"Brothers, my brothers, what the heck is going on?"

"Who are you supposed to be - Marvin Gaye?"

"Look fellas let’s get down to business."

"That’s a bet, let’s do this."

"Fine. This calls to order the November 2000 meeting of The Association. Roll call gentleman," Trevor started.

"Drop it Trevor. Why in the world are we doing a role call for four people, and all of us are sitting right here in front of each other?"

Stuart was right. But it didn’t much matter. Trevor would entertain himself with roll call if he were the only one on the roll.

"Roderick Anthony Marshall."

"I’m in the house," he answered.

"Trevor Woodrow Livingston."

"This is crap," Stuart muttered.

"You just called yourself Trevor, now you’re being too stupid," I agreed.

"It may very well be stupid, however I just called my name. Therefore, I am obliged to answer. I am here or as Rod so aptly put it, I too am in the house."

"Simon Washington"

"This is real stupid Trevor."

"So too are you Simon. Are you here?" Trevor asked.

"Am I here? If I’m not here why the hell did you just ask me if I’m here?" I answered.

"Simon Washington?"

"Are you sick Trevor? I’m in your fricking face!"

"Last call for Simon Washington."

"He’s here Trevor. Give it a break," Rod intervened.

"Very Well. Stuart Alexander Worthington."

"I don’t know who’s dumber, you or your wife," Stuart replied.

"That is so unnecessary. Stuart Alexander Worthington."

"Will one of you idiots kindly tell the chief idiot that this idiot refuses to participate in his idiotic roll call?" Stuart requested.

"Last call for Stuart Alexander Worthington."

"He’s here Trevor. I’m here. You’re here. And, Simon and Stuart are here. I think we can start now. If it’s okay with you," Rod told him.

Rod hit the nail on the head. We were all in the house. The Association. Four buddies who had it going on. We gather once a month to ponder our futures and to further our investment portfolio. Stuart knew all that we needed to know about stocks, IPO’s and dot-com start-ups. After an initial outlay of $1,000 each, and five years of shrewd, tactical investing we have amassed what we consider to be a small fortune.

Stuart keeps us up with the trends and we let it roll. Fortunately, we have been cautious with our dividends. We’ve each purchased big ticket items like cars, oversized SUV’s and spacious homes. But we generally shy away from just blowing the cash. The one luxury we allow ourselves is an all expenses paid winter vacation. We kick it off each New Year’s Eve and we’ve visited some of the most lavish, exotic spots on the planet. The one mandatory function of The Association is to show-up and live large on our vacation. It’s a deal I can live with. Like all groups, we have our problems. But we trust each other and generally get along pretty well. We grew up together in beautiful downtown Capital Heights, Maryland.

As we made the awkward transition toward adolescence, we alternated at being each others best friends. We played ball together, cut class together and even fought when we had to. We had each others back. We will long be remembered for getting so blitzed at our graduation, that we took turns falling down as we walked across the stage to receive our diplomas.

We were bonded to the core. After graduation, we met behind our school and bragged about how we each would conquer the world and everything in it. We were having a ball until Trevor threw-up and ruined his diploma. To this day he still can’t handle liquor. And in the same vein, to this day, Trevor considers himself the brains of our group. Trevor was literally a straight-A student. As far as we can tell, Trevor still is the smartest human being he ever met. On graduation day, Trevor insisted he would one day be a doctor. He breezed through undergrad at Hampton University and after that, Harvard, Yale and Duke all offered him scholarships to medical school.

His parents, who were both M.D.’s, freaked when he jetted overseas. Trevors’ girlfriend, Leigh, couldn’t get into med school in the states. He, of course couldn’t imagine being away from her. It took ten years for Leigh to finish med school. Trevor pulled off a masters in public health and aced med school in six. They were married a month before she graduated. Their spoiled brat, pain-in-the-behind, only child son, Trevor Woodrow Livingston, III was born six months later. He wasn’t premature. Leigh just played him. Though Trevor was a truly willing participant, Leigh made certain she was pregnant before she graduated. That way, she’d be taken care of and could put off working.

