Almost Interesting Read Online Free Page A

. . . equals 13.6 million pup tents. Of that number approximately 100 percent went to waste or were destroyed by any four pages of Penthouse. (Kaboom! Feel the rain on your skin . . . song from The Hills .) (Side note: Chicks in Penthouse were always somewhat sluttier/whorier than Playboy. Guys realize that at a young age. No one is marrying those gals, so they were smart to play that angle. They would also throw in a beaver-munching scene here and there to keep the customer happy. Which it did. Very. With those scenes I only needed three pages before shrapnel was flying.) With three boys, my house had dirty magazines stashed all over. Which made Easter mornings awkward. But finally, at the not so tender age of seventeen, I got some real-deal sex.
    Here’s how the beautiful magic went down. Every year, the guys in this club I was part of, called the . . . wait for it . . . The Gents (lame) . . . had a boxer party. We would each ask a girl to be our date and then we would go to the house of whoever’s parents were away and party in our boxers. (Not overly clever but at least it seemed like a decent theme.) We’d get shitfaced and trash the place. This is also the basic premise for Porky’s 4 (I’m guessing; I’ve only seen the first three). For this year’s boxer party, I asked a chick that I had a thing for. I had no idea if she dug me, though. She was actually pretty robotic, to be honest. Not tons of emotion or deep thoughts going on, but pretty and pleasant enough. That met all the criteria I needed. And she said yes. And she was a girl. Presumably with a pussy. So I was game. All pertinent boxes were checked. Also, in full disclosure, this girl had been nice enough to cough up a hand job about six months earlier so we were already headed in the right direction. She had seen my dick and seemed to be okay with it, so we were in business. (By the way, my prong is nothing to write home about. It’s sort of a shoulder shrugger.)
    I had pulled out my sword for her. Nothing.
    Crickets.
    She just sort of shrugged her shoulders and started tugging, like she was starting a lawn mower. Not a ton of finesse happening, but I wasn’t complaining. I could tell she got bored fast. Luckily we had no cell phones back then, or she would have been checking her Instagram feed the whole time. This amazing moment happened in the backseat of my buddy’s car on the way to Flagstaff with my two buddies Joe and Steve in the front seat. When I finally “finished” (gross term, BTW) it looked like a paint can had exploded on my Lacoste shirt. I hadn’t planned ahead. I just sat there. Didn’t know what to do. There was no Shout-ing it out. I had to take a walk of shame into 7-Eleven and buy paper towels. (Ah, romance.) The 7-Eleven guy didn’t flinch. I have a feeling this scenario had somehow played out before.
    So my robotic date and I walked to the boxer party from her house. At this point, I was still wearing my pants. It was good that we walked, since I planned on getting hammered. Not that it would have mattered since there were no drunk-driving laws back then. (Can you imagine? A world where you don’t get DUIs and can drive shitfaced? Again that was back when America was great. Cops didn’t give a fuck, just told you to focus on the road before high-fiving you.) I hit the partay in my Brooks Brothers ironed all-cotton boxers. I was a bit of a preppy asshole at this time, by the way.
    So, as all high school dates began, we immediately started playing quarters with shots of tequila. This is a dumb move because you get plowed so fast and you don’t even get to build to a good buzz, but what did I know at seventeen? My buddies and I just wanted to look badass in our boxers in front of these chicks. I was feeling especially awesome because I finally had a date. (My luck with the ladies was pretty limited at this tender age. I had yet to get on a TV show, which makes dates with me at least bearable.) Pretty soon I’d had