Chapter Text
“Never check the back of your closet. The worst things always come from there. Because the truth is, it’s always a box in the back of your closet. Upsetting your feelings. Ruining your day. Storing love notes you find long after the break up. Hiding stuff that starts to smell.
Or making you an internet laughingstock.
You know me from the memes. I’m Michel Dubois and this is my podcast: Backdoor Beads of History.”
It all started the day Jeff moved out. He was the last of my seven roommates to leave. After spending the previous six years with eight dudes living in a three-bedroom apartment, the space felt empty. Since your jaw probably dropped when I said ‘eight dudes living in a three-bedroom apartment’, I will answer your immediate questions before I continue. You can get room dividers for pretty cheap at Home Depot and Ikea. My food got eaten all the time and not by me. And yes, I heard at least one roommate having sex or jacking off nightly. I have blocked it out and will take no further questions. And now that we have that out of the way, we can move on.
For most of us, it was our first apartment after living with our parents. So it was a mess. I don’t know why but anytime one of them finished a bottle of alcohol, they became emotionally attached and would not throw it away. Bottles everywhere, and not particularly valuable ones. Which is something I care about now, after everything I’ve been through.
After six years, roommates started moving out one by one. They got new jobs in different cities or moved in with whoever they were in love with. Me though? Forever alone. Last man standing in 8800 Rodrick Road, Apt 304. But right before that, it was me and Jeff playing Xbox. Everyone else was gone. And left all their crap behind. They’d take their clothes and laptop and get the fuck out. So the six forks they had managed not to throw away with their take out containers were left for me to deal with.
I tried to be on top of it because I don’t hate clean spaces. I’d throw out the junk (Alex would keep every gift card he ever got and left the whole stack. Like, just throw them away bro. Don’t make me deal with your $0 card to Best Buy) and keep the stuff I wanted (Rodrigo left a shoe rack that was actually helpful).
So the day Jeff moved out I went through his old room hoping he’d have left his computer monitors. I knew he wouldn’t, but a broke man can hope. All I saw was a bunch of Magic the Gathering cards scattered on the carpet (all commons, ugh), but my last chance was the closet. So I opened the door and in front of me I saw a box. Not big enough for monitors, but still I was curious. The box looked fancy, it was white with gold writing on the side. I opened it up and inside was a silver hoop attached to a bunch of silver beads. I don’t know how to describe. So like, I’m not a porn connoisseur, but anyone who has ever been on Porn Hub knows these are anal beads. Like, it’s obvious.
And I got mad. Because being the cleanup crew when people move out sucks. Most of the time I’m throwing away gross shit. But making me deal with your anal beads? That’s fucking out of line, man. So I called Jeff. Didn’t even text – called.
“Hello?,” Jeff answered and you could tell he was answering from his car. It had that echo.
“What the fuck bro. You can be into whatever you want but leaving me your sex stuff to deal with is shitty.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know anal beads when I see them. You left some in your closet.”
“Oh, shit. My bad man. But it’s not what you think. Those aren’t mine. I mean, they are. But I didn’t use them. It’s a family heirloom.”
“You don’t have to bullshit me, it’s fine that you’re into anal beads.”
“I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with — but. OK the thing is, it was a gift from my dad.”
“Oh dude this is reaching a level of fucked up that I really don’t want to know about.”
“No, he said they were Paul Revere’s. Like, ‘the British are coming!’ guy. So they’re more of a history thing and less of a sex thing.”
“Ok, well please come get your historical and totally not sexual anal beads. I shouldn’t have to be dealing with them, man.”
“I can’t. Already halfway to Oregon.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Yeah. And I promise you, they’re historical. My dad was a total history buff. Maybe you can get some money for them. Sell them off to some weirdo.”
And that’s when the idea was born. I’d find some weirdo and sell them for some money. A lot of money. Because I have a grandmother. She goes grandmother things: bakes sugar cookies, smokes Marlboros, takes care of too many plants, and watches Antiques Roadshow. I've watched episodes with her and I've learned. There is money in old stuff. Especially old stuff connected to famous names.
