The 12 Lays of Christmas, Part I

No, this 4-part series ain't about no potato chips--but it's not about getting laid, either. More like not getting laid. Behold my holiday homage to young love--past years of crushes, ridonkulous encounters with the possibility, but not the actuality, of bonkage and hopefully, maybe, some sweet and impish bits to counter the lame moves (mostly on my part) you'll read about here. No big hits, all fazed cookies, for the Stones fans in the audience. Hot rocks for sure.

P.S. This series was inspired by Lorenzo, who woke me up at 4:30 3 mornings in a row by mumbling and snorting to himself. Strangely, each time I was freshly mid-dream in a scene featuring one of the guys you'll be reading about. Why they would pop up after all these years, I don't know. Maybe the Renzolio does.


12 Preppies Groping
First off, I wanna say that everyone in my series will be nameless or at least incorrectly named--I think it's much more fun, respectful and mysterious that way, and frankly, I never even knew this one's name--just that he wore a pink oxford shirt and liked to hang out near bushes.

It was the summer after junior year in high school, and a cool, smart, college-age coworker at the Paper Place in East Hampton invited me and a friend to a bar. We were 17 and the drinking age was 18, so she gave us both one of her IDs to use… Clueless, maniacal and cackling like some rabid sibling raccoons, we went up to the bouncer one by one, and yes, he let in 3 Jennifer Yes-I-Could-Probably-Remember-Her-Lastname-If-I-Really-Trieds in a row. (That's not her real first name either, btw.) I proceeded to get totally plastered, probably on 1 beer.

Eventually we left the bar and went to some house party in Sagoponack, where I drank some more and wound up lying down on the grass by myself. The pink oxford guy seemed to emerge from the bushes, and kept asking me really difficult questions. How nice of him (insert eye roll here) to try to have a conversation before stroking my cheek (not that one!) and shoving his tongue in my mouth. I was more irritated than scared, which is perhaps a blessing. But not as much a blessing as when I hauled off and vomited, daintily and not especially voluminously, all over him. He didn't even get angry, just sort of wandered off like a bear going into hibernation.

11 Pipers Piping
Senior year in college, second semester: I was just back from a semester in Greece, and my friends had expanded their circle, which was sort of rare, to include a pack of really sweet and smart pot-smoking, Dead Head types.

In spite of myself (I had Mia Farrow pixie hair, smoked Silk Cuts, listened to the Cocteau Twins, wore mostly black and, oh was a pretentious snob), I was sizzlingly attracted to one of these, uh, pipers who looked vaguely like Malcolm McDowell in If. Although he had two additional strikes against him--he was super, super nice* AND a jock--one evening we wound up alone in his dorm room, where we smoked a joint and kissed each other in lots of places while listening to "Dark Side of the Moon."

I responded by not going to dinner, where we all always met up, for an entire week. Isn't that the way you're supposed to let a guy know you like him? (Insert second eye roll here.) Like Syd, I left too early and realized it too late.  I was just scared.

* Ladies who've fallen for that narcissistic creative-loner shtick will understand, and if not, it will become even more clear when we get to the Misogynist Painter Painting.

10 Balls A-Dangling
Oh gawd, it's not looking good for me, is it? In 4th or 5th grade, a boy in my class at Most Holy Trinity was teasing me. I told my brother, who explained what I should do if it happened again. Imagine the surprise on everyone's face on the playground the day I grabbed Frankie Napolitano's (nope, still not using real names) scrotum and squeezed it as hard as I could. You have to know, I had NO idea what I was really doing. Or,uh, that it would inflict that much pain.

I hope you'll join me for Part 2. : )