Blame Big Jack! Gurley’s Tuesday Morning E-mail

Truth is I don’t cheat, don’t get laid extracurricularly, ever. Against the rules.

Fine with it! It’s been many years since I said good riddance to the occasional late-night hookup and the once-in-a-blue-moon, drug-fueled marathon bang sessions. Three hours nonstop one late night circa 2000. No nonsense. Non. Stop. Sting kind of stamina. Not bragging, just sayin’. Provided her with 9 to 14 orgasms. Me: zero. Downside of Viagra.

Those days are gone, R.I.P., don’t miss it, don’t look back.

Of course, I can draw on those experiences and say, “That happened, I did all that, sowed my wild oats and now I can be dignified, altruistic, focus on lofty ideals, convert to Catholicism.” So last night I went home with this Asian girl, 22. Curvy and prob under five feet tall. Crazy. Boobs. Continental accent. She was babbling, accusing me of trying to seduce her, and I was doing everything I could to prove I was most decidedly not, furthest thing from my mind. Really just happy to chat and smell her hair.

I confirmed I was engaged, and that tonight I’d happily be her gay confidante friend, wouldn’t act like those other older guys she was whining about, always trying to trick her out of her panties. Explained I really just didn’t want to go home yet. Needed a nightcap, maybe snort some Adderall, listen to some tunes. Zero interest in her, I swear on a stack of Holy Bibles. Just wanted to hang. Wish we’d brought a few others with us for a proper after-party.

Genitals half-dead at that point anyway. Left that unsaid. Well, I might have mentioned it. Anyway, successfully made my case—she trusted me, finally.

Around 5 a.m. I’m baring my soul, getting mawkish and weepy like some Irish poet or Liam Neeson, and all of a sudden she said she felt nauseous, toppled over and began to puke. All over the couch and herself. Her shoes, feet. Then she passed out facedown in it.

Took 45 minutes of pleading to get her upright and into the bathroom. Didn’t want her to pull a Hendrix, and me end up in the tabloids or prison. “Julie, come on, you need to get up, you can’t pass out like that. It’s dangerous.”

No response. Very frustrating. Really Bad Thought occurred: That I could probably take a whiz on her and get away with it. Not that I’d want to, but maybe that would rouse her; nothing else was working. I heard Nicholson did that once with one of those high-class Hollywood whores he didn’t have to pay for “cause he’s Big Jack.” His fault, he put that Really Bad Thought in my noggin. And his pal, poor Roman Polanski—didn’t get a fair trial, boo-hoo, and now he can’t come back to the U.S. What an incalculable loss to cinema. This guy, who was already getting the crème de la crème of top-notch poon, quaaluded and sodomized a 13-year-old he knew was 13, but he’s an artiste, they love him in France, he had a rough childhood, the girl wanted it, Sharon Tate, and zee Americans are puritan and zee Bush is a cowboy.

Fuck the French, fuck Europe. We run the world now.

So there was puke everywhere, in Julie’s hair, soaking through her clothes. Finally, she was in the bathroom, hugging the toilet, and she said “ I’m O.K., you can leave now!” To which I replied, “Oh, no, I’m not leaving until you are in bed, little girl, it’s way too dangerous—can’t leave you like this.” I got her into her loft bed, a total gentleman. At 6 a.m., said I was leaving. Then I said, “Oh, hey, want me to lick every inch of your perfect body for an hour? Be happy to. Seriously, you’re ready to fuck now, right?” Kidding. Jokes! Made her laugh and feel good about herself. Pinched her lil’ pukey foot goodbye. Also stole $26 from her purse for cab fare. Figured I’d bought her enough $15 drinks in the past year. No regrets.