Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates

by Mike Stangle

  You can’t fall off the floor, right? It was time to pick myself up and see where I could take this. As it turns out, pretty goddamn far. L’Poop and I hit it off big-time. We exchanged pleasantries until we finished our drinks, then I bought us another round. I would joke, she’d laugh even though the joke went over her head. She’d say something in French, I’d laugh because I’m not sophisticated enough to understand her. The tail jokes were incredibly successful though. Every one was a home run. I couldn’t believe how well it was going. I actually couldn’t believe it, though—as in, it was going so well I thought she might be a hooker or something. All of these paranoid thoughts started going through my head, like what if my friends had found this chick and put her up to it, because they knew how desperate I was? I thought maybe I was being messed with. Those feelings temporarily subsided when we began Frenching before we even finished our second drink! That’s right! I’m talking full-on smooching in the middle of the bar, Davidoff and L’Poop, within ten minutes of meeting each other. I was grabbing her butt, she was grabbing my tail, it was magic. Mike was twenty feet away from me, hootin’ and hollerin’ at me with my friends, like a pack of dogs.

  The DJ must have even been in my corner, because we made out for at least three Usher songs in a row before she whispered that we should step outside. For a cigarette? I asked her. I must have came off so boyish and dopey. What was she doing with me? I sounded like Eeyore from Winnie-the-Pooh. Eh, somezing like that? She said with a cute little smile. Okay what the FUCK is going on here? Did someone seriously put her up to this? It was all somehow working. We walked out of the bar, fingers interlaced like we’d been dating for all four years of high school, and the bouncer gave me this huge grin like, “Didn’t I just see you come in here like . . . twelve minutes ago?” I gave him the cool-guy nod back, naturally. L’Poop and I got outside and she started kissing me again. I didn’t even get a cigarette, which was probably a godsend, because with the way things were going, I would have taken one dorky pull off of it and erupted in a fit of coughing as she took a long, slow, smooth pull and blew smoke rings that morphed into the shape of hearts. No butts, though; at least not the smoking ones. We started to get pretty handsy outside the bar. I want you to take me out of here, Davidoff. Come on. Really? I mean, I will, but really? I had to be getting played here. I’m not going to say that Lake George is overflowing with eligible and desirable bachelors, but why me?

  I evaluated my options. The Entertainer was a no-go; it was in plain sight down on the docks, so the entire world would see. Not that I’m opposed to that sort of thing; just wait for our chapter on that. There was a hotel not far from Christie’s, but my credit card was still inside at the bar being maxed out by Mike and the gang. L’Poop was staying in another hotel right next door to Christie’s, but it was occupied by friends who got too much sun that day. With no plan at all, L’Poop and I started walking south. At this point, we were only looking for privacy. After about ninety quick make-out breaks with L’Poop whispering in ol’ Davidoff’s ear about how sexy he was (note to self: MOVE TO FRANCE) we found ourselves in front of Fort William Henry. I could go into a whole history lesson on just what Fort William Henry is, but this isn’t a history book. All you need to know is that it’s a British fort on the southern end of Lake George best known for the notorious atrocities committed by Indians against surrendered British troops following a successful French siege in 1757. Ever see Last of the Mohicans? That’s where all that shit took place. On the vast front lawn of Fort William Henry, there is a statue. I’m not sure who the statue is of. I’d assume it’s of William Henry. I’m also not sure who William Henry even was. He was probably tortured by those savage Indians. What I do know is that William Henry’s statue is like a playground made of marble and L’Poop was getting downright freaky with me on it. She was taking her clothes off and giggling, which is possibly the hottest combination of two things a French chick could do, as we chased each other around the statue. I imagine if Martians were observing Earth at that very moment and saw the two of us—one goofy, uncoordinated white guy chasing around a gorgeous giggling French gal—they probably wrote in their Martian notebooks Note to Self: MOVE TO EARTH.

