Sleazy Summer Stories
Saturday, September 29th, 2007
This week’s question:
‘Tis the season for everyone’s favorite essay question, but “what did you do on your summer vacation” that you could never have told Teach about?
Next week’s question:
On the possible verge of a national housing crisis, we wondered: What was your worst personal housing disaster?
With 50 mph winds kicking up a white wall of sand, my fellow pub crawlers and I sought refuge in the nearest tent. This being Burning Man, it was no ordinary tent. The price for admission was a public flogging and, while others yelped in pain, I was drunk and determined to take all the ladies could give. I dropped my pants, bent over, smiled, and met the eyes of my assailer. The masses cheered as I remained expressionless through four different floggers. Sure it stung, but I found myself liking it. Can’t wait for next time.
On a beach outing with a man who may very well be my match—someone equally as bold, argumentative, passionate, all-knowing and willing to accept dares, he wagered that I wouldn’t do the deed with him right there. In broad daylight, swimmers and surfers yards away, runners trekking about and the lifeguard patrolling, we discreetly did our business, our swimwear still on, each of us wearing one iPod headphone listening to Spoon’s “I Summon You” so I could appear to have a reason to “dance” around as I sat on top of him in plain view of the world.
My results of my many bouts with summertime boredom were pretty much par for the suburban pre-teen course: pyromania, pop’s porn collection (I still have that Bo Derek issue of Playboy somewhere), and one Big Gulp after another. At some point, my partner in ennui and I realized that people in the ‘burbs don’t lock their cars—and so began our Summer of ‘79 crime spree. The booty was mainly cassettes (the Woodstock soundtrack sits in my car to this day), with spare change, the occasional article of clothing, and I am ashamed to say one CB radio (this was the ’70s) we spotted early one morning, returned for, and never used. This is the reason I lock my car whenever I go home to see my folks.
I was visiting a friend on Fire Island—not the fabulous gay sex part, but the we’ll-throw-you-in-jail-for-eating-ice-cream on the sidewalk part. Despite full awareness of the litter Gestapo, we found ourselves in a large co-ed group drunk, naked, and swimming. The cops were there so fast, they may have been spontaneously generated by the beach. We were hauled out of the water, hiding behind each other and scrambling into sandy pairs of who-cares-whose underpants. A charming Texan actually used the words “Nothing to write home about, Officer,” and somehow we were off the hook. I guess if I weren’t such a nerd, this wouldn’t have been my life’s pinnacle for near-arrests, but as it stands…