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Man is restless by nature. Always questing, always seeking out new forms of knowledge, new lands to conquer, new ways to make our lives easier, better, brighter. But above all, man is a dog, and will gladly take all these achievements and toss them in the crapper in exchange for somewhere to put his penis.

I'm not really sure why I'm doing this, except for the fact that I'm working on a book that is quite vivid and potentially scandalous, so I figured I should start getting used to other people reading about my sex habits. Also, some of you have complained that there's never enough sex in this column, that the name is a misnomer, so for those people, this one's for you.

The first time for me really wasn't that great, unfortunately. Not romantic in the slightest. And quick. Like a gunshot, or a firecracker. I mean - boom! - over. But so it goes. I was at this party at my friend Ricky's house when it happened. Ricky was this largish kid of Hawaiian descent who we referred to affectionately as Hula, who played the bass in a punk band and skated with us on one of the many half-pipes set up in our backyards. Because he was large he had a significant advantage over the rest of us, for if he fell, he was usually okay. The natural cushion his body provided kept him free from major injury. The rest of us, however, thin, fragile boys who were way too cool to wear any kind of padding, were at much more substantial risk. In fact, we had bruises all over our body. But to us these were symbols of manhood, battle-scars, and even though they were nothing more than marks received from falling on our asses, we prided ourselves on them.

So Ricky/Hula's parents were out of town, and he was having this party, and most everyone was in the back, drinking cheap beer and smoking cigarettes and skating. I was leaving the bathroom, and was about to go join everyone when I spotted Ginnie sitting alone on the couch. Ginnie was a bleach-blonde, voluptuous punk rock chick who I only knew in a very limited capacity. I mean, I knew her name and that she drove an old Cadillac, but that was about it. I sat down next to her and she gave me this look that said "take me" or something. I mean, I didn't know what it meant, but the next thing I knew my hand was under her shirt. Normally I didn't do this kind of thing, especially to people I didn't know very well, but I told you she had this really come-hither look on her face. Also I was quite drunk. So my hand was under her shirt, just kind of moving around down there, exploring. She didn't seem to mind this at all, so I lifted up her shirt, exposing her large, soft breasts that hung there braless in the brightly lit living room of Hula's parents house.

As a seventeen year-old who had never before come into contact with breasts remotely like these - all my girlfriends had been thin and small-chested - I was completely enthralled. While I could have remained there on the couch with her all night, my eyes and hands in blissful rapture, Ginnie wisely suggested we go elsewhere, so as not to be disturbed. I quickly agreed, and she led me down into the basement. As I think about this today, I wonder - 'How did she know where to go? Had she done this before, in this very house?' But at the time I wasn't thinking anything, or at least anything remotely as suspicious. There was only one powerful, pervasive thought in my brain: 'I'm going to get laid! Hallelulah, I'm going to get laid!'

The basement was dimly-lit but very swank, recently renovated probably, as everything smelled new, with several couches and a thick carpet. A stereo was turned on, tuned to a classical music station. As we lay down together on the carpet, an orchestra swelled. No joke. It really did. It was like being in a cartoon, where every action is backed by a piece of classical music. Only this time, instead of a crazy Tom and Jerry chase with blaring trumpets and pounding timpanis, or a minor tragedy where Bugs Bunny is caught by Yosemite Sam or whoever and the violins come out, here was the big sex scene, the biggest, and the accompanying music was note for note perfect.

I don't remember who undressed who - we probably undressed ourselves - although I recall that I left my shirt on for some reason. I also remember lying on top of her, just lying there, waiting for something to happen. I wasn't sure how this was supposed to commence, it being my first time and all, didn't know if I was supposed to do something or if she was supposed to do something or what. So we both just lay there, me hoping my penis would magically enter her, somehow take over and find its own way in, when she finally took it and put it inside her. And then it was over. Finito. No wham. No bam. No thank you ma'am. I mean, she took it and put it in, and that was about it. One thrust was all it took.

Afterwards, I remained on top of her. I wasn't sure what to do, if I should jump off of her, or stay there for a while - did it still feel good for her, sitting inside her like that? Eventually, she kind of pushed me off her, and I rolled over to the side. For a few minutes we lay there in silence, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the radio. Then - and whether it had been implanted in me from a life of Television and movies I have no idea - I urgently wanted a cigarette. It turned out we both did, so we got up, put on clothes, walked up the stairs and went outside to join the others. That was it. Nothing was said, not to each other or to anyone else at the party.

I had a few more beers and then skated the half-pipe, falling on my face but not really caring because I had just done something I'd waited my whole life to do, and even though it was as brief as an eyeblink, as memorable as a sneeze, I had done it, it was over, I could move on. I could now concentrate on other things, like learning the bassline to Fishbone's Bonin' in the Boneyard, or improving my scores at skeeball, or saving up for Sonic Youth tickets. I mean, that's pretty much how I regarded losing my virginity, as an obstacle I had overcome, as something on a To Do List I could now check off. How sad is that?

I didn't have sex again until nearly a year later, in college, and it was a totally different experience. Even though I had enjoyed high school, in the eyes of my white, rich, preppy peers, I was as an outcast. So I entered college with one pervasive goal, a goal that everyone, at some time in their lives, no matter how smart or adjusted secretly craves: to be popular. I'd never had it, always felt I deserved it, so dammit, I was going to be.

