Pacemaker Sex

Pacemaker Sex

The prior story about a female Resident getting fisted by the electronically paced flailing arms of a D.O.A. John Doe paled in comparison to what happened to my loan shark friend, Chubby.

One of his sideline enterprises was to pimp women to local clients including police officers, lawyers, bankers, and a few other unsavory fellow shysters. The women were not a consistent cadre of reliable girls from a “stable” but instead were usually indiscriminately pulled off the local sidewalks or out of grocery store parking lots. For this reason, the women were also not consistently available, such that when something suddenly came up, he would place phone calls to line up the Johns.

He solicited sex from just about any woman he saw and when he scored would temporarily procure them for his client base until the women got tired of it or did not need the money anymore. he said:

  • Doc, you can’t believe how many housewives are broke and what they’ll do for a buck, especially when economics is bad. Recessions are always good for me.

The going rate in the 1990s was about one hundred and three dollars an hour for intercourse and thirty-three dollars for oral sex, although he once got a staggering one thousand and three dollars out of a retired but impotent eighty-year old business tycoon and former CEO of a major US steel company who paid just to have the girl sit naked in a chair and talk to him for an hour. The arbitrary rounding on the price was based on a superstitious love of the number three.

Several years later, this same tycoon was indicted in an insurance fraud scheme in which he tried to smuggle a vintage Mercedes-Benz sport coupe out of the country after reporting it stolen; an act that everyone who knew him and how much money he was worth thought to be stupidly perplexing in its perverse logic.

Chubby said:

  • I don’t know, doc. It’s like he just got a soft spot in his brain.

Later in life, Chubby happened to have had a heart attack. Several years after the fact he then had an AICD (Automatic Implanted Cardiac Defibrillator) implanted for unexplained fainting that later turned out be related to poor blood flow in the posterior cerebral circulation. Even though the essential point was that implanting it was probably not necessary, it was done anyway because of uncertainty about the possibility of lethal ventricular arrhythmias. This underscores the fact that sometimes medicine, for all its sophistication is nothing better than a guessing game.

These electronic devices are set to deliver sequential shocks of about 15 to 30 joules of direct current internally to the heart which will reset the cardiac rhythm if a life threatening one is detected. The shock is not at all comfortable. It can also be felt by anyone who happens to grab hold of the victim who might be collapsing when the arrhythmia then secondarily causes his blood pressure to bottom out. Some spouses have stated they suffer from the guilty dilemma of deciding between letting their loved one fall down, as opposed to being exposed to the shared experience of internal electrocution. Personally, I thought the original contract called “For better or for worse.”

Chubby reluctantly accepted to have the implant but said he would feel much better about it if we were going to put in a pacemaker that would give him a permanent erection instead of an electrocution.

  • You doctors are all numb. Forget Viagra. With modern technology yez should be able to do a better job with boners.

One afternoon I received a frantic call from him. He said he wasn’t sure what had happened, but he thought his device had discharged.

  • Doc. I think my thing went off.

When I asked the circumstances, he said he had picked up a tried and true regular at the supermarket, a local housewife who had already been paid thirty-three dollars for blowjob.

As she was in the middle of the head-bob he said he was suddenly lifted two feet off the bed, that all he saw was a bright white light, and that his hair stuck straight out off his head. At the same time, the girl had been blasted and fell across the room, then banged her head on the bedroom door.

She got up screaming that he was a crazy demented pervert and what a shitty way that was get off, as she bounded out the door, following that diatribe with a statement that no matter what he might ever pay her, she was never coming back.

  • Doc. The woist part of it was I lost my thirty-three dollars and didn’t even get off. But oh, what a thrill!

As all the data is stored in memory, when one of these devices fires it is customary to interrogate it to see if the shock was appropriately sensing a real event. So, when Chubby came to the office to let me look at it, I discovered that the trigger for the shock was a paroxysm of not a lethal ventricular tachycardia but rather a harmless one that had originated in the atrium. Perhaps the excitement had over stimulated his epinephrine producing adrenal glands as well as his testosterone loaded gonads.

