Huffy: The BMX of SEX

Looking back, I’m extremely impressed with the level of planning that went into this encounter. Robin and I both faked being sick. I heated up one of those old Mercury filled thermometers over a candle, ran it under cold water, then proclaimed to my mother that I was way to sick to deal with school. She bought it. Parents are so gullible. On the other side of town, Robin must have practiced sucking on the ball hitch of her dad’s Ford Bronco all morning.

I rode my brand new Huffy (purchased from Wal-Mart of course) over to my friend Aaron’s house. Robin had suggested that we meet at a neutral site to eliminate the chance that anyone would stumble across this pubescent right of passage. My mom worked at my cousin’s local furniture store, and I’m not sure Robin even had parents. I used every side road imaginable as to avoid being spotted by family or local church parishioners. A USGS mapping expedition was a joke compared to my sex-driven GPS.

I arrived at probably the most shitty house in town (hey, I never said my friends were classy). Robin immediately took the lead, which was fine and dandy because I sure as shit didn’t know what the Sam Henry Hell I was doing. She took my hand and lead me upstairs to a spare bedroom. “This is finally going to happen” said the mini Devil in my head . All these years of Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night church services that my mom dragged me to suddenly made me very angry.

Are you F-ing kidding me? Praise the Lord or become a man? Hmm, tough choice. Survey says: Get Laid! I had found my calling.

My first error of the day was to wear button-fly jeans, but that didn’t stop a professional like Robin. My jeans flew open like the jersey pants of the 6th man entering a NBA game. She had the fingers of Mozart. Levi Strauss would have been thoroughly impressed. As her hand slid past the rim of my tighty whiteys, a sharp pain shot up the side of my body and into my shoulder. Holy Jesus, mother of Pearl! What the hell was that all about? I was able to play it off without my private dancer ever noticing. CONTACT!!!! A hand was on my penis and it was not mine! Hallelujah. I was king of the world. Nothing could stop me. Except premature ejaculation. I’m not sure if it was between the 4th or 5th stroke that my man butter exploded like an Iraqi RPG.

HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM. Or should I say, HOUSTON, ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME?

Imagine the shame, the embarrassment, the stained trousers that now surrounded me. Cloaked in failure might have been a more appropriate summation. I believe the words “I swear this has never happened before” were uttered by yours truly. Amazingly, this shower of protein pudding didn’t phase my teen concubine! Without hesitation, undaunted by the premature NASA launch, she went back to work. This was my lucky day. God was good. Until about 4 minutes later. My testicles decided to release the remainder of “pride” that was left in me. At that point, I called it a day. I re-fastened my acid washed, tight rolled carpenter jeans, hopped onto the Huffy, and retreated back to the friendly confines of my home. This has never been spoken of since, until now for all you jackasses to enjoy.

A couple weeks later I attempted a 2nd rendezvous with Ms. Robin but she wanted nothing to do with it. My window had closed. The opportunity to earn my Mojo merit badge had to wait. Later in the school season I found out that she had blown the entire varsity football team. Way to go Robin. Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy. Maybe that explains why the team stood around scratching their balls all season. Just a thought.

3 years later, now at the age of 18, in the basement of a St. Louis City cop, I stepped through the doors of Manhood (my girlfriend was the daughter of a cop, you perverts). All was right again with the world. However, I will be forever grateful to the dirty tramp who taught me that my wiener is not just for taking a piss.