By Hillel Aron
By Joseph Tsidulko
By Patrick Range McDonald
By David Futch
By Hillel Aron
By Dennis Romero
By Jill Stewart
By Dennis Romero
At some point during my developmental years, my love circuits got jammed. So I prefer the matter-of-fact world of online sexual hookups to the excruciating minuet of socially acceptable dating. Yeah, there are a lot of idiots floating around online, but at least you don’t have to fall in love with them, lend them money, tell them all your secrets and write them into your lease. Your expectations are in line with reality. The only decision you have to make is, “Do I give this loser a blowjob or not?”
It’s a simple universe. But not one I want everyone to know I inhabit.
The other night, I was gulping down a strong daiquiri and trawling for coke-totin’ cyberspace boys — “Wanted: c ’n’ c; Signed, Likes Lollipops” — when I got an e-mail from “Schmucko O’Schmuck.” Actually, he was using his real name . . . a name that I recognized.
I froze. Schmucko O’Schmuck! He’s a close friend of my brother’s! He and his new girlfriend had recently spent a weekend with us upstate, and we’d had a great time. She’d turned out to be well-read and really nice, and they were hilarious together. We’d talked about this online sex site, the one I happened to be on at the moment. I suspected he guessed that he had found my profile. How humiliating.
His e-mail read, “I have the c and nine inches . . . are you still looking?”
To ease my embarrassment, I decided to play along with the joke.
“Just started . . . seems you’re off to a good start yourself,” I answered.
A day later, he e-mailed again.
“Would you care to meet up this weekend? I’ll obtain a bit more blow and ill let you play with my rather large cock. I admit this is blunt but I feel we share a wavelength.”
Now I really knew he was just goofing around. The “wavelength” thing was just so dumb. I played along again, parodying the abbreviated style of cyber-ing teens:
“U got a foto of this monster?” I asked. I could be funny too.
“Actually I do have a photo . . . do you have one of yourself?” he answered. “Do you want to call me tonight.” He included his real phone number. “I think you sound direct and sexy. What are yu doing Saturday night?”
I suddenly realized that he wasn’t kidding around — that he had no idea
that it was me on the other end of the wire. He was cheating on the girlfriend I liked
I didn’t answer. Nevertheless, he followed that one up with another:
“Smarty . . . this is a little boring but I am moving my office tonight and have already packed up my discs with my picture which i cant leave on the computer (naked me) in case someone ever sees it. So I cant sent it now . . . and it might be a day or two until I have a home DSL line to send it on. Write back to me and I will definitely send . . . do you want the PG face photo or the X 9 inch photo? What kind of girl are you?”
What kind of girl was I? The kind of girl who didn’t want this information. Who now had to decide whether or not to tell her brother — we tell each other everything — what his buddy was up to.
I felt like a character in an advice column, and I didn’t know whether Ann Landers would have said Yes or No. I know all my friends, had I polled them, would have said No. I knew it would bum my brother out if he knew.
But the wholesome, grain-grinding, bread-baking Heidi in me won out. Or was it the impulsive slut? Anyway, I squealed.
“I’m creeped out,” my brother said sadly. “Why is everything so sordid?”
That’s one thing I couldn’t tell him.
I got to Binion’s Horseshoe Casino in downtown Vegas last Sunday night just as SoCal poker champ Men “The Master” Nguyen — who graced the cover of this paper last week — was bulldozing his way into the final rounds of the World Series of Poker.
“I kick your ass! The Master kick your ass!” he excitedly shouted, downing yet another Corona. The leader of Bell Gardens’ notorious Vietnamese poker posse was mercilessly finishing off his last surviving opponent in the triple-draw lowball tournament. As a bank of spectators oohed and aahed, and the cameras of ESPN swooped in, the diminutive Men was raking in the $500 chips so fast, it seemed like the table was tilted in his direction.
“It’s not about the money!” he yelled to the amused crowd as what turned out to be the last hand was being dealt. “It about winning!”
His young opponent, hailing from Louisiana and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, had just ceded about $20,000 to Men in the last 15 minutes and, frankly, was looking a bit flustered. Now with his last six chips on the table, Louisiana turned over his cards. Not a bad hand — his highest card a nine. In this type of lowball poker, the lowest, not the highest, cards win. He would survive another hand if Men held as much as one face card or a 10.