By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
. . . MAKE LOVE TO A VIRGIN
After three hours of gentle cajoling, a young maiden and I slipped into my room for the rupturing of a lifetime. Twenty minutes later, amid declarations of undying love, she had managed to take off my pants.
"No, no, my dear," I whispered, "this will not do. We have hours to fulfill the night's promise. Let's not rush and ruin."
She agreed, and we resumed dry gyrations. This was my first mistake, for she was still in her jeans while I was in naught but billowy boxers. For all intents and purposes, it was tumescent flesh against denim. A funny thing happens to the mind in the throes of passion: it shuts down pain receptors, even those in one's tenderest regions. By the time we were both naked and the "Are you sure you want to do this?"s had been said, my soldier was abraded to the point of hemorrhage. Even then I was unaware of the damage, however, because I was concentrating solely on the line of bullshit streaming from my mouth. And as I entered her, I began to feel the pain. It was as if I had attempted to mount a salt mine. I prayed to God she would attribute my tears to my sensitive nature. After five minutes of agony, I faked completion and excused myself, fleeing to the bathroom. When I pulled off my underpants and looked down, I found a pathetic burn victim, bleeding far more than a penis ever should. Legend has it this poor girl found me there sometime later, passed out in a puddle of blood. And to this day she is an avowed lesbian.
I'm a rock star—sort of. I had drugs—sort of. And the girls liked me—sort of. So did I have sex with all three of them—all young, beautiful, naked, double-D-breasted three of them? Oh, yes. I invited one of my girlfriend's best friends (all of 17 years old!), a 23-year-old Gothic type who'd done a little professional photography (take that however you want to), and, of course, my girlfriend (because it ain't really cheating if she's there). The next thing I knew, the three girls and I were sitting very close together. It was too much—all those, um, possibilities within arm's reach. So many combinations you can make with four people. So many. And then when daylight arrived, the 17-year-old freaked out, and I had to chase her down the road. A few days later, my girlfriend and the Gothic porn star decided to start making out while the three of us were at the movies. I was told they needed each other. I was crushed. And now all I've got on the horizon is a ménage a moi. "Exploring" can be really hard on your heart and soul.
Some friends and I went into a bar we knew right away was trouble: it was empty except for a wall lined with hookers. They immediately latched on to us like leeches and began rifling through our pockets. We ordered drinks; the hooker ordered for me. I don't know exactly what it was, but it was a mixed drink, which I know now is a bad sign. After the drink, I began to feel funny. I couldn't really move right. My limbs didn't respond to my thoughts. She climbed on my lap and started to work. Then she rolled off me and giggled to her friend, who was busy robbing my drugged-up companion. Then she grabbed my wallet and took all my money. I couldn't do anything. She gave me back my empty wallet, and I sat there for a while. Then panic hit me, and I got up, crashing into tables and chairs. I lurched out of the bar and onto the street. I began running wildly until I found another friend asleep in his car. I banged on the window until he woke up.
"Man, I got AIDS!" I screamed and drooled at him.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I think I had sex with a whore!"
"Well, shit, then that's what you deserve," he said. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know," I said.
"You two should just get it over with and sleep together," the art director said. Oh, shit, I thought. He knows. But as the conversation continued, it became clear he had no clue that the new salesperson and I had inked that particular contract months ago. This wasn't two college bartenders sneaking off after closing. This was a full-time fling in a real job, and just three weeks after swearing to keep things strictly business, there I was: lying on her disheveled comforter, praying out loud that nobody had seen that subtle 30-minute liplock in the middle of the dance floor—or our straight-to-bed tango out the door. Sneaking down the street for a midnight meeting was almost too exciting. So were the twisted trysts during trade shows or after-office parties, where we'd test the limits of time, location and occasionally taste. A little less enjoyable were the camouflaged interoffice squabbles the day after, like trying to pass off a romantic problem as a printer issue. And when the road signs indicating that the thrill ride was heading toward "true relationship" became more frequent, a battle ensued between work ethic and "working it." But eventually it became clear that this was more than just some oversexed overtime. So we waited for the Christmas party to expose ourselves, took a bow for our Oscar-winning performances, and then it was back to business as usual. Four years later, we share a house and a wedding date, but no office, and those once all-consuming jobs are now little more than fodder for résumés. It's funny. We spent eight months fighting a relationship for fear it might ruin us, and we ended up being fixed for life.