August 2005, Vol. 4, Issue 8

1. More Existentialist Conversations with Strippers: Crazy Horse & Sapphire by Tenzin McGrupp
She sat on my lap for a few minutes and we got to know each other before her dance. Before she sat down and began rubbing my chest, I knew I was getting at least two from her.... More

2. Street Vendors by Armando Huerta
I had chosen that specific day to eat somewhere that was not around the corner and found myself navigating barricades much like a French peasant during Bastille Day... More

3. Langston Unemployed by BG
I had developed a natural distrust for anyone who seemed more than a little impressed that my mom was who she was, and naturally Shelley figured out the connection right away... More

4. Practicing Virgin by Grubby
He's allergic to latex. Always has been. When the doctor slapped his fanny with a glove, he broke out in the worst hives you ever... More

5. I'd Do Anyone by Joe Speaker
ou have never met a more annoying broad in your whole life. One of those high-pitched giggles that makes you want to thrust your head through the nearest window. And about as bright as swamp grass... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks for coming back for another issue of my literary blogzine. Some of your favorite writers and bloggers return with some stellar contributions. Grubby allowed me to publish one of his plays, and I am honored to do so. BG shares another exceprt from his Langston project. Joe Speaker pops in for a quick story. Armando is back with a Brazilian tale. And how about another Las Vegas stripper story from my Existentialist Conversations with Strippers series?

Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

"Perhaps misguided moral passion is better than confused indifference." - Iris Murdoch

More Existentialist Conversations with Strippers: Crazy Horse and Sapphire

More Existentialist Conversations with Strippers: Crazy Horse & Sapphire

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2005

"Eroticism is like a dance: one always leads the other." - Milan Kundera

A couple of weeks ago, less than 24 hours after the WSOP ended, Grubby and I made a late night run to Crazy Horse 2 or "Too" is how I think it's spelled. Anyway, I was wicked wasted. Extremely inebriated. Shithoused slammed. That's probably not the best state of mind to stumble into a strip club, but that's what happened. I wish I had a better recap of that night, but the moments are a blur. At some point, all strip club experiences blend together, especially when they happen way past 3 AM under a wet towel of liquor.

I was knocking back SoCo's on the rocks and Grubby said that I did not turn one stripper down during that visit. He was on a budget that night, down to his last $100 after a bad day at the craps tables and in the poker room at the Mirage, so he was super selective. I recall that one chick looked like Daryl Hannah (the current botox and collagen injected version). She had horrible breath and kept blowing in my face. I’ve never wanted a lap dance to end faster.

I remember that a Brazilian beauty with breasts the size of pumpkins kept pressing me to head to the VIP room. I know that's a sucker bet and told her, "No way."

Grubby befriended a Kansas girl. I forgot what her face looked like but he described her as a girl-next-door type who resembled Avril LaVigne. He told me I needed to get a dance from her. She did some weird thing with her supple mouth and it vibrated when she ran her face over my crotch. I loved that tingling sensation. It gave me goosebumps.

I vaguely recall the lesbian duo. I know I got them for two dances and they took turns grinding on me while they kissed each other and grabbed my junk. I purchased a lesbian team at Spearmint Rhino last week, and they weren't as good as the feral couple at Crazy Horse. I guess I give off that vibe, "That guy likes two chicks at once." And right away a menagerie of strippers would swoop in towards me fully prepared to vacuum $20 bills out of my pocket.

Supposedly (according to Grubby's blog), I said something to one stripper after she gave me a lap dance, "You're a true artist. And you know this." And yes that makes another Top 5 list.

Top 5 Lines I Say to Strippers...
1. "You're a true artist."
2. "I love your shoes."
3. "You have amazing skin. So smooth and so silky."
4. "You're the most beautiful dancer here."
5. "You're a deadly combination: smart and hot."

