Thank G-d for Debbie

No sooner had Jesse and I entered the Hull Avenue Dive Bar (er, Tavern) in Des Moines then a very large woman (for whom the term “fat chick” was undoubtedly coined) was at my side.

Her banter was less than original (“How tall are you?”) but she made up for it with a drunken intensity. She told me she was 30, had 2 kids, and never got out but tonight she had a sitter at her place, which was just a little bit up the road. I quickly became aware that her body was pressing against mine over a massive surface area.

Looking down to see how I might escape the encroaching blob, I noticed her shirt had a large circular stain on her right breast. “Beer,” she said. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I went with: “That’s a waste of good beer.” She stared at me in a way that conveyed I had spoken words of such imponderable importance that even devoting that tiny bit of brainpower necessary to blink was an insult to my wisdom.

Then she told me I didn’t know sex until I’d had it with an older woman.


Fortunately, it was just after this that Debbie decided to make her entrance. With a quick “excusemegottago” to Tons of Fun, I dashed over to Debbie, whispered “work with me here” and then planted a big kiss on her cheek and gave her a hug. “Honey,” I said, “so glad you’re here!” To her credit, she was the consummate pro, kissing my own cheek and saying “I missed you.”

Bless her.

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