Almost Interesting Read Online Free Page B

about seven shots, and my date was going on her fifth. Things started getting flirty and touchy and in the background I hear that Journey song “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.” This is a Journey song I love. At the end of this song, Steve Perry goes “NA NA NA NA NANA, NANA NA NA NA, NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NAAAAA, NA NA NA,” etc., ad nauseam (it never actually fucking ends) so I said, “Wanna get out of here?” or something equally cool and James Deany. And she mumbled, “Okay.” Or “Help.” I can’t really recall.
    So we headed back to her place, which was a tough walk considering my rod, which is hard to hide in boxers. Her parents were asleep and we went into her room. We kiss, major French action. (P.S.: She wasn’t a bad kisser but some high school chicks over-French and it’s gross. Not that I’ve kissed any high school chicks lately or anything.) Eventually, she fell back on the bed and I took this as a written invitation for some action Jackson. I start to pull on her boxers. (Yeah, the chicks wore them, too. We were so cool.) And she lifted her hips! This is the best move in history. Every guy waits for this move, because it means that she’s helping, and it’s green-light city. Underneath the boxers, she was wearing panties. Back in those days, this meant serious mega-drawers. Like five inches of fabric on each side and about twenty in the dumper. And speaking of mega, her bush was sort of out of control, too. It puffed out so much that her panties looked like an airbag had gone off. None of this bothered me a bit, of course, because underneath that airbag was a vajayjay and my ween was hopefully headed for an air strike.
    My boxers flew off in .04 seconds. I was so stoked, you cannot imagine. Or you probably can. We started kissing again and I slid my meat mallet in (I should write romance novels, right?) and she doesn’t make a peep. No “Oh shit!” No “Wait, it hurts!” No “Just the first part!” No words at all, just a blank expression. She had the same glazed look as someone sliding their ATM card through the checkout thing at Kmart. Fine, I think. I can’t have everything. I block out her lack of response and focus on the task at hand. And I’m in heaven. We start kissing and we’re going at it, she’s got her eyes closed, obviously loving it. I’m thinking, Wow! This feels better than I thought! This is almost better than beating off! No wonder everyone’s hooked! But soon, her moaning stops and I think she’s zoned out. So I rode out the last eleven seconds in my own happy world and then blew fog all over her hips, hair, scrunchie, pillows, walls, carpet, beanbag chair, hallway, and part of the kitchen. Even her dog made that shake move so I think he caught some shrapnel, too. Unfortch. Poor thing. But I’d been waiting for this day forever. My balls were like THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! And they came through. Big-time.
    Once we were finished, my date looked at my ween and giggled. I think the sex came across as tickling to her. So we skipped the spooning, but now what do I do? I had no dad around so I knew nothing about sex or what to say after or before or at school or anything. My only thought was, How do I tell my friends? This is front-page news! Using her home phone might be tacky and plus there was splooge all over it. So I did what any gentleman would do. I put a blanket over her and tiptoed toward the door. Then I heard her say, “You’ll get better at this” and laugh. Ouch. Nothing stings like a bad Yelp review.
    I drunkenly walked about two miles home, and my feet didn’t touch the ground. I got in about 3 A . M . and crashed in the cruddy two-bedroom apartment that I shared with my mom and two brothers. I did kinda want to wake up Bryan and Andy and tell them, but I was worn out from all that sex, and crashed. The next day I woke up and remembered what had happened. I was so happy. I sat over my Lucky Charms in total pre–high-five mode. Then, of