladium and Studio 54 as he hit upon ballrooms full of females. In his rumpled
suit, skinny black tie, thick glasses and nasal whine with sen-sen breath, I
watched him viciously strike out under the rotating disco ball. I got into the
rhythm of failure with him, tossing out some dumb pickup lines myself. Losing
wind after a hundred ‘No's,’ we repositioned to the girls' powder
room. The most common retort from spandexed chicks exiting, as Grubman
propositioned each for a drink, was simply, "Fuck you." By 4 am,
reeling from the dread of such monumental rejection, Grubman would bomb himself
to sleep each night with codeine pills.
I too began wondering whether
all women in New York were paranoid men-haters, terrified to smile at a
stranger. Or was it just Grubman, rubbing off on me?
During this time, a fringe
show-biz agent pal of ours, named Shark, began relating tales of the greatest
barroom pickup artist alive. Shark reflected upon his own glory years in the
1960's. His organs malfunctioning from middle-aged alcoholism, Shark grew moist
in reminiscence over the only activity that really mattered---sliding his pecker
into trainloads of girls. He called this perpetual state of scoring a
"It's a beautiful thing,
being on a roll," Shark recalled,
his voice hoarse from substance abuse. "Catching the rhythm and keeping it
up night after night. While you're fucking one broad, you're planning tomorrow's
menu. You establish your turf, your nightclubs, your clique of celebs, then the
broads flock to you each night. But
once you're out of the rhythm, Jack, it's very
hard to get back in."
Shark definitely seemed to
have lost his chops as a pick-up artist, along with his best clients and his
dough. He ran a skid-row modeling agency, Stars Models, for mostly unemployable
bush-leaguers---A&P checkout girls and bar hostesses with big dreams and
bigger tits. Real lookers some were, but cursed by being an inch too short for
Ford, a pound too heavy for Elite, unschooled and gawky in their runway gait,
some with white-trash bruises that healed slowly.
But Shark had become
spiritually rejuvenated by the discovery of a protégé. He referred to him as
the Stud. Through the Stud, he could vicariously live out the longest roll of
"The kid's incredible,
like DiMaggio on a hitting streak," claimed the agent. "There's no one
can touch him. He's got 15 broads a day callin,’ beggin' to go out, 10 more
from last week beggin' for seconds. Walks out of clubs with three, four at a
time, the best-lookin' ones. He's not interested in amenities, he don't send
flowers. He don't wanna know their names, their jobs, where they're from. . . I
hung out with Namath. I hung out with Elvis. I hung out with Engelburt. None of
these guys could hold the Stud's jockstrap."
I was suddenly struck by the
antithesis of Grubman. The Stud seemed heroic, swimming upstream like an erect
salmon against the tide of 80's abstinence in the face of AIDS. The Stud's
reputation drove Grubman crazy. I decided to do two articles: One on New York's
premier pick-up artist, and then one on New York's foremost strikeout king (a
title no man would relish). I would take a journey like Gulliver; I had been to
the land of the Lilliputians. Now I would visit the land of giants.
thanks to Hustler (March
1990),where the following originally appeared in different form.
God's Gift To Women
Mike Florio is the Stud's
name, a special effects man in Local 52 of the movie business. At 31, he's been
on a 12-year roll, according to Shark, who passed the Stud my number. On the
phone, Florio is a far cry from Cary Grant. The timbre and accent of his voice
could be that of any Brooklyn garage mechanic. Florio makes it clear first thing
that he hates men.
"I always go out
alone," he explains. "I don't need dead weight dragging along."
A nephew of rib restaurateur
Tony Roma, Florio began his career as a stunt man on Kramer
Vs. Kramer. The production chief wanted him fired, Florio recalls, for
"bangin' dozens of chicks on the set." So this very morning, a decade
later, he reports for work on the new Michael Douglas film, Fatal
Attraction. He's setting up special rain effects, which he feels will garner
him an Oscar nomination. The same production chief is on the movie, says he's
impressed with how Mike's "matured," become professional, not chasing
skirts on the job.