Initially, I couldn't spend too much time thinking about it. I had other more pressing concerns. I needed to figure out where I was going to live next, I couldn’t keep living in a three bedroom apartment all by myself. I had previously hoped to get my own place, a one bedroom. Originally that seemed out of my reach. Out of my budget. But awake at 2 AM, Paul Revere on my mind, I dreamt bigger.
My own house. I would never have to worry about rising rent and piling on roommates again. I’d never have to deal with other people’s towels on the floor or them eating my jar of peanut butter. I could live somewhere solid and bring sexy people back to a place of privacy.
Don’t misunderstand me, I was skeptical. There was still a pretty high chance these were Jeff’s anal beads and he was lying to me because he didn’t want to admit that he liked butt play. But the possibility this junk could be worth something wouldn’t let me go. So I started to research.
I didn’t know where to begin. The only thing I could think of to do was Google “Paul Revere’s anal beads” and got nowhere. A Village Voice article about a sex educator having Paul Revere’s distant relative as a teacher when they were young is the only even minorly related thing that came up. So it was that level of nothing.
I forgot to mention, but Jeff also left some half drunk liquor bottles in that closet. And when I say 'some' I mean 'a lot'. So I got to work on those. And, I don’t remember my thought process, but based on my browser history I searched Paul Revere History Professor at one point and emailed the guy who came up. Dr. Marty Roberts at Tolin College. I would like to remind everyone that at this point, I had finished multiple half bottles. My message is preserved for the record, typos and all.
“To Whom it May Conpcern:
My name is Michel Dubois. You don’T know me.I don’t go to your school. I am sure it is a great schoool. But I am just a guy,. I have come into posession of a hsitorical object. It is Paul Revere’s anal beads. You as a man of history I am sure will want to see it. I have attached a picture of the valuahble thing. Please let me know how much you owill pay.
Greatest cocnern and regards and wellll weishes,
Michel Dubois III”
I don’t know why I said that I am the third of my name because I am not. But back on topic, this was the email that started it all.
Surprising no one, including myself at the time, I got no reply. I wish I could tell you what I was thinking but since you are my audience and I am going to be honest, I was drinking too much. Jeff had left a lot of alcohol. I was stressed about where I was going to live. I was still working as a cart wrangler at the Savings Stop and they don’t pay shit. I kept getting drunk. Looking at the record, I sent another email:
"Dear Very IMproant History Man,
You are a busy man. I understand 2why you did not reply. I apolgoize for being \drunk as ti is not respectful. I am just a broke boy. Trying to make it on these streets. I did not go to rtcollege. But. I have a piece of history and wwould like nerds who love that kind of stuff and people who pay me money to have it. If you could let jme know who to tealk to I would love you forever
Best wishse and much cheeers,
Michel Dubois"
OK so at this point, I remember waking up the next day and wanting to hide in a hole. But then I remembered that this guy lived in another state and I’d probably never see him and if I just changed my name every time I met a guy who introduced themselves as Marty then I’d probably be fine.
I drank some water and felt like okay, I have given Jeff’s sex toy search a shot and I need to probably spend my time now looking for a new place to live. I sat down at my computer and before I could bring up an apartment search, I was absolutely shocked to see that I had an email from Dr. Roberts:
"Hello Michel,
Hope you are doing well. I am a historian specializing in Early American Colonial History and wanted to make you aware that I am not an auction house. If you are interested in authenticating and putting your item up for sale, an auction house is the place you need to contact. You can find the nearest one to you through a simple internet search.
Best of luck to you and do not contact me again.
Regards,
Marty Roberts, PhD
Professor Emiritus of Early Colonial History
Tolin College of Arts and Sciences
Through Difficulty Lies Opportunity - Albert Einstein”
Viola! A lead! If Dr. Roberts is listening to this podcast, please know that I am older now and am ashamed of my behavior. I am very grateful for your help and owe you a lot.
So I Googled “auction house near me”. After getting distracted by the auction site for government seized items and playing “does this come from a drug dealer or tax cheat?” on each one, I found McBryant Galleries & Auction.