  Soon things started to get hot and heavy and ol’ William Henry wasn’t the only guy sporting some marble. As perfect as this was about to be, I was still freaking out like something was wrong. It didn’t add up. Was this girl about to drug me and steal my organs? That was the honest-to-God thought that was going on in my head as she wrapped her legs around me. Well, that thought went away pretty quickly, within about three to five seconds. I thought I was enjoying it so much that I was imagining fireworks in the background. Then I remembered it was the Fourth of July. An American slob making love to a French 10 on the Fourth of July on top of a statue of a guy who was tortured by Indians. For my money, it doesn’t get any more American than that, folks.

  We finished and smoked cigarettes as we lay ass-naked, half on the grass and half on the statue. L’Poop and I eventually gathered up the clothes we had been tearing off each other and wandered back toward the bar scene. I had a shirt on, though I was not sure it was mine, and definitely didn’t find my boxers. I didn’t even know what else I was missing, only that I was decent enough to pass the no shirt/no shoes/no service test. Since we had left the bar so early together, things were still raging as we got back to Christie’s. L’Poop told me she was going to pop into her hotel room next door to freshen up. We’d better exchange numbers now; I don’t want to lose track of you. It was the smoothest thing I had said all night. Absolutely not. She responded, deadpan. Then she smiled, walked into the hotel lobby, and I never saw her again. She never came back to the bar, I couldn’t find her at any other bars, and the hotel night manager assured me there was no LAH POOP staying at his hotel. What’s worse? No one except the bouncer even saw me leave the bar with her. I came back to a crowd of drunken friends yelling at me for flaking out on them. When I told Mike the story, he laughed me off as if it never could have happened. I didn’t fight him on it; what was the point? I was happy to be back there with all of my organs still inside my body and all my demons outside of it, finally.

  The night ended how most nights like that ended back then, in a complete blackout. When I pulled myself together the next day, I got The Entertainer out of the water and onto the trailer, loaded up my friends, and began to head home. The drive out of Lake George the day after is always depressing. You drive past all the things you still want to be doing, then watch them fade into the rearview mirror. The last landmark you drive by on your way out of town is Fort William Henry. As I looked into my rearview to bid adieu to one of the wilder and luckier nights I’d had, I caught a glimpse of that statue of William Henry. Someone had found the coonskin hat nearby and put it on his head. I’ll always remember you, Lisa L’Poop.

  It’s All About the Nipple

  Young Man, Count Your Titty Blessings

  (Mike)

  The older fellas I know love talking about how much technology has changed the flirting game between their generation and mine. Once upon a time, they were just like me. They were in their twenties, young professionals, living in a bustling city filled with women. The major difference between chasing women then and chasing women now? Technology. When they were our age, the concept of a gal being willing and able to take a sexy picture of herself and then instantly send it to a fella she was sweating was absolutely bonkers. All a gal needs to do nowadays is pop off some clothes, do the skinny-arm pose (hand on hip, ladies!), kissy-face those lips, and snap. Some lucky guy has a little red number 1 in the corner of his Snapchat and the games have begun. We men take for granted how easy that process is.

  Picture the entire operation if you limit yourself to the technology of previous generations. I’m not just saying before Snapchat, but before camera phones, digital cameras, before everyone had a Dell desktop computer riddled with viruses. I’m talking about a time when the phrase “nudie shot” would make people th
ink of the Hooters drink menu. Back then, it was so much more than point, snap, and send. Imagine trying to replicate that with limited technology? I imagine a young, plucky gal named Sue asking her older friend Peggy to borrow her camera, because younger people can’t afford cameras. So she goes to Peggy’s apartment at a time they designated to meet hours earlier, while in the same company, because no one had cell phones to make last-minute plans. Then she lugs the camera in the over-the-shoulder case to the local pharmacy and buys a roll of film. Then she goes back to her apartment and puts the film in the camera, but she forget to get batteries. So she goes back to the pharmacy and gets batteries, but they’re the wrong kind. She wasn’t even paying attention, because she had gotten a little high at her apartment while loading the film. Once she gets the film set and the right batteries, she gets the camera on and uses the entire roll of film taking nudie shots of herself. Selfies, mirror shots, full bush everywhere. There is probably an Andy Warhol print in the background of some of them. She has to take a ton of them, because she can’t see whether they are good or bad as she takes them. Then she has to get the film developed, but she doesn’t want to go to her local pharmacy. They are pictures of her naked, and that shit is unheard-of. Plus, she’s already been in there three times for film and batteries, and the guy who works there is sort of creepy. So she goes to the weird pharmacy, the one up in Morningside Heights. But film development isn’t instant; in fact, it takes a fucking day. You have to drop it off and then come back the next day to pick it up. Then she remembers the new thing that some places have called one-hour photos. How much of a technological mind blower that is! But only the nice places have it, like the place she’s already been to three times. She really likes the guy she took the pictures for, plus, she already put so much time and effort into the whole thing, so she might as well see it through.