"Then SAG calls the set
this morning," huffs Mike, "claims there are four sex harassment
complaints about me, looking up girls' dresses and stuff."
The Stud claims to be immune
from disease, refuses to wear protection:
"The last time I wore a
rubber it ended up in 40 pieces."
As we talk by phone, the
Stud's call-waiting device is constantly clicking. These are the frustrated
attempts of girls phoning around the clock. Mike clicks in some of his
call-waiting gals, then phones a list of this week's conquests, with me
listening on the party line. His voice is a haunting reminder of a night in
which they slept with a stranger. In a dozen calls, the Stud arranges dates with
roommates of girls who aren't home; a secretary will risk being fired and see
him that instant; a girl in bed with fever will come out that night; three girls
are each assigned to visit a different club---Arena, Limelight and the Milk
Bar---pick up another girl, then come to his apartment, at two-hour intervals.
Each girl whispered her willingness to sleep with him again. Mike has fucked
many of them up the ass, he says, within an hour of meeting each one.
Perhaps these were
self-destructive wackos, from amongst the exploding buyer's market of girls out
there. Nightclubs are bursting with available females. There must be a dozen
Studs in every city, I told Shark. Why glamorize the bastard in print?
"You've heard him with
one type of girl over the phone," Shark insisted. "But he's a high
roller. Take him out. There're a lot of super models at the clubs around
Christmas. The Stud's as good at scoring broads as Picasso was at
That Saturday, I made the
rounds with one of New York's premier pick-up artists. Strike-out kings, read
CAFE PACIFICO, 10pm
We decide to rendezvous at
Pacifico, a Columbus Avenue cafe which looks like a rejected stage set from A
who I am," he predicted over the phone. Sure enough, several girls are
milling about the front barstool. The hottest blonde in the joint is stroking
some bloke's generous brown curls. He's wearing black suede boots, pleated
slacks, a T-shirt under a fluffy cockpit jacket that momentarily makes him
resemble a St. Bernard pup. It's the Stud.
He looks like some
indeterminable pretty-boy corporate rock star. Somebody girls can't quite
"I love this chick.
She's so sweet." Mike narrates the situation as if she's not in the room.
Having just arrived himself, he removes his coat, confessing he loves all his
jackets, has dozens. Each jacket carries "a unique vibe," whether it
cost 20 bucks or $500. As a matter of fact, some chick wouldn't leave his
apartment last night. He finally tossed her clothes in the hall to get her out.
But the heap included one of his beloved jackets, a Willywear, which she kept.
It was like losing a friend. The Stud had no way to contact her to retrieve the
jacket. Why get bogged down with names when you're banging several chicks a
The blonde stroking his hair
has just signed with some new modeling agency. She's dripping with homemade
jewelry. Her painfully long legs are twisting around the barstool, and she's
terribly bored with everything in the world except this foxy guy who just took
the adjacent stool. The Stud whispers in her ear, to her utter delight. Then her
girlfriend enters the restaurant.
It's the girlfriend's 24th
birthday, they're out to celebrate. Round of champagne, says Mike, an $18
pouring for the three of them.
"Yeah, I like this
chick," he says aloud of the blonde, "but I like her girlfriend
the brunette birthday girl, an expensively decked-out lady with profound
cleavage, is slain by one insincere Mike Florio smile. The Stud reaches around
the wall where the bartender unquestioningly allows him to rearrange the mood
lighting for the entire bar. In this darkened atmosphere, he takes the birthday
girl's hands, introduces himself as her birthday present, and begins soul
kissing. The blonde model is miffed, a spurned pout on her haughty face. I feel
invisible to both girls. The Stud's girl-mechanic hands travel over the outside
of Birthday Girl's body like sonar, taking a reading on what's underneath those
"Let's leave this dump
and go to Columbus," demands the Stud, to both dames.
"I don't wanna go,"
whines the rejected blonde, swaying her jewelry to Huey Lewis on the jukebox.