And I was, I was. All of a sudden I had a ton of friends, a ton of dates, and was instantly transformed into a big priss in a small town. But this wasn't entirely my own fault. I had help. Heck, I had a coach, a trainer, a fucking guru. This was my first real girlfriend at the school, one Brenda Zuckerman, she of Beverly Hills stock and a model besides, who plastered her dorm room with pictures from her fashion shoots; who claimed to be something of a hippy, even though her boho Guatemalan clothes were not bought from a vintage store but imported directly from Guatemala; who thought of herself as an intellectual, and would talk for hours and hours about society and its ills, even though she knew absolutely nothing of which she spoke, having come from a tremendous house with a pool and palm trees and movie-producer parents. She was, actually, a treacherous, self-serving, pompous bitch, but of course I didn't realize this at the time. And even if I did, if little glints of her true personality would appear, brief openings into her inner workings, I'd ignore them. I mean, she was a model for Christsakes. And she was my model.

We became one of those couples that everybody hates, the ones who never use their real names and instead call each other honey and sweetheart, who are never apart and are always making out in public. I neglected my friends, started listening to her music, dressing the way she wanted me to dress; essentially losing myself in her vacant, decadent lifestyle.

This was only the second girl I'd ever had sex with, and with her previous experience - she had her own diaphragm, you do the math - she really brought me up to speed, educating me in a series of sexual positions and practices. So I, once an unpopular near-virgin, was now walking around with a real-life model on my arm, a model that was letting me do all sorts of crazy things to her - and she to me - and it completely went to my head. I became a total asshole, and my friends, those I had left, soon followed suit. Our house became the house to be at, and every weekend our parties were by far the best on campus. We would even take turns standing outside the door, guarding against certain "undesirables" who would try to crash our precious exclusive events.

And while these parties were nothing out of the ordinary, mere college kids acting cool, talking, drinking, sometimes dropping acid or mushrooms to give the evening a more "spiritual" vibe, we thought they were. Heck, we lived for them. And the funny thing is, out of all the parties we had - and we had hundreds - there is very little I remember about them. In fact, I don't remember shit. The only thing that stands out in my mind, and to this day I don't know how it came about, was when we decided to form a makeshift band to provide some entertainment for our guests. The thing about this band, however, dubbed Naked Nipple, what made it truly unique, was that it wasn't supposed to be good. On the contrary, in some kind of "fuck you" to the party-goers, many of whom we didn't like, we tried as hard as possible to be downright terrible. For starters, we all chose instruments that we couldn't really play. I was the guitarist and lead singer, two things that I wasn't good at at all. There was Gabe on the bass, who didn't have a musical bone in his body, and Clyde on the drums, who, in actuality, wasn't all that bad. He had some semblance of rhythm at least, which we constantly tried to get him to tone down.

We had three songs, each one worse than the next. One consisted of only two fuzzy, distorted parts, repeated over and over; one had no lyrics at all and was merely a few chords played again and again; and the last, just to have something different, was a bare-bones version of the 12-bar blues, with words that I would make up on the spot. We would set up right next to the keg, so everyone had no choice but to listen to us.

And the looks we'd get. You've never seen so many contorted faces, so many furled brows. People appeared as if they wanted to cry or kill us or both. But sometimes, on occasion - and this is what we lived for - there'd be some random person watching us and actually getting into it. It would usually be some guy, some really drunk guy, who would be standing there with a beer in his hand, bobbing his head and tapping his feet. And for these people we would play extra bad, just to see their reactions. I mean, I would take ten-minute guitar solos, playing the thing like I was making love to it, practically lying on my back and sticking out my tongue in the worst impression of a heavy metal guitarist you could possibly imagine, and these guys would eat it up.

Afterwards they'd come up to us and tell us how great we were, ask us when we were playing next, if we had anything recorded. These questions I'd field to Clyde, for he was great with these kinds of people. Clyde could sit there straight-faced and talk to you about anything, lying to you the entire time and you'd believe it. He was the kind of person who was always making deals, always trying to get you involved in some scam or another, always garnering funds for his next project. That was, until he started a T-shirt company that was unintentionally sponsored by his parents, namely their credit cards, which he had somehow gotten a hold of. After that, his entrepreneurial days were over.

Note of interest: Clyde had a twin brother named Alec, both of whom were from Beverly Hills, just like Brenda. Another of our roommates, Andrew, this pretty Asian boy who himself was something of a model - apparently he had done some Bennetton ads - was also from the 90210 region. They had, in fact, all gone to the same high school - Bev Hills High, natch - although they didn't know each other at the time. What makes this really interesting is that, at the beginning of our freshman year, when we were all getting acquainted, a popular television series began its debut, a series that unexpectedly would last for over ten seasons. The series? Beverly Hills 90210. Now, that must mean something, right? Some cosmic coincidence perhaps? As if all of this was meant to be? Either that or I was simply immersed in a crowd of rich snobs who liked bad TV.

Brenda and I didn't last, and, truth be told, it was she who dumped me. I had become so spineless and worshipful that I ceased to be my own person, had become her slave, her personal punching bag, and she found little reason to keep me around. And I really couldn't blame her. I was pathetic, and it wasn't for months that I would get over her. It took nearly the entire summer, which I spent in Alaska, slicing up fish on a slime line. All those hours of hard work, coupled with the crazy adventures we had - getting chased by bears, cops and knife-wielding Jesus freaks to name a few - plus all the pot we smoked (Alaskan Thunderfuck), and I made a full recovery. When I returned to school, I was a new man, literally (I had hair on my chest for the first time). I was ready for number three.


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[email protected] | March 2001 | Issue 12