Musclebuds

So I Like Superman:

This one isn't for the gay sex squeamish. You've been warned...Mom.

Saturday night. The restaurant where I work. My phone, which I illegally have on me, rings. I check the number. It's a 212. Yay! We bridge-and-tunnel trash always get excited when a new 212 number shows up on our cell phones.

Could it be a callback for the sketch comedy pilot I auditioned for this week? Some other casting director, telling me how amazing I am and how they're dying to work with me? Amy Sedaris?

I dash to the break room to find out.

Michael: Hello?

(silence) I guess it's not that callback...

Michael: Hello?

Caller: Hey, this is ____. I'm just letting you know I'm having a muscle fuck party at my hotel room tonight starting at 10pm.

Michael: Um, how did you get my num-

Caller: -It's going to be in Room 304. Make sure you mention the name ____ _______ at the front desk if you're going to show up later, because they might give you shit.

Michael: Actually, I'm at work, so-

Caller: -Basically it's just going to be an attitude-free fuck and suck muscle fest. Oh, and feel free to bring any musclebuds with you.

Did he just actually say the word "musclebuds" out loud? I've seen it in print, but to hear it...wow. I had no idea humans actually spoke this way. It's like he's from a country that teaches all their children English by showing them gay porn.

Michael: Um...fantastic.

Caller: Remember: Room 304.

Michael: OK. Room 304 where?

Caller: I TOLD YOU! THE PARAMOUNT HOTEL! 46TH AND 8TH! Make sure you mention my name.

Was I just unnecessarily yelled at by a crazy anonymous man who is inviting me to a "muscle fuck party"? Because he defintely just said a room number, as if I'm supposed to just walk into any building and hope it's the right one. Is he 'roid raging? I suppose that's what one does with one's "musclebuds", when one isn't, of course, having orgies with them.

Michael: OK. Sorry.

Caller: So, you think you're going to come?

He sounds so creepy. Can one actually contract syphillis over the phone?

Caller: Just a head's up. I'm a good-looking, in-shape guy. I got into a bad car accident last year, and...well, my foot's been amputated from the ankle down. I just thought I'd let you know, so you wouldn't get freaked.

Oh my God. That is amazing. I need to rent Bruce LaBruce's Hustler White again. Also, I need to stop giving my phone number out while in a drunken haze.

Michael: Thank you. I appreciate that.

Caller: OK. See you later. Muscle fuck. (I might have added that last thing.)

I hang up and return to the fun-filled world of waitressing.