"I wanna dance at the Palladium."
don't wanna," sing-songs the Stud, in mock imitation. "The
Palladium's a dump."
In actuality, the Palladium,
Stringfellow's and Nell's have banned Mike from their premises--as pool sharks
are banned from pool halls.
"You're giving me
trouble," spits the blonde.
"The world is full of
trouble," counters Mike. "Trouble makes the world go round. But
imagine how much fun we can have when the trouble stops. . . ."
The blonde giggles at this
lame philosophy. Florio's style is to parody
pick-up clichés, with a wink---women love to laugh along, part of a spontaneous
joke. Birthday Girl has her hands all over him, and pleads with her stubborn
friend to follow us guys to Columbus. But the Stud feels he's given them both
too much of his time, and stands to leave. Birthday Girl is deflated. But they
exchange phone numbers. She enters his right into her address book in pen. He
takes hers on a napkin, into which he'll blow his nose later.
The way most guys work a bar,
Mike explains, reminds him of a moronic stop-action silent film. They flicker
around in a circle. Mike centers himself at the middle barstool, where he can
track all girls coming through. He sucks them over in two's and three's.
"I've got eyes in the
back of my head for chicks," he says, surveying the room like a speed
reader. "That table's all married; forget the blonde in the corner, she's
with a Colombian coke dealer; I already fucked the shit outta that table. . .
Columbus Restaurant is this
year's celebrity hangout on Columbus Avenue. Its vacuous soul is that of a
mall---there's no hearth, just unadorned windows for celeb gazing. The Stud
comes through like a barroom Frankenstein. Ice-breaking one-liners spew out
"Hey, I like you, what
can I do about it?"
one chick at his side.
"A woman is a noun. I am
a second girl takes up position.
"I got brand new bed
sheets, never been slept in."
"Take off your hat,
what're you trying to cover up, chemotherapy?" he cracks, grabbing the hat
off a passing girl's head.
Before you know it, he's got
an admiration society. All are TKO's, any of them ready to leave with Mike
should he so desire. I am virtually invisible at his side. Even the two at
Pacifico were scored as TKO's.
Mike shrugs, matter-of-factly, "I'll bang both of 'em."
Every line he speaks with
blushing boyish charm, a sarcastic, Ultrabrite smile, creating instant
"I'm married," one
girl retorts to his come-on.
problem," says the Stud, quickly disinterested, his St. Bernard puppy
expression fraught with disgust, making her feel it really is
When Florio sees a chick he
likes, all he merely has to do is "Give her one of these." He
demonstrates waving his finger with effortless superiority, like Buddy Love in The
Nutty Professor. This draws the attention of two curious girls. He
introduces himself as the "lead singer of Cinderella."
"Yeah, I'm headlining
The Garden next week, wanna go?"
One of the chicks nervously
jots his phone number down, thinking she's scored some heavy metal clod.
"Yeah, gimme a call,
I'll be waitin' by the phone like a dog."
After several Heinikens, the
Stud hiccups obnoxiously into every girl's face at the Columbus meat rack. He
intermittently apologizes, or snaps at them to "Shut up!"
"Wha'd he say?!"
demands some guy, joining his girlfriend after a respite in the restroom.
"Should I belt him?"
". . . I hate men,"
replies the Stud, with a cosmic sigh to the complainant. He leans over in
confidence toward two mouseburger girls, out of the side of his mouth:
"I'm so horny. Just
gotta get laid. But there's no good
pussy here tonight, you dig?"
He hiccups in their faces.
"Please don't do that in
our ears," say the homely girls, unflattered. The Stud gets more obnoxious
with each downed beer.
"Would you prefer I do
it up your ass? Brrappp. You know, you
two remind me of Mutt & Jeff. I won't say who's Mutt."
The Stud approaches a group
of hardened, out-of-work actresses in their early 30's. They're indignant over
his demeanor, having overheard the last 10 minutes. They're onto his game and
they don't approve.
