Looks as if I’ll be taking matters into my own hands. “I’ll have a sit-down with my sister when we get back—find out what the hell her deal is.”
Steven is vehement. “No, Drew. This is between me and my wife. Stay out of it.”
I back off. “All right. Relax—don’t have a coronary.” But I still plan on talking to Alexandra. If you want something done right, you have to f**king do it yourself.
We’re all silent for a minute.
Steven says, “Look—I don’t want this to bring us all down. Just shelve it. For tonight, let’s just have a good time—like the old days. The only thing I want to think about is getting hammered and having fun. GTG all the way.”
Matthew laughs. Because, like me, he hasn’t heard those letters in years. And they bring back some pretty awesome memories.
He fist-taps Steven. “Fuckin’ A right—GTG.”
Warren asks, “What’s GTG?”
I smile. “It was our monogram back in the day.”
“What’s it stand for?”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Good-time guys.”
Later, going into the fourth round of the water-volleyball tournament, we’re in first place. Kicking ass and taking names. With only three more matches until the championships. It’s fun. Physical. We exert ourselves but have enough time in between games to kick back, socialize, and down a few drinks.
Steven is currently getting down on the makeshift dance floor to “Blurred Lines.” Can you see him over there? Pointing his fingers John Travolta style and thrusting his h*ps in time to the beat? It’s not smooth or cool, but somehow Steven still comes off looking like the f**king man. The hip-shaking, hand-clapping, giggling girls surrounding him are loving it.
Across the opposite end of the pool is a loud, big-drinking divorce celebration, to which Jack invited himself, and he ended up getting some action in the hot tub from the divorcée herself.
Now he’s back at the table with Matthew and me. We’ve been playing it mellow. Despite a few panty-dropping offers, we’ve made it clear our interests lie in hanging out—not hooking up. Surprisingly, Warren has turned out to be the heavy hitter in the poontang department.
Well . . . kind of. After our second win, he disappeared with a chick into the cabana. They came out half an hour later, retying their bathing suits. Fifteen minutes ago, he dove back in again—with girl number two.
I’m not impressed because . . . how can I put this without making you want to snip my balls off with a pair of garden shears? . . . girl number one was . . . of the rotund persuasion. A jolly girl. The kind who has to broadcast an entertaining personality because she’s severely lacking in the shape department. Don’t get me wrong, big girls have their place in society too. Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin’ world go round, and all that.
And every guy has a type. One man’s hog is another man’s hottie. I’ve always preferred my women on the petite side—they’re easier to flip around and maneuver into just the right position. But I don’t think Warren has a passion for the plumpies. I mean, he held on to Kate for a decade, and she never went through a chubby phase—I’ve seen pictures.
Plus, Warren’s girl number two was totally at the other end of the spectrum. Superskinny, with a rack as flat as a surfboard, and a hook nose that suggested a strong relation to the bald eagle.
Pencil-dick himself emerges from the cabana with a satisfied grin. He sits down at the table and takes a long drag from his beer. Matthew, Jack, and I just stare at him.
He looks back and forth between us. “What?”
I jerk my chin toward girl number two as she walks back to her table of equally unattractive friends. Subpars tend to stick together.
“What’s with you and the scary sisters?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean your first hookup made Snooki look like Miss America. And that last chick is probably next of kin to the Wicked Witch of the West.”
He sneers defensively. “She wasn’t that bad.”
Matthew and Jack cough. “Butter face . . . butter face.”
Warren asks, “What’s a butter face?”
I roll my eyes at his ignorance. “It means everything is hot—but. Her. Face. Get it? And I think that’s pretty generous, considering there’s nothing boner-worthy about a woman with the h*ps of a ten-year-old boy.”
Jack suggests, “Maybe it’s a fetish. You like to bump uglies with the uglies, Billy?”
“No. I don’t have a thing for ugly girls.”
I beg to differ. Still, I give him the chance to explain himself. “Then why are they the only ones you’re hitting on?”
Warren squirms uncomfortably. “They’re just . . . easier. I like a sure thing.”
Matthew says, “You sold out Giants f**king Stadium six months ago. For you they should all be sure things.”
Warren avoids eye contact and picks at the label on his beer. “I don’t know. It’s like . . . I was with Kate for a long time . . .”
As if I could f**king forget.
“. . . and I never really had a chance to practice my skills, you know? And chicks in LA? They’re bitches, man—they’re hot and they know it. So, it’s less intimidating if I stick with the easy scores.”
There’s a story in the Bible about a guy who was a real mean bastard. One day he was walking down the road, and God knocked him on his ass. This blinding light came from the sky, and a booming voice shouted down from the heavens, telling him what he needed to do. How to fix his life.
That’s what this moment is like for me. An epiphany. A divine revelation.
If I can find Warren a girl of his own . . . if I can teach him the secrets of scoring quality pieces of ass . . . maybe he’ll be so distracted, he’ll finally stop sniffing around Kate. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll be rid of him. For good.
I have seen the path to the promised land, boys and girls. And it’s lined with pu**y.
Energized by the prospect of a Warren-less existence, I propose, “I can help you with that, you know.”
“With getting girls?”
I nod. “Getting top-notch girls. The kind of females you’ve only seen in magazines and wet dreams. I can teach you how to make it happen. Once you taste gourmet, you’ll never munch junk food again.”
Jack tells Warren, “Jump all over this, man. You’d be learning from the best. Evans is the master—before he gets married, they should bronze his dick, like DiMaggio’s cleats.”
