At Times I Am Downright Maniacal

I learned many things at my liberal arts college and, as these things naturally go, very little of it was in classes. I learned the value of alcohol as a social lubricant, the incredibly aggressive attitude the women’s advocacy group would take to cement themselves as equals while also demonstrating how worthless men were, and how loosely a university will throw around the label of “food.” However, there is one lesson that sticks in my memory brighter than the others: knock on the back door gently.

I was going out with a girl named Stacey who was, for all intents and purposes, a sexual eye-opener. No lie, I tried a lot of new things with that little lady. Then she drops the bomb most guys would probably love to hear- she wants to try anal. She’d never tried it before and (being more or less a sexual greenhorn) neither had I. Honestly, I never had the intense drive to dip my bucket in that particular well, but modern men’s literature led me to believe it was the greatest thing ever so why not?

We prepped for our evening by having some drinks. On her end, it was a good idea. Alcohol would lessen any pain and destroy any remaining inhibitions that might keep her from fully enjoying herself. On my end, a little more moderation would have helped. Sure, maybe I had an inhibition or two to knock down myself, but I also needed to retain total control over my motor skills and judgment. Booze consumed and fore successfully played, we assumed the position. Heavily lubed up, I placed myself firmly against the out door.

“Ready?”

“Mmm. Ready.”

Remember now, I was a rookie but here I was batting in the majors. Anal sex, I learned very quickly, is not like regular sex. Normally she and I would go hard and go fast. This doesn’t carry over. I think I got one thrust in, and a thrust it was. The scream of agony tore through my inebriation like a strong cup of coffee and a blast of ice water. I made a hasty retreat and apologized repeatedly asking if she was ok. After about a day of not sitting comfortably she turned out just fine.

But we never tried it again.

I totally got to second base once. I was a late bloomer. I didn’t date in high school. Then it was off to college! Time to reinvent yourself, so I hear. I stayed more or less the same. Whoops. But I did kiss a girl a few times. We were never dating. Had Facebook been around then we’d probably be on there as “It’s Complicated.” Or maybe I just liked her a lot more than she liked me. Lord, I hope she doesn’t read this. I hope no one I went to college with reads this, really. Or anyone in my family.

This isn’t about that girl, though, this is about a different girl. To keep her identity a secret (which will fail if any of my college friends read this, you can count how many girls I dated without taking your socks off. And if you’re missing fingers.) I won’t tell you if she was a girlfriend or a one night thing. Or her name. Or what she looked like… much. She was good looking though. And built like the letter “P” when seen from the side. She weighed maybe 120 pounds and I’d wager half that was in her bra. But I digress.

We were kissing, like college boys and girls do, and a suave young me decided it was time to make the move. I’d been on the internet. I’d seen the Holy Land. But I had yet to make my pilgrimage. Onward, fingers, to the most glorious creation in all of nature! My hand slid up her side. I brushed her ribs through her shirt with the palm of my hand. I was almost there! She had yet to stop me… what are you waiting for, hand? Make the jump!

We have landing! Early sensor reports show softness and high levels of enjoyment! She kept kissing me so after a brief walkabout I decided to explore below the surface. Have you ever noticed that in every teen comedy the luckless hero struggles with the bra? No one told me there were struggles before that. My hand returned to base at the belt-buckle area and began his northward trek across bare terrain. Ribs again and… success again! My hand’s first impression was that this girl had on some sort of sports bra. I knew what bras looked like. They weren’t solid cloth like this. Undaunted, I continued north and to the treasures there. Suddenly, the shirt I was moving beneath came down and met what I had assumed to be a sports bra forming a solid wall of cloth. What manner of trickery was this?! Find a way around, men! Wall to the left, wall to the right! She laughed. “It’s my shirt. It’s layered… here…” My hand made a hasty retreat and she pulled off the offending garment. I was flabbergasted! After a moment to collect myself I was back in the action and my fingers remanned their post. It was glorious. But there was more to come! Eventually, that last fine bit of cloth between me and greatness needed to be removed. Ironically, I had no problem with it. Speak not to me of hooks and of clasps, they fall before my nimble fingers!

It was as if I had opened the Ark of the Covenant, only my face didn’t melt off in stop-animation. And there were no swooshing lights. Still, it was pretty awesome. In the old school definition- to inspire awe. (And in the new school “bitchin’” sense.)

Unfortunately, this was such a rare occurrence that the “hang something on the doorknob” rule was unknown to me or my roommate. I was able to enjoy the fruits of my labor for only a short while until my roommate decided to show up. Thank you roomie! It’s not as if I had any trouble getting here! Do you need help with that laundry?