THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE DICK – THE WOLFPACK

THE WOLFPACK

It started with a Reader’s Digest article: Earn A Living Writing Romance Novels.
I was just thirteen but, according to the article, publishers would pay anyone
who could follow their format. I was so stoked I dumped my father’s porn for my
mom’s romance novels. I spent hours writing paragraphs longhand and then rewriting
them from memory. I was convinced I could do this. I was going to get paid!

The Bet

“I’m telling you man, she’s a dyke!” Buck was emphatic, his voice filling the locker
room like the voice of God. His pride was at stake. He was a high school all-american
linebacker; girls were lining up to fuck him, but Debra McCormac wouldn’t even acknowledge
his exisistence. He had plenty of company; Debra hadn’t dated anybody in three years
of high school. Yet her apple bottom and prominent camel toe kept calling the faithful.
Buck had vowed to bring us back tales from the Promised Land.
“You’re going about it all wrong,” I said. It seemed to take me forever to get my shoulder
pads off. I was aching all over. I was proud of the fact that I was the only sophomore
to make varsity, but two games into the season I was beginning to think I was in way over
my head.
“What? Who said that?” Buck asked.
“You’ve got to get up here first,” I said pointing to my temple after stepping into his
line of sight.
“What the fuck do you know about it, Professor? You ain’t had pussy since pussy had you.”
My nickname wasn’t meant as a compliment; I had an opinion about everything. And now, once
again, I’d opened by big yap and pissed someone off. Buck was right, though. I didn’t know shit.
I was still a virgin. But If I backed down, I was going to be his doormat for the rest of the
season.
“I’ll show you what I know about it.” She hasn’t given you the time of day, right?”
“Right.”
“If you do what I tell you, within a month she’ll agree to have lunch with you.
If she doesn’t, I’ll do the “Go! Go! Get ’em!” cheer in front of the whole locker room.
If she does, you have to do it. Bet?”
“Wait. First I gotta know what I gotta to do.”
“You gotta leave her alone. Don’t go near her. I’ll write her notes(if you don’t know,
ask your parents. This was in the olden times before text messaging.), you copy them
in your own handwriting. I’ll deliver the notes to her, and then bring her’s back here
for us all to verify.” Then I turned and shouted, “And nobody breathes a fucking word said
in here!”
I stuck out my hand. “Bet?”
“Bet.” There was a buzz all over the locker room. My heart was in my throat. All I had
going for me was what I had learned in my mom’s romance novels. That shit had better
work in real life or I was fucked.

The Birth of Cyrano

It didn’t take a month. It took just over two weeks. Notes turned into letters and I was
writing and rewriting shit late into the night. But It was all worth it. Buck not only
did the cheer, he did it with enthusiasm, cracking us all up. A teammate started calling
me Cyrano after that and it stuck. Then this guy asked me to write a note and passed my name
on to that guy and so on. In less than ten years I had a built a vast “client” list ranging
from plumbers to the rich and famous. And the perks have been great. I’ve been all over the
world as the guest of millionaires; I get invited regularly to A list parties – even been to
a couple of Oscar parties; a hedge fund manager put me into an i.p.o that paid off my
first house; Not a week goes by that someone isn’t offering me something. One such favor
led to a night out with a wolfpack and a star studded orgy.


The Favor

“Hey, Cryano, you need some suits?” It was Bernie. Bernie’s a tailor at NeimanMarcus – a
damn good one. So good, in fact, that he gets paid thousands of dollars just to sit on his
ass at award shows in case someone pops a stitch.
“Yeah, Bernie. A mailman can never have enough suits.” (Yep, that’s my day job. Instead
or writing novels I’m delivering them) Saying yes to Bernie would mean a trip downtown.
It was Saturday. All I wanted to do was vegetate in front of the tv.
“No, seriously, Cyrano. You can’t pass this up.”

Anybody who tells you what you know is more important than who you know, doesn’t know what the
hell they’re talking about. My two hours downtown with Bernie were eye opening. The markup
on haute couture is insane! Rag men have their own little monopoly like diamond merchants.
Even if you have an eye for material and know your way around the fashion district, you won’t
get the price breaks these guys get. They control supply, and pretty much determine who gets what
when. The upshot of it all was Bernie was able to tailor four, twenty-five hundred dollar
suits for me for two-hundred and fifty dollars a piece – he was throwing in labor for free.
Well, not free, there was this barista he wanted to fuck. But that’s another story.
I put the suits away and didn’t even think about them until months later.

The Wolfpack

Burying a friend is never easy but I’d been on an emotional high for two days because the
old gang was back together. It was like our high school days were just yesterday. We were
going to send our buddy James out in style. Bitter sweet memories flooded me as I picked
out a navy blue suit and red tie for the funeral, which turned out to be an emotionally
draining affair. After the gravesite ceremony, we headed to the casino to hoist a few to
our buddy James and say our goodbyes.

It wasn’t quite five and the casino was sparsely crowed so we had the bar to ourselves.
We were telling jokes and ribbing one another when in walked four of the most beautiful
girls I’d ever seen. I was thinking “girls” because they didn’t look a day over twenty. Skirts
were riding high up their thighs, tits bursting our of their blouses.