The device was fooled into doing its job by a rapid heart rate that was associated with an abnormally wide configuration of its cardiac complexes. It was essentially acting appropriately in an inappropriate situation; as was the housewife whore when she perceived she was being perversely abused.

I felt compelled to share this story with a colleague at the specialty hospital I had customarily referred not only Chubby, but also numerous other cases for AICD implants. Although the implanting physician, Joe, was amused, he then told me he had a story that might be even better than mine.

He queried:

  • You know how the Japanese perfected the art of autoerotic asphyxiation?

With me answering in the affirmative, he then told me about the wife of one of his patients who had brought that art-form to a new escalated jaded height. He said her affect was a little rough around the edges. She also tipped the scales at an estimated 250 lbs.

Apparently, her husband had suffered a heart attack, and then required an AICD implanted, but because of his relative debilitation, along with a lack of stamina she became accustomed to screwing him in the female-on-top sexual position.

On one occasion, the device discharged but instead of reacting negatively this woman immediately derived a great deal of pleasure from the experience. I suppose it was like having a mini electric socket inserted into the vagina, which in her mind was better than any orgasm she could achieve by using a conventional AA battery powered vibrator. Or perhaps her blubber not only attenuated electricity but then also made her threshold for sexual stimulation much higher than that of her average contemporaries.

But the perverse thing about the whole scenario was that the woman then educated herself about shocking devices. Then each time she went with her husband to the clinic to have his device was checked, she would beg the doctor to turn down the rate sensor on the AICD, so that there would be a greater probability of the thing going off when she climbed on top to rev up the sex.

So here is this poor bastard with a bad heart to begin with, losing consciousness as his heart is fibrillating, while he is getting jolted; as simultaneously his lovely fat wife also gets a DC shock jolt as she sinks into the stirrups to giddy-up the old dying horse. If nothing else, at least this was a clear-cut situation of her ability to turn the worse for him toward the better for herself: A classic combination of both positive and negative feedback loops.

Not only does it go to show that everyone has a different threshold for pain, but also gives great credence to the aphorism: To each his own.

I said to my colleague, Joe:

  • Yes. In the category of interesting clinical pacemaker anecdotes; you win the gold medal.



Gigolo (n)

  1. A man living off the earnings or gifts of a woman, esp. a younger man supported by an older woman in return for sexual attentions and companionship.
  2. A male professional dancing partner or escort.
  3. 1922; from the French masc. form of gigole meaning tall, thin woman: dancing girl; prostitute perhaps from the verb gigoter “to move the shanks.”

I played golf one day with a general surgeon who was a close personal friend. He was, in fact, more of a surgical dilettante who only had to work part time because his wife made a six-figure annual salary in real estate sales. He had been married for about thirty years and was not only a devout Catholic, but was a good family man to his two children. Infidelity was never a consideration.

Several years before that he confided to me that his wife’s personality was often difficult to deal with, including a labile temper; stating that if there was any such thing as a battered husband, it would be himself. On occasion he had to dodge flying dishes or pots and pans, among other things, with the situation becoming especially bad when both his daughter and his wife had simultaneous PMS; a curious phenomenon that happens to women living in close proximity. Those were the days when he played thirty-six holes.

But he had married her, and given his high ethically moral standards, there was never a consideration other than to stick it out, for better or for worse… with never the smallest intimation to infidelity.

Even if he did have an affair he would not have survived his wife’s ire, because she would have ripped his nuts off before serving him with divorce papers. Also given their salary differential he would then have had to move into a trailer park and live in a double-wide.

This scenario was pointedly brought home several years later when another one of my friends on the medical staff cheated on his wife with a bimbo nurse, who had a notorious penchant for screwing married men and breaking up homes. In losing his wife, his house and his children, he subsequently bemoaned the fact that he was one of the Hamptons wealthiest homeless men until he finally relocated to a rented basement apartment.