Leigh is a living testament to the existence of God. Her paralyzing good looks were clearly heaven sent. God also saved us all by assuring that Dr. Leigh L. Livingston never got close to performing any sort of medical procedure or technique on any living soul. After little Trevor was born, she promised that she would sacrifice her career to raise her son. She also promised to continue her medical career when little Trevor left for college.

I always considered her promise to be a threat.

Roderick Anthony Marshall wanted to see the world. He opted for the United States Marine Corps. When Ronald Reagan decided to rescue a group of underachieving medical students from Grenada, Rod was on the front line. Ironically, Rod claims that the very first person he rescued was Trevor. Trevor was supposedly surrounded by a group of angry stick-wielding refugee children. He was bound, gagged and completely covered with medical tape and gauze. Rod says he thought he had uncovered either a mummy or some sort of medical experiment gone awry. He hurried to unwrap the body, and when he found it was Trevor, they both passed out.

A year later, Rod left the Marines and married his high-school sweetheart, Grace. He started a travel agency and Grace hit him with breathtaking twin daughters, Kokeisha and Lokeisha. They are now known as the Koko-Loko twins. Despite the fact that his little sweethearts are also the major heartthrobs of numerous testosterone laden teenaged boys throughout the area, Rod has maintained a happy and balanced home life. His travel agency allowed him to see the world in ways the Marines never imagined. And Grace is a rock. She is smart, supportive and thoroughly independent. Rod says she’s still a good lay, which isn’t really too surprising. She’s the only woman he’s been with in his life, so he doesn’t know any better.

Stuart Alexander Worthington is my main man. He’s a classic, high-strung stockbroker. The lure of easy money and the sheer greed of his many clients have propelled him toward the partner level at the stuffed-shirt brokerage house of Horton, Barber and Butler, where he works. Stuart has all the tools - a totally awesome mini-mansion/bachelor pad in the super-exclusive gated community of Woodmore, several slick rides, and an overblown, designer wardrobe that women love. He’s smart, bold, aggressive and uncompromising, but he has one pretty significant problem. He’s a total, certifiable head case. Stuart is my buddy, but he’s thoroughly screwed-up. He gets all the women he can handle, but he never lets them stick around. Like me, he believes women don’t know what they want. But he takes it to an extreme and insists on always having the upper hand. Stuart is everybody’s money man. He knows more about how to get cash and how to keep it than a junkie knows about getting dope and getting high.

His grandmother raised him. God broke the mold with Grandma Worthington. She firmly believed that she was ageless. Needless to say, she dressed, partied and played the role of a horny, middle-aged heiress. Being around Grandma Worthington was more like hangin’ with First Cousin Worthington. Although she got around more than Stuart ever did, she kept him straight and clear of the law. Thanks to her, he was always wise to the system and how to beat it. She smoked Newports, downed white Zinfandel by the gallon and strutted to church in designer outfits by Vivienne Westwood and Karl Lagerfeld. Through Grandma Worthington, Stuart learned that just living large was not nearly enough. She lived very large. And also through her, he learned how to make money work.

Grandma Worthington left this earth happy. She passed while wearing a black Tahari leather mini-skirt outfit. Stuart’s 72 year-old grandmother died while doing the macarena during a cabaret at the Panorama Room in Southeast, Washington. Her 36 year-old boyfriend, Rodney, tried to give her CPR. But, he didn’t have much luck. Rodney insists that she slipped him the tongue, squeezed his behind and reached for his crotch while he was trying to breath life back into her body. He also says that her hair, make-up, lip stick and press-on nails were perfect when she passed.

None of this surprised Stuart, who was then a freshman at Princeton. He parlayed her death into a scholarship for children whose parents or guardians met their end while engaged in the performing arts. Stuart wisely invested the insurance money and the rest is history. He now plays women like he plays the stock market. And at 29, Stuart is still a club-rat (I’m certain Grandma Worthington has something to do with that). He used to talk about a woman named Lynn all the time. But I’m sure she was a victim of his "60 Day Rule." I just hope he still has her number. We need dates for our annual vacation and it’s only two months away.

