“Sorry I’m late. David asked for a fluffer.” Susan said as she ran onto the tennis court.
Susan is my friend from Queens. Enough said. A few days before, we had a conversation about fluffers. Well, she schooled me on the art of fluffing. For the uninitiated, a fluffer is the person on a porn set who gets the man ready for his shoot
“A fluffer?” I asked.
“David gets nervous before he plays tennis, so I’m his fluffer.”
Ok, I think. I’m not sure I know you well enough to talk about this stuff, but ok.
“Sometimes before golf he needs a fluffer too.” Susan adds
Wow. Now I’m thinking David is the smartest guy I know. Just say you’re nervous and need a fluffer and Susan is there to help. Wait, I think. Whatever he does, he can NOT tell my husband. Oy, that’s all I need. Honey, I have a big interview tomorrow, can I have a fluffer? Honey, I have board meeting in an hour (or 5 minutes), can I have a fluffer?
“So does David just ask you for a fluffer?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She says. “What’s the big deal. He just gets all uptight and asks for my help.”
“And you just always do it?”
“Sure. Why not? As long as I have time.” Susan says.
Susan is as blunt as they come. When I said she was hitting the ball well on the tennis court, she said “Don’t you fucking kinehora (jinx, in Yiddish) me, or I’ll beat your fucking head in.” Only a girl from Queens will modify a Yiddish word with the F bomb. But sharing this intimacy with me seemed like overkill. I didn’t think we were that close, not to mention, after nearly 25 years of marriage, who the fuck (to use her word) pleasures their husband on his every whim?
“Well, you’re a better wife than I am.” I say.
“Nah, we just hit balls for about 15 minutes and then he’s ready to go.”
“You what?” I choke out as I start to chuckle. Then the chuckle turns to a full body belly laugh and I can’t catch my breath.
“You didn’t think . . . “
“Oh yes I did!”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?????”
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