I was then taken aback when one day my surgeon friend turned to me as we were walking down the first fairway, and blurted out that his secret life’s ambition was to become a Gigolo. He floored me when he said that he would be very happy one day to have a chance at landing a trophy bride. That was all well and good, I thought, but cautioned him that everything has a price to pay and knowing his wife’s temperament, he might want to reconsider.

I then told him a story I heard at a cardiology conference as recounted by a senior member of a cardiac transplantation team from a major medical center in Houston, Texas.

Transplantation surgery requires critical medical evaluation; along with paying diligent attention to physical as well as social and emotional factors. Transplant organs are hard to come by, tissue matches are difficult at best, and the entire process is enormously expensive.

Apparently in the early days of the hospital’s program, the team had transplanted a new heart into a handsome, muscular thirty-eight-year-old man whose own heart had succumbed to a viral infection. He was described as a personably charming Adonis, who made the nurses turn their heads and swoon when he walked by them in the hospital’s corridors. He was Mr. Atlas personified; buffed, beautiful, magnetically seductive and oozed sexuality from every pore.

Everything went well with both the surgery and his recuperation, at which point he was told he could go back to work. Everything then was fine until a number of months later when he was brought into the hospital DOA, with a bullet hole shot straight through the middle of his brand new heart. It seems that despite the fact of excellent medical screening, not enough diligence had been applied to his social history; while having been distracted by his good looks and fabulous physique, no one had bothered to dig beneath the surface to find out what he really did for a living.

After a forensics investigation it soon became apparent that his occupation was that of a high priced male ‘escort’ who had catered to a bevy of wealthy housewives in one of Houston’s upscale neighborhoods. Apparently over some considerable period of time, principally by word of mouth alone, he had built up quite the chic clientele.

His good looks spoke for itself, and as his reputation preceded him, he was becoming legendary in a small circle of bored, horny, sexually frustrated women who had way too much time and far too much money on their hands. Many of these women were beautiful trophy second wives anyway who liked the accoutrements of wealth, but who either did not enjoy being ignored all day, or in the pre-Viagra era were lamenting the poor performance of their spouses’ soon to be vestigial genital organs: the old dying genital soldiers.

The gigolo’s career came to a sudden fateful halt when a particularly suspicious and jealous husband, having found out the truth from a private detective, enticed the man to come to his house one day under the false pretense that his rutting wife would be at home waiting for him with both open arms as well as openly spread legs.

The last thing he remembered was ringing the doorbell.

But this was Texas, where because screwing around with another man’s wife is considered to be a premier social faux pas; the homicide was deemed perfectly justifiable.

After the fact, the entire transplant screening process was revamped and certain exclusion criteria were applied to some considered high risk occupations, of which the category of “professional gigolo” was certainly added to the list. It was then strongly suggested to these patients during preoperative psychological counseling that these as well as certain other types of jobs be abandoned or at least be grossly modified. 

Good looks can be deceiving. Beauty and charm can be disarming. Therefore, for all those bored, lonely or dissatisfied married folks out there: if ever considering taking on a lover, also remember first and foremost that one should never judge that book by its cover.



  I’m just a gigolo, and everywhere I go,

People know the part I’m playin’.

Pay for every dance, sellin’ each romance,

Ooohh what they’re sayin’.

There will come a day, when youth will pass away,

What will they say about me?

When the end comes I know, there was just a gigolo

Life goes on without me. 

(Lou Bega: Just A Gigolo ©



Poster Graphic



The Notorious Summer of 1967

The Summer of 1967  

I would venture a guess that even today by about the middle to the end of sophomore year most college students probably become “know it alls”. I was no exception.

