Years ago, Esco and I met up with some friends at a local bar/club. While singing along to the cover band, she pointed to a guy. A guy standing alone in a sea of sweating 20-somethings, singing, and wearing a Bill Cosby sweater. Endearing.
In a rare fit of kindness (this was a club and we were all hunters), Esco adopted him into our circle of trust (6 girls). Turns out, Bill Cosby was hilarious. And horny. Surrounded by a gaggle of ladies, no doubt he thought he could score with one of us.
When the lights came up about an hour later, Bill Cosby invited us back to his friend’s house. Friend? Yes. The {{hottie}} we had been ogling all night turned out to be Cosby’s friend. And we were going to his house.
With our 4 friends in tow. Fate seemed to be on Cosby’s side.
Arriving at said friend’s house, Esco and I did a little recon work only to find Mr. McHotpants must have just broken up with his live-in girlfriend (which explain his general malaise throughout the evening). Decorative bowls, a teapot, and a cookbook inscribed to “Amy” were dead giveaways. If all her stuff was there, we reasoned, she couldn’t be far from here. Best we kept our paws off McHotpants. But there was no reason we couldn’t drink his beer and play with his bulldog (note: not a euphemism for his penis).
Sitting around a dining room table with wicker chairs (another homey touch from Mrs. McHotpants) we had a deck of cards and a few cans of Miller Lite. Naturally, when asked, “Whaddya guys want to play?” I said jokingly, “Strip poker!” Esco was displeased, as neither of us knew how to play poker and getting naked with these two terds wasn’t high on her bucket list.
Regardless, we were as committed to the game as the 4 other girls were to leaving. Seeing 4 chicks walk out the door, Cosby was sad, but up to the challenge of bagging one of the remaining two.
The thing is, we had just come from a night out at the club. Which means (for any men reading this), we were DECKED out. Accessories galore. Hair accessories, bracelets, necklaces, rings, you name it.
So when it came time to “make our bets,” Esco and I had made it through 4 hands without removing any actual clothing aside from a sock, belt, and my bra (pulled through the shirt I was still wearing) and somehow, maybe to amuse God, we ended up with:
- 1 men’s shirt,
- 3 men’s socks,
- 2 pairs of men’s shoes,
- a man’s belt, and
- 2 pairs of men’s jeans
After stripping the men down to their underwear, we folded and said “Thanks for the beer! G’night!” and bolted. Leaving Cosby standing at the door, wicker indents rippling his thighs, waving at us full of confusion.
The best part was not the hyenic laughter coming from our car as we drove away, but the hyenic laughter the next morning when Esco checked her phone and there were 13 voicemails asking us to come back and to meet up with Cosby the next day for St. Patrick’s day festivities.
Full house, Cosby, you lose.
