It was Friday afternoon and I received a call from my good friend "Big League" John McChesney, whom I often times managed at various indy shows. He was headed from his home in Erie, PA to wrestle at a bar in downtown Cleveland called, "Jimmy's in the Flats." When Johnny was booked in or around Cleveland he'd stay at my house, to save on hotel expenses and to avoid driving back home that same night. McChesney was putting the show over huge in an attempt to get me to go and watch. Sometimes indy shows aren't so great and I had a feeling this was going to be one of those times. Johnny kept selling though, "Aaron, there's going to be some good matches. Um, I think Aero's booked… and some other good people." I wasn't sold. "Oh! They have big glove boxing there tonight." Still not sold. "Their drink specials are really good… I think half off." I'm starting to reconsider. "There's always single, hot chicks in the bar… there's a good chance we bring some home." I'm in!
My friend Mack and I arrived at Jimmy's and settled in for a night of sub-par wrestling and carousing. In the midst of the half-price drinks, big glove boxing and big time wrestling, something magical happened. I made my way over to the bar, with intentions of ordering three "Flaming D.P.'s" for Johnny, Mack and I. As I was waiting for the bartender, the two girls next to me tapped my shoulder and began to kiss each other. "Bartender, make that five please!" McChesney was 100% accurate in his sales pitch for the show. There were some good matches, big glove boxing, drink specials but most importantly, there were hot chicks -and we were determined to bring them home. As I recall, there were several guys just standing around, entranced in a deep stare at the ladies. My friends and I were among those guys, standing front and center, tongues to the ground.
Note to readers: The most important thing to remember when hitting on chicks is to, under no circumstances, tell them you're involved in wrestling. This is a common mistake made by many workers in the business. Ninety percent of females hate professional wrestling. One hundred percent of females hate indy wrestling. The announcement for "last call" was made and it was time to make the hard sell to the girls. After a brief huddle, it was decided that I would be the one to pitch the idea of an after-party with four dudes (indy worker Chris Kole was my straightedge roommate that elected to stay home) to the two bi girls. I walked up to them and before I could fumble through my first sentence, they asked, "Hey, sexy… Did you wanna have some fun tonight? We could meet you guys back at your place, like an after party thing."
The girls, Candy and Trixie as I had just found out, were following us home and even though the odds were in favor of someone being left out, we didn't care. Mack, Johnny and I walked in to my house and upstairs to the entertainment loft, where Kole was watching old VHS tapes of Alf. We explained our unique situation to him, which he promptly replied, "I don't want any part of this. It just sounds bad." The girls arrived with party accessories and Mack began pouring the drinks. Kole retreated to the downstairs living room, where he watched the History Channel in complete sobriety. Johnny began to speak, "So, you girls…" and trailed off because they began kissing each other again. They'd pause on occasion… to breathe… and there we were, three dudes sitting around watching them and then briefly glancing over at each other, not knowing what to do. It was a strip club-like atmosphere and like a wise man once said, "business was about to pick up."
Even though it was a typical Cleveland winter, and I don't keep the heat turned up, Trixie became unseasonably hot. She took off her sweater, as Candy answered her phone. "Hello… no I can't… we're working right now…" McChesney looked over at me and I matter-of-factly said, "Must be a jealous boyfriend calling." Trixie was really interested in the type of work we did for a living, and apparently after I stated I'd just collected a big settlement from a law-suit, her fever kicked back in because she removed the rest of her clothing. Candy started burning up too, joining her co-worker in stripping. I was very appreciative that the girls were so concerned with not getting us sick, that they only made out with each other. I had several fitness machines in my loft, and Candy began riding the exercise bike while Trixie was doing headstands, yes, both were still nude, and not sick. Kole walked in, searching for his "Best of Low-Ki" tape, but stopped immediately, and without saying a word turned around and left.
I walked to the kitchen for more rum. Johnny was already there, talking with Kole. I was stunned as to how well the night was going until John said, "Aaron, I think those chicks are hookers." I reacted, "Noooo. What? Nooo. What makes you think that?" He replied, "Um, they asked me for money." I reasoned, "They just probably didn't realize they were low on gas or something and didn't bring much money, you're just drunk. That's all." Kole interjected, "No, dude. Those bitches are trickin'." He was sober and probably right. Mack walked in, "Those chicks keep holding out their hands after doing stuff to each other and saying, 'And then?' I think they're hookers." The nights events began to replay through my mind… their names were "Candy" and "Trixie"… it started to make sense and I began to freak out, "Why are we all here and they're upstairs alone with all my shit??"
We tried getting rid of the girls by saying things like we forgot to cash our checks, or I just got called into work, etc. Nothing was working. They were determined to stay and get paid. Eventually, it came to me. I had to go back to the Golden Rule. I asked McChesney, "So, you got any other matches coming up?" Candy wondered what kind of matches we were talking about. "Oh, pro wrestling." Then Trixie said, "Like WWE?" "Well, kind of. But low budget. It's what was at the bar tonight." Faster than their clothes came off, they were back on and the "working girls" were gone. The night may not have gone exactly how I had hoped, but at least I have this story. The moral of the story is that wrestling doesn't always pay the best, but ensuring I didn't have a strong-handed pimp coming after me, was the best pay off I could have ever asked for.
You can reach Aaron via Twitter at @FairToAar
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