During the summer of 1966 after freshman year, I began to have political arguments with my father. These debates became progressively more vehement and ugly, once again reflecting the political division of the country. He was a hawkish conservative who believed in the righteous cause of anti- communism while I had become liberally freethinking and socially compassionate. My honest beliefs were that the Military industrial complex was fascist to the core, while America had forgotten its poor, its illiterates and its impoverished classes.

My father would rant about the economic waste of social welfare programs or the inability and lack of desire on the part of poor people to “raise themselves up by their own bootstraps,” because after all his father as well as himself were self-made, so why could not everyone else be so or do so as well. Of course in his later years, however, he certainly did not mind buying into and deriving certain expected benefits from Lyndon Johnson’s Great Societal experiment called Medicare.

He said:

  • That’s different. I earned it.
  • I’m not sure you really earned Carte blanch ad infinitum for any and all of your medical bills, dad.
  • And why not?

For my part, I had been exposed to the continued abject poverty in the South where poor whites lorded over poor blacks and where closer to home, black workers on campus were not even getting minimum wages. I think they were agitating to get up to 90 cents an hour, but without a union and with no advocates, they were not making any headway. My father told me I would change my mind when I began to pay taxes, while I told him he was a heartless fascist. It was a no-win Mexican standoff.

In the summer of 1967, my father finally did get the last word and played his trump card. I had lined up a job the previous year as a busboy at an old hotel, The Irving in Southampton, which at that time catered to the blue bloods who wintered in Florida or Palm Desert, and who summered on Long island’s famous East End. Many of these people moved into the hotel for the entire summer, allowing common folk like myself to get a first hand look at their decadent lifestyles.

The Irving Hotel was an elegant old establishment complete with a black tie Maître D’hôtel. An old professional German named Fritz, he supervised a formal dining room that still set tables with real silverware and Pewter accessories. If I thought that the summer of 1966 was bad because I had struggled through work with mononucleosis, little did I know how much worse the summer of 1967 would turn out to be.

My long unruly hair embarrassed my father. He had already freaked out earlier in the year when we made a rare family appearance at church for Easter Sunday at which time the long hair had caused numerous stares and giggles, all of which culminated in a great row after the fact of getting home. When my Aunt Jean saw this mop on a visit to Texas she was more direct. She followed me around all day, every day, torturing me by repeatedly calling me a “little girl” and offering to take me to town to buy a calico dress. But I could care less and indifferently let the taunts roll off my back because just like the Beetle Haircut in high school, I knew in my heart that I was in the fashion vanguard and adamantly refused to capitulate.

However, when my father got my grades for the last semester, he delivered his ultimatum in a true “come to Jesus” diatribe: I was going to get a haircut, I was going on probation for the next semester, if I did not pull my grades up to an A level he was not going to pay for school, I could get drafted into the Army on my lost educational deferment and I could go to Vietnam. He said that was it and he didn’t even care if I came home in a body bag. Although I tried to play on his guilt by telling him that he would not like to see me come back in a pine box, I really had no choice. He said again that he didn’t care one way or the other; that being hidden away in a body bag would avoid public embarrassment and thus because obviously my life on the line, I finally capitulated and got a haircut. I may have been stubborn, but I was not stupidly suicidal.

The only time I head ever seen him that mad was the night I tried to sneak into the house two hours past my curfew because of a sincerely dedicated but failed attempt to seduce a date in the back seat of the family station wagon. I had just crept into the final turn before the hallway leading to the safety of my bedroom when my father bolted out of the shadows, grabbed me in a neck throttle and slammed me up against the wall.

  • You’re late. Do that to me once more and you will never drive again.

How was I supposed to know he had a slipped disc and was trying to unsuccessfully sleep away the foul mood inducing pain in the living room recliner?

Meanwhile more shit hit the fan when my mother and Aunt Polly raided my bedroom one day, ransacked the drawers and were sitting at the kitchen table burning incense sticks when I came home from the beach.

