So I'm cruising, trying to pick up a score, right, only I'm not too good at it; and being on weekend release I haven't got the time to go to a bar and try and score someone with deep personal problems who would jump into bed with anyone who pretends to be the caring understanding type, besides which I've got "Criminally Insane" tattooed on my forehead in big state-approved letters and it does tend to ruin the moment.
So anyway, I'm on my 6th brothel, and I still can't find that "certain- something" that they write songs about; the face, the poise, the bearing, the charm, the all-you-can-suck-for-six-fifty.
So I keep cruising, and it looks like I'm going to have to go mainstream, actually talk to a real woman. I hate it when this happens cos I always remember back to my catholic school and Sister Juliana and her whistle who used to slap me across my legs, and her rustling habit, and the way her chest used to lift slightly when she breathed. I always hated that too. The breathing. If only she'd stopped. The chest moving did nothing for me either. So I go to a ritzy little place with pastel colours and the sort of bouncers that'll take $20 to let you to the front of the queue so that you get in and find that there's no-one there - the place is closed and the queue's just the staff waiting for their severance pay.
So I go next door, $20 poorer, which is really putting the pressure on as I'm under no delusions about my looks, I'm no Tom Lehrer - I used to have to pay my mother up front for breastfeeding, but what the hell, I was in high school at the time. I get next door and it's what Tom Cruise would call a TRI, Target Rich Environment.
I don't like my chances much, but there's a woman in the corner with a revolver to her head, so I figure she's got nothing to lose...
"I've got a red Lada!" I say, and then I remember that I was supposed to lie.
"I come round here often," I say, trying to cover up, "usually in the toilets at the end of the night"
Struck out twice. No worries, my brother Paul told me how to score and I wrote it down so as not to get it wrong. I read it out, and she looks like she's made her decision. I lean down to kiss her and hope that the chewing gum will hold my teeth in...
...
...I wipe her brains off my jacket as the Police arrive, and the TV crew wants to talk to me only the cops won't let them yet, so I make an appointment to see them tomorrow for Oprah's "OPRAH & Teenage Suicide, why it happens so much during the show".
A TV groupie attaches to me immediately, and I know my night is made.