All men remember the first or perhaps only time they were in the presence of an 11. Yeah, just…off the charts…probably alien. But such women exist. And their path has been unimaginable for most of us. But the power of their beauty is game-changing.
There are men who enjoy a similar singularity. Whether it’s confidence or looks or personality…or a combination…or something entirely different, they got all the pussy they could handle. They were cocksmen. Bill Clinton was a cocksman.
Now you can also call him an adulterer or a horndog…but what he was, is a cocksman. If ever you were one such, you know who you are…and if not, you probably remember that guy who was.
There ARE different rules in life for some people. We all know that. We are either among them or aspiring to be among them…if truth be told But we live in such a hypocritical soap opera that manners and grace and style and taste have been largely discarded.
We have become The Rabble. And we know how this play ends.
Ah yes, the infamous EpiPen. During the summer of 82 I think it was, my lady and I lived in a two bedroom co-op facing Central Park West. 12B.
I often opened the window without a screen. One morning, seated at my desk, trading silver or soybeans or some other such foolishness, I felt a burning in my left bicep. I was engrossed in a trade tho and thought little of it. About 15 minutes later I looked down at my RIGHT thigh. It was swollen to almost the size of my waist! THAT scared the shit out of me! I immediately went to the emergency room and was told this was an allergic reaction to an insect sting. I have considerable scars from war and a long one on my right thigh. I was told reactions often occurred in body areas of weakness…and had it gone instead to my throat, I would by then have asphyxiated. Thus began the Summer of my Discontent.
Across the park from me was Mt Sinai Hospital with immunology expertise. For the next six weeks I would arise early on Thursday, walk across the park and have my right arm turned into a shooting gallery. The scientific theory was to build up my immunity and perhaps save my life. We soon determined that I was deadly allergic to wasps, hornets, yellow jackets and bees. I’d been stung a few time when younger and I was told this was not unusual, some people develop allergies later in life.
These injections burned and itched and swelled and made me pretty cranky. I had yet to be diagnosed with PTSD…and this wasn’t helping. By the fourth week, I learned my scientists were not particularly scientific. “What did we give you last week? Was it 1/4 or 1/2? The fuck would I know? Don’t you write that shit down?
By week five I awoke on Thursday morning in tears, knowing what I had awaiting me. In week six, the question was asked again, “What was it we gave you last week?” I was done. I told them to clean up their procedures and I walked out of that ward for the last time. I’d decided I’d take my chances in life; God knows I’d already accepted those kinds of risks. I could have afforded such exorbitant prices but I damn sure would have been resentful. As it was, mine were free. Good SAG coverage.
For years afterwards, I carried an EpiPen, just in case…plus Benadryl capsules for the golf course. Ever notice how many yellow jackets flock to trash cans with beer and soda bottles? I was stung one day in the 90′s by a bee. I was scared shitless. There was some swelling but that was the extent of it.
This photo is of my final Epipen purchase; it expired in 2002. I should probably replace my Benadryl caps, they’re pretty old as well. I stay alert and try reeeeal hard not to piss off flying insects. But if I’m around you and I see one, you’ll understand if I become seriously pro-active. I will knock those suckers out of the sky with a head cover. So far….