First off, I’ve done a lot of rotten things but I’ve never been with a prostitute, not because I’m a great moralist or good person, because for some crazy reason my attraction to a woman is predicated on their being attracted to me. (Yes, yes, you’ve heard my disclaimer before, yet I keep telling hooker stories) Moving along, many of my college buddies did not share this nagging qualification standard, so when they discovered for $100 they could have hot coeds from Mizzou making house calls, this became routine folly. These weren’t hardened prostitutes, just college students looking to broker a little sex for money, much like a Highland Park housewife:) At the time of this story, I was a young naval officer driving coast to coast, as I often did during those days, and was stopping over to party with old friends. When I arrived in Fulton, Missouri, they set me up on a blind date with a cool chick that I would later date in California, but after dropping her off that night, the guys informed me it was time for ‘the coeds.’ I’ll admit the gals that came over were quite attractive, but I was hammered and again, that formula didn’t work for me, so I found myself in the kitchen talking with the girls who finished early. When they left, one girl who had ridden with the others left her car keys on the kitchen table. When the escort service called about the keys, I said I’d set them outside on the front porch balcony. So I staggered downstairs in a stupor and set my Ferrari keys on the balcony – a drunken oversight. Then everyone passed out hard. We couldn’t hear the girls downstairs banging on the door, pleading for the correct set of keys. So they hopped in the Ferrari and started flashing the headlights and honking the horn. (It was a loud brassy European horn) Well, the neighbors woke up long before we did, because we didn’t wake up until the cops started banging on the door – a little harder than the girls had. You can imagine how ridiculous it sounded when everyone tried explaining the situation to the police – without revealing any truth or anyone knowing each other. They’re probably scratching their heads to this day. (Thank God it was a small town) The moral to this story is obvious – Ferrari’s and prostitutes don’t mix. Something a lot of guys around Dallas haven’t learned yet.
I never told her the story about the night we met. Duh. Although she would later endure other forms of madness. (Because I used to be crazy – or crazier) The buff dude on the left is my Navy buddy Kelly Ernce. He and she are completely innocent of all such madness – as am I.
Would you believe the guilty parties actually asked me to write this story? For real.