OK, so most of those are flat out bluffs. But even strippers like to be complimented every now and then. I have often recycled #2 and #5 on my regular list of Top 5 Lines I Use to Pick Up College Girls. Never underestimate the importance of complimenting a female on her shoes. Even if she's wearing flip flops, always tell her you like her choice in footwear.

Flashback to last Friday night.

When Senor, Grubby, and I stood in the middle of New York New York trying to figure out what to do for Senor's last night in Las Vegas, Grubby laughed when he said, "We're only doing one thing."

That of course was... going to a strip club. The next decision to be made was... where? Grubby suggested Sapphire, the largest strip club in Las Vegas. Before we ventured off to blow my poker bankroll on naked ladies, we walked upstairs to the arcade. Grubby wanted to gamble on video games. He's an action junkie. We fucked up the horse racing video game and couldn't all play at once. We settled on skee-ball, specifically a version of basketball where you get points based on what hoop your ball goes into. We were playing $5 a game. The losers gave the winner $5. So if you won the round, you'd pocket $10. Grubby won the first. Senor won the second and I had an incredible run and took the third round. We all broke even.

Off we went to Sapphire and Grubby was bummed out that they only gave him a $10 discount for being a Las Vegas resident. He usually gets in for free. The hallway leading from the entrance to the actual strip club is cluttered with all types of art... mostly paintings and bonze sculptures of female torsos with erect nipples.

We were seated and it took forever for our waitress to bring us drinks. Sapphire reminded me of an airplane hangar with a stage, a few stripper poles, and plenty of loud music. Strippers naturally love Grubby and Asian strippers really, really love Grubby. He's a magnet for them.

I turned down the first girl who came up to me, on principle, and wanted to show my friends that I had some self-discipline in a strip club. The real reason was that my drink had not arrived. As soon as I downed my first, a brunette beauty made her way towards me. She reminded me of Summer from The OC and was severely curvaceous. I kept repeating, "I love your curves." And that seemed to get her going.

Senor pointed out to an Asian stripper in the corner wearing all white and said that was the only one he wanted. A few minutes later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I thought that was the girl Senor liked. It ended up not being her, but at the time I was convinced it was her. Anyway, I told her that my friend loves Asian women and that I would like to buy him a lap dance from her. Unfortunately, Senor was already being entertained. She sat down on my lap and we chatted. It turns out she's from Thailand, which is where Senor's wife is from.

"He's gonna love you," I joked. "He even speaks Thai!"

"How do you two know each other?" she asked.

"We went to Harvard together. I live here now and he lives in Rhode Island."

"Ewww! I went to Rhode Island once for two weeks. I hated it."

"Just don't tell him that!"

She couldn't wait to get her hands on Senor. But then a rarity occurred, Senor got a second dance in a row from his stripper. That never happens! I felt bad for the Thai stripper on my lap. She asked me if I wanted a dance.

"I'd feel bad if I got you before my buddy, but since he's busy, how I could I turn down a dance from the most beautiful stripper in here?" (Note... Line #4.)

She started and she was fantastic. At the same time, a leggy Asian beauty made her way over to Grubby. We all had simultaneous lap dances. As I ran my hands over the Thai girl's body, I blurted out, "I love your skin. It's so smooth and silky!" (Note... Line #3.)

She giggled and grinded a little hard. That's when I said, "You're a true artist!" (Note... Line #1.)

Finally Senor was done with his double-dip and as my Thai girl put her clothes back on, I slipped her enough money to pay for my dance and one for Senor and said, "You're a deadly combination: hot and smart!" (Note... Line #5.)

She laughed again. I didn't bust out the "shoes line", mainly because I never looked down at her feet and more importantly, you should never say more than two of those lines with one girl. I broke that rule and used four!

