The family’s elder statesman, my brother Frank, telephoned last night. Mr. Public Defender wanted to amuse me with the tale of the latest miscreant he’d represented, young Thom Forrest.
According to Frank, the testosterone-laced lad of 16 had unwittingly solicited a sexual act from an undercover policewoman, having mistaken her for a whore. The boy hadn’t previously engaged the services of a paid professional and accordingly lacked familiarity with proper prostitution etiquette. As a result, he unintentionally attempted to violate a streetwalker’s cardinal rule: i.e., money first, then sex. Much to the surprise of the rookie policewoman — as well as the other officers standing by to make an arrest — the youngster reversed the traditional system, releasing an impressive boner from his shorts milliseconds prior to thrusting the contracted wad of cash into the officer’s hand. The exuberant teenager then spun the astonished woman around before she could identify herself and began poking around her posterior in search of the agreed upon receptacle for his Johnson. Of course, the shock which momentarily immobilized the participating law enforcement personnel quickly wore off. Poor Thom found himself kneed in the groin, tased, and arrested on solicitation and sexual assault charges in seconds flat.
Thanks to the unparalleled skills of a certain court-appointed public defender, the charges against the young man were reduced to misdemeanor solicitation. Viewed in that light, Frank summed up the affair as an “all’s well that ends well story, more or less.”
Predictably, my brother closed his recital with the tried and true: “pretty grisly Richard, but still no orgy at the O.K. Corral!” That’s the label he coined years ago in homage to the debacle which ended my first marriage. I’d heard it on countless occasions afterwards too, each time I suffered the ignominy of another dating disaster. Blessedly, my marriage to Sophia had put the kibosh on the calamities, and Frank’s wise-ass reference to them, until now.
I had only one question for Frank before I hung up on him. Since I knew he labeled everything, I couldn’t help but ask what he’d dubbed the solicitation case. He responded without missing a beat: “What did I call it? Why, ‘Forrest Rump.’ What else?”