This is from Dave Lundy’s new novel “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.
Friday (one day earlier)…
Tracy Cohenstein didn’t have classes on Fridays during the summer, so she had spent her day engaged in, what she called, “happy stuff.” In the morning she served breakfast at a homeless shelter, and in the afternoon she finished knitting a sweater and completed her Aerospace Structures extra-credit homework. After that, she enjoyed her favorite guilty-pleasure — watching a romantic-comedy.
As the final scene in Pretty Woman began, Tracy sat Indian-style on her couch with a box of tissues in her lap. Having watched it a dozen times, she could quote practically every line. She’s been told she looked like a younger, and perhaps even more attractive, version of Julia Roberts, the female star of the movie. Tracy’s dark brown eyes were the kind that pulled you in and could’ve been Van Morrison’s inspiration for “Brown Eyed Girl” had she been born when he wrote the song. Her appearance was unblemished except for one flaw — one embarrassing, well-hidden flaw.
Tracy watched intently as Richard Gere’s character stood out of a limousine’s sunroof while he was driven through a rundown L.A. neighborhood. With Verdi’s La Traviata opera playing for all to hear, Julia Robert’s character went out onto her fire escape and saw him below holding a bouquet of red roses. As he climbed the ladder to her top-floor apartment, she couldn’t wait and rushed down. When the love-crazed couple met in the middle, their lips inches apart, Tracy pulled out a few tissues and spoke along with the dialogue.
Richard Gere asked, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”
With a half-smile, Julia Roberts answered, “She rescues him right back,” and they kissed like they meant it.
Tears ran down Tracy’s cheeks — just your average day in Hollywood where a rich businessman “saves” a prostitute. Not feeling the least bit odd about longing to be Julia Robert’s character, Tracy’d gladly turn a few tricks to have a fairytale like this one come true. While the closing credits rolled, she wiped her tears and wished Chad Stanwick, the president of Sigma Alpha Mu, would be her “knight in shining armor.” Ironically, if the rumors were true, her two crushes, Richard Gere and Chad Stanwick, shared the same fetish — a rather peculiar one satisfied by prostate-tickling gerbils.
Tracy moved from the couch into her office and shut the door. On her desk was a studio microphone, and behind that, a VCR and small TV. She retrieved a set of ear-covering headphones, put them on, and plugged them into the TV. A videotape labeled “When Harry Ate Sally” waited for her — a play-on-words for what happened to be her favorite romantic-comedy. Frightened, yet curious, she shrugged — Work is work. You see, Tracy had the type of voice that oozed sex. One time at synagogue, while reading a passage from the Torah, she managed to arouse ninety-percent of the congregation. Now a broadcast major at the University at Buffalo, one of her audition tapes landed in the right hands and led to a part-time job doing voice-overs — actually, more like moan-overs — for pornographic movies.
Tracy popped in the tape and watched Harry and Sally start their drive from Chicago to New York City. The atrocious acting, horrific dialogue, and road-head that followed was par for the course. She fast-forwarded the movie, watching the actors boink at high-speed like rabbits until she reached the famous diner scene — the one where Harry and Sally banter about women faking orgasms. Harry claimed that no woman has ever faked it with him, and then he proceeded to climb under the table to prove it.
In sync with Sally’s crescendoing orgasm, Tracy pounded the table and shouted her own version of “Yes! Yes! Oh! Oh!” into the microphone. When Sally finished and all eyes were on her, a woman at nearby table repeated the original line from the movie and told her waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Naturally, the waiter was more than happy to oblige and, in a similar fashion to Harry, “serviced” the woman. Then, just like in real life, an orgy broke out.
Sally, now engaged in a threesome, said the dirtiest things during the rare times her mouth was phallus-free. Slurping and voicing-over these parts was easy for Tracy, but she recognized her muffled-gagging skills still needed some work. Fully immersed in the film, Tracy closed her eyes and genuinely moaned. She then had a worrisome feeling — not because of the unholy things being done to Sally’s holes, but because the men sandwiching her onscreen-identity reminded her of Zabka and Magnum — an unexpected turn-on. She admonished herself, I’d never!
Tracy thought back to the embarrassing pranks those two dimwits pulled when they all lived in the UB Ellicott dorm. Coincidentally, as she recounted one particular incident, her anger grew in perfect time with the scene and came across as intense pleasure.
While Meg Ryan’s X-rated doppelgänger was getting stuck more than a pincushion, the well-hung gentleman with a curly blond mullet — Zabka’s twin from the waist up — flexed his pecks. At the same time, another stallion’s face was buried deep between her legs, eating her Happy Meal. Upon completion, his head arose, exposing his glistening Magnum-like mustache. As the scene came to a dramatic, DNA-filled conclusion, the only logical recommendation from the Department of Public Health would’ve been to torch the diner.
Tracy stopped the video, took off her headphones, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Not having thought about Zabka and Magnum in a while, her feelings were conflicted. Whatever happened to those idiots from campus?