Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.


On Christmas day 2006, I headed back to Newport from my parents’ house because I had to wake up early the next morning to coach a frosh-soph basketball game. Vince texted me saying he wanted to go to Malarkey’s that night. I was on Christmas break for two weeks. Why not? Vince, Jett, and Laura met at my house to drink a couple before heading out. Not expecting much, we’d go to any bar that was open.

            Malarkey’s sucked. There were eight dudes and two chicks sitting on stools. We stayed there twenty minutes before Laurel suggested going to Woody’s, which sounded like a much better idea. Woody’s was an upgrade, but nothing too spectacular on this warm Christmas night.
            Just before midnight, Vince approached me on the outside smoking patio, “Hey, Rodman’s here.” This news was nothing special for us considering we’d seen the guy all the time at Sutra. I walked inside to find him chatting with a small group of guys, all appeared to be single and in their late thirties, cigarette boxes in their shirt pockets. Rodman was wearing a loud, black and red 2006-pre-Affliction shirt and tight pants; his bleached hair peeked from under a gray Von Dutch hat. I was tired and on the verge of leaving, but just as I was about to walk out of the door, I saw a Barbie-doll blonde girl with a chipmunk smile standing next to the bathroom door facing the exit, beckoning for someone to talk to her. She looked like a vulnerable deer. I approached her and asked, “Why are you waiting here? The bar’s over there.”

            She replied, “I’m just standing here.” Yeah, no shit.

I decided to engage her in conversation, but her answers were painfully lame. 

Question: “What’s up with all the bracelets?”

Answer: “I like them.”

Question: “I like your earrings. Why are they so dangly?”

Answer: “I don’t know. I got them at Southcoast.” 

Question: “Why are you wearing all white? Did you used to live in Alaska?”

Answer: “No, I grew up here.” (She still hadn’t cracked a smile.)

Question: “Where are you from?” (After I said this, I realized she had just told me. Luckily, it didn’t matter. She was either too dumb or too drunk to notice my poor listening skills.)

Answer: “Orange County.”

Question: “Who are you here with?”
Answer: “My mom.”

I was getting nowhere—besides her agonizingly dull answers, she hadn’t asked me a single question. Yet, I got the feeling this interchange wasn’t a dead end. Something in this chick’s eyes was screaming for a Christmas fuck. A group of people entered the bar, so I turned around to catch a glimpse of the entourage. When I turned back around, her face was a centimeter in front of mine, landing me a wet kiss. We made out for the next five minutes. She tasted like vodka, but she was hot, and I enjoyed her holiday spirit. Then she took my hand and led me to the other side of the bar because she wanted to introduce me to her mom. 

             Barbie looked like she was twenty-five, and her mom looked like her older sister, maybe thirty-five. I discovered that her mom was with Rodman. When Barbie introduced me to her mom, she faked a smile as she shook my hand. Barbie then introduced me to Rodman, who shook my hand and started squeezing, which he continued to do for the next ten seconds. My smile transformed into a grimace, and I tried to pull away. With a beaming smile on his face, he let go and said, “Nah, I’m just playin,’ man.” He laughed and when he faced me, our eyes locked. “Hey, man, careful, that’s her mom,” he said sternly, motioning with his head to Barbie’s mother. I appreciated his warning, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
            The four of us went out in the alley to drink and make out. Barbie made out with me even though her mom was with Rodman three feet away. I had to pee. So did Rodman. We both felt an urge to act like tough guys, so we pissed over the railing and into the bushes behind it. Maybe it was my fault for allowing myself to feel dwarfed by his superstardom, but my dick felt like a triple-A battery next to his horsecock (I didn’t actually see his wiener, but innocent urinators like myself can assume he’s packing serious volume). I got stage fright and stood there with my dick in my hand, a pathetic display of masculinity. Dennis Rodman didn’t notice my botched attempt at urinating, but a random smoker in the corner did. He laughingly commented, “What’s the matter, pal?” I let out a quick chuckle and meekly replied, “It’s cold.”

             Moments later, Rodman slapped my chest, “Let’s get out of here. Where can we go?” I suggested we go back to my place, but the girls wanted see Rodman’s pad, so we agreed on that. Just before we left, he bought three bottles of Mondavi for the post party with his American Express card. He flashed his card to me at least two or three times saying, “Money ain’t a problem.” I believed him. This was a man who was experienced with post-parties. He had my trust.
             As we walked through the parking lot, he asked if I wanted to drive his car—a black BMW M5. Even though I’d had a few, I was in the midst of an adventure. I agreed to drive, and off we went.

             It was only a ten-minute drive to his apartment. On the way there, the mom asked which house we were going to. “Well, we can’t go home because my kids are there,” Rodman replied as he directed me to his bachelor pad.