  She goes back to the original pharmacy that she’s already been to three times and goes to the one-hour photo counter. The guy behind the counter is creepy and it skeeves her out to think he’ll be developing her pictures, but then again she’s already in this deep, so she might as well keep going. He says it will take an hour, so she goes and gets a coffee, then buys an envelope and a few stamps. When she goes to pick up the pictures, the creepy guy is looking at her even creepier and the envelope he gives her only has twenty-one pictures in it, even though there should be twenty-four. She doesn’t argue with him, because there is an old lady behind her in the store who reminds her of her grandmother. So instead, she just hopes he didn’t take the best three and walks home. Then she has to comb through and pick out the best one. She puts it in an envelope, writes the guy’s address on it, pops two stamps on it (to really make sure it gets there), walks down her stairs, out her door, down the block, and drops it in the mailbox. Then, two to three business days later, he receives a nudie shot. Nice!

  Since the older fellas I know won’t let me forget how much technology has changed everything between our generations, it makes me think about how I will give the next generation of young men, and anyone who will even still listen to me at that point, a bunch of shit about how great they have it. Most dads or grandads use the ol’ when I was your age I had to walk to school, ten miles in the snow, uphill, both ways! That one is so dumb. Hey, baby boomers—of all the luxuries our generation has been afforded over yours, school transportation is your go-to? Not even a mention of the invention of Google Maps or the prevalence of gals shaving their boxes? We shouldn’t let our generation’s equivalent example be as lame for the next batch of youngsters. The difference between my generation and theirs is already showing its incredibly sexy head. I’ve got cousins, ten and twelve years old, these two little punks. I think about how they’ll have it easier than I did and in what areas. How about the almighty boob? When I was in my adolescence, all I wanted was to up my boobie count. We weren’t seeing live boobs in person, maybe a nipple slip here or there. For the most part, we had to rely on the TV. You could rent an R-rated movie, but that wasn’t a guarantee there would be a boob in it. Plus, our parents weren’t too big on letting us watch R movies. That didn’t stop us, but we weren’t going to put all of our efforts into acquiring an R movie if we weren’t sure it would deliver. You had to be sure. Forget looking it up on the Internet to confirm; Al Gore hadn’t invented it yet. To find out where all the boobies were at, you had to hit the streets and do your research. You had to check in with the kids who lived in a one-parent home on the other side of the tracks. They were watching all the R movies; they had the scoop. You had to keep your ear to the ground. I can remember one time I was at one of my soccer games, waiting for it to start. I didn’t have to warm up or stretch or anything, because I was our team’s goalie. I was six feet four at twelve years old, guarding a seven-foot goal. Good luck scoring, normal-sized twelve-year-olds. Instead, I hung out with the refs—they were local high school kids paid seven dollars a game to blow the whistle when the ball went out of bounds. Later on in my life, I would become one of those refs for part-time work. I was eventually not welcomed back, because I gave a red card to any parent who argued a call.