"I'll tell you
something, all you women," he announces, with histrionic presence. "If
you didn't own a pussy, you wouldn't have a friend in the world."
After a half-dozen beers, the
Stud seems to have slipped. This group doesn't want him. So, he blows his cover
and confides to them he's a barroom pick-up artist:
God's gift to women. I really am. That's why he put me here--for you, and
you and you. I live for women. I was born for you. I have a great job, in the
movies, I work two, three hard days a week. Make lots of money, then come out at
night for pussy. If I don't get it here, I go across the street. If I don't get
it from you, I'll get it from her. But I'll get
it," he shrugs.
The group listens with amused
"I have a great
penthouse apartment, full of life.
It's filled with plants and Pacific Ocean fish tanks."
Indeed, the Stud keeps two
sharks on premises in his living room aquarium. One is a one-and-a-half-foot
Leopard shark, the other a three-foot Nurse shark. Both are capable of taking a
serious bite out of a man, but they have a hypnotizing effect on women.
Still holding their
attention, Mike quiets down to a soulful confession.
"Don't analyze me in 10
minutes, baby, I got hours."
Florio never had sex as a
teenager, he says, was rejected throughout high school. Then when he was 19, he
fell deeply in love with a girl. They planned to marry. Shortly after, one day,
a doctor told him his father had ten months to live. This hit him like a
sledgehammer, since his dad was closest to him in the world. Thank heavens his
girlfriend's father was chief radiologist at New York Hospital, who could
provide the saving care Mike's father needed. But on the same day he planned to
ask his fiancee for her family's help, she showed up arm in arm with another
guy. Mike was dumped on the spot, at New York Hospital.
"From then on," the
Stud recalled, "I decided that I'm
the one who'll do the fucking over, not girls."
The actresses are moved.
They're talking softly with Mike now. Three more TKO's for the Stud.
"I'm God's gift to
women!" he bellows, a jungle cry to the bar at large.
"God's gift to women is
a dildo!" screams back some drunk.
"Here, here," toast
some hearty male voices at the bar.
Florio needs some grub before
he can reach a second wind. The hostess seems hot for him and gives us a
reserved table. This is an exclusive area at night, beyond the meat rack. The
table next to us contains four young, high-toned models, strategically placed at
Columbus's front window like an advertisement. Some heavy metal millionaire sits
with them. At the table in front of them, however, is a big-time beauty with
several male escorts.
"Point me to whoever you
want, I'll get her," he says, like a hunting dog.
I tell him to turn around for
the first true 10 of the evening. This knockout will be his target for tonight,
he decides, deciphering her bod as if wearing X-ray specs.
The moment the heavy metal
idiot goes to the john, the Stud reaches over and taps a model on the shoulder.
She's a black-haired heartbreaker with a cute, upturned nose job and pyramid
"What's your name?"
"Hi, Courtney. Joe
Perry," says the Stud, extending a sturdy handshake. For the rest of the
evening, he'll pose as a member of Arrowsmith. "Say, Courtney," he
goes, waving her closer in confidence. "Who's that""
"Why, that's Carol
Alt," says Courtney. Carol has a natural, outdoorsy look, without much
makeup. She's wearing something like riding pants, as if she just stepped in
from an afternoon of British polo. An elaborate fur is draped around her chair,
and she's seated with three male chaperones. She's one of the world's five top
models, yet she doesn't look so self-consciously modelly
as the girls behind her.
The Stud has heard of her.
"Look how bored
she is," he ascertains, as if she were in dire need of rescue. He can tell
she goes to bed by one o'clock from her clear skin. "Got to work
Carol starts table hopping.
She stops by Mike Tyson's table, and he rises to kiss her cheek, looking
prettier than a GQ cover after his three-round KO over Trevor Berbick. She schmoozes
with the owners of Columbus, then Danny Aiello. Then she stops at Courtney's
table. Warren Beatty takes a table, sits there innocently, not bothering
"Look at him, he can't
even get laid anymore," says the Stud. Neither can a member of Kiss,
striking out left and right (anonymous without makeup and costume).
