"WE WERE NOT cowboys and there were no steel horses, or six strings on our backs. There was big hair though, lots of it. And we didn’t sleep. It was 1986. Reagan was President. The Oprah Winfrey Show debuted. Bill Buckner let a groundball pass through his legs. Len Bias died. The Olsen twins were born. And Wanted Dead or Alive was playing everywhere. Yet none of this mattered, not to us anyway.
Because all we could think about was pussy, looking for it, getting it, eating it, fucking it and getting more of it. Way more, more than we could manage, more than we could imagine. We went to the mall looking for it, Denny’s, keg parties out in the woods or by the river, football games, the drive-in, high school dances and Ground Round’s All You Can Eat Wings Night. We shopped at The Gap and Jeans West. We wore cologne. Drakar Noir. Grey Flannel. We scoured our faces for any signs of pimples or blemishes. We feathered our hair. We wore Levi’s, never Wrangler’s and Members Only jackets. We lifted weights. We searched for the perfect deodorant and hair gel.
We bought condoms, ribbed for her pleasure, lubricated, sometimes sheep skin. When we weren’t talking about how to get pussy, we thought about it, all day, all night and every moment in-between. We thought about pussy even when we were getting it, wondering when we might get it next. We worked on our rap. We worked on looking like we cared, like we were good listeners, and then we called girls, called them again and then called other girls. We assigned point totals for how far we got. You got ten points for a hand job and twenty-five for a blow job, plus five bonus points if she swallowed. Fifty points if you actually boffed someone, though no more than 200 points were allowed on any one night because that was just too fucking greedy."