I met Stanley at a screw-rinse-repeat joint in New York City called The Candy Box. I think it was 1975. Stanley was the bald bespectacled guy telling us he “screwed both bartenders and all the other whoo-ers sitting around on the bar stools." Stanley is still loud, profane and bespectacled as I write.
A prolonged and pungent Caveat Emptor, "Whoo-ers are all no good.", delivered in a native New York accent has to be experienced to be fully appreciated.
I do not know why exactly, but I took him home. He came with me because I told him I had a pool in my backyard. I think he thought I was lying or nuts. He was right about the nuts.
I always enjoyed Stanley. Stanley and I used to have the greatest fights. He was naturally funny. And he always left me money. He could be generous and stingy at the same moment. We hung out together for twenty five years. We made a porno. We ate at every great Italian restaurant in three states. We fought epic fights. He was mean. Years later I found out he used to stand behind me just out of hearing range and make fun of me to people I knew. Stanley financed every crazy thing I could think up to do. And I am creative. Laissez le bon temps rouler.
Everything was great until I got sober and truthful. One day I said to him
"Stanley, God gave you a package that cannot be beat. Even Ron Jeremy steps back. Nevertheless, you suck in the bed. Now that I am dually diagnosed, I am no longer de-generate and de-praved, and the government gives me $638.25 monthly, I do not have to fuck you. So just pay for the fricking thing and stop that whining."
It was the beginning of the end.
Stanley went and got married. He came to see me even after he got married. For a long time damn time. As a wedding present to him and his bride Angela, I taught him how to eat pussy. I know why I did not teach him sooner. He was always a bit prissy about the physical part of life. It is kind of a turnoff if a guy is salivating copiously all over you at the critical moment because pussy has germs. I miss him anyway.