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compulsory rite-of-passage of losing it with a prostitute as
a birthday treat during high school. Blessed are those who are born on
Christmas day and manage to keep their virginity out of harm’s way and their
even hornier friends. 
    This was
not to say Markie wasn’t curious, he was. He understood where men were coming
from when they forked over the hundred or so dollars. They were in effect
paying for the privilege of a quick orgasm with no strings attached: I’ll
tell you what to do and how to do it and when we’re done, you are welcome – no,
required - to leave and never pop up in my life again. Normal chicks did
not put up with that crap, and if they did you had to worry about whether your thing
was going to drop off the next day. The only thing that stopped Markie all
those years was the thought of his future wife. If she, whoever she was, were
to ever sit him down and ask:
    “So Markie
darling, have you been with a prostitute?”
                Markie
hadn’t known whether he would’ve been able to look her in the eyes if the
answer was yes. Even if push came to shove, lying was never an option, unlike
other guys who kept their secret paid liaisons just that – secret. 
                Except
with Serena now it was different. He wouldn’t need to lie to her. Markie could
sleep with this unknown thing tonight and really it wouldn’t change a thing.
    So why
not do it, a voice whispered. You’re on a break. Why not? came the question again.
                You
could always tape the football…
     
     
    One would think that
in the lead up to his encounter with Biffy, Markie would be like most
full-blooded males, popping bon-bons or something. Common sense would have you believe
it but guess again. It wasn’t even seven thirty and Markie was already pacing
the living room, working up a sweat.
    “Why, why,
why did I let Rick talk me into doing this?” he scolded himself. 
                Why, when
he could be lying back on the couch, with some hot super supreme pizza and
beer, about to watch the game instead. Trust me, it was a tempting alternative.
Markie would happily forgo a night with the sauciest chick, to watch the
all-important game.
    “But it’s not
even the finals,” Rick had said, as if that made it a lesser event. “And you’re
gonna record it anyway, plus I’ll tape it too as backup, just in case you’re
worried about your stupid machine going on the blink again.”
     “Can I
have your word on that?” Markie had asked. Because bloody oath he was worried!
For a while now, he’d felt quite anxious depending on technology, on account of
the fact he and technology weren’t really on speaking terms anymore.
    “Look,
don’t be a party pooper, Markie, just go and enjoy it,” Rick had winked, giving
him a friendly nudge in the shoulder (or was it a jealous thud?) “Just remember
to get our money’s worth.”
                Damn maybe
he should’ve asked exactly what value for money entailed. Would sixty minutes
of straight head do the trick? Probably, if not Markie was more than happy to
run through a few other scenarios… He let his mind go drifting down some very
attractive unexplored paths, while the clock continued to tick away. Eleven
minutes, ten minutes, nine minutes to go. Before Markie knew it his body was
pumped and it was time for one last reflection check. He rushed to the gold
encrusted hall mirror, where the light was most flattering and worked his way
through the three-point test: hair –check, all tamed and glossy; teeth – check,
brushed and flossed; skin – freshly shaved and cologne applied.   
    There,
that was it, pretty impressive. For the first time Markie realized how little
time one actually needed to get ready. What was the deal with spending hours
primping oneself up? Not that Serena was the fussy type, but from the way other
men spoke you’d think women spent more time in the bathroom than out. That went
totally