“Oh, no,” said a very serious Bob. “Not much of it at all.”
I compressed my lips and nodded gravely. “I thought as much. Anyway, don’t be intimidated by her. She’s actually very down to earth, right, honey?”
“Yeah, very down to earth. Now shut the fuck up and get in the goddamn limo,” spat the Duchess.
Bob froze in horror, obviously taken aback at how someone with as royal a bloodline as the Duchess of Bay Ridge could use such language.
I said to Bob, “Don’t mind her; she just doesn’t want to seem too uppity. She’s saves her stuffy side for when she’s back in England, with the other royals.” I winked. “Anyway, all kidding aside, Bob, being married to her makes me a duke, so what I’m thinking is that since you’re gonna be our driver for the whole weekend, you might as well just address us as the Duke and the Duchess—just to clear up any confusion.”
Bob bowed formally. “Of course, Duke.”
“Very well,” I replied, pushing the Duchess into the backseat by her fabulous royal bottom. I climbed in behind her. Bob slammed the door and then headed to the plane to collect the Duchess’s royal baggage.
I immediately yanked up her dress and saw that she wasn’t wearing any panties. I pounced. “I love you so much, Nae. So, so much!” I pushed her down on the rear seat, lengthwise, and pressed my erection against her. She moaned deliciously, wriggling her pelvis against mine, giving me the benefit of a little friction. I kissed her and kissed her until after a few minutes she extended her arms and pushed me off.
Through giggles: “Stop, you silly boy! Bob’s coming back. You’ll have to wait until we get back to the hotel.” She looked down and saw my erection through my jeans. “Aw, my poor little baby”— little? Why always little?—“is ready to burst!” She pursed her lips. “Here, let me rub it for you.” She reached down with the palm of her hand and started rubbing the outline of my erection.
I responded by hitting the divider button on the overhead console. As the partition slid shut, I muttered, “I can’t wait for the hotel! I’m making love to you right here, Bob or no Bob!”
“Fine!” said a frisky Duchess. “But it’s only a sympathy fuck, so it doesn’t count. I’m still not making love to you until you prove to me that you’ve become a good boy. Understood?”
I nodded, giving her puppy-dog eyes, and we started ripping off each other’s clothes. By the time Bob made it back to the limo, I was already deep inside the Duchess, and the two of us were moaning wildly. I put a forefinger to my lips and said, “Shhhhhh!”
She nodded, and I reached up and pressed the intercom button. “Bob, my good man, are you there?”
“Yes, Duke.”
“Splendid. The Duchess and I have some very urgent business to discuss, so please don’t disturb us until we get to the Hyatt.”
I winked at the Duchess and motioned to the intercom button with my eyebrows. “Off or on?” I whispered.
The Duchess looked up, and started chewing on the inside of her mouth. Then she shrugged. “You might as well leave it on.”
That’s my girl!I raised my voice and said, “Enjoy the royal show, Bob!” And with that, the sober Duke of Bayside, Queens, began making love to his wife, the luscious Duchess of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, as if there were no tomorrow.
CHAPTER 39
SIX WAYS TO KILL AN INTERVENTIONIST
My dog needs an operation…my car broke down…my boss is an asshole…my wife’s a bigger asshole…traffic jams drive me crazy…life’s not fair…and so forth and so on…
Yes, indeed, it was drizzling something awful in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous in Southampton, Long Island. I’d been home for a week now, and as part of my recovery I’d committed to doing a Ninety-in-Ninety, which is to say: I had set a goal to attend ninety AA meetings in ninety days. And with a very nervous Duchess watching me like a hawk, I had no choice but to do it.
I quickly realized it was going to be a very long ninety days.
The moment I stepped into my first meeting, someone asked me if I’d like to be the guest speaker, to which I’d replied, “Speak in front of the group? Sure, why not!” What could be better than that? I figured.
The problems started quickly. I was offered a seat behind a rectangular table at the front of the room. The meeting’s chairperson, a kind-looking man in his early fifties, sat down beside me and made a few brief announcements. Then he motioned for me to begin.
I nodded and said, in a loud, forthright voice, “Hi, my name is Jordan, and I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”
The room of thirty or so ex-drunks responded in unison: “Hi, Jordan; welcome.”
I smiled and nodded. With great confidence, I said, “I’ve been sober for thirty-seven days now and—”
I was immediately cut off. “Excuse me,” said an ex-drunk with gray hair and spidery veins on his nose. “You need to be sober ninety days to speak at this meeting.”
Why, the insolence of the old bastard! I was absolutely devastated. I felt like I’d gotten on the school bus without remembering to put my clothes on. I just sat there, in this terribly uncomfortable wooden chair, staring at the old drunk and waiting for someone to drag me off with a hook.
“No, no. Let’s not be too tough,” said the chairperson. “Since he’s already up here, why don’t we just let him speak? It’ll be a breath of fresh air to hear a newcomer.”
Impudent mumbles came bubbling up from the crowd, along with a series of insolent shrugs and contemptuous head-shakes. They looked angry. And vicious. The chairperson put his arm on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes, as if to say, “It’s okay. You can go on.”
I nodded my head nervously. “Okay,” I said to the angry ex-drunks. “I’ve been sober for thirty-seven days now and—”
I was cut off again, except this time by thunderous applause. Ahhh, how wonderful!The Wolf was receiving his first ovation, and he hadn’t even gotten going yet! Wait ’til they hear my story! I’ll bring the house down!
Slowly, the applause died down, and with renewed confidence I plowed on: “Thanks, everybody. I really appreciate the vote of confidence. My drug of choice was Quaaludes, but I did a lot of cocaine too. In fact—”
I was cut off again. “Excuse me,” said my nemesis with the spider veins, “this is an AA meeting, not an NA meeting. You can’t talk about drugs here, only alcohol.”
I looked around the room, and all heads were nodding in agreement. Oh, shit!That seemed like a dated policy. This was the nineties now. Why would someone choose to be an alcoholic yet shun drugs? It made no sense.
I was about to jump out of my chair and run for the hills, when I heard a powerful female voice yell, “How dare you, Bill! How dare you try to drive away this young boy who’s fighting for his life! You’re despicable! We’re all addicts here. Now, why don’t you just shut up and mind your own business and let the boy speak?”
The boy?Had I just been called a boy? I was almost thirty-five now, for Chrissake! I looked over at the voice, and it was coming from a very old lady wearing granny glasses. She winked at me. So I winked back.
The old drunk sputtered at Grandma, “Rules are rules, you old hag!”
I shook my head in disbelief. Why did the insanity follow me wherever I went? I hadn’t done anything wrong here, had I? I just wanted to stay sober. Yet, once again, I was at the center of an uproar. “Whatever,” I said to the chairperson. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
At the end of the day, they let me speak, although I left the meeting wanting to wring the old bastard’s neck. From there, things continued to spiral downward when I went to an NA—Narcotics Anonymous—meeting. There were only four other people in the room; three of them were visibly stoned, and the fourth had even fewer days sober than me.