Senor enjoyed himself with the hot Thai girl and she hung out with him for what seemed like an hour. Her roommate was the stripper who was grabbing and twisting Grubby's nipples for several songs and she eventually made her way towards me. She kept whispering in my ear that she wanted to go into the VIP room with me, Senor and the Thai girl. I suggested the Redneck Riviera after they ended their shift. She insisted on the VIP room. I hate the "hard sell" you get from strippers, especially in the middle of the lap dance. It's like seeing a commercial in the middle of a movie. It's uncalled for. Anyway, I told her that she wasn't good enough to get me back in the VIP room. She responded by grinding a little harder and grabbing my junk with more frequency. That was enough to get another dance out of me, but I refused to head to the VIP area.

Before the night ended, a cute blonde who looked like Elisha Cuthbert made her way to me. She was the girl I had been waiting for. She had an sexy accent. She was from the Czech Republic and had an infectious smile. She sat on my lap for a few minutes and we got to know each other before her dance. Before she sat down and began rubbing my chest, I knew I was getting at least two from her. When she told me where she grew up, near Prague, I mentioned how I loved reading Milan Kundera. She quickly joined in the conversation and discussed several of her favorite books from one of my literary heroes.

"Sometimes, his stories are so strange. It make you think about life."

Strippers who think and talk about books are such a turn on. She smiled and winked at me as I lost myself and all concept of the universe for seven and a half minutes.

"Sometimes," she whispered as she took off her Victoria's secret lacey bra and threw it on my head, "Sometimes there is no meaning to life. It just is."

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.

Street Vendors

By Armando Huerta © 2005

Anyone who's ever been to a major city in Brazil has come face to face with the street vendors who populate the sidewalks. They aren’t concentrated in any specific part of city. You can see them on the busy shopping thoroughfares of Ipanema to the major avenues in the downtown financial districts of Rio. As luck will have it, they don't only limit their presence to major avenues with wide sidewalks but also to small cobble stoned side streets where two people can barely pass by each other on the ancient sidewalks built during the Imperial reign in the 1800s. Everything imaginable is sold by these folk: chocolate, panties, clay piggy banks, batteries, breast lifters... everything that one could possibly want.

The street vendors are a resourceful lot. Not only do they haul their merchandise from their homes in the outer regions of the city but they also carry along makeshift stands on which to display them. These can be homemade carts with rusty wheels and a ply board plank to cardboard boxes that can be folded instantly like an accordion. The reason for the wheels on some and quick dismantling stands on others is simple: evading the police. In Brazilian metropolitan cities there is a constant struggle between the street vendors and the police who try to run them off. In the event that they don’t accept a "tip" which makes them look the other way. In the downtown area where I have my office there are tropes de choque, "shock troops," whose sole job is to clear the streets of vendors. They gather in groups of 15-25 with helmets, masks, fiberglass shields and batons. Their presence is announced by the beating of their sticks in unison on the aforementioned shields like gladiators getting ready for battle. This signals the vendors to haul ass out of the area, jumping all over each other to collect their goods, dismantle their signs and run like the dickens down the street. Most often that's the case... sometimes they decide that they’ve had enough and stand their ground.

Coming back from lunch one day I had the misfortune of running into one of those confrontations. The tropa de choque had already started their drum roll and the vendors who were in no mood to run that day were collecting items to throw at them. I, like any reasonable person, picked up my pace and made a beeline for the safety of my office building. Alas, I had chosen that specific day to eat somewhere that was not around the corner and found myself navigating barricades much like a French peasant during Bastille Day. Rocks where sailing in the air one way with tear gas canisters going the other. By this point I broke into a brisk trot wrecking havoc on my shins as I was wearing my very favorite patent leather dress shoes. Comfortably nestled in a cloud of tear gas, my thoughts turned from making it to my office building to making it into any building at all! In the paper I've read of passersby being caught in the midst of a street battle and getting "accidentally" beaten to a bloody pulp by the overzealous policemen intent on grounding anyone in their way. Unfortunately the doormen in the area are used to these melees and at the first sign of one drop the metal shutters down over the doors to the buildings. My brisk trot, by then, became a full fledged 50-yard dash and I started hollering to our office doorman to open the shutters when I was a block away. Luckily he was closing the metal grate at that moment and I was able to crawl/slide under the door before rocks started hitting the building. As I always try to make lemonade with life's proverbial lemons I got to thinking that what happened wasn’t so bad after all. At least I got a nice workout.

