Since the age of twelve, one of my greatest dreams in life had been to snort a line of cocaine from a beautiful woman’s inner thigh. Meredith Simpson may not have been beautiful, but she at the very least was a woman. The dream had everything to do with my yearning to make my life worthy of narrative.
On television, people have accidentally shot and killed their best friend while playing with their dad’s gun. In books, people have cried silently as their uncle slid his dick between their prepubescent thighs. How could my story compare to those? Nobody wants to hear about the time as a child I was offered a blowjob.
On Easter weekend of your freshman year at Dartmouth, you and two friends, Rick and John, decide to rent a car and drive to New Haven, CT, where you once attended a summer program for high school students. The Ford Escort, fittingly obtained at an agency called Rent-a-Wreck, the only place that will rent to a nineteen-year-old, is half your age.
On the second story of a two-story apartment, my girlfriend and I lounged on a bed with another couple, all of us sloppy from too much domestic beer. Porn flickered on a television in the corner. Music blared from the party going on downstairs.
Among the many lessons I was taught by those wing women so long ago, the one I learned that day at the store I consider the most important. I realized not only did I want to be around people who lived their lives in exclamation points but I also wanted to live my own life the same way. Months later that lesson would play a key role, arguably, in helping me to find someone who, thankfully, was generous enough to relieve my virginity.
The woman must have gotten caught on part of the undercarriage. She had been dragged for at least thirty yards.