Pimp Gerald's Office. How May I Direct Your Call?

Not all my posts are about weddings. Sometimes I just find myself in absurd situations when it comes to others’ relationships.

For four months one winter I lived in Turks & Caicos while I worked on writing The Great American Novel. Friends would come visit me and we would spend the week romping around the island like spoiled children, sunglasses on and a beer in both hands at all times. Towards the end of my stay, I stupidly decided to have five (5!) boys come stay with me. We weren’t BFF’s or anything, but we’d all gone to college together, and they all had girlfriends, so I figured I would be in for a seven days with a bunch of guys just raring to let loose a few thousand miles away from the watchful, judgmental eyes of their respective ball and chains. I’ve always been a Guy’s Girl--in kindergarten I was the only girl allowed to play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with the boys, even if they bullied me into being April O’Neil--so I thought I knew what I was in for when they eventually descended upon my beachfront condo.

I’ll admit, I was in an extra crabby mood to begin with and these boys really did have a handful of shining moments while visiting, but for the most part, instead of wild partying, these dullards spent their evenings slumped in front of my laptop Skyping with their ladies and making kissy faces onto my newly Windexed computer screen. It became oppressively evident that this group ceased to function normally when not in the immediate vicinity of their women. Their days were spent throwing wet towels over all the furniture, talking about engagement rings (I’m sorry, did I invite a group of females to come stay with me?), and complaining non-stop; at one point I overheard one of them griping that the sand on the beach was “ridiculously uneven.” 

By the time they arrived, I had become buddies with a decent amount of people who actually lived in T&C full time. One was a guy named Gerald who was born and raised on the island and a seemingly, decently nice guy. On days when I found myself to be the only freak on the beach, huddled in a hoodie, getting windburn instead of a sunburn, Gerald would sometimes come sit next to me in the sand and be kind enough to tell me that I was almost as dark as he was (which would have been quite a feat, but by the time I left I did very much look like my last name was Gonzalez instead of Goldstein). 

One day, as the boys were eating stinky jerk sandwiches and sipping piña colodas like grandmas by the pool, I was down at the beach, my nose buried in a book, hopelessly regretting the frat boy invasion. My cell phone rang and on the other end was Gerald. “Where are the guys?” he asked. “Having lunch or something,” I said. Then, “Why?” I was unsure why all of a sudden Gerald was showing interest in my male compatriots: wasn’t I the one he confessed his undying love to via text message several months earlier? “Can you have them call me, please?” Gerald said in his politest of voices. I said I would of course give them the memo and have them call him back right away. Why wouldn’t I?

I hauled myself out of my chaise and trudged up to the pool to convey the message. They boys shared a look with one another as if I’d instead asked if they’d mind trying on all my underwear for me and then showing me their fiercest of faces. “No way,” the biggest complainer of all huffed. “Come on guys, you have to. He’s my friend It’d be so rude to not,” I pleaded. “Still no,” Chief Complains-A-Lot said in a voice I was accustomed to only hearing from toddlers in Pull-Ups. I continued to whine, to squeal and squeak about how they just had to call, to talk Gerald up as a truly stand-up sort of guy, to practically tug on the hem of their board shorts in supplication. “Please, please, please just call him?” I wailed. Finally, Rob, the chattiest of the bunch, agreed to make the call.

This is what I heard on Rob’s end of the conversation. “Oh hey, man. We’re good... Yeah, totally... Oh. Thanks, man, but, no... Yeah, that sounds great, but, yeah, we all have serious girlfriends... [Very long pause] I know, I know, but we can’t... Well, OK! Thanks!” Rob hung up the phone. His mouth hung open, and then he erupted in what sounded uncannily like a hippo wheeze honk. (For the uninformed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npH5BAEVbyo&feature=fvwrel) “Did I just call a pimp?” he finally managed to blurt out.

Apparently Gerald offered my guests a prostitute. Not just any prostitute, mind you, but one with purportedly “great nipples.” (Which, if you ask me, just brings up a whole slew of other questions: What exactly constitutes as “great nipples?” Isn’t that really a personal preference, rather than an objective statement? And on what scale are these allegedly great nipples assessed?) “Taking turns,” however, would be required; it would just be uncouth if more than one guy experienced the miracles of this lovely lady at once. She was a professional, after all. As a last ditch effort, the offer to “medicate her” was slapped on the table. Thankfully Rob, in all his boring, in-a-relationship glory, had the common sense to graciously decline Gerald’s offer. For the first time, I was desperately relieved these guys all had girlfriends back home and thought high risk and adventure was buying scratch tickets at the supermarket.

But that, fair readers, is how I became a Pimp Secretary. Looks good on the resume, huh?