One hour later I got the courage to venture out again so I could stop by the money machine. There on the street, where a battle of epic proportions had just taken place before my very eyes, were street vendors calmly displaying their goods in all their glory and trying to holler louder than their competition. Like I said... they are a resourceful lot.

Armando Huerta is a writer from Sao Palo, Brazil.

Langston Unemployed

By BG © 2005

One of the few immutable truths that applies to nearly every lifelong resident of small town life in the Midwest is that we don't have any use for the big city. We're perfectly content to disappear into the fabric of our own communities, sharing the tight-knit feeling of solidarity with our neighbors of being a true neighborhood, even if we just leave each other to our own devices behind closed doors anyway. City life, or at least my perception of it, is that of a white-noise solitude. It's not small talk with the neighbors, it's keep your eyes on your shoelaces pal - if you know what's good for you. It's not giving a shit who the sirens are for that wake you at 3AM, and not feeling like a friendly hello is an appropriate way to greet the mailman. I'm not a city kid.

I've retreated far enough socially at this point of my life, that were I dropped into Lower Manhattan, I'd likely devolve my ability to converse into the point-and-grunt method of choosing a deli meat or pack of cigarettes, just to avoid calling further attention to myself as an outsider. Yeah, I'm saying I'd miss the small talk in the grocery store, or the less-than-lively banter with a high school girl pushing Chicken McNuggets.

I've got no need for the city. But here I am anyway, making the three hour drive down to Chicago for this meeting. I mean, I am unemployed, and I could probably use a job, but couldn't we have set this lunch up somewhere in-between? Hell, even Michigan City, Indiana would have been better than having to head all the way downtown just to have lunch. But, my mom did set this up... and I haven't seen Shelley in years anyway.

It was about two weeks ago when my mom called. That was about three days into my strenuous regimen of Dawson's Creek reruns on the SuperStation in the morning, followed by a light lunch, and then pouring myself back into the manuscript until I couldn't keep my eyes propped open another minute. The phone rang, and I tossed out a terse "Hello" when I saw my mom's name on the Caller ID. I figured the busier she thought I was at the moment, the more she would stay off my ass about the job search.

"Langston, how's the job hunt coming along?" She knew damn well I hadn't so much as cobbled together my resume since college. I had been with the agency for so long, it hadn't been necessary for a while.

"Fine, mom. I quit on Tuesday, it's only Friday, and I'm feeling pretty good about my situation right now."

"And what situation is that? What are you going to do with yourself now? That was a good job you left there, Langston. Advertising isn't big around here, and you know you don't want to start from the bottom again with an agency somewhere else, do you?" Fucking hell. I guarantee you I wouldn't have to start from the bottom, but it was also pretty obvious that I'd be lucky to find a spot anywhere reasonably local doing the copy for ads, no matter how high on the totem pole they wanted to put me.

"Mom, I'm fine. I've got enough money in the bank to last me a while, so it'll be months before you need to go into full panic mode for me. Jesus, it's been two-and-a-half days since I walk out the door. I need to decompress a little bit."

"Well, I talked to Shelley today, and she expressed her concern about your situation..." I missed the last half of that sentence when a flurry of f-bombs came charging through my head, miraculously not flying out of my mouth in recoiling horror. "You're going to meet her for lunch. She'll email you with details."

Shelley was my mom's contact at her publishing house, but more to the point, Shelley and I were paired up about twelve years ago in our sophomore year's Creative Writing class, which my mom taught. She and I had been paired in nearly every group project or circle of feedback/criticism across two semesters, and had been so at odds in debate that I can no longer remember having taken that class with anyone else. She had incredible taste, an ear for reading aloud like I've never heard, and as many opinions as she had brooding artsy boyfriends.

