An excerpt from Dave Dyer’s forthcoming fictional autobiography called “A Life I Could’ve Had…”
It was a pattern that developed years ago. Eighteen years ago, to be exact… in a little town called Ann Arbor, MI. Some would say I was like a remora feeding of the scraps of tuna that fell from the shark’s mouth, but I didn’t look at it like that.
I was an opportunist taking full advantage of the situation nature presented to me. Not unlike the shark himself, who only gained the starting role in college after Drew Henson hurt his arm banging chicks. And who also only got the call as Field General in New England after Drew Bledsoe went down and took up watercolors during his recovery. I saw no difference between him making good on those situations and me bedding the tidbits he was casting aside along his ascent to the top. And what did these women expect? Did they really think he was going to be with them forever?
That the lie they had talked themselves into of a Prince Charming sweeping them off their feet and taking them to his castle in the sky was something that could actually happen? First of all, if you’ve ever seen an interview with him, he doesn’t have a mind-boggling grasp of the language. He could have buried the whole “Deflategate” debacle by simply admitting he’s dim and may have chosen the wrong words while delegating some authority to the equipment manager. Spend five minutes with the guy…it’s plausible. That’s why he had to end up with a supermodel that spoke broken English.
I positioned myself as a more “realistic” choice for these women. I came across as someone who was always going to love them even when my breasts grew to be bigger than theirs. I had to make them believe that it takes more than stunning looks and a tight spiral to go the distance in this world.
They weren’t all easy. Meghan Vasconcellos said I chewed with my mouth open so I ended that one before it even started. Layla Roberts was coming off a big Playboy pictorial and said my efforts to get her to autograph the centerfold on our first date was “tacky” and “totally uncalled for”. I suspiciously lost her number… not. Tara Reid… well I think we all know how that one would go. They don’t call her vagina The Holland Tunnel because it’s lightly trafficked. The toll you pay is a trip to the doctor for a quick check-up after you’ve passed through it. Bridget Moynahan agreed to go on a date, but when I called the number she gave me, I got Tara Reid again. Sooo… back through the tunnel.
