"You need to be a super soldier like me," he said to me one afternoon, as neither of us were working as usual. "You got to get out there, son. Meet ladies. Look at me. I've got a superfine girlfriend who looks like Christina Aguilera--" (the chunky part) "and, get this, she brought home one of her friends last weekend."
"Mm."
Reggie grinned and leered significantly. "Mm? Mmm?"
"Uh... You mean her and her friend and... *choke* you...?"
"I believe it's called it a... a... a notch a trois?"
Reggie will sometimes delightfully mangle his English. He once told me after his wife of forty years had left him for another woman that he still believed in the "constitution" of marriage. Just recently he said something with a double meaning and cried out, "I made a fraudulent slip!"
"Well, that's great for you. Anyway, I better..." I randomly typed on the keyboard.
"Hey, listen, what are you doing tonight?"
"The ush. Listen to the tap drip. Eat beans out of a can."
"Let's go out into the night. Like soldiers! You hear me? I'm going to get you laid, son. Yes! You let the great Reginald Cannon handle it. You've never been out with me before. I'll show you how it's done, son."
"No, please, no."
"Are you saying that I, the Lord of the Living Lightning, cannot help his fellow soldier?"
"Yes."
After more tedious dialogue, I was finally cajoled and inveigled into going out with him and his Low Rider bedmates for a drink and/or anal sex..
I sighed. "I suppose it'll give me something to write about in my weblog."
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Bring it on."
That night, he picked me up in his Camaro reeking of Hai Karate and urinal cake. He wore a white disco shirt and a "Frank Sinatra" hat.
"Magic like Merlin, son. It'll be off the chain, I promise you!" Then his habitual bonhomie dimmed slightly. He apologized, but neither his girlfriend nor her gross friend could make it. Instead he thought we should go to a local dancing establishment.
I didn't think that was a good idea. I frankly cherished a self-image not unlike that of Ashoka the Buddhist philosopher king. Simply put, plastic tits and Nirvana do not mix.
"Come on, we'll go to The Nirvana."
To annoy Reggie on the drive, I started to tell him about Ashoka.
To annoy me, Reggie told me more about his threesome. "There is one thing about black men that's true. Mm? Mm?"
"I think I just puked in your mouth a little."
The club was dark and smoky and dumb. The cover was only five dollars, at least. Reggie insisted on buying me drinks, but I yelled over the Aerosmith that I didn't drink, something that perfectly astounded him.
"Did Ashoka drink?" I said sagely.
"Who? Which one is she?"
I had been to strip clubs before, back when my friends were single and it seemed the right and proper thing to do. But I found them very boring. Reggie however was having a great time. He talked to every girl who came near our table. At one point he went over to the DJ to request a Sinatra or Dean Martin tune. The DJ, from where I sat, looked very perplexed.
"Come on, man. Let's have fun. Don't you think that one's cute?"
Oh, how I longed for the dripping of a tap!
Reggie felt that continual chatter would charm the dancers, somehow. "Yeah, baby! What's your name, hon? Yeah, yeah. I'm a super soldier, the Lord of the Living Lightning! I'm magic like Merlin. Haaawwwh, YEAH WHOOOO! Come on, shake it...!"
Then his phone buzzed. He turned away, talked for a few minutes, and then hung up. He shouted to me that it was his girlfriend.
"I think I'm in trouble. Oh well. I'm a super-- Hey, hey, pretty mama, come over, pretty baby...!"
His phone buzzed again. He turned away, talked even longer, and then hung up. This time it was his wife.
"What did she want?"
"She's still on me to move back in with her and her girlfriend. Can you believe that shit?"
"Ah. The ol' menage a trois, huh."
"What?"
I was close to demanding that Reggie take me home when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned to see a surprisingly attractive stripper. She was 24-36-32 and I never thought this would happen to me. She had long silky hair and an olive complexion, looking verily like an Hindu princess. She wanted me to talk with her over at the bar. I dutifully followed, wondering if I had done something wrong. It turned out I had done everything right. That's right, tonight I was Ashoka the Objectifier of Women and Liver of Lightning Soldier etc etc! Reggie cheered me on as I went upstairs to get a private dance. Never having had this experience before (I swear), I was a bit shocked when Lydia got all nude (ALL NUDE) and proceeded to grind her lissome anatomy against mine. She teethed my lingam through my pants like a chew toy.The best/worst part was when she climbed on top of me like a spider monkey and slammed down her naked yoni onto my gibbering mouth. In truth, I had expected to watch the girls but not taste them also. Later, dazed, we took a honeymoon trip to the ATM where she drained me of 400 dollars like a sweetie.
Reggie had almost abandoned me. His girlfriend and wife were both very mad. He had to go to see one or both that night. On the drive back to my place, he asked me repeatedly what had happened up in the Diamond Sutra Room, but I did not want to sully my sublime concupiscent experience with Lydia by relating some crude male tale. I remained mum. Never shall the world hear of it!
The next day I went back to The Nirvana and found Lydia and we talked and grinded for hours. In short, reader, I married her.
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I dedicate the length of this post to DAVE SCHOENHALS. Enjoy, Dave!
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