Like most of the female pseudo-alternative crowd of writers that signed up for my mom's class, there was absolutely a starfucker element to the adoration Shelley heaped on her. My mom's book really appealed to the not-quite-as-depressed-as-Plath, but not-quite-as-romantic-as-a-Bronte type, and like A Separate Peace, was nearly required reading in every twelfth grade English class across the country. I had developed a natural distrust for anyone who seemed more than a little impressed that my mom was who she was, and naturally Shelley figured out the connection right away. Mix that distrust in with a natural attraction I had to any woman who could call me out on my bullshit with a smile, and I really had no idea how the hell I felt about that girl.

Until later, that is. I spent too much energy early on discounting the girl, thinking she was just using me to get in good with my mom, or didn't really give a shit about me because of the rotating cast of bad poets and fingerpainting pretty boys she consistently trotted out. It was absolutely insane. Well, I was absolutely insane. She used to talk these guys into driving her to our group sessions and even just to meet me for coffee so we could tear each other's latest piece of shit to shreds, and every one was so "unique" and "alternative" and "artsy" that I couldn't stand it. They were all fucking troglodytes too. Not a one of them could keep up when the she'd lug them along, and the guys who stuck near her the longest figured out pretty quick they weren't going to be engaged in the conversation. They didn't feel the least bit bad about dropping her on my doorstep and peeling out, rather than face two straight hours of short story deconstruction at 110 decibels of animation.

Shelley invented the art of conversation for me, so far as I was concerned. I was so used to the hushed tones and urbane bullshit of my mom's cocktail parties that I thought adults only talked in half-whispers and backhanded compliments. Shelley changed that for me entirely. Our constructive banter could turn to ego-maniacal posturing or chest-thumping proclamations of grandeur at the flip of a phrase. She wouldn't ever let me get away with a jab without throwing a counter-combination, which I'd return with a flurry of punches that would leave us both swinging wildly and grabbing at each other's last dangled words to dip in our own deadly venom for the next volley. Where I had learned to throw darts sideways from the curled corners of my mouth, purposeful words behind innocent eyes, Shelley was a full-frontal Panzer assault. You always knew where you stood, how far your line of bullshit had taken you, and could always expect something in return, in kind, and amped up for everyone within earshot to hear.

Goddamn, I loved that girl.

She just didn't know it then. Neither, really, did I. I resented the maudlin artists' convention she tracked through her bedroom, but it didn't seem at the time to be because I felt I should be between the sheets with her myself. It was really because I felt she was shorting herself by not dating her equal (who I figured out - far too late - was probably me). We were only really one thing to each other at that point - sparring partners. She was my only excuse for conversational gymnastics or any sort of mental calisthenics that didn't involve throwing more of myself into the book. She and I were friends, but never lovers. Close, but never confidantes.

And I'm absolutely positive that that was my fault entirely. She and I had drifted badly after I chose the path of least resistance in the English department, and her ambition chased her into different circles. I think we really found it hard to cross paths again without any reason to break out the vitriolic aggression, and I never really knew how to manage dredging a real friendship out of the brand of passion we shared. Or worse, how to translate that passion into a more productive place. I always felt she couldn't possibly have had feelings for me. She always had a boyfriend, or in the rare moments where she was between men, she probably didn't see me like she saw the sullen and goateed Cure fans she kept running through.

At least that's what I had talked myself into.

BG is a writer from a small hamlet in Western Michigan.

I'll Do Anyone

By Joe Speaker © 2005

My roommate Barry is something of a slut, as evidenced by his recent proclamation:

"I've had sex with over 50 women. Some of them were even good-looking."