"Okay gentlemen, now that we’ve finally finished roll call, I think we can proceed," Trevor told us.

"You can proceed to kiss my behind," Stuart huffed.

"Chill on that Stu," Rod said, shaking his head.

"Trevor needs to chill on that," Stuart answered, obviously annoyed.

"It’s a done deal Stu," Rod insisted. "Let it go."

This is how our meetings always start. Trevor figures out a way to piss Stuart off. Stuart falls for it. And, Rod referees.

"Whatever," Stuart said, slumping into his chair.

"Fellas, as you know, our winter vacation is just around the corner. Rod, would you fill us in on this year’s details?"

"You got it. Look here, this year we’re gonna hit Cancun."

"Cancun?" Stuart asked, surprised.

"Yeah, Stu," Rod answered, tilting his head. "You got a problem with Cancun?"

"I thought the plan was for Hawaii."

"We were going to Honolulu," Trevor lectured, "but if you recall, we all agreed it was high time for us to invest some of our earnings back into the community. And the costs for Hawaii would have made that impossible."

"They don’t have hula girls in Mexico!" Stuart snapped.

"Is that your only problem with Cancun Stu?" Rod asked.

"No," he answered. "You can’t drink the water in Mexico," he insisted. "And if you can’t drink the water, do you really think it’s okay to take a shower there?"

"You are indeed one sad brother," Trevor said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Stuart said, sitting-up in his chair, "I am one sad brother." He smiled and leaned forward. "And that wife of yours is one sad doctor."

We all laughed. This was typical Stuart-Trevor behavior. They’d done battle. Trevor always wins the first round. Stuart always attacks Leigh. And the meeting always moves on.

"Simon," Rod said, still laughing. "Is Cancun okay with you?"

"I’m with it," I said, looking toward Stuart.

"I guess you would be with it," Stuart said, smiling. "You’d be with anything that got you out of your little bus."

"I don’t drive a bus Stuart," I snapped.

"Yeah," he said, laughing, "and the Pope doesn’t pray to Jesus."

"Neither did your grandmother," said Trevor, smiling.

This drew an even bigger laugh than Stuart’s line about Leigh.

"Cut it Trevor," Rod said, laughing.

"It’s cut."

"Look fellas," Rod said, between laughs. "We’re going to Cancun. Everything’s set. We’ll get there before New Year’s eve. We’ve got a private villa. We’re having a private party. And, it is going to be top notch."

"Sounds good to me," I said, leaning back in my chair.

"It’s a plan," Trevor added.

"Whatever," said, Stuart, shaking his head.

"Good," Rod stated, cleaning his glasses.

Stuart and I looked toward each other uneasily. We knew what was next.

"Gentlemen," Trevor said, deliberately. "We cannot repeat the debacle of 1999."

He’s not kidding, I thought, embarrassed.

Last year we went to Monaco. Trevor and Rod had it easy. They took their wives. While Trevor sometimes came off as the truly pompous doctor that he was, Leigh was actually pretty decent. She was such a ditz that she was funny. But when she put on a bikini, she could have convinced you that her IQ was 5000. Rod’s wife Grace, on the other hand, was perfect. Easy going, pleasant, accommodating and self-assured. Rod had been blessed with a wife who was as regular as iced-tea in August.

Stuart and I always took dates. Which underscored the fact that we were pushing 30 without wives or real relationships. It was okay though, because the dates usually worked out.

Last year they didn’t.

When it looked like we were going to totally screw up and not even produce dates, we jumped on the Internet. We wandered in and out of chat rooms in a mad attempt to find two sisters or a set of friends who would take us up on our offer. A free trip to sunny Monaco. Stuart knew so many women and was so connected he could have hooked both of us up. But he thought we needed women we could "dispose of" when the trip was done. "We need somebody who won’t be trying to hang around for next year’s trip," he reasoned.