The Stud fidgets over the
time the young models are spending with Alt. "These chicks are gonna fuck
it up for me. They're all like monkeys together."
Alt returns to her table,
slips on the fur. All the minor models at Courtney's table put on their
"Like monkeys," he
repeats, making his move.
Florio sits right down at
Carol Alt's table, introducing himself as the lead guitarist of Arrowsmith,
about to leave to play with Gino Vanelli, and headline the Garden next month. He
blurts out a few lines from Walk This Way, with a high cackle. Tells her
he took lessons from the guitar player in the Tonight Show Orchestra as a
kid. She says she was about to call it an evening at midnight. The Stud brings
her back to our table, offering his last forkful of chicken pot pie.
"No, really, I'm just
having one Scotch tonight," she giggles.
"A Scotch in Carol Alt's
perfect bod?" he gasps, incredulously.
She's sweet, innocent and
gullible. One of her chaperones is a bulky ex-Hell's Angel and Vietnam vet,
keeping an eye on her. The Stud says how much he would enjoy dancing with her at
the China Club. Alt agrees to go. She's very polite toward me, who the Stud has
introduced as his manager (an incarnation I shudder from).
While she goes through the
saying-good-bye ceremonies to friends, the Stud's table is approached by several
pairs of women who seem to know him. Some are former one-night affairs. Being
invisible next to this caballero, I must suppress my ego.
Shark the agent had cautioned, "don't even try to compete. Most guys' egos
couldn't handle a night with him."
The Stud lays out tonight's
situation to the girls, who shrug and wish him luck. They are rooting
for him to fuck the model.
The Stud engages two
hot-looking chicks as he's about to exit.
"C'mon, lets' go dancing
at the China Club," he orders, as though they were anything but strangers.
Both accept. They're from Oklahoma, and have a BMW outside, offering us a lift
there. But the Stud peers first into a double-parked Lincoln Town Car,
pretending his chauffeur has disappeared.
Jackie Mason, at a nearby
table, was confounded as to why so many broads came and went from our table. His
lawyer, Jesse Vogel, one of Mason's entourage of alter cocker flunkies, is
propositioning blondes, and asks the Oklahoma girls if they'd like to sit for a
drink with a famous Jewish comedian, headlining 16 weeks on Broadway.
“I can play a romantic
lead," declares Mason to his table. "Why shouldn't I? That ugly dumb
bastard, Dangerfield, was the romantic lead in that last picture, what was
To School," comes the table.
"Yeah, he gets the goil,
that Sally-what's-her-name, he was a romantic lead. And you mean to tell me,
this skinny putz, wid the big nose and glasses, this bent-over sickeningly ugly
weasel, Woody Allen, can play romantic leads, and I can't? He can sleep with
Diane Keaton or Mia Farrow?"
Both girls decline Mason's
lawyer's invitation, waiting patiently for the Stud.
"You think I have a
chance? Florio wonders, his first glimmer of insecurity about scoring the super
model. Quick deliberation--should he walk
Carol Alt's party to China, or get into these chicks' BMW? Best Carol see him
exit with other girls, he decides. We hop into the Okies' car. Alt shrugs--oh,
well, there goes Mr. Arrowsmith.
The Stud makes the Okies park
before a fire hydrant at the side of China Club. They're afraid of getting a
ticket or towed. Florio guarantees he'll pay any ticket, and offers them full
usage of his "limo" if they get towed, until he can bail out their
car. They believe him. The Okies park.
CHINA CLUB, half-past
The Okie girls expect to be
whooshed in for free on the Stud's comet. Instead, he ditches them at the door.
Florio claims to have "lost his pass" to the China Club box office
marm. He flashes his Ultrabrite smile, and bullshits past the door charge.
It is a matter of honor that
the Stud never pays the stiff entrance to clubs. Stringfellow's, for example,
is the type of joint that considers it utterly uncool to admit human beings from
New Jersey. The last straw occurred when Mike showed up with Miss America of
1980, her sister and an Elite model.
