With the Super Bowl coming to the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey and hotels filled to capacity, a friend suggested I rent out my apartment.
I was intrigued but worried that in the wrong hands my place would turn into a frat house. I imagine returning to stale beer puddles and furniture dotted with cigarette burns.
“Maybe I could find a couple of nice businessmen who just want to see the game, and eat in some good restaurants,” I said, fantasizing about the fast cash.
“Not happening,” my friend deadpanned. “They’re going to want to party and get hookers.”
I winced. I once read that more women are battered after the Super Bowl than anytime of year, a thought I’ve never been able to shake. But the idea of some middle-aged Patriots fans doing an Ashley Dupre-type in my nice, comfy Crate and Barrel bed gave me the creeps. I would have to buy new sheets after, I suppose.
I dismissed my friend only to find two days later an article in the New York Post quoting the soccer mom madam Anna Gristina saying the Super Bowl is primetime for hookers. She would fly in hookers from out of town just for the occasion.
Herewithin lies the primary difference between the sexes, I thought. A man sees a hot woman, and without knowing her name or a single thing about her, could sleep with her. A woman sees a good-looking guy and wants to know his earning potential. And, then wants flowers.
I’m a chicken at heart. There will be no rental to Patriots fans or any others for that matter. But, I’d like to think some woman somewhere is making money off the game and hopefully she is a single mom