Friday, December 14, 2007

Feel the Burn, Week VI


NYSD readers may recall an early contributing weekly series "The Adventures of Dickey Scott." Dickey Scott, the creation of a New Yorker named Scott Briggs, was a kind of roman AA clef about a personal trainer working in the gilded halls of Manhattan's higher social circles. Once upon a time, in real life, Mr. Briggs was one of those personal trainers. He discontinued the series a couple of years ago when he sat down to "write the book" about Dickey Scott. Today, Feel the Burn is completed and now available.


Click cover to order
Mans’ Favorite Pleasure…Too (continued)

Only minutes after hanging up with Amanda, the phone rang again. The caller ID read “out of area.” Dickey let the machine pick it up.

Dickey. Hey, dude. Where are you, man? It’s Doug. We’re at Bells and Whistles and you’re nowhere to be found. You better not have bagged on me, dude. The action is hot here, man. You’re missing out. Later, dude. Dickey sat back in his Todd Hase club chair and sighed. Doug Garrison was one of his clients. His divorce – his second divorce - was final the week prior and that night was the celebratory party.

Dickey had completely forgotten about it. He thought for a second about not going, but it was a fleeting thought. Two hours of beer and lap dancing was a small price to pay for financial security.

Despite the fact that he was basically a sixteen-year-old brat trapped in a forty-four year-old body, Doug Garrison was a prodigious rainmaker – a brilliant money manager that had turned thousands into millions and millions into billions for his high, high-end clientele. At Doug’s encouragement, Dickey started investing with him shortly after he hired Dickey in 1996. Dickey’s career was taking off at the time and he was commanding one hundred and fifty dollars per hour. Over the next six years, Dickey basically kept one hundred dollars for every hour he trained and gave the remainder to Doug. In that time Doug increased Dickey’s investments five-fold, getting into – and then out of – technology and Internet stocks at precisely the right time.  

On July 1st, 2002, Dickey received a bottle of Dom Perignon via hand delivery. It was from Doug, congratulating him on his million-dollar portfolio. Needless to say, Dickey could afford the ten-dollar cab fair to Bells and Whistles that night.


Dickey arrived home from Bells and Whistles a little after midnight no worse for wear after enduring Doug’s intoxicated Wall Street buddies, two lap dances, multiple high-fives from Doug (for no apparent reason) and several mugs of draft beer that had gone a bit flat.

He clicked on the television in his bedroom and the unmistakable voice of Lou Dobbs filled the room. As he got undressed, he half-listened as Dobb’s lamented the precarious state of U.S. border security.

By the time Dickey exited the bathroom wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxers, Lou Dobbs had moved on to outsourcing and the plight of Middle America. Dickey, in the mood for lighter fare, did a quick channel surf, eventually settling on the dilemmas of Sean Connery in Goldfinger. He was in a barn and in the company of the movie’s sexy antagonist, Pussy Galore. They were exchanging witty barbs and at some point, Sean put the moves on Pussy. She decided to show him who was boss and flipped him onto a pile of straw. The tussle somehow aroused Dickey and he found himself subconsciously slipping his hand inside of his Calvin’s.

Back on the screen, Sean countered by coming on to Pussy again. She tried to flip him once again but he was ready and flipped her onto the straw, instead. She lashed out at him but he pushed her back, climbing on top of her and pinning her arms to the floor. And as he took care of Pussy, Dickey took care of himself, letting the baggage of the day dissolve once again, into the euphoric high of man’s favorite pleasure.


Chapter 7:  Go There

Dickey’s first appointment with Anika Rand after their infamous shower scene was not the following Monday, as they had scheduled (something about a rash from her bikini wax), but instead took place the ensuing Friday; and as usual, Dickey showed himself into the apartment and found Anika on the treadmill watching her flat screen television, which was suspended from the ceiling from nearly imperceptible wires, giving the appearance that the television was floating in mid-air. She was watching the classic, Cool Hand Luke and only waved into the mirror as Dickey entered the room.

“His body is amazingly similar to yours,” she announced, nodding towards the screen where Paul Newman was working on a chain gang with his shirt off.

“Excuse me?” Dickey quipped, not quite sure he had heard her correctly.

“Paul Newman’s body in this movie is just like yours, and come to think of it, Lance Armstrong’s – impossibly void of body fat and blessed with sexy muscles in all the right places.”

“Both Mr. Newman and Mr. Armstrong are blue-eyed blondes,” he countered. “I don’t think with my swamp eyes and dark brown hair, I’ll be doing stand-ins for either one of them any time soon.”

Anika sighed. “You’re missing the point.” Dickey shrugged and they both absent-mindedly looked at the screen where Paul Newman turned away from the camera. “But I must admit,” Anika announced. “I think you have Paul beat in the battle of the buns.”

“You should know,” Dickey sniped, surprising himself.

Anika laughed. “Good one. That sounded like one of my comebacks.” She pointed towards the desk in the corner. “Grab that flyer on the table.”

“Why, what is it?” he asked, walking that way.

“It’s information about a concert in the East Village that I simply must attend.”

Dickey picked up the flyer. “Go There?” he asked, referring to the band’s name.

Author, Scott Briggs
“Yeah.  One of my ex-lovers – you know that bohemian French trust fund baby?” Dickey nodded. “He saw them in Paris and said it was beyond. The band is awesome.”

“Sounds like fun,” he admitted.

“Then go with me,” Anika suggested. “My boring husband would never go and I don’t want to take some stuffy Upper East Sider. I hear they have a mosh pit and I really wanna rock.”

Dickey suppressed a smirk. Here was this fifty-something socialite walking on the treadmill in a ten million dollar apartment talking about jamming like she’s an eighteen year-old Goth chick. “Then let’s rock,” he said, bemused. And so they would. And the night, as you will later see, was to be more poignant than either of them could have ever imagined.