  • We found your pot and we’re burning it up. What we really want to know is how you can get high by smoking this awful smelling stuff. We’re surprised it doesn’t kill you and if you ever bring this stuff into the house again, you’re out of school, you’ll have to get a job, then maybe get drafted, then go into the Army and we don’t care.

Although things settled down after I educated them as to their error by telling them that I only used incense to make my room smell nice, I felt it nonetheless best to be safe by giving away the safely hidden lump of the real hashish I had procured at school which was earmarked to get me through the entire summer.

Then to make matters worse, the girl I had met at the SDS meetings and had started seriously date informed me that she was pregnant.

In those days birth control pills had just come onto the market, were hard to obtain and still carried a certain stigmata as to their safety as well as the real intention behind their proposed use. Women who used ‘The Pill’ naturally then had to be secret sluts. God forbid, Grandma, if they smoked too, what you might think of the combined pharmacopeia of estrogen, progesterone and nicotine. (I have previously alluded to the fact that my Italian Grandmother’s favorite query about my father’s potential dates was to ask if they smoked. If he said” No” she was happy. So when he asked her why she wanted to know she quipped: “Because if she smokes, she fucks.”)

Completing the stupidly circular argument, women who got pregnant out of wedlock were labeled as obviously proven sluts, leaving the only logical conclusion to be that chastity should be the easiest and safest way out of the raging hormone dilemma. However, no matter how the argument is sliced or no matter what religion one subscribes to, there will never be a way to stop pre-marital sex because as previously elucidated; we are all biologically programmed to have it in our teens. For a young woman the, birth control pills and diaphragms would ultimately be easier to hide from a mother, than an oddly shaped ever expanding midline and suddenly larger bra cup size.

My girlfriend and I were both 19. She was a Baltimore debutant who went home from school for the summer, while all I could hear playing in my head were the wrathful expletives about to be delivered by my mother if I told her what was going on. It would undoubtedly be one of her worst nightmares come true: A pot smoking college-drop-out, longhaired hippie teenaged son, who was about to become a father. Not good.

However, being one of the original “Women’s Libbers”, my girlfriend made an automatic unilateral decision that we were both too young to become parents, that our prudish families would be horribly scandalized, and that our academic careers or any potential future careers for that matter would very likely be ruined or severely hampered. She wanted an abortion.

We were in quite a bind with the outlook seeming hopeless at best, if not bleak at worst We would probably have to confess the plight and then take whatever consequences came of it, including teen-age parenthood. There weren’t too many available options because unfortunately at that time in America, abortion was illegal. It was also associated with numerous real or anecdotal stories about women dying from clandestine coat hanger jobs or green soap dilatations and curettages at the hands of self styled home schooled butchers.

I was emotionally prepared to become a hotel busboy for life.

The Irving Hotel in Southampton imported help for the summer, most of it being college age students who were housed in a motel like hovel on the large grounds owned by the hotel corporation. I had already befriended one of these itinerants, Bradley, a bright guy from Springfield, Massachusetts, who was going to high school at home and was in his second summer stint at the Irving to make money for college at the University of Massachusetts.

He was an eternal optimist and a gentle soul with a great sense of humor who glibly brushed off any and all adversity. He was also a fellow pothead, and although quite bright intellectually, managed to hide the fact behind a likable goofy affect that reminded me of Our Gang’s Stymie who once told Alfalfa that:

  • I ain’t gonna show my intelligence to noooo body”

Some of the best times we had during the summer were to smoke pot after work in the concrete bunker provided as housing for the summer help, put on headphones and listen for hours to The Doors, Canned Heat, or Iron Butterfly.

When I confided the pregnancy situation, he seemed completely nonplussed and told me he knew a man at home in Springfield who had dedicated himself to a campaign for the legal right to abortion. He had also helped numerous women in trouble, or women who wanted to have their own right to choose. When I contacted Brad’s friend by phone he related how he had helped a number of women to have safe legitimate abortions in Nogales, Mexico and outlined how it could be accomplished over a weekend. There was nothing in it for himself other than to ensure medical safety, so he subsequently arranged the appointment for us with his Mexican connection, Dr. Jose Romo De Vivar who completed the circle of the notorious Massachusetts-Mexico illegal abortion ring.