In a way, Stuart made sense. If you take a woman on an all expenses trip to a fancy island retreat, she’ll expect and accept nothing less in the future. Instead of shopping at Target, you’ll have to take her to Bloomingdales. And McDonald’s won’t work when some bistro that serves cappuccino is around the corner.

We were so desperate to find women who would "lose our numbers" after the trip, that we considered offering a cash stipend for gambling. But it never got to that because on Christmas Eve, we hit the jackpot.

Or so we thought.

Two women from Arkansas, Amber and Sonya e-mailed us. We set-up a chat session for Christmas evening. They were perfect. Twenty-six years old, fun, willing and according to them, very able. Fairly new boyfriends had just dumped them both so we agreed their baggage content was sufficiently low.

We figured they got hit with the classic Christmas break-up move. It saves the man from shopping or buying gifts. If he’s a smart guy, he calls the day after Christmas. He goes on about how miserable he was without her, and says she could at least accept his gift. She falls for it. He then hits the day after Christmas sales which makes him look like he’s the man. And he is the man. He shows up with a gift. Gets the lady back. And does it with a 50% savings.

We just hoped that wasn’t going to be the case for Amber and Sonya. Thankfully, it wasn’t. They had really been dumped. Nobody was trying to get back with anybody. We spilled the beans about Monaco and they were down. They sent us pictures, letters, bios and a huge fruit basket two days after Christmas. Rod sent them plane tickets and an itinerary. We were set.

The moment we landed in Monaco, we bought roses at the airport and waited for their flight to arrive an hour after ours. Trevor, Leigh, Rod and Grace went ahead to unpack and scope out our villa. Stuart and I both smiled as we discussed how we’d pulled off a major coup. Two fine southern belles who were just waiting to be had. Their pictures were incredible. Leigh was fine, but Amber and Sonya’s photos made her look like Whoppi Goldberg. They said all the right things in their e-mails, were always at home when we called and we had exciting four-way cybersex in private chat rooms for four nights in a row. Our time had arrived. We high-fived each other as their plane landed and happiness and good times were all we could imagine. As Stuart put it, we were ready to get paid, sprayed, made and laid.

Then they showed up.

They recognized us from our pictures. "Hey Stuart, Hey Simon!" they yelled across the airport.

I stood frozen. Stuart had better reflexes. He ran.

"Hey Simon," they said, approaching me. "Where did Stuart go to?"

"Huh?" I mumbled, stunned.

"Where did Stuart go to?" said the shorter woman, plastering her lips with orange lipstick. "Did he go get the limo?"

"I-I-I don’t know," I said, edging backwards. "I-I-I-I’ll go find out."

I took off and ran right into a trashcan. I didn’t care that it emptied all over the freshly waxed floor, I was getting out of there. Unfortunately, Rod’s travel agency was far too good. They knew exactly where we were and who to call to get to us. As Stuart and I roamed the streets of Monaco to figure out what to do, Amber and Sonya made their way to the villa and set up shop.

Our two gorgeous, shapely southern belles played us. Amber was as short and as wide as Sonya was tall and rail-thin. They both had badly bleached blonde hair with thin black roots. It was obvious their weaves could have stood a little more attention. A gold tooth encrusted with a star accented Amber’s ample smile. Sonya opted for a heart. The convincing tattoos that dominated their right arms were passable self portraits. Amber had a rottweiler. Sonya a pitbull.

Trevor and Rod didn’t let-up on us for the entire vacation. Leigh and Grace tried to befriend them, but that was a complete waste of time. Sonya and Amber had one agenda. Food. We once ordered watermelon, and when the waiter showed up with a plate of red, ripe, freshly sliced melon, Amber said, "We asked for a watermelon honey. Don’t y’all git English over here?"

Our villa came stocked with food, snacks, wine and straight booze. They cleaned it out, by the second day. By the fourth day, Rod told us we were reaching into next years account. By the last day, Rod said we had exhausted next years account, and that we wouldn’t even be able to afford a vacation in our hometown of Capital Heights.

The final insult was a day at a topless beach. Sonya and Amber insisted that we rub sunscreen onto their woeful bodies.