We had a laugh about that, mostly because it's true. He's brought some real pigs into the house, like the black chick from a couple months back who was rather...uh...toned. She had huge, muscular tree trunks for legs and we immediately nicknamed her "Newhouse," after the former Cowboys running back well-known for his massive thighs. To let you know how things have been going around here lately, I asked if she had any single friends.

Barry is out tonight on another in a consistent line of blind dates, culled mostly from the personal ads in our local alternative weekly. I tried that route myself, but I don't seem to have an adequate phone/voicemail rap. Barry's must be sensational. This is his third blind date this week.

He came home earlier than I figured, which is usually bad news.

"No luck, huh?" I asked.

"She looked a bit mannish," he confirmed. "Too tall and she had a rough case of acne."

"But a nice personality, I'm sure."

"Oh God. I tell you Ned, you have never met a more annoying broad in your whole life. One of those high-pitched giggles that makes you want to thrust your head through the nearest window. And about as bright as swamp grass."

"Sorry, buddy. I know you were lookin' for some action tonight."

"Oh, I fucked her," he replied.

Joe Speaker is a writer from Southern California.

Practicing Virgin

By grubby © 2005

Cast of Characters

Stan: 16 years old, in underwear
Mandie: 15 years old, in underwear
Frank: Mechanic guy with oil stains
Joe: Big burly jock cliche
Vince: Scrawny stoner type
Edwina: Skinny goth chick, in black
Darla: Late 30s

Setting: Stan's bedroom. A bed takes up the entire stage.

Time: The present.

(At Rise: Snickering from under the covers. On
the corner of the bed sits Frank, who munches on
popcorn while eyeing the moving lump. His other
hand's down his pants.)

(Muffled voices beneath. Pieces of clothing are
pitched from under the blankets.)

MANDIE
Oh!

STAN
Oh!

MANDIE
Is it...

STAN
Almost...

MANDIE
It's so cute, like a Tootsie Roll!

STAN
You're not helping.

MANDIE
Twist it around.

STAN
What do you think I'm doing, push-ups?

MANDIE
Come on!

STAN
Ow, don't rush.

MANDIE
Oh, that's it. Yeah! Do it to me like my Uncle Bob!

STAN
I gotta, I gotta...

(Stan's head pops out.)

STAN (Continued)
I gotta get some air! Whew!

(Stan and Mandie emerge from the covers. Stan
spots Frank.)

FRANK
Could you hurry it up, I'm late for my shift.

STAN
What the -- who are you?

(Mandie finger-combs her hair, checks her breath,
sniffs her armpits.)

MANDIE
Hey, Frank.

STAN
Frank? Who's Frank?

(Frank raises a hand -- the hand from his pants.)

MANDIE
Ignore him.

FRANK
This microwave crap all you got? Where's the salt?

MANDIE
(re: Stan) It's not... coming.

STAN
I know him! He cheated off me in biology!

MANDIE
He made up for it after school.

STAN
What's he doing here?

MANDIE
Observing.

STAN
I don't recall a Frank on the guest list.

MANDIE
Don't be obtuse. He's learning.

STAN
Learning? Learning what? Breaking and entering?

MANDIE
Remember health class?

FRANK
I remember, baby.

STAN
I thought you were observing.

MANDIE
In health class, Mr. Cox said when you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone he or she has ever slept with.

STAN
So?

(Mandie motions to Frank. He grins, gives Stan
the double thumbs-up.)

STAN (Continued)
Oh God.

MANDIE
He's harmless.

FRANK
Not anymore, I been practicing.

MANDIE
You tested negative, right, Frank?

FRANK
Yep.

STAN
You sure?

FRANK
Positive.

STAN
Oh God.
(to Mandie)
I thought you were...

MANDIE
What?

STAN
I thought you were, you know...

(Stan whispers in her ear.)

(Mandie's expression freezes, then bursts out into
laughter. Nonstop.)


STAN (Continued)
That's nice.

