Once a month, in the fabled West Village bar The Bitter End, there is a gathering for The Moth. A tradition going back many years, The Moth is an urbanized, competitive form of telling stories round the ol' campfire. Each month, the show picks a theme and everyone is asked to come with a prepared story. You toss the story, with your name, into a large, holding object (they're far too trendy for just hats, natch) and ten people are randomly chosen to share their tale. These ten people get six minutes to tell their story, with a one minute warning coming at the five minute mark and a final buzzer at six. Three groups of people are chosen (maybe at random?) to judge the storytellers and a winner is crowned. They get something, I think.
I'm not totally sure as I just experienced my first trip there this past Monday, thanks to the urging of my buddy Priyank and his friends. The theme was "Romeos and Femme Fatales" which prompted a story idea from me. Unfortunately, I was way too tired to type it out that day and felt that a nice introduction to the room would help before I just hopped up there. So, essentially, I pussed out.
However…why should I let a good story go to waste? So, presented to you, is the story I was going to tell at The Moth but did not give myself the opportunity to recite. Hope you enjoy. Just know that I didn't, in any way, until many years later.
If it wasn't the last day of summer, it was pretty damn close. My senior year was just around the corner and I still had not gotten laid. This doesn't seem like a huge deal, unless you completely ignore all forms of popular culture. So, with my boxers acting as some sort of hermetically-sealed bag, I approached the beginning of the end of my high school career with a barren sexual trophy case.
We were getting towards the end of marching band camp (shut up) and the rising seniors decided we'd prank the underclassmen by bringing in water guns and spraying the hell out of them. So crazy our antics were. The plan was that the day before all the available water guns would be packed in my trunk and, on D-Day, they'd be filled up and utilized with nary a person knowing. It was perfect.
That night, I went home, with a trunk full of water guns, once again spurned by my friends. There was a curious trend developing of them hanging out and forgetting I existed. Defeated, I hung around my computer until I got an instant message (remember those?) from a girl we'll call Lucinda. Lucinda was a friend of a friend I'd met earlier that summer. We went on a "date" once (I took her to Bad Boys 2) but nothing really came of it, save for promises of shower sex that I laughed off; we'd never even kissed. She asked what I was doing, I said "nothing," and she implored that I come over to her place, as her family just moved out and it was empty. I asked, simply, "why?" She replied, "So I can rape you."
I barely was able to type out a response as I started shaking, completely and wholly. I reached into my sock drawer and pulled out the one (1) condom to my name, given to me as a throwaway gag gift at my 17th birthday. After mouthing "thank you, Keith," to the heavens, I ran out of my door, glanced over my shoulder to tell my parents , "I'm going to…friend…so…." and head straight to the Ford Explorer, heading off to this girl's fully-furnished, completely empty house, for sex. For Sex. FOR SEX!!!!!
I pulled into the driveway and saw her sitting on her car's trunk. She was dressed in her usual attire: short-shorts and a zip-up hoodie that accentuated her very large breasts. The hoodie worked like the curtain at a Broadway show: the finer the drapery, the bigger the spectacle. We start kissing, immediately, and make our way into her completely abandoned, light-fixture-free abode. She offered a beaten-up carpet in a dark room and, coupled with the fact that I hadn't yet stopped shaking, decided against losing my virginity but gaining rug burn on my ass. Depressed, she walked out of the house. I followed, somewhat relieved, oddly.
Thinking the night was unsalvageable, I said my favorite throwaway line to many girls who wanted nothing to do with me, "y'know, my back seat folds down." I laughed, her eyes lit up. So we hurriedly make my way to the car and then I realize: the water guns. After one false start, she opens the back and starts throwing all the guns by a tree next to the driveway. I assist her, put down the seat, and we quickly crawl inside.
It's not long until clothes are being torn off. This is new to me, as my three year period of heftiness during middle school still very heavily ate at me. In fact, I was lucky enough to get one girlfriend naked on top of me as I stayed fully clothed, worried that a glimpse of my pasty, definition-less stomach would send her running. From her own house.
What's curious -- and incredibly hypocritical -- is that as she lost clothes, I realized that her breasts weren't some sort of illusion. They were large because she was thick. Not huge, not hefty, but more dense than expected. Add that to a long list of things I did not expect or, more succinctly, that I was in no way prepared for. Then, as soon as we were both naked, she started to attack my neck like some sort of rabid animal. And yes, she bit me. A shit ton.
My body reacted as if I was actually being mauled and got…defensive. Quickly. At the exact moment that my panic had halted all grional production, she whispers in my ear, "you have that condom, right?" I respond, "my, yeah, guh, cause" and dart to my piled up collection of clothes. I find the condom but realize there are two problems: one, of course, is of my own control. The second is that I know how to put on a condom as much as I know how to synthesize carbon nanotubes. And I don't know shit about carbon nanotubes. I just googled it.
Adding to the fact that, at any moment, she'll realize I'm a fat, disgusting mess, I now have to apply a condom to myself at a time not appropriate for such events. I attempt to do it -- without ever looking, to show how disgusted I was with myself -- and fail, a few times. Eventually she looks down and realizes that something's wrong. It's at this point that she joins me in new experiences: her not arousing her partner. She tells me as such. Which helps everyone.
Then, with no real idea of what to do, she decides that male sexual organs are akin to a lawn mower, grabs my testicles, and tugs at it in some attempt to kick start my penis. I scream. She apologizes. Instinctively it darts inside to escape whatever predator lurks on the outside. Still, not wanting to let Lucinda down, I soldier on, like a drunk in a bar fight. I completely unroll the condom, thinking that would make it easier to apply. As I learn, it doesn't, in any way. So, in a panic, I just yell, "IT'S RIPPED!" and throw it somewhere in the car. Then she collapses to my side.
After lying there in a daze for a few minutes, we quickly dress and head out of my vehicle. We might have shook hands as we went to part. As she walks away I look to my left and realize that while one job worked out terribly, there is still one to complete. So there we slowly returned the twenty-plus water guns into my trunk, completely unfulfilled.
The next day, with a hickey the size of my fist, we successfully squirted all the kids with water. At least one plan worked out well.