Would you like us to use a dump truck? I imagined asking Amber.

I looked up, and Stuart had taken off down the beach. He spent his entire vacation running from Amber. I just shook my head, searched for a box of latex gloves and realized I was out of luck. It was our last day and it was almost over. I was screwed. I used the first bottle on her back. The second bottle didn’t make it past her right leg and the third cried-out as I spread it across her left leg. She turned over and her breasts slid to her side like two beached whales. Amber then smiled and said, "Don’t stop now honey, go head on and rub a sista down."

Sonya chimed in, "You need to move with the quickness ‘cause I’m ain’t waitin’ long. I’m tryin’ to get my tan on."

I couldn’t take it. My options were limited. Plus, I was out of sun screen.

I ran.

Stuart and I have heard about that trip every single day of every single week for almost a year. Trevor and Rod tease us. Leigh and Grace remind us. And thanks to the magic of home video, Little Trevor and Kokeisha and Lokeisha let us have it too.

Trevor had come correct. There was no way we could afford a repeat of last year’s fiasco.

"Gentlemen," Trevor said, solemnly. "Do you have dates for this year’s vacation?"

"Heck yeah," Stuart answered.

"Who?!" yelled Trevor and Rod in unison.

"You don’t know her."

"Do you know her?" they asked.

"Of course I know her," he said, squirming in his chair.

"Who is she Stu?" Rod forcefully asked. "Is she one of your little 60 day babes?"

"Have you actually met her?" asked Trevor.

"Look fellas," Stuart started, "I’m going out with her as soon as you let me out of here."

Who is he talking about? I wondered.

"I’m taking Lynn," he said, proudly.

"You’re taking her?" I whispered, surprised.

He put his forefinger to his lip and slowly nodded as Rod and Trevor shook their heads at each other.

"What about you Simon?" Rod said, turning toward me. "Are you going to surf the net to find a date?"

"Or are you going to show up with somebody from your bus?" asked Trevor.

"I don’t drive a bus Trevor," I answered, frustrated.

"I don’t really care what you drive Simon," Rod said, smiling. "Just don’t drive those Purina pet-food models that you drove into our vacation last year."

As always, Rod came to the rescue. Whenever we get too serious or too down on anyone, Rod breaks the ice. Like a true Marine, he saved me. He also bought me time. Unlike Stuart, I hadn’t had a date in two months and they knew it. They weren’t about to let me BS them like he had.

"I’m almost there gentlemen," I said, lying. "I’ve got a date tonight too, so we need to wrap this up."

"You’ve got a date?" Stuart whispered, as Rod and Trevor again shook their heads at each other.

"Yeah," I whispered back. "I’ve got a date like you’ve got a date."

He nodded, smiled and gave me a well deserved thumbs-up.

"Who might you be considering?" asked Trevor.

"I’m leaning toward this woman I used to date."

"A woman you used to date?" asked Rod.

"Yeah," I said, sitting forward. "I’m hooking up with Eve."

"You never mentioned a Eve," Trevor said, concerned.

"I mentioned her all right," I said, smiling. "You remember Kit Kat from Vic’s?"

"Simon we’ve heard about Kit Kat from Vic’s, but I can’t say that we had the pleasure of meeting your little dancer friend," Trevor stated.

"I don’t know if we want a dancer on our vacation who’s not working as a dancer," Rod said, laughing.

"Relax," I said. "She gave that up. She’s like Stuart. She’s a broker now."

"Can that broker crap Simon," Stuart said quickly. "You know I’m not a broker."

"Whatever clown," I said, laughing.

"Yeah Simon," Rod interrupted. "He’s not a broker and you’re not a bus driver."

Trevor cracked up.

"I guess you can relate can’t you Trevor?" Stuart said.

"What do you mean, I can relate?" he answered.

"You know what I mean," Stuart said, laughing. "I’m not a broker, Simon’s not a bus driver and your wife definitely isn’t anybody’s doctor!"

That was too funny. But the irony was that he was right. I wasn’t a bus driver.