Sometimes in life you are faced with really important decisions. You’ve hit a fork in the road and your life could have taken a drastically different path if you had made one different choice. Later on in life, you can see this. And I can see this now. I contacted the auction house sober. If I had not, I am sure that none of the things that happened afterwards would have happened and this podcast wouldn’t exist. Some days I think my life would be better. Other days I think it would be worse. Either way, sober Michel used spell check, developed a strategy, and sent them an email.
"Hello,
My name is Michel Dubois. I was given a historical item once belonging to Paul Revere. I would like to authenticate and sell this item. Please let me know the steps for doing so.
Regards,
Michel Dubois"
I learned my lesson and I am not going to drop the ‘anal beads’ bomb until I absolutely have to. I am aware that I sound insane. I was just drunk before and wasn’t thinking clearly.
While I was waiting for a reply, I did something I’d never done before. I went on Zillow. I live in St. Louis, Missouri and had never looked for houses before. I mean, sure when I’m a passenger in the car I see houses. I have eyes. But I had never thought there was a chance that I could be in one. I grew up in a trailer park and all but one of my friends did too. I know some of them live in houses now (we’re friends on Instagram). But that was never me. Now, Paul Revere’s asshole had me thinking it was possible. Some of the prices were still too crazy for my wildest dream. Million dollar mansions with movie rooms and 7!! Fireplaces. What would I even do with 7 fireplaces? Getting a fire started is low-key hard and I wouldn’t want to do that seven times every day. No, not for me. I did find the perfect one though. $250,000 3 bedroom, like I live in now. Except it’d all be for me. A bedroom, an office/gaming room, and a guest bedroom. A porch with a little swing I can sit on as an old man and drink bourbon. Lots of windows I could decorate with actual curtains and not those horizontal cheap blinds that fuck up the second you look at them and then waste away your security deposit. And a backyard all my own, no restrictions on grilling. I can get a grill and a smoker and have friends over for homemade BBQ and poker. That’d be the life.
My brain seized on that dream and wouldn’t let go. I’d get up to go to the bathroom and think to myself ‘if I owned a bathroom, I’d put a ton of scented candles in there so all the sexy people I bring home couldn’t smell my farts and they’d be really impressed'. If I went to cook myself some instant noodles, I’d think ‘I could be one of those cast iron guys who makes cast iron pizzas and doesn’t worry about it lighting on fire and smoke damaging the ceiling.
I kept thinking like this and throughout the day refreshing my inbox, waiting to hear from the auction house:
"Dear Michel,
Thank you so much for contacting McBryant Galleries and Auction. We are happy to assist in authentication services. Please see the attached pricing sheet and let us know which option you’d like to choose. Then we will send over documents for the contract.
Thanks for your business,
Stacy Williams
(314) 673-7381"
Because I have no dignity left to lose at this point, I am going to tell you that the prices she sent over made me pee my pants a little. A couple hundred dollars an hour?? For research I was doing FOR FREE on my own?!? But once I had calmed down a little I remembered that they need to eat too and these are fancy people who buy fancy stuff and we live under capitalism and all of that.
Still, there was no way I could afford that. But I had an idea.
"Hello Stacy,
Thank you for the information. Unfortunately, as of right now, I am unable to set aside funds for your services. But I am still looking to prove my item is real. If you could offer me a few friendly tips of where to do my research on my own, once I get that proof I will use your auction house to sell it.
Regards,
Michel Dubois"
I got a reply almost instantly.
"Dear Michel,
Sorry to hear that you are unable to pay for services at this time. The price sheet estimates are good for the next 6 months should you change your mind. In the meantime, since your item is associated with Paul Revere, I would contact Jack Cabot at the Certification Committee for Early Patriots to assist with provenance.
