XXX
1995 - a shift in focus from athletics, academia, and other scholastic drivel to girls and the pursuit of sex. All that locker room chatter about chicks was no longer a matter of high fives and primitive grunts. Perhaps there was a touch of artistry to hallway pick-up lines and back alley make out trysts that couldn’t be learned in Sex Ed class.
Circa college graduation and beyond - the brotherhood that was bonded by adolescence and testosterone has since disbanded. Some of the finest, boldest men I ever had the privilege of knowing have since been neutered and are living happily. The proof is in their annual family Christmas photo. Smile, shithead. Tilt your head to the left just a little. Could you lower Daniel’s arm just a little? Ok. Now Mom, move in just a little bit. Thanks for the card and the reminder to stay the course, no matter how lonely.
Today - bachelorhood may not be a perfect slice of rock and roll after all. My hindsight for failed romances remains crystal clear, and the memories of first or no name basis quickies have waned. While I do enjoy the fleeting thrill of new pussy, the abrupt, empty conclusion gets me every time. Call me sometime. No? Call me sentimental then.
I graduated with this prom queen material girl named Melissa. Perhaps this was the first important sex lesson I missed. She was quoted ad nauseam as saying, “I’d much rather fuck a random than kiss him. Kissing is special, intimate.” Sure, one certainly can lead to the other, but what’s XXX without the X’s? And please, the least you could do after you towel off the sex is let me spoon you for a little while.
