26 March, 2012

One of the world's great drug-addled sex fiends.

Frankel and I have acquired a new gang member. Chisolm. He works out at my gym even though he's already got a chest like a trophy wife. If he wasn't so goddamn handsome the effect would be totally obscene. Grotesque, god-awful. As it is Chisolm tries to take his shirt off whenever we just slow down walking around.

Frankel compensates by levering-up his euphoriant intake. That guy's nose pulls harder than an HVAC unit. Yesterday he tried to do a line off some poor girl's bicycle seat, while she was still on it! Chisolm looked on, shirtless and gleaming. I held the girl's hand and told her everything would be alright in the morning.

The horizon darkens, though, as Chisolm and I prepare to cross swords over a raven temptress. He was unspeakably conflicted when I suggested he babysit the fair lady's daughter while I squired around the object of our mutual affection. Apparently he thinks better with his shirt off, too. In the end discretion got the better part of valour and we declined to ask each other how our respective nights turned out.

Frankel was suitably appalled by all of this. Ironically he's become our team's moral compass. We had brunch at the Lakeview on Tuesday and he showed up an hour late, still wearing evening dress, collar torn open, three different lipsticks on his chest.

'Frankel!' I said. 'What the hell happened?'

He paused to collect his thoughts and order a double J&B, no ice. Frankel positively loathes ice.

'CRG,' he says, 'you should have been there. I've never seen anything like it.'

'Tell me, tell me.' Frankel always sounds like he's chewing feldspar, by the way.

'Well, we had everyone lined up on opposite sides of the living room. Seven girls, eight guys. Not a stitch of clothing on anyone. Glorious. Chisolm got it all started, walking around like something out of Norse mythology. And somebody finds a football so we square off, tri-corner stances all around and then Chisolm yells 'hike!' and we all met in the middle.'

'Good god, Frankel!' I'm suitably impressed. Frankel has a nose for this sort of thing. He's one of the world's great drug-addled sex fiends. Unpredictable as hell, though. He emerged from a three day blackout hangover to attend this party, for instance. I don't even try to keep up.

'Anyway,' he growls, downing the rest of his drink. 'I've got to get back and collect Chisolm. When I left he was at the bottom of the pile, whimpering, his mouth full of some guy's big toe.'

'Do you want any help?' I'm feeling a bit left out, you can imagine.

'No point,' says Frankel. 'No one's left standing. You'd have to peel someone off the wall if you wanted any action.

I cracked an egg into my coffee and pondered how Frankel's parting shots always hit too close to home.