Stacy Williams
(314) 673-7381"
This, my friends, is where I started making a binder. The white thing you saw in the video, it began right at this moment. I felt so encouraged by Stacy’s reply that I really locked in. I searched for this old dude and he had so many articles and books and he was really just everywhere talking about Paul Revere. I’m sure if you were in a public bathroom with him, he’d choose a urinal right next to yours and be like, ‘hey, did you know that Paul Revere was in the army during the French and Indian War?’ and you’d stop your stream immediately and run.
Still, this info was mad useful. I was going to have to do all this work myself. So I made some shitty drip coffee and felt determined to find the answer. My hours had been cut this week, so let’s goooo.
"Mr. Jack Cabot,
I have heard that you are the person to talk about Paul Revere’s things. I have attached a picture of a gift I received. It is of Paul Revere’s anal beads. Would you kindly direct me to how I get this item up for the consideration of your committee?
Regards,
Michel Dubois"
I was kind of proud of that email. I really edited it and even read it out loud to make sure it made sense. The reply I got back was super rude.
"Michel,
I don’t appreciate practical jokes. Mr. Revere is a true American patriot who contributed greatly to our collective history. You are besmirching his good name with your pornographic implications. You need to cease immediately.
- Jack"
Listeners, OK so, I got mad. I wrote a bunch of stuff, deleted it, went for a walk, cooled down, and then tried again.
"Jack,
I don’t appreciate practical jokes either. I contacted you with the best of intentions. I don’t know if this is a real thing or not. I’m not a historian. That’s why I contacted you. To have a discussion, not for you to be rude to me.
- Michel"
I sent this email off and spent another night of insomnia staring at the anal beads. Hoping they would, I don’t know, speak to me. Tell me what to do. Around 3 in the morning, my mind got weird. I wasn’t drunk. I kind of wish I had been. It’d make things make more sense. After a while, I thought that maybe, if I put the anal beads inside of me, then the answer would be made clear. At first I resisted doing that. I’d go back to bed and close my eyes. But then some light from the computer or power adapter or whatever would shine and bounce right off the shiny beads. It caught my eye. I resisted before I succumbed, but I eventually gave in.
I’d never put anything up my butt before. The thought made my asshole clench tighter than a vice grip. But I just knew it was what I had to do. So I went to the bathroom and looked to see if someone left a tub of Vaseline. Someone had, so I brought that and the rest of the booze back to my room. After downing some shots, I greased up the historical artifact and with 1-2-3 shoved it up there.
No revelation was immediate so I just stared at the box for a while. I felt stupid. But the beads didn’t feel too bad inside of me and I was really comfy spread out on my bed so I didn’t want to get up to take them out. My eyes were beginning to close because it’s gotten late enough that I can hear all of the actual adults in the apartment complex getting ready to go to work. I halfway closed my eyes and I shit you not, I saw the ghost of Paul Revere.
Listeners, I know I will lose some of you now. Or you’ll @ me on Twitter telling me to go see some mental health professional. Well, jokes on you since I don’t have health insurance. But I need you to believe me. IT WAS THE REAL THING! I mean, I get what it looks like. But I know what I saw.
OK so before this I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what Paul Revere actually looked like. But when a ghost appears in front of you with one of those triangle pointed hats while you have colonial anal beads inside of you, there are only so many possible options.
He didn’t speak to me at first. Just looked at me and honestly, made my butthole shrink to a pinprick. I was so tight my muscles couldn’t have been more tense.
Paul Revere looked at me and in a low, insistent voice said “Coward”. He kept repeating “Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward.” All the while staring directly into my eyes.
It was the most intense thing I’ve ever seen. And then all at once, I got it. Paul Revere didn’t make himself some anal beads so he could store them in his asshole. He made them so he could cum. Per my research, the dude had 8 kids. He knew a little something about sex. I needed to trust him.
So I took a deep breath, cupped my balls, and yanked. I came like a fucking truck. I came so hard I went right to sleep. Knocked me out like Nyquil. It was exactly what I needed, really freed my mind and body to keep searching. When I woke up the next morning, the idea came to me.
Annnnnnnd that’s it for this episode. Tune in next week for another episode of Backdoor Beads of History. In the meantime, please @ me on Twitter and buy some of my merch in the bio. Peace!