Why is there a hole in a man's penis?

Yes, it's a joke. You haven't heard it because my attorney, Vera, just made it up. I guess being the brunt of all those lawyer jokes made her retaliate.

I have another friend who is professional comedian. He's been on the comedy club circuit for more than thirty years, enough to earn a PhD in Funny. He swears nobody knows where all the great jokes come from. Some guy in Oshkosh makes one up out of thin air, then he tells it to a friend. Then that friend tells another friend, forgetting to mention the author. And so on. And so on. Until everyone has heard the joke and it becomes public property. Eventually it gets written down in a joke book. Ten years later, someone reads the book, and the joke is recycled like it's new.

Vera's joke will probably last until the 25th century, it's that good. I give her credit for it now, but her name will be lost as the author, so it can join all the really great jokes. I'm not going to tell you the punchline yet. First, I want to tell you about another friend - Randy. There's a connection, I promise.

Randy is a nice looking guy, with a honest mid-western face, and the confidence of someone who has had money in his family for three generations. He turned forty last year, which is no major achievement, until you consider his wife, Gloria, wanted to divorce him around the same time. After 20 years of marriage. Why? Because one of Gloria's friends saw Randy with a naked girl on his lap.

Where? In the Fantasy Lounge. Why Gloria's friend was in a place designed specifically for men to see naked women, is not material to the story. Unless you're like me. I wonder about things like that. I also wonder why a friend would tell Gloria she saw a naked girl gyrating in her husband's lap, a hundred dollar bill clenched seductively in her teeth. Randy's hundred dollar bill.

A person like me wonders what Gloria's friend was looking to accomplish. Did she think the information was going to make Gloria's marriage stronger?

If I saw a naked man in Gloria's lap, I wouldn't tell Randy. I would assume Gloria was seeking a wayward thrill, and would return to her husband, and family, with a sly smile, and a little secret. Okay, a dirty little secret. But it would remain our dirty little secret.

Why am I telling you this? Because Gloria called me and ... let me describe the conversation.

"Zal, I need you talk to Randy."

"About what?"

"Don't play stupid. You know perfectly well about what."

I'm not very good at playing stupid. I'm also not very good at playing smart. I guess I'm stuck in the middle, very good at playing average. Gloria told my wife about Randy's escapade, and my wife told me. Naturally, we got into a fight about the correct punishment for a husband who got caught with a naked girl gyrating on his lap, his hundred dollar bill between her teeth, her bare bottom rubbing against his fully clothed crotch.

Call me Mr. Merciful, but I didn't think castration was justified. But let's get back to my phone call with Gloria.

"Gloria, I'm no good at this sort of thing. You should try a marriage counselor."

"Randy won't go."

"Oh."

I said that 'oh' full of understanding. I also don't like to talk about private things with strangers, even if it's the stranger's job to listen to private things I don't want to talk about. I also don't like to enlist in a war that doesn't involve the safety and happiness of my family. There was no way I was going to get dragged into this mess. No how, no way.

"Zal ... please?"

So the next day, Randy and I are sitting in a private booth at TGI Fridays, having a late lunch, and a few beers, because Gloria has this way of saying please that is so damn pathetic.

"Randy, what's the story?"

"Forget it, Zal. It won't happen again. No biggy."

"Okay. Enough of the serious talk." I reached for my beer.

"I'll be smarter next time."

There is nothing like an ice cold mug of Budweiser with ... wait a minute.

"Randy, what do you mean, 'next time'?"

"I'm going to Ocala from now on. Gloria doesn't have any spies there."

"Randy, I think you're missing the point."

"Which is?"

"Gloria was really hurt by what you did. And humiliated."

"So she won't find out. What she won't know, won't hurt her."

"Randy ..."

Randy lost interest in our discussion. He developed an intense interest in watching our waitress's derriere as she bent over and was cleaning the table next to us. Don't ask me how I knew what he was watching.

"Randy!"

"What?"

"Can you focus on our conversation for a just a little while longer?"

"Look, Zal, don't be a pain in the ass. It's just fun. Nothing more."

"Yeah, right. Fun."

"Hey, don't knock it until you try it."

"No thanks. I have all I can handle at home."

"Come see me the next time your wife takes your leash off."

"What do you mean? What leash?"

