Exile in Guyville

Right around the time the Red Sox were pushing us all to the brink of sanity during the 2004 playoffs, my buddy Kyle decided the time was right to introduce us all to the girl he'd been dating for a couple months. So we get the call that he wants to bring her over to my friend Terry's apartment [affectionately known as "Boys' Town"] to watch Game 6 of the ALCS with us.

"Dude, why would you want this girl to meet us when we're at our worst?" I remember asking him. "You know how we get when we watch a game."

"It's okay," he assured us. "She's cool. She loves sports."

Whatever. We've seen what happens when guys bring their women around to Boys' Town. Too much booze is consumed. "Language" starts flying. Rude and obscene gestures are made in abundance. Occasionally, balls are removed from pants and flaunted, just because there's nothing better to do. And did I mention the language? More than a few of us have found ourselves dateless after bringing girls 'round to Boys' Town. To the point that the apartment was considered an almost certain deal breaker.

Yet he brings Rachel by. And she's gorgeous. But we're cautious, because we've seen this before. They come in, all pretty and smelling nice, and twenty minutes later, they're calling the cops on us.

But she brought two cases of beer for us. So we love her instantly. And then there's that ass. And that waist. And those lips. Nice work, Kyle, we say in that silent "guy language" way. And she comments Terry on the decor. Especially the Victoria's Secret posters. "Christ, I'd fuck her," she says, nodding toward Tyra Banks. And suddenly, we're picturing Kyle and her walking down the aisle.

So the game is on, and where we once felt cautious and reserved, we're suddenly acting very much the buffoons we are. And Rachel is right there with us, screaming bloody hell at Jeter and matching us beer for beer.

Then, during a particularly gut wrenching moment of the game, she stands up, flexes her ass to one side, and lets loose a prodigious thunderclap of a fart. Almost room-shaking.

"Sorry guys," she said, matter-of-factly as she waved her hand through the air. "I've been drinking beer non-stop since the postseason started.

We look at each other out of the corner of our eyes as she sits back down. And the sounds of the game wash over us. And Kyle looks like a guy whose dog just got run over by a train.

This... is the girl you marry, we're all thinking. But Kyle seems more than a bit embarassed. So he remains silent for the balance of the evening. And Rachel gets louder with each beer. And at one point she tells us that if the Sox win the World Series, she'll blow us all.

Sadly, we haven't had the chance to collect, as Kyle hasn't brought her around since that evening. But in the back of my mind I prefer to think that he's just sad, because he knows that if any of us knew Rachel was back on the market, we'd all be lined up outside her door.

And we would.