[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
“Hey, Jack, could you write me an ad?”
“For what?”
“A personal ad–I'm looking for a new chick.”
“What happened to the last one?”
“She was crazy.”
“What are you talking about? I met her–she was great.”
“Yeah, until she started getting weird.”
“Weird? You're a fucking deviant. How was she getting weird?”
]
“She was reading and shit. . . .”
“Oh, an intellectual. I could see how that might frighten you.”
“No, man, she was reading 'mommy porn.'”
“Like pregnant girls and stuff?”
“No, like bored housewife bondage crap–like, I haven't been screwed for so long that I'm dreaming of vampire lovers and hot wax.”
“So what? Lots of chicks read that shit; it's not gonna hurt you. Just let her tie you up a few times, and she'll quit.”
“No, man, I dumped her. It was . . . bad.”
“What happened?”
[
“Well, last week, she asked me if I wanted to take a 'naughty drive,' so we drove out to the canyon, and she started getting all heavy in the car–playing with herself and really working it up. And I'm a few drinks in and down for whatever, so I'm stoked. But then we pull over, and she says she wants to get out, so we do, and we're right on the side of the road, and I'm gonna do her on the hood when she stops me, reaches in her purse and pulls out a pair of furry metal handcuffs. 'Look what I got, baby,' she says, and then she cuffs me to the door handle and pulls down my pants.”
“What?”
“Yeah, and at first, I'm like, 'Let's do this,' but then I see some headlights, and we're right on the side of the road, so I tell her to let me go! But she ain't moving; she's giggling and laughing at my erection. And then this car pulls up and stops–the headlights right on me.”
“Ha! Fuck you.”
“No, I'm serious man. And out of the car hops some skinny black dude wearing a cape and acting all Gothic and swirly, and I'm like, 'Hey, fucker, back off,' but he doesn't. He gets close, so I start kicking at him because he comes right up to me, and he's flapping that fucking cape and hissing, so I'm like, 'Fuck, I'll kill you, man.' And then he pulls down his tights and starts whacking his thing at me.”
“What do you mean at you?”
“I mean, RIGHT FUCKING AT ME! He's practically rubbing it on me, and I'm spitting and kicking and trying to get off that fucking door handle. Look at my wrist.” He offered me a swollen hand with a huge, black wrist bruise.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, anyway, she ends up going down on him, and after he's satisfied, he drives off.”
“Then what?”
“Then she started crying, saying she was sorry, and ran away. I was there two fucking hours before the cops showed and uncuffed me–so can you write me an ad?”
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