Wednesday morning’s car service pickup to dialysis saw the return of the “Liquor Man,” and he was in quite a talkative state. He went on at length wondering how I can live in a neighborhood so “loaded with beautiful American women without your dick falling off.” (He lives in Brighton Beach, among “beautiful Russian women who will let you eat their ass.”) He also wondered how he would do if he printed up more of his calling card and stood in front of my building handing them out, but he was too far into his delusions to accept that the hot 20-somethings in Park Slope likely have zero interest in a fat, balding, flagrantly horny 50-year-old with a face like a bulldog‘s ass. This one-sided conversation lasted for the duration of the trip, and it was just plain sad.
Being a captive audience is never the way to start a treatment day, but it’s inescapable when your driver is fluent in English (a rarity for this car service), likes you, and thinks they have a sympathetic ear to whom they can vent about the grottier aspects of their ongoing horniness.
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