Financing this endeavor was not easy, but I somehow managed to borrow about $1500 from a friend at Duke, the son of a wealthy Jewish lawyer from Northern New Jersey who happened to have had his own relatively flush personal savings account.

I procured airline tickets and successfully communicated with the doctor’s office. That was the easy part.

The hard part was to come later as for one full year after the fact, I ate nothing but small tins of Star Kist Tuna as I had to live on about two dollars a day in order to be able to pay back my friend. Guilt, of course, having played a significant role in this self-imposed sacrifice, I did not ask my girlfriend for a single dime toward our expenses as I assumed complete financial responsibility for my actions. My girlfriend and I double lied by informing our parents that we were going to visit each other. Then I flew to Baltimore where I picked her up, we then flew to Arizona, rented a car and drove over the border to Nogales, Mexico.

Nogales is a twin city. There is the American Nogales that is neat, clean modernly prosperous town. Then, just across the border there is the Mexican Nogales that is filthy, dirty, antiquated and impoverished. Nothing could better highlight the difference between America and the third world than the juxtaposition of these two towns, while nothing could better predict the future mass exodus of Mexican immigrants and illegal aliens than the visible opportunities that beckoned these poor people, who were only separated from a better life by an imaginary line drawn in the sand. The abject poverty and the juxtaposition of these two towns bearing the same name but existing in two diametrically opposed worlds was a startling eye-opener for me, because an International border was the only thing separating a bustling, clean United States village from a dilapidated, run down slum.

It was easy enough to locate the doctor’s office although it first required navigating our way trough a bevy of urchins; street beggars and shoe shine boys who hung on our heels like lampreys.

Among other things, prostitution happened to be a considerable portion of the local underground economy and was not too seriously suppressed by local authorities making the town seem to be a Mecca for U.S. citizens looking for a cheap trick. The street pimps were quite brazen, as exemplified by one of the more pernicious street solicitors, a young boy in his early teens, who nonchalantly approached us and repeatedly proposed:

  • Hey meestah. You wanna fuck my seestah? You can have her for a quarter. An’ don’ worry. You can go upstairs while I stay down here an’ watch your girlfriend. Everything weel be OK. I weel take especial good care of your girlfriend.

Given the circumstances of our situation and purpose, the solicitation was not appreciated, but was not dissimilar to a proposition we got in New York City the next summer when a street solicitor wanted us both to do a screen test for a pornographic film. It must have been something in the way she moved because I knew for sure I didn’t happen to have any of the same ‘je ne se pas de quoi.’ Or as they say in the street vernacular:

  • It must be jelly, ‘cause jam sure ‘nough don’t shake like that.

Even discounting the time value of money, I can hardly imagine what other unsolicited calamity or health hazard might have come along with that quick ride on a twenty-five cent Mexican whore. All I really needed to complete the vision of hell I already thought I was in would be to get an incurable strain of VD, a stolen wallet, no U.S identification, a kidnapped pregnant girlfriend and no way to get back home. Ultimately, although entirely nerve racking, and despite biting my fingernails to nubs while I waited, the D& C was completely uneventful and mercifully uncomplicated, which then allowed us to scramble back to our respective homes.

The entire episode lasted less than 48 hours during which time fortunately no parent had called any other parent while we both went on to make up lies about how great each other’s respective home visits had gone. Putting it all behind us was a great but nevertheless very sobering relief, as well a very harsh lesson in the value of practicing very careful birth control methods.

Thank goodness contraceptive pills soon became readily available and over a short period of time after coming on the market finally lost the stigma that those women who used them were nothing better than street whores, common sluts or lost souls who were doomed forever to roast in hell.