"Just because you're
with three gorgeous girls, you think you can come in for free?" sneered
manager John Hawkins, with a British laugh. "That'll be a hundred
bucks." The Stud started a fracas, threatened to hit the guy. The cops
hustled Florio into a squad car, telling him he was going to the Pig Bar, a
"But I don't want to go
to the Pig Bar," Florio protested.
"You either come with us
to the Pig Bar or get arrested." Florio accepted a police escort to the Pig
Now at the crowded China
Club, Florio has bigger fish to fry. Alt's entourage won't arrive for 15
minutes. He has time to exercise his pick-up muscles, do some warm-ups. The Stud
grabs a reserved table in a cordoned-off side area. Already, girls are flocking
around, something I take for granted, the world is always like this.
A tall blonde hugs him,
saying, "Hey, how're ya?"
Mike leans to me, whispering,
"Never saw her in my life." Girls often approach, acting like they
know him. This one's an ex-Playboy Club bunny from the recently defunct New York
branch. He plays it as if he remembers her, says she's even gained weight. Her
girlfriend eagerly takes a seat on the Stud's right. A third female sits at the
table, vying for Mike's attention. She also claims to know him. Reminds him that
he fucked her six months ago, a memorable night.
"Sorry," he shrugs,
"I guess it wasn't so memorable to me."
The Stud's act is so well
oiled, he can slip and slide women through these seats like a Detroit assembly
line. As the big blonde is vacating her chair, the Stud simultaneously reaches
over to an adjacent table, clutching the hand of a brunette stranger conversing
with some fellow. She takes his hand, continuing her talk. Neither have even
made eye contact. But then she sort of slithers into the vacant seat within
seconds of the blonde's departure. An average-looking girl, overwhelmed by this
groovy guy grabbing her hand. But she didn't even see the sucker, she must have
responded to some primal musk.
"What's your name?"
"Does it matter?"
The Stud isn't interested in
names, occupations, he could care less about sentimental dolls girls keep by
their pillows, or cooking tips. I remember Shark's initial testimony--"He
don't send flowers, he don't care where they're from. He just lives to
"What do you do?"
asks the enchanted girl.
"Does it matter? I
thought you recognized me. . . Do you wanna fuck me?"
The girl's face closes in
until they lock tongues, mouth to mouth. She's a goner, you can see stars around
"Your place or
mine?" he whispers. She practically comes in her seat, needing a spatula to
be removed. She then gathers her composure and explains she visits the China
Club often. If she's seen walking out with him, it will be assumed she's going
to sleep with him. If the door bouncers see this more than once, they'll think
she's a "slut." Therefore, they should exit separately and meet by the
corner pay phone. As she runs her hands through his hair, the Stud's head spins
to some foxy chick in the aisle, and he excuses himself for a minute.
"You seem to have landed
my friend," I suggest.
"I know," she
smiles, primping in her pocketbook mirror. "But who
"All I can tell you is a
lot of girls have been after him tonight. But I haven't seen him take to any
"I know," she
glows, confident of her big score.
I ask if she'll go to his
place or hers, and she says definitely his. I ask her what she sees in him,
having known him a total of five minutes.
"I love long hair,"
she says. "I want to run my hands through his hair all night. You know, I
didn't really feel sexy tonight. But he brought it out in me. He's very oral,
and so am I," she squeals, eyes widening in anticipation, as though I'm not
"Are you ready?"
she asks the Stud, upon his return.
The Stud is intently staring
off in the distance, whale-watching for Carol Alt. She repeats herself. He gazes
beyond, giving her the silent treatment. She looks at her watch, lights a cig, a
bit confused, not yet hip to the game. The Stud turns to me and blurts:
"I ain't gonna fuck that,"
hitching his thumb toward her. She tugs his sleeve. He swats her hand like a
"Hey, what's going
on?" she demands, horrified.
