“Look, it was a mistake.”
Gunther either sent his date home, or left him waiting at the Olympic—I don’t ask and he doesn’t say. I’ve only been home half an hour when Gunther lets himself in, and we get right down to business.
“A big one,” Gunther elaborates.
This I neither affirm nor refute. Either way it’s a pretty forgivable one, in my opinion. For a guy who’s dating life grew up like a mushroom in the long shadow of a man-eater like Gunther Choi to be desired—never mind f****d cross-eyed—by a paean of masculine potential that has Michelangelo lying in his grave hoping they won’t start the zombie apocalypse without him is by no means a daily occurrence. When you take into account the fact that I was finger-bang-a-stranger drunk, I figure everybody’s just lucky we didn’t roust Gunther’