FRANK
Is she all right?

STAN
Nothing more to see here.

FRANK
Last time she laughed that hard was like five minutes ago.

MANDIE
(composing herself) You actually thought I was a... I wish! If I had a nickel for every time...

FRANK
I got change!

STAN
I can't believe you slept with this, this neanderthal.

FRANK
We didn't sleep none. Woo-hoo!

MANDIE
Summer camp. I was rebelling.

STAN
Rebelling against what? Darwinism?

FRANK
'Member the stain, Mandie?

MANDIE
I still have nightmares about the stain!

(Mandie and Frank laugh and high-five.)

STAN
I'm gonna be sick.

MANDIE
Don't go freaky, Stan. It was ninth grade, we all did dumb things when we were younger.

STAN
Let me get this straight. If I have sex --


MANDIE
Make love...

STAN
If I make love to you, I'm having sex with Frank?

FRANK
The stain!

MANDIE
That's how it works.

STAN
(aside) My first time and I'm already in a threesome.

MANDIE
Well...

(Three heads pop out from beneath the covers.)

MANDIE (Continued)
Joe, Vince, Edwina... meet Stan.

JOE
Dude.

VINCE
Stan the man.

EDWINA
God is dead.

STAN
Edwina? From geometry?

MANDIE
My experimental phase.

EDWINA
Really? That's so sweet.

STAN
Experimental? What's next, the german shepherd from next door?

(Offstage, a dog barks.)

MANDIE
Where's Uncle Bob?

VINCE
Intervention with his third ex-wife.

STAN
Anyone else? Just so I know who to thank in my commencement speech.

(Everyone sneaks a look at the audience.)

STAN (Continued)
(points at audience members)
Him? And him? That's not even his real hair!
(to audience)
I hope you enjoyed yourself! I hope you all enjoyed yourselves!

FRANK
That guy did, he's still smiling.

VINCE
(to audience member) I'll see you after the show.

STAN
My girlfriend's nailing the entire tenth grade.

JOE
I think she already did.

MANDIE
You're being obtuse again.

STAN
I failed geometry, Mandie, I don't even know what obtuse means.

EDWINA
A three-sided polygon with an angle greater than 90 but less than 180 degrees.

STAN
Thanks.

MANDIE
Oh, Edwina, I miss that obtuse angle.

STAN
(absorbs this) I don't know if I feel comfortable with this.

MANDIE
Is that why you can't --


STAN
No, that's something else... that's... Mr. Happy's just a little sleepy, that's all. But I thought tonight... tonight was alone time with you. I... I'm not that experienced, and, well, I don't know if I can deal with... with...

MANDIE
Aw, Stan, all these people. Ninth grade was the past.

STAN
Ninth grade was last week!

MANDIE
I'm with you now, honey, that's all that matters. You see me getting upset over the girls you've been with?

STAN
That's because I haven't...

MANDIE
Yes?

STAN
I mean, I haven't exactly...

MANDIE
Look at you being coy, not kissing and telling. I admire that.

STAN
No, no, I swear. I'm not... I mean I am...

MANDIE
Then who's that in the corner?

VINCE
You boffed that old bag?

(Darla enters from the doorway.)

STAN
Mom?

DARLA
Smile!

(Darla snaps a Polaroid of everyone in bed.)

STAN
Mom, you're supposed to be at the movies with Dad!

(Darla hands the camera to Joe.)

DARLA
How could I miss my wittle baby's first time? Is that clean underwear?

MANDIE
First time? Then it's true? He's a... a...

EVERYONE
Virgin!

DARLA
Of course it's true. The only time my Stan's been touched down there is when I check him every night for ringworm. Isn't that right, snook'ums?

STAN
Get away! Get off me!

MANDIE
Ew, disgusting, I've never had a real live virgin before.

VINCE
Is it contagious?

STAN
There're still some of us left.

FRANK
Where?

