Derek

Derek Armstrong was every girl’s wet dream: blond hair, blue eyes, 6‘ 2“ tall with broad shoulders and a chiseled physique that had landed him a job as a Chippendales dancer just out of high school. He had perfect teeth and a tan that would put George Hamilton to shame. Derek was the son of a college football coach and was himself an All-American lacrosse player for Penn State.

     Derek’s mother was a former model and nutritionist who walked out on her husband and son during a Monday Night Football game when Derek was only ten. Derek couldn’t recollect the exact date of this life-changing event but he remembered that the Bears beat the Redskins with a field goal in the 4th quarter.

     Though deeply saddened by this event, Derek found solace in that he could use his own life story to create the illusion of sensitivity and depth when he was having a hard time getting laid, which wasn’t often. He could usually get most Bettys to go to bed with him... once. Derek believed that good looks alone, HIS good looks, could give women the big O. What Derek failed to realize was that most women closed their eyes during sex but he was too busy checking himself out during the fortuitous act to ever notice.

     Derek woke up with the usual hangover as well as the bimbo de noir next to him in his studio apartment in Brentwood. This one was a Brazilian dance instructor whose black hair, dark eyes, and buttocks taut enough to strum Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” on a second-hand cello, had won over Derek’s heart, if he had one. He mused over his respective triumph but even he had to admit she looked a lot less attractive sleeping in a pool of her own vomit. Notched bedposts don’t remember the details, which proved equally beneficial for Derek and his idol Wilt Chamberlain.