The other day I was cleaning out my room and came across a dusty relic of a forgotten time. As I picked it up and blew the dust off of it, I looked at the words that were inscribed on the purple trophy, the words that said, "Chad Weaver - Pretty Good Doing Sex - 2016." It made me smile, thinking of how young I was back when my friends had given me that trophy after the first time I had sex. We were all so young back then, my friends and I, but I remember that night like it was yesterday. I think that's a night we'd all remember, the night the Bonertown Booty Boys got ol' Chad Weaver laid.
The year was 1982, the city was Akron, the time was a cool night in November (almost as cool as we were), and the place was none other than The Happening Lounge. The Happening Lounge was the club the Bonertown Booty Boys called home, and we were there so often that people just called it The Bootyhole. It was definitely The Bootyhole that night, because all the Booty Boys were represented:
You had yours truly, Chad Weaver, or as the boys called me, "C-Section," because I was the reason your mother wears a one-piece bathing suit. Though I just preferred Chaddy Daddy, because I was shy, quiet and would never be able to look you in the eye.
Then there was "B.O.," Barack Obama, who we called "Nope 44" on account of the fact that Barry was always saying he'd never become the 44th President of the United States. Judging by the stuff we'd seen him do, we didn't think he would either.
Next was Cardboard Chad Weaver (no relation), a cardboard cutout that looked just like me (but again, no relation). It was legend that the entire Akron rubber industry had only been kept alive up to this point by the sheer amount of condoms Cardboard Chad Weaver purchased. We found out later that Cardboard Chad Weaver always felt like he was only 2-dimensional and filled the hole inside of him by filling every hole he could find.
And finally there was Gary "The Rock" Fitzgerald, our hotheaded Irish friend who was also a talking basketball.
Together we were the Bonertown Booty Boys. In Akron we were kings, and everyone knew that when you were inside our Bootyhole you were our subjects.
Now that night in November started just like any other, with all us Booty Boys piling into our Bootyhole for sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, though all the Boys knew that I liked my sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll with the sex on the side since I was still a virgin.
My memory of the night begins with us all at the bar, ordering food and drinks. "Feed me The Rock!" yelled Gary, our talking basketball friend. The bartender looked slightly annoyed that Gary yelled at him, and snapped back, "When are you guys gonna' stop coming here?" The bartender had a right to be bothered, but in Gary's defense he had to yell because our Bootyhole was packed that night. Barack Obama noticed that Gary had rubbed the bartender the wrong way and tried to comfort him by saying, "Hey man, sorry about Gary, but all I know is I'll never be the 44th President of these United States!" I was just about to explain how that was classic "B.O." when I spotted a beauty the likes of which I had never seen within The Bootyhole. My jaw must have dropped when I saw her, because Cardboard Chad Weaver looked at me then followed my gaze to her.
"Looks like Chaddy Daddy just found a mommy! Hey man, if you want to try to talk to her I can give you one of my many condoms, though I know you like your sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll with the sex on the side since you're still a virgin," Cardboard Chad Weaver said, repetitively. "Oh wow Chad, she's beautiful! She looks like 44th President of the United States material, unlike me!" Barry said, which was SO him. Gary joined in and said, "Chad go pass her The Rock if you know what I'm saying!" We had no idea what he was saying. "Well Chad, there's only one way you're going to lose your virginity, and that's by talking to her and taking her on a hump parade down Boner Boulevard," Cardboard Chad Weaver explained, then pushed me in the direction of her.
Scared to go talk to this beautiful woman but more scared of letting down the Bonertown Boys, I made my way across the Bootyhole to lean up against the wall beside her.
After nervously glancing in her direction a few times I mustered up the courage to say to her, "Hi, I'm Chad, I think you're super cute and I don't know if you know this but you're inside my Bootyhole right now." As I said this she suddenly turned to me, grabbed me by the throat and pulled a nunchuck out of nowhere. "Uh, at least buy me dinner first?" I said in total confusion.
"Don't move," she said coolly (almost as cool as the Boys). "Wha-..." I was cut off as there was an explosion in my Bootyhole. The nunchuck girl and I were thrown down, and I couldn't see where the rest of the Bonertown Booty Boys were in all the smoke. As the girl and I picked ourselves up, out of the white, hot, sticky smoke rose three balding, middle-aged men wearing bedazzled-cross-emblazoned T-shirts. The leader, the Hot Dad Who's Too Old to Grind But Still Tries, stepped forward and spoke.
"We're the Hot Dads and we're here to do one thing: finish off the Bonertown Booty Boys."
Then the second one, the Hot Dad Who's Only Staring at Twentysomethings, went running towards Barack, who had wandered out into the middle of the dance floor. Just as it seemed the Hot Dad Who's Only Staring at Twentysomethings was about to slam into the never-wanna-be 44th President, a nunchuck came cracking into the Hot Dad's face, bloodying his carefully botoxed lips and sending him running for the exit. It was the girl I had tried to talk to earlier — she had saved Barry O!
The leader of the Hot Dads was furious and screamed, "Why are you defending the Booty Boys? Don't make this or them harder than this or they have to be! Who are you?!"
"Who am I? I'm Your Mom, and nobody's getting soft on my watch," she said as she went leaping into the air, preparing to throw a flying karate kick into the Hot Dad Who's Too Old to Grind But Still Tries. However the third and most deadly of all the dads, the Hot Dad Who's Banging Your Mom, hit Your Mom with the kind of violence I do not want to describe here. Needless to say that after the Hot Dad Who's Banging Your Mom was done with Your Mom, she was finished.
By now Barack, Cardboard Chad Weaver, Gary and I had gathered together, knowing that we were on our own. The two Hot Dads had us cornered and they knew it, slowly approaching us and laughing. The Bonertown Booty Boys glanced at each other, with the knowledge in our hearts that this could be the last time we were alive in our Bootyhole together. We looked despaired, until Barack turned hardened, like the true Bonertown Booty Boy he was, and said, "Listen Boys, I will never be the 44th President of the United States, but that doesn't mean we're not going to make it out of here alive to see me not become the 44th President."
With those words, "B.O." ran out and swung wide to about 28 feet away from the Hot Dads. The Hot Dads stopped, looking confused. Once out there, Barack, with a twinkle in his eye, called out, "Feed me The Rock." We knew exactly what to do, as Gary bounced into my hands and I fired a bullet pass directly to Obama. Barry caught Gary and, in one smooth motion that summoned from Barack all the fury of Hawaii, shot a jumper with pinpoint accuracy towards the bulge in the Hot Dad Who Banged Your Mom's pants, destroying him and his most lethal weapon.
The final Hot Dad stood there in shock and horror, much like the reaction of the people he attempted to grind on. While the Hot Dad leader was stunned, Cardboard Chad Weaver dove into him. Then Cardboard Chad Weaver, using his signature move, rubbed himself on the Dad thereby drying out his skin and giving him some wicked cardboard cuts.
"No! Not my overly tanned and perfectly leathery skin!" cried out the Hot Dad. The Bonertown Booty Boys gave each other a glance and knew exactly what to do next.
"You're not our real dad!" we all yelled as we threw the Hot Dad out of our Bootyhole.
To celebrate our victory, me, Barack Obama, Gary the talking basketball and Cardboard Chad Weaver all saddled up to the bar for a drink. The bartender emerged from his hiding place and looked at us with relief. As we pulled out our wallets the bartender waved them off, looked us each in the eye and said, "Listen, as far as I'm concerned, the Bonertown Booty Boys can come in The Bootyhole anytime."
And that, my friends, is the story of the first time I had sex.