DARLA
Look what I brought -- surprise!

(Darla hands Stan a box with a big red ribbon.)

DARLA (Continued)
Happy birthday, hon.

STAN
My birthday was last month.

DARLA
That's why they call it a surprise. Open it.

FRANK
Dude, your mom's a major piece of ass.

VINCE
Is she a virgin, too?

(Stan works on opening the box.)

DARLA
It was on sale at Price Club. It was returned.

(Stan holds up the tiniest condom you've ever
seen. The ribbon is bigger.)

DARLA (Continued)
Is it the wrong size?
(gesturing with a pinkie to the group)
He takes after his father's side.

STAN
No no, I... think this'll be fine. Just fine. I can't hardly wait to try it on.

EDWINA
That's a double-negative.

DARLA
It's polyurethane.
(to everyone)
He's allergic to latex. Always has been. When the doctor slapped his fanny with a glove, he broke out in the worst hives you ever --

STAN
Okay now.

MANDIE
Have you met Frank?

DARLA
No, but I'm charmed.

FRANK
Likewise. Popcorn?

DARLA
Don't mind if I do.

FRANK
Needs salt.

(Darla removes her shoes and dives into the bed.)

STAN
All right.


DARLA
You fine with that, Stan? It's okay to be minuscule, right, fellas?

FRANK
'Course it is.

JOE
Uh-huh.

VINCE
Sure.

MANDIE AND EDWINA
No comment.

DARLA
It won't slip off that way. Remember the first time you masturbated? And your wet dream about Hitler?

STAN
That's enough.

(Joe studies the photo.)

JOE
Dude, I look fat. I look fat to you?

MANDIE
That's muscle.

STAN
Listen.

VINCE
The camera adds ten pounds.

EDWINA
Actually, that's nothing but a myth. What people are seeing is a reverse of their image, which contributes to their confusion that --

JOE
Is that muscle or fat?

MANDIE
It might be the O'Doul's talking, Joe, but I don't think you're fat at all.

(Joe and Mandie begin making out.)


DARLA
I'll show you some photographs of Stan. If you think he's small now...

STAN
All right, all right, enough! God, Mom.

FRANK
Have some respect for your mother.

VINCE
Quiet everyone, the virgin's trying to speak.

DARLA
First time for everything.

STAN
People. All I wanted was a nice quiet evening at home with my girlfriend Sandie.

MANDIE
Mandie.

STAN
Whatever.

MANDIE
(back to kissing Joe) I'm so glad you're not a virgin.

JOE
(still kissing) You taste like peppermint.

DARLA
(to Frank) See what I have to put up with? He was the last one to be potty trained.

FRANK
Kids these days.

VINCE
(to Edwina) Is being a virgin like being on your period?

STAN
That's right, I'm a virgin. I'm not having sex till marriage. Not by choice, but because you're driving me insane. I may become a monk or a nun or a Jehovah's Witness and then I won't have to have sex with any of you people ever again!

VINCE
Sure is sensitive.

EDWINA
They're all like that.

STAN
Get out! Get out of my bed, get out of my life, get out of my pajamas! All of you!

DARLA
But I'm your mother.

STAN
Out!

FRANK
Looks like someone's not getting any tonight.

VINCE
(to Edwina) So what're you doing later?

EDWINA
Either practicing my veganism or sacrificing baby kittens. I'm conflicted.

VINCE
Cool, can I join you?

DARLA
(to Frank) How about lunch?

FRANK
(picking up the condom) How about a lube job?

(Everyone exits:
Vince and Edwina holding hands...
Darla and Frank embracing...
Mandie and Joe still kissing.)

(Stan sits on the bed and sighs.)

(He grabs a magazine, flips to the centerfold.)

STAN
Okay, Miss September.

(He burrows under the sheets.)

STAN (Continued)
One more time, just you and me.
END OF PLAY

Grubby is a writer from Las Vegas, NV.