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My story starts just as any other second-rate tale of comeuppance -- in Atlantic City. On a whim, a friend and I decided to make the trek, our minds and hearts filled with hitting it big. I had a side-agenda for the trip, as well. I've always had a dream to interview a hooker. I wanted to ask her a series of both serious and comical questions; maybe even get her co-workers in on the action; and compile it in my first book, Interview with the Hooker. When the idea of going to Atlantic was first mentioned, my thought process went as follows: Atlantic City? It's not Vegas. Chance of winning money? Yes. Hookers? I'm in.

        Well, wouldn't you know that I didn't see one goddamn hooker the entire night? I actually did see one woman who very well may have been a prostitute, but she was inside one of the casinos, and wearing a dress. If she was working, it was a higher pay scale than I was looking for. I wanted to at least ask her, but I feared I would be one "What are you up to tonight" away from being known as "John" in the state of New Jersey. So, I just kept on walking.

        The night went just as you'd imagine it would: A drink here, a slot machine there, another drink over yonder, a glance at a table game, a thought about our wallets...another slot machine and drink, etc. Sometime after drink number six or so, and in-between my first dinner ever at Hooters (pretty underwhelming wings, but fantastic ambiance) and the third casino, my friend and I lost each other. To this day I don't know what he did the rest of the night, but if bail or ransom money weren't needed, I'm assuming things weren't too bad; Or very bad, depending on your level of morality.

        As for me, as the night progressed, I started to lose my interest in gambling. I eventually left the casinos and began walking the streets, taking in all of the sights. After wandering around for a while, I came across Jay-Z's 40/40 Club and I decided I wanted to see how rappers relax after a long day of rhyming and shooting people. I was also thirsty again and wanted another drink.

        Ironically, as I walked through the front door, Jay-Z's "Do It Again (Put Your Hands Up)" (LINK) -- which just so happens to be a song I like -- was playing. As usual, I began rapping along to the lyrics. Hindsight now tells me that, "...never slip in the club/told y'all niggas, four-fifth in the club/if somebody wanna draw, then the blood, it can drip in the club/You know how niggas get in the club..." was probably not the best thing to be saying out loud; especially when I was alone and had absolutely no intentions of making blood drip in that particular club on that particular evening.

        To the bouncers' credit, they were very professional and simply told me that it was a special night and only those on the V.I.P. list were allowed to enter. I should have just turned around and left, but I decided I would gamble one last time for the night.

        "Oh, yeah, that's cool," I said. "I'm sure I'm on the list."

        "Name?"

        I cleared my throat and then went all-in. "Nowitzki."

        After a round of laughter, one of them replied, "You look about a foot and a half taller on T.V."

        "He's only six inches taller than me, and I'm his younger brother," I shot back convincingly. "But, if you want me to let him know that you wouldn't let me in, that's cool. I'm sure he'll pass it on to Jay." Anytime you refer to someone's boss by a nickname, it gets their attention.

        After a few seconds of them looking at each other in confusion, they all apologized and told me that I was more than welcome to come in. They also asked if there was any way they could make up for their gaffe. "A bottle of Moet," I replied, thinking that it was time I finally try it.

        Once inside, the first thing I noticed was how dark it was. I'm not talking about the clientele, either, you racist. There wasn't much light. I made my way around, bottle of Moet in hand, as news of Dirk Nowitzki's younger brother's presence began to spread. A lot of people came up to me to introduce themselves. I made small talk about growing up with a future NBA all-star. "Dirk the Jerk, I used to call him," I told them. The ladies loved that one. I'm not sure why. Probably because they thought I was rich. I should have tried, "Dirk the blow me," for a subliminal effect.

   With my bladder full, I excused myself from the group in order to head to the restroom. On the way there, I saw someone pointing at me, telling their friend that I was Detlef Schremph's son. Even when I'm lying about being one, I can't escape the other. Dammit.

        I made my way to the bathroom and went inside. I grew up in a very small town and don't often see how the "big city folk" live, so the layout of the bathroom seemed quite foreign to me; particularly the urinals. Fancy, I thought to myself, admiring it for .34 seconds before dropping my pants. Why is this so high? I guess a lot of NBA players do come here after all. It was uncomfortable, but I made it work. Lost in a wonderful, piss-filled haze, I barely heard the footsteps coming in behind me.

        "What do you think you're doing?"

        I opened my eyes, slowly turning my head to look over my shoulder, and saw a woman standing off to my right side. It was then I realized that I was drunker than I thought, and was pissing in the sink. In the ladies' room.

        "Well, this is embarrassing," I started to say.

        "I bet it is," she cut me off.
   
        I quickly tried to come up with an apology, an excuse, anything; which only made me freeze. I stood there saying nothing. The worst part is that my bladder was entirely too full to stop mid-stream, so the only sound echoing throughout the bathroom was my urine splashing against the bottom of the sink.

        Turning my head again, and wondering why she was still there but not saying a word, I said the only thing I could think of when I saw her just staring at me.

        "What?"

        To my surprise, her response was, "I could use that."

        "The sink? I know, I'm trying to hurry. I'm sorry. You might want to rinse it out thoroughly before you..."

        "No, not that sink. That." She stepped toward me, her hand out, pointing.

        "My penis?" I responded, wondering if this was going to turn into an awesome porno scene.

        "No, that's entirely useless to me." She continued toward me.

        "Oh, you're a lesbian. Sorry."

        "No, I'm not a lesbian, and why would you be sorry?" I can admit now that she had a point.

        "Oh. OK," I said. Fuck you, too, I thought.

        "This," she said, her finger pressing against a spot right beside my penis. Her forwardness -- and let's be honest, creepiness -- caught me off guard and made me jump. As I did, a few drops of urine splashed against her hand. We both fell silent again; her giving me a look like, Are you going to apologize for peeing on my hand; and me giving her a look back like, Are you fucking kidding me? You just walked over here and poked me in my dick while I was pissing. The stalemate continued for a few moments, until she finally broke.

        "I like your style. We're going to make a good team."

        "What? This entire interaction between you and I has made no sense. Seriously."

        "It will soon enough," she countered.

        And with that, she smiled, turned around, and left the bathroom.


To Be Continued...

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