Von

Either they didn’t think I could see them making out in the backseat—or they just didn’t care.

 

Regardless of their motivations, they went at it pretty hard.

And I wasn’t gon’ stop ’em.

 

It was 2 AM. I’d just picked up my 18-year-old cousin and his date from the last of their prom night activities. My aunt enlisted me to be their chauffeur for the evening—and my final assignment was to take them both home.

I witnessed their debauchery through my rearview mirror.

As the lone adult present, it was my duty to supervise the kiddies and make sure stuff like this didn’t transpire.

However, I couldn’t bring myself to intervene.

Why shouldn’t they have a little fun? Heaven forbid a guy make out with his date on prom night (hell, I had my first kiss at 13).

 

But it got me to thinking—what if they’ve done more than just kiss?
I couldn’t wrap my brain around such a horrifying thought.
Then again, it ain’t like we were angels back then either.

I lost my virginity at the tender age of 17—long after most of my peers.

Throughout my high school years I had to listen to my buddies and football teammates brag about how much “action” they were getting.

It sucked.

Being a virgin, I didn’t have anything to add to sex-related discussions with the fellas. When asked about my experiences—I could only lie.

 

Before judging me for such an unspeakable act of lameness, understand that manhood was defined by how many women one had. So-called pimps and playas were applauded—while virgins were clowned relentlessly.

Therefore, it was of critical importance not to divulge my virgin status.

So I fibbed—making up fake stories of imaginary sexual conquests with make-believe girls.

But in the summer of ’94 I finally got an opportunity to end my years of frustration.

 

I got a call from a classmate one morning.

The same one who’d attempted to get at me for the longest—and for some unknown reason, I’d always declined her advances (maybe I wasn’t over my high-school sweetheart who’d broken my heart). But not this time.

I invited her over between the 2-hour window that my mom left for work and when I had to leave for football practice.

She caught the bus over. I greeted her at the door. Soon we were spooning, fully clothed, on my bed (with the superhero-themed mattress) watching cheesy morning talk shows.

Despite my nervousness, I knew I had to seize this opportunity.

We made out and engaged in what some call “heavy petting.” Soon I relieved her of her clothes—a major accomplishment for a virgin.

 

Holy shit!

I actually had a naked girl in my room! And I was naked too.

I just had one minor problem: I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I WAS DOING!

 

Which was unfortunate—seeing as how I’d lied to ol’ girl about my sexual prowess. In a state of panic, I figured that if I emulated what I saw in the pornos, I’d be cool.

Unfortunately, I failed.

 

After realizing I wasn’t gonna be able to get the job done, she turned me on my back and said she’d handle the rest.

 

Ten minutes later it was over.

 

In a post-orgasmic state, I embraced the fantastic truth: I was no longer a virgin.

 

“Mission accomplished.”
—Our 43rd president

 

Coach yelled at me for being a step slower than usual at football practice that afternoon. But I could only revel in the fact that I finally had a real story to tell the guys.

 

So one can imagine that seeing my cousin and his girlfriend making out in the backseat of the car brought a ton of memories flooding back for me.

Whenever his moment of truth arises, hopefully it won’t be as awkward as mine was.

 

Although it happened more than 18 years ago, I still remember it pretty well.

The year was 1990. A year in which:
— DC mayor Marion Berry got busted with crack.
— Buster Douglas KOed Mike Tyson for the heavyweight title.
— George HW Bush was acting President of the United States.
— Home Alone and Ghost were the two top-grossing films of the year.

And, most importantly, I was a 13-year-old, soon-to-be eighth-grader enjoying the final days of summer.

See, the worst thing about the end of the summer was the cold, harsh reality that school would be starting soon.

And I hated school. With a passion.
Not because I wasn’t a good student. No, I despised school because I was a socially awkward nerd who’d always get clowned. Relentlessly. For not rockin’ the hottest clothes or name-brand gym shoes. For wearing taped-up bifocals. For just about anything, really.

Consequently, I wanted nothing more than to cherish the last few days of summer.

As a kid, there was nothing better than summertime.
No school. And we could play all day without a care in the world.