"I don't wanna fuck you
any more," he says, sour-faced, like he's dealing with total shit.
She doesn't believe her ears.
"I don't wanna fuck you
any more," he repeats. "Get lost."
After it sinks in, she puts
her hands on her hips.
"Kind of brutal,
But Mike's not even paying
attention, spotting his big-time prey at the entrance. The reject is mumbling
incoherently, can't quite bring herself to accept the humiliation.
"Look--" says the
Stud, with sympathetic compromise. "You still wanna fuck me, you have to go
pick up another girl to come along. One better looking than yourself."
She's shell-shocked, but
starts to consider. Jailhouse Rock comes over the house speakers,
and the Stud lets out a battle cry of "Everybody wants to suck my
cock!" in sync with the chorus. He's off in the crowd, lots of familiar
faces from Columbus, like part of a duck-breeding migration.
"Ya gonna sit in on
drums with my band at the Garden?" he asks Mason Reese, passing the orange
dwarf whilst following Alt to a prime table.
He's pure gentleman now,
won't use any low blows in acquiring the super model. The Stud is past his
feeding time--by now, he could have been home and back for seconds. Alt is
clearly in charge of her entourage, it's her table. The Stud and I are invited
to take seats.
"Are we mixing in London
or L.A."" The Stud asks me.
"Whichever city will let
you in," I say, cringing at the thought of it.
Sometimes Mike forgets which
rock star he's already impersonated, and blows his cover with the prey. But this
more likely happens at home, by which time he can convince the girl she should
be flattered he went through the trouble.
The Stud guides the super
model onto the China Club dance floor, where they appear like royalty. The get
along famously, doubled up with laughter after four dances. She even requests Walk
This Way from the DJ. But then the million-dollar model reveals she is
happily married to hockey star Ron Greschner of the New York Rangers. The Stud
trudges back to our table.
"Something's wrong with
the way she feels," he confides. "She doesn't have as great a body as
I thought. If she was available, I would have had her already. . . There's not a
woman on this earth I can't pick up when I'm hot as a pistol."
The Stud's professes a code
of honor that respects newlyweds or women in love with other men (unless they so
much as wink first). And so, the Stud disappears into the horizon to divide and
conquer new female territory. He leaves me with the super model.
She's out celebrating her
father's birthday tonight, though she vowed to be home by one o'clock. He was a
decorated fireman who passed away several years ago. I ask her a stupid
question, like how many endangered species went into her fur.
"It keeps me warm,"
she sighs, curling an eyebrow with interest. "So, you believe in
God's Gift To Women reappears
10 minutes later to take his last shot. He tugs on Alt's elbow like a child
trying to get a grownup's attention. But she doesn't respond. Never the less,
he's lined up a pair of sisters, two barroom Doublemint twins in their early
20's. Both are running their hands over his leather cockpit jacket, caressing
his neck, purring and anxious to get back to his big brass bed. They look like
two dumb little lambs being led off to slaughter. He'll give them the thrill of
a year, then show them to door after he comes. Maybe he'll hit the Milk Bar
before 4 am for another score. Valuable minutes are ticking away, and he has to
make his quota. Carol, meanwhile, has rejected him. But she engages me in an
awfully friendly conversation, and it's the first time tonight I don't feel
Several months after my
rounds with the Stud, I spotted a most unusual patron slumped down in his seat
in the dank third- floor Triple Treat Theatre at Show World. It was the Stud! He
slumped further in his seat, leather cockpit jacket unfurled around his neck,
hoping I didn't see him. Like a dejected puppy dog, he finally owned up that it
was indeed himself and shook my hand. In the company of dreaded men---legions of
unlaid masturbators, to boot---he looked around, sizing up the place. Some porn
starlet was onstage.
"You come here?" he
I was making my weekly rounds
for Screw's Naked City listings, my weekly column.
"Hey, this is my first time here," he swore. "My first time ever." And then he let out a trademark sarcastic chuckle, a little weaker than usual, caught as he was with stolen goods in hand. ##
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