He fiddled with the CD player and played a new Chili Peppers song, which he set on repeat. He began going berserk in the passenger seat. After he rolled down the window, he waved his arms, moved his upper body like an inflatable punching bag, and sang along as loudly as he could, “Tell me baby, what’s your story…”—that song. Since he was so big, his arms were thrashing everywhere willy nilly—the dashboard, the window, the steering wheel, my head. The guy just flat out didn’t give a fuck. He was his own person and not ashamed of it.

When we arrived, he handed me the apartment key and whispered, “Don’t worry, man; I’m gonna hook you up. I always hook my boys up.” Barbie and I went inside and made out on the couch while he and Mom stayed outside.
            Eventually, the two of them came inside. He put on the Chili Peppers song from the car, blasting it while he sung along. When I got up to pee, through the door I heard Mom scolding her daughter: “What is the matter with you? First you get drunk off your ass, then you take home this creepy guy!”

            I opened the bathroom door to find Rodman and Mom heading back to his room. She was tipsy but coherent. My chick on the other hand, was a ticking time bomb. It was only a matter of time before she either vomited or passed out.  
                    With the living room now to ourselves, Barbie and I hooked up, but she didn’t want to fuck. It was all above-the-waist crap. Her mom had planted a conscience in what little brain she had, cockblocking us both. Barbie got naked but passed out before anything wet ever happened.
         A few blurs later, Rodman popped out of nowhere, turned on that same damn Chili Peppers song, and danced with his shirt off. The mom, having forgotten I was present, staggered into the room completely naked. I saw everything. She immediately walked out, returning dressed in a white robe.  
             Barbie was passed out on the couch, but the party was just beginning for Rodman. In his euphoria, he walked up to me and gave me four fist bumps—one every couple minutes—and continued to sing. I sang along with him, which added to his bliss. Two more fist bumps. Upon approval of my partying skills, he took out a Ziploc bag full of a hundred one-dollar bills and threw them up in the air. He busted out two Vegas craps dice, said, “I fuckin’ love this game,” and asked me repeatedly what number I wanted. My number never hit, and then he offered me a proposition, “If I roll a seven, you owe me a thousand bucks.” I said OK. He crapped out. Mom and I sat in amusement, watching this bizzaro freak show, money everywhere. Rodman was having a blast playing an imaginary craps game with me. I could never figure out if he was simply drunk, on drugs, or just naturally like this. I think it was the latter.
                    When I realized it was past 3:30, I remembered I had to wake up in a few hours and announced I had to call a cab. Rodman didn’t even know his own address and kept telling me, “Jamboree and San Joaquin.” The cabbie needed a specific address, so Rodman took my phone and told the cabbie the cross streets five more times until he got frustrated and hung up. He tossed my phone back to me and said, “Just take my car.” 
          I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t smiling. I didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t be serious. “Uhhhh,” I murmured. 
          He flopped onto his loveseat. “Just drop the car off in the morning.” 
          “I’m coaching a basketball game at 9:30. It won’t be over until eleven.”
                “Where’s the game at?”
          “El Modena,” I said. He frowned and pondered other options, retreating to the bathroom.
          When he returned, he motioned for mommy and me to get up. The three of us left the apartment, leaving Barbie on the couch.
          On the walk to the car, he introduced himself and asked my name. I was surprised how cordial he was, definitely not the prick he was made out to be by the media or NBA Commissioners. The flamboyancy, however, was no myth; he was an extreme.
          As we entered the parking garage, Mom, who, up to this point had been starry-eyed and laughed at everything Rodman did, asked me, “Hasn’t it been a surreal night?”
          “I guess,” I replied, suddenly finding myself walking between the two. 
               Angered, she said, “Hey Dennis, he doesn’t think the night has been surreal.”
          “What are you talking about? Surreal?” Rodman responded.
              “Yeah, surreal?” I shot a confused look at Mom.
          “Well, you were making out with my daughter all night long. And I mean, look at her and look at you,” she pointed out. 
          I laughed. “Oh yeah.” I’ve learned never to argue with chicks like this. They always win.        
               Rodman stepped in. “What are you talking about? He’s a good looking guy.”
          Mom had sounded like an idiot twice in a row, and Rodman had been on my side both times, so she finally shut up, we got in the car, and she drove me home.
            Despite frequently hitting up all Rodman’s favorite weekend hotspots, I never saw him out again after that night. I’m sure, however, that I’ll run into him again somewhere, and though I doubt he’ll remember my name, I’m certain he’ll give me a smiley fist bump. Then I’d request that next time he take the daughter, and I take the mom.






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