The Few That Got Away

1 Broad, 2 broads, young broad, new broad.

I sit here in my 96' cherry red convertible wondering how the hëll I was capable of fücking up this remarkably. I can practically see my heart beating out of my chest. I can feel/hear my pulse in my ears. I don't understand what the fuck I just did. But here I am. Doing it again. You would think being freshly divorced and tens of fücking thousands of dollars in debt I would have learned my lessons by now, maybe even the handful of felonies I just had dismissed by the grace of whatever God is out there. One might even assume having the Massachusetts Commonwealth/State police come and take me from work into the FBI barracks to be questioned for a murder of a young women in her twenties around here would be enough to tame me. But alas, here I am, crazed as ever with no speed bump in sight.
Right now I'm in the McDonalds parking lot trying to make it look like I'm cleaning out my car... when in reality I'm trying to scrape up some spare change from my backseat to try and buy a singular hamburger because I'm STARVING. Usually the girls will drop stuff from time to time in the back seat- tampons, lip glosses, small bottles of cheap perfume we affectionately call 'stripper spray', condoms, spare change, calling cards, you name it. Between paying my divorce attorney, paying my ex-wife the remainder of what I owe her in the settlement, paying my criminal (Well, real estate attorney because let's face it, I'm the dipshït who couldn't afford a criminal attorney and my RE guy was down to try and help me out) attorney, paying the mortgages and upkeep on those four condos I invested in when money was good, my own mortgage in Newburyport, my car note, and vet bills for the dogs- money was tight this week. I had a jar of peanut butter and some store brand saltines at home to last me the next four days until pay day... when I could buy more peanut butter and saltines and fück maybe I'll get wild and buy a box of pasta too. I didn't stray from my usual 'safe foods' too much. But it was okay... I growing up I was used to going hungry from time to time. Being hungry almost reminded me that I was here, I was real, and that I was alive. I found myself causing intentional pain or discomfort for the same reason; quite a bit. Sometimes I sit here in a whirlwind wondering how I got myself into this mess... and wonder if I'm truly here. But the rumble of my stomach or the anxiety pains in my chest are usually a reliable reminder.
I was 29 after all. Not just any 29yr old... and Irish 29yr old caught in the middle of the outlaws, hells angels, Irish & Italian mob, working under the unofficial "boss" of adult entertainment in New England. The North End of Boston was a wild place... and I happened to be born at the right time smack dab in the middle of the right place.
Still searching for change I come across a cocktail napkin from a wedding I went to last week... my best friends wedding. As his best man I had to be paired up with the maid of honor to escort her down the aisle and into the reception as well. She was a hot piece of ass... fresh out of being considered jailbait. At barely 18yrs old I have no clue how she's still occupying my mind. I knew better. I knew not to get into anything serious let alone with someone who was practically a fücking child two weeks ago. I don't know what had come across me but the moment I saw "Mr. & Mrs. McDoughtery" on that dämn crumpled up napkin that was wedged in between my backseat, had awoken something in me. Something raw, real, something unlike any other lust I've ever felt. Just thinking about dancing with her during the reception... just simply slow dancing with this woman.... nothing else... drove me mad and before I knew it... I wasn't focused on the painful rumbling of my stomach. I was only concerned about hiding my hard on in this McDonalds parking lot.
"74... 75... 76... oooh a dime! 86... 87... 89! Fück yeah looks like I'm eating tonight!"
There was a cool, September breeze blowing through the parking lot, snapping me back on track here. I had shït to do. I had to be at Rodger's in 20 to pick up 8 girls for a bachelor party in Malden, and then a poker tournament soon after with four additional strippers. I was going to need to divide the girls with another driver for the second party (show... party... we call them parties no matter what) in order to get them all there because the company van can only hold so many girls as it is. I would probably get home around 4am, just in time for me to catch a quick 3hrs of shut eye before having to get to my day job at the machine shop, where this months focus was on creating parts for some company called BT&T for cellular phones.
My pager beeps.... "121"... meaning I had to call Rodger, the boss. That can only mean one thing...