April 9 - Waitresses

"I ever tell you about the three-way I had with those two waitresses from Dubuque?"
"Yes."
"God, that was fucking killer, man. The one was so fucking fat and the other one was skinnier than shit."
Here it comes. Laurel and Hardy.
"God, the two of them together, it was like a female version of, whadya call 'em, Abbott and Costello."
"Laurel and Hardy."
"You got that right!"
He must have thought I was describing them, like "they were laurel and hearty", where laurel meant, I don't know, nasty or something. Do I correct him? No. Next time.
"Fucking truck stop waitresses, man. They're like Taco Bell. Nothing special, but sometimes, I don't know, man. Sometimes you just--"he made a fist and jabbed it in the air. "You just want that shit. God, man. Taco Bell. Am I right?"
"I hear you."
"What about you? You ever been in a three-way?"
"No."
"Truck stop waitress?"
"No."
"Queer! Ha ha. Nah, I'm just fucking with you."
"OK."
"See, a guy like me, sometimes I just need a big ass. You know what I mean? I like to just dig myself in and go for it, you know, like no-tomorrow style. Maids can be good for that, don't get me wrong. Bus drivers, too. But there ain't nothing like a waitress. They know how to take care of a guy, especially a truck stop waitress. Know what I'm saying?"
"Yes."
"And then to get two of them at once? Shit, bra. That was my fucking night. I was taking it to them like Abbott and Costello, man. You shoulda seen me . . . "
I let him go on like I always did. If the guy wanted to pass the time talking about nailing waitresses, who was I to stop him? Besides, where could I go? What other options did I have? Who else could I talk to? Our plane had gone down somewhere in the South Pacific, and we were the only two survivors. We were perfect strangers prior to washing up together on this island. That was about three years ago.