"Look gentlemen," Trevor said, standing over us. "We all know that neither of you have dates tonight."

He was right and he knew it. We laughed.

"You guys cannot pull the same crap that you pulled last year," he said, sitting down. "We deserve better, our wives deserve better and quite frankly, you deserve better."

"Yeah fellas," Rod said, smiling. "Cancun is like that. You don’t need to waste your vacation like you did last year. I can’t understand why you fools can’t get wives anyway."

"First of all, I’m not interested in a wife," Stuart started. "I don’t even want a girlfriend if I have to deal with her for more than 60 days," he added. "Women don’t know what they want anyway, so what’s the big deal?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Yeah," I added. "We know what we want, but 2000 is almost history and believe me, it’s not as easy as it was when you guys met your wives."

"Women don’t know what they want!" Stuart and I chimed, together.

"They don’t want any scrubs," Rod joked.

"What pray-tell is a scrub?" Trevor asked, sounding worried.

"It’s a surgical garment fool," Stuart said, starting to laugh. "The kind your dopey wife will never wear because she’s not about to operate on anybody."

We all laughed right along with him - even Trevor!

"Dig it Rod," I said. "Women may not want a scrub. It’s easy to drone on about what you don’t want. But when do they ever talk about what they do want?"

"You have a point Simon," Trevor added, nodding his head.

"Well, we know they don’t want a short-short man," Rod joked.

"And they definitely don’t appear to desire a gentleman who won’t call for seven whole days," Trevor said, smiling.

"They don’t want a guy who has a buddy named Tyrone." Stuart laughed.

"Who is Tyrone?" Trevor asked, concerned.

"He’s the guy you’d have to call if Leigh booted you out," I told him.

"Tyrone?" Trevor repeated.

"You betta call Tyr-o-n-e," Rod and I crooned, ala Erykah Badu.

"Tyrone?" Trevor huffed. "That’s so ethnic," he added. "I’m sure his last name is Jackson or something like that."

"It doesn’t matter what his last name is because you wouldn’t know how to call him if you had to," Stuart said, looking toward Trevor.

"That’s enough Stu," Rod interrupted. "This has nothing to do with Trevor, Leigh or anybody’s Tyrone," he said. "When it comes to finding and keeping women, the cheese has slipped from your crackers."

"That it has," Trevor added, wiping his glasses. "Stuart, your 60 day principle regarding women is beyond juvenile," he commented. "And Simon, the moment you realize that there’s more to life than football and a trip to the Super Bowl, you’ll meet someone like that," he added, snapping his fingers. "You two can blame it on women all you want, but your inability to successfully court potential paramours baffles me," he finished.

It baffled us too.

But we’d had the "women don’t know what they want" talk many times over and Trevor and Rod didn’t buy it because they had wives. The meeting broke up without much more fanfare. Stuart and I once again lied about having dates, and Trevor reminded us that he knew we didn’t. Stuart pulled off in his Benz and I hurried home in my Range Rover. I called him when I settled in.

"What’s up Stu?" I asked.

"Hey Simon," he answered. "We have to do something quick."

"I’m on mine," I said, flipping through my phone book for Eve’s number.

"I am too," he said, turning pages in his phone book.

"Look man," I said, as I located her number, "You can probably help me with Eve. You can tell me some of that broker crap to talk to her."

"I don’t keep up with broker crap," he said, laughing. "But I’ll put you down with some smooth financial lines."

"That’s a bet."

"And you can help me with Lynn," he said. "Nobody knows the city like you. That crazy bus takes you everywhere."

"I don’t know anything about that bus nonsense," I answered. "But you know I’ll hook you up with some of my spots."

"Out," we said, before hanging up.

We were on. If I play my hand right, I know I can book Eve for the trip. I’ve just got to make me a plan and work it. And, I bet Stuart can make things work with Lynn if he gets her to the right spots and decides to let her get past his 60 day limit.

Rod was right. Cancun will be like that. I’ll sport Eve. Stuart will sport Lynn. And, we can finally put last year’s drama to rest.