"Never mind. Maybe in ten years, when I'm as old as you, I won't want to look any-"

"Whoa. Back up there, partner. I love my wife."

"Face it, Zal. You're pussy whipped."

I knew it was the beer that made him say that. There was no way any silly, childish, dare words would get to me. And just because I'm almost fifty doesn't mean I'm dead inside. I can assure you I'm a youthful, vigorous, robust, and quite potent, almost fifty. And I'm old enough that I don't have to prove anything anymore.

So when we walked in the front doors of the Passion Pit in Ocala, the place was packed. It was just after five, and the truckers and tradesmen were there after a hard day's work. The music was so loud the drumbeats were pounding painfully inside my ears. And, oh yeah, there were three naked girls dancing on top of the bar.

The deal was I would experience it, then pass judgment.

Randy bought the first round. He bent over and whispered something to the bartender when he brought over the beers. In bottles. No one asked for glasses there.

Randy steered me to a table and we sat. After the song was over, and my ear drums relaxed, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, there was a young lady standing there. A very well-endowed, hard-bodied naked young lady. She was maybe 21, but the look behind her eyes was much more experienced. She smiled and ran her hand along my shoulder, down my arm, appraising the muscles underneath. I flexed them for all they were worth. My biceps cramped.

"You want a lap dance?" Why did she have to lick her lips when she asked questions?

"A what?" I turned to Randy.

"His first time." Randy rolled his eyes. He took out his wallet and removed a bill. A hundred dollar bill. He put it between his teeth. The girl smiled knowingly, and pulled it out of his mouth, with her teeth. The music started and she started gyrating in front of me.

"What am I supposed to do?" I yelled over to Randy.

"Nothing. Just watch. She'll do it all," he shouted back.

She certainly was shaking it all. And showing it all. I'm married 30 years, and I still haven't seen all the different parts of my wife's anatomy, close up and personal, like that. I didn't know the girl's name, but I sure knew where all her moles and beauty marks were. I took inventory. Two moles, five beauty marks.

She lowered herself and was about to sit in my lap.

"No. That's enough." I stopped her.

She looked at me like I was a dim wit.

"No. Thanks. But no."

"I thought you were going to try it!" Randy was more upset than she was.

A big trucker at the table next to us motioned to the girl. He was about 300 pounds, wore a cowboy hat and a beard, and had a look of passion in his eyes I've seen only in a pasture bull during spring. She followed the scent that came from the wad of bills he held up.

"Randy, let's go." I stood up.

"Go? We just got here."

"Look, I came, I saw, I experienced. Enough is enough."

"You're a wus."

"No, Randy. That isn't going to work anymore. While this is a cheap thrill to you and me, it means something more to the women we're married to. It means there is something missing in what they are giving us, something ..."

My speech was interrupted by someone speaking through a bull-horn. The music stopped.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm Sheriff Paris."

I must be dreaming. That's what I kept telling myself as the Ocala Police Department filed into the club.

"We've had a report that this club is engaging in prostitution and employing minors to perform lewd acts. You're all under arrest until we can sort these charges out."

I called my attorney, Vera, with the one phone call I was allowed from jail. She talked to the judge, a friend of hers, and we were let go with a stern warning. By the way, the report about prostitution and minors proved to be false. It was sent in by a ladies' dance club down the road, called the Cafe Cunnilingus, or something like that.

"Tell me, again, why you were there?" The look on Vera's face, as she was driving us back to Randy's car, was exactly the same look my wife would have given me.

"I was trying to show Randy why he shouldn't go to a naked dance club."

Vera shook her head and then asked me another question.

"Zalman, do you know why there is a hole in a man's penis?" She asked it so innocently, it was my turn to do a double take.

"No, Vera. Why?"

"To get oxygen to his brain."

Okay, I could accept that.

I could also accept the fact that Vera, even though she was a woman, would not tell my wife about this embarrassing incident, in an attempt to strengthen our marriage. I was protected by something stronger than the bonds of friendship, stronger than the ties of marriage, stronger even than family and blood. The attorney/client privilege. I told Vera I would sue her for everything she had if she breathed a word of this to my wife.

By the way, I told Vera's joke to my comedian friend. He wrote it down and is going to use it in his act. He promised he would give Vera credit for it. Like all great jokes, in three months someone in Hong Kong will be telling it, and the author will be anonymous.

THE END