(Nogales, Mexico / Nogales, Arizona)



Laid back in an old saloon, with a peso in my hand

Watching flies and children on the street.

And I catch a glimpse of black-eyed girls who giggle when I smile

There’s a little boy who wants to shine my feet.

And it’s three days ride from Bakersfield

And I don’t’ know why I came.

I guess I came to keep from payin’ dues.

So instead I’ve got a bottle and a girl who’s just fourteen

And a damned good case of the Mexicali blues.

Is there anything a man don’t stand to lose

When the devil wants to take it all away

Cherish all your thoughts. Keep a tight grip on your booze

‘Cause thinking and drinking are all I have today.

(John Barlow and Bob Weir: The Grateful Dead: Mexicali Blues)






My First Girlfriend

My First Girlfriend 

There were two really enjoyable activities in Kindergarten. One was ‘Show and Tell’ and the other one was ‘Share Your Snacks.’

Show and Tell is an infantile way for children to begin socializing by sharing their innermost thoughts and secrets. Share Your Snacks was a way our kindergarten teacher got us to develop a sense of sharing our tangible possessions.

One day a girl in my class intercepted me before it was my turn to share snacks; to let me she had something she wanted to do a “show and tell”, but that it was a secret meant only for me.

She also asked me if I actually had the snacks and that if she told me her secret, would I give  them all to her. My mother had given me a box of Chocolate Babies specifically telling then me to share them with all the children, but feeling especially singled out and privileged to know the little girl’s secret, I readily agreed.

Taking me behind a bookcase she then asked me if I knew the difference between little boys and little girls. When I stated “No” she promptly pulled up her dress, gave me a point blank view of her genitalia along with a running commentary on its gross anatomical features, then made me show her mine so she could point out the differences. It was my first real education in gender differentiation and because she had fulfilled her part of the bargain I was forced to hand over the candy.

The teacher later asked my mother why I did not have anything to share that day and when the truth finally came out there was much commotion and quite a bit of hell to pay for it. The litany of lectures included rants about the sins of corruption, licentiousness, voyeurism, seduction, selfishness and exhibitionist nudity.

I have no doubt that the little girl had probably gotten candy out of some other boys than just me, and I can only imagine that the Principle of Seduction with it’s consequential rewards has carried her far along in her life.

As an adult, things have not changed too much. I still haven’t learned everything there is to know about gender differentials, although a friend who also happened to be a professional moneylender, a.k.a. Loan Shark, tried to explain it to me this way. When he asked me what I thought a man really wants in life, I told him I had once heard that it was only three things: a decent job, a woman who loves him, and friends who like and respect him.

He told me the only part I got right was that it was three things. Then he went on to say that he had made a career and a fortune out of the simple knowledge that what men really want in life are: Money, Cars, and Women. His business then, was to make available any or all of these three items to any desperate debtor, a first time car buyer or a select clientele of repeat customers for his prostitutes.

Then as far as women are concerned, he stated that understanding them is really quite simple. All a man needs to know is that a woman will only have sex with you for one of three reasons: If she likes you, if you pay for it, or if she is getting revenge against someone else…of either gender.

  • But, trust me on this one, Doc. The bottom line is that they are way less complicated than men because the only things they really want is Money, Cars, Clothes, and Jewelry. And if they get enough of that, most times they won’t even need no man anymore.

Life has subsequently become a little more complicated and it is certainly a rare woman these days that can be bribed into having sex with just a box of candy. Sometimes a two hundred dollar dinner at a fancy restaurant did not even have a seductive influence on my ex-wife.

But the overall principles as explained to me by the Loan Shark generally remain the same.


Chocolate babies

CHocolate babies

Candy man?

Been here and gone.

Candy man?

Been here and gone.

Candy man?

Been here and gone.

And if you won’t be my candy man

I won’t be your salty dog.

(Dave Van Ronk)