Me and my buddies could usually be found hangin’ out at the playground—our grade-school equivalent to the club. The finest girls would always be there. Rockin’ their skimpy daisy dukes and other provocative garments. If anything was more appealing to us puberty-stricken kids than sports and video games—it was girls.

One Saturday afternoon, me and my boy decided to go one last time before school started. To holla at some young ladies. He was smooth with the ladies, whereas I was shy and timid. Whenever I did attempt to holla, the ladies said I talked like a “white boy,” ’cause I used proper English (“we” were brainwashed even back then).

 

That particular day I caught the eye of a girl playing on the swings.

I don’t remember much about her—just that she was dark skinned and “thick.”

We talked. I was so nervous, but I hid it pretty well.
She wasn’t even turned off by my “white boy” accent—and even complimented me on my legs.
Soon we made our way behind the basketball court, sitting on a bench.
My boy left so I could do my thing. Her girls did too.

It was just the two of us. Her sitting on my lap and my arms around her waist.

 

When she gazed into my eyes, I knew what was supposed to happen next. But I’d never made out with a girl before. All I knew was what I saw on TV.

I started to panic.

“Please, Lord! Don’t let me screw this up!“

 

She closed her eyes and puckered up. I did the same.
I followed her lead and took it slowly.
Next she slipped me the tongue. I did the same.
It wasn’t sloppy or awkward. After a while it just felt natural.

We made out for a couple minutes in all.

 

It was all that I thought it’d be. And more.

 

As the sun began to set that night, she told me that she had to get going. Before she left, I told her I’d like to see her again. She wouldn’t give me her number (this was before the cell phone era), but she said she’d meet me there the next day. At the same time.

I waited for her that Sunday for what seemed like an eternity.

She never came.

Dammit!

 

It’d prove to be the first of many misadventures I’d have with women.

 

But I’ll always remember that night in the park.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I actually got punked quite a bit in my youth.

No joke.
 

Dog, I grew up in the ‘hood. It was real every day on the cold, hard streets of Chicago’s west side. I wasn’t duckin’ bullets or nothin’ crazy like that, but it was kinda rough at times. Gangs, hoodlums, all that shyt.

 

Back in “grammar school” the kids would constantly pick on me.

In the schoolyard. At recess. After school.

They’d steal my sandwich and Capri-Sun juice box from my lunchbox when I wasn’t around.

Away from school, a dude stole my bike in broad daylight—as I chased him yelling repeatedly, “That’s my bike!” (like dude was gon’ hear that and say, “My bad, homie. I was gon’ take yo’ shyt till you said that.”).

It was sad times, dog.

But the climax of my days of getting punked had be when those chumps jumped me for my Girl Scout cookies.

My mom took the forms to work and harassed folks there. It’s really a hassle to solicit co-workers to buy shyt. My mom went through a lot to help me out.

 

A couple weeks later, a big-ass box arrives at school.
My order. Full of the cookies my family and all of my mom’s co-workers bought.
With their hard-earned cash.

Destination home.

 

 

 

As I struggled carrying my box, I noticed a gathering of thugs on the opposite corner.
Had to be 3, possibly 4 of ’em.
They were older, maybe 7^th or 8^th graders.

 

 

 

In football, we call that a fumble!

 

 

 

 

As I struggled to get up, I noticed people on their porches looking at me.

No one did anything. Some were even laughing.

With my pride and dignity gone, I took the walk of shame home (while the Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background)—where I proceeded to cry my eyes out in front of my mom (I’ll be she was like, “I busted my ass to sell those cookies so you could get punked like this? Is this the man I’m raising you to be?”)

The only positive thing about that horrific event is that it shaped me into the man I am today. A dude who don’t take shyt from NOBODY (well, except for the bytch-ass muhfukkas at DirecTv. And ol’ boy who slid me his number on the train that day).Nowadays, ain’t no way I’m lettin’ some chump take what’s mine.

Even if they got a gun pointed at me.

So, to those cowards who took my girl scout cookies—don’t let me catch y’all chumps on the street (not that I hang out on the corner or anything).

’Cause I ain’t the same dude y’all jacked back in the day.