  One Saturday morning before a game, I can remember this one older ref Andy talking about a movie that had just gone from theaters to VHS. I can still remember it was called Fair Game. It was your classic nineties blockbuster. Alec Baldwin played Max Kirkpatrick, a cop who protects Kate McQuean (played by Cindy Crawford, hello!), a civil law attorney on the run from a renegade KGB team out to get her. Andy confirmed that you see Cindy Crawford’s boobs during a steamy sex scene that took place on a moving freight train. Like I said, classic nineties blockbuster. I was ecstatic! A name as big as Cindy Crawford, showing boob!? The hunt was on! I was like a teenage girl hearing about a confirmed sighting of Justin Timberlake. I was on it. My best hope was to hit up Blockbuster (RIP) and rent the VHS. There was no way Mama Stangle would let me pop an R movie into the cart; she had strict rules when it came to that. Naturally, my workaround was having my old man take me to Blockbuster. He had no idea how Blockbuster even worked. He might not have even known what it was. He isn’t too big on movies. The only movie he ever liked is Blazing Saddles, because racism is funny and acceptable in that one. All he cared to know about Blockbuster was that a visit kept us kids busy all weekend. I grabbed a copy of Fair Game from the new releases section, a few other assorted titles that would act as buffers as I waited for my folks to nod off, and a big box of Butterfinger BBs—’cause I was a fucking baller.

  I saw Cindy Crawford’s boobies that night, my friends. I saw them loud and I saw them clear. I still remember them, and that train scene. Quick note: there were KGB operatives actively shooting machine guns everywhere, while Alec was dogging Cindy out on a warehouse crate. You just can’t suppress a man’s carnal desires. On that same note, think of all the effort I put into seeing that set of boobs. It was a grassroots operation. Literally, that soccer field was grassy as shit. It involved eavesdropping, car rides, throwing Denny off my scent, and hours of buffer tapes until I knew I wouldn’t be interrupted. Now, imagine the same process today? Our pops complained about trekking to school ten miles in the snow? Try playing a wimp sport like soccer, every Saturday, just to get the lowdown on where all the smut is. Then you start your trek, and Blockbuster is way farther away than school is, amigo. My punk little cousins? They’ve both got iPhones. You don’t think they know how to enable private browsing? One click. Titties on the playground. Titties at lunch. Titties during the seventh-inning stretch. These kids are probably looking at nipples while they’re brushing their teeth, one-handed style. It’s tit city for kids today. After I saw my first pair of boobs, it was months before I realized they weren’t all the same. Wait, nipples are different!? Imagine if my first one was pierced or a jujube nipple? I’d be scarred! Now kids are trading nipple pics like they’re pogs. They probably only remember what a nipple looks like for twenty-five seconds, until the next one comes along. So fast-forward a few generations to me on a porch in a rocking chair, o
ld and weathered, and I won’t be scolding my little punk grandkids about some tough walk to school. I’ll be telling them to count their titty blessings, ’cause they don’t know what rough is.

  Extended Pleasure

  I Just Can’t Sex Right!

  (Mike)

  Ever been intimidated by the prospect of making love to a pretty gal? That was college for me, from day one. I couldn’t even come close to a hookup without complete intimidation. College was the first time I’d ever been single and sexually active at the same time. I’d had a girlfriend throughout all of high school, since the first day my peener moved until I got to college. Back then, that was the only way to have any sort of consistent sex: you had to be with someone. No one was having one-night stands, and if they were, you really had to work at them or get lucky after you split a sixer of Smirnoff Ice. When I got to college and was a single fella, there were a lot new things in my sexual game. There were a lot of firsts, a lot of lasts, and a lot of one-time-onlys. By the time I got to my junior year at the State University of New York at Oswego, I was really starting to hit my stride. I was in decent shape, had that cool-guy house all the cool guys have right near the bars, and had a real hard-body group of friends. We were very Abercrombie & Fitch, just walking around in jeans with no shirts, for no reason. If you spotted me back then, chances are you’d see a combination of a backward hat, a Jeep Wrangler, a Frisbee, and American flags everywhere. I can go on. Crazy sunglasses, shitty rap, patchy facial hair, going to mixers with the rugby guys. You name it! I was finally cool! I was “so college,” and loving it.