a treatise on birthdays, pornography, best friends, card games, minivans and god  − 1 August, 1992

Remember when birthdays were milestones you actually looked forward to?

I can distinctly remember how exciting it was to turn 13. Despite having already been thrust headlong into the onset of puberty-induced ugliness, turning 13 meant that I could finally abandon the off-brand mountain bike my father had gotten me one year earlier (a bike which, let's face it, wasn't impressing anyone), in favor of my very own moped. Overnight, I went from a ‘tween with limited, parent-enabled mobility to a teen who could travel anywhere (provided it didn't include driving on an interstate highway). Why exert yourself endlessly pedaling to the local arcade on last season's bicycle when you can get there with ease? Besides, getting there faster meant more time to eat greasy pizza and drink non-diet sodas! Which, in retrospect, probably hastened my puberty-induced ugliness. Imagine though, me at 13. A quick kick start and a few revs with my wrist and I was on my way. Destination unknown and loving it!

Then of course came the next milestone, 16. Which meant you could travel even further away and (as a bonus) you got to leave that pesky helmet behind. Nevermind that the only car my parents let me drive was my mom's Ford Aerostar. Sure, a butcher vehicle would've improved my social standing but that was beside the point. Having a minivan at your disposal insured that you were always called upon to chauffeur your friends around especially when there were more than four of them gathered together. It also insured that my friend Ross always had a backseat at his disposal, for which I’m sure he was thankful. I shudder to think how many girls he covertly fingered while I naively drove us back to the suburbs, having spent an entire afternoon loitering around OSU's campus. Not that I minded. I was far too busy singing along to The Smiths in the front seat wondering where in my bedroom I was going to hang my newly purchased Morrissey poster. (I already had three or four.)

Five years later came a milestone that would officially usher in 11+ years of alcoholism (and still going strong!), though my drinking habits started much earlier than when they're legally allowed. Didn't everyone's?

In July of 1992 however, I turned 18. Being 18 entitles you to many new items and responsibilities, some good and some bad. Once my birthday rolled around and I became an adult for instance, I couldn't show up at my school in a trench coat concealing numerous semi-automatic weapons. At 17, taking out half the senior class Columbine-style, while severely looked down upon, didn’t necessarily equal a death sentence. At 18 however, I would’ve had to contend with the electric chair. Sadly, I had to lay that dream to rest. I could however buy cigarettes legally, which meant that I’d be spending a lot less money getting them from vending machines in bowling alleys and hotel lobbies. And for those civic-minded nerds among us, turning 18 meant I could also vote. Not that I really cared to.

For the purposes of this story though, turning 18 meant that I could now legally buy pornography. Which, as any horny teenage boy can tell you, is a fucking dream come true.

Thus far my pornography collection was emaciated at best and softcore at most. I kept what little I had hidden away in a place I assumed my snooping mother wouldn't look. It was basically comprised of various magazine and catalog pages ripped from their original volumes. I had folded up pictures of advertisements for bikini briefs from both the JC Penney and International Male catalogs. I had a picture of various scintillatingly titled triple X-rated movies from a Time Magazine cover story about Ed Meese. And my piece de resistance was a single page torn from a Penthouse magazine where a fully naked, flaccid man in combat boots was eating out a girl hanging from all fours on the cannon of a US Military tank. (I know that sounds crazy, but I still have the picture to prove it.)

I started amassing my legally-obtained hardcore stockpile immediately after I turned 18. There were several locations around Columbus to choose from. I began with a legitimate book and magazine store on High Street I had staked out prior to my birthday. Mostly offering comics, specialty magazines and science-fiction paperbacks, they had a few adult selections you could flip through. (This was back before everything became sealed in Mylar.) And while they did have a small gay section among the panoply of adult titles, I was a bit too paranoid to walk up to the counter with a copy of Rump under my arm. Instead, I remember deciding to diversify my first purchase. I chose a copy of Club (which upon closer inspection I knew to have a few penis shots in it), something called Hot Couples (which was another hetero mag featuring eight or nine page spreads of different pairings in different positions), and then something a little bolder. I snuck in a gay Penthouse Forum-type magazine, printed mostly in black and white and smaller than its glossy counterparts, called Hotshots. It was my rather ridiculous belief that the porcine cashier wouldn't notice the sexual dichotomy between my three selections. I assumed he would think I just picked up the smaller gay magazine by mistake. (Nevermind the hunky blond on the cover, surreptitiously unzipping his military fatigues.)

Looking back it's funny to me how so many of my actions in adolescence (and my early twenties) revolved around other people’s impressions of me, when by and large nothing I assumed even crossed their minds. In this particular instance, I agonized over what I would wear that day, how to approach the cashier, which hetero magazines I could select to throw off my true sexual inclinations, anything that would “confuse the scent.” The scent of gay. And while I still suffer from wondering what others might think, it is clearer to me now as an adult that most people just don't give a damn. No one has the time or the desire. To this cashier, I was one of 50 purchases he might ring up that day. I was just another pesky transaction that interrupted his enjoying A Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy for the fifth time.

It probably goes without saying that while I did enjoy Club and Hot Couples immensely, I really, really enjoyed Hotshots. There was a specific story about a young man like myself being hired one summer to staff the kitchen of a rich, attractive man's luxury cruise ship. After one hot and sweaty afternoon in the ship’s galley stuffing sausages and tossing salad, he discovered his additional nighttime duties included servicing the rich man (and each one of his hot and wealthy male friends), by… well, stuffing sausages and tossing salad.

I also enjoyed their fair and balanced coverage of the latest triple X gay porno flicks available on VHS toward the back of the magazine. Their ace reviewing staff tackled a "blow by blow" recounting of such gems as Lockerroom Fever and I Lick It 'Cuz I Like It.

On subsequent trips I ended up dispensing with the bait and switch technique, and went straight for the gay porn. I ended up taking home copies of Playguy, Stroke, Jock, Mandate, Inches and Honcho Overload. I also stopped going to the one bookstore on OSU’s campus, and instead traveled to an actual, full-fledged adult bookstore closer to my house called Le Sex Shoppe.

The hilarity of the name by the way, was not lost on me. Taking a cue from the ridiculous mid-eighties trend of adding Gallic touches to everyday items (such as Le Car and Le Bag), I found it laughable that a proprietor of smut would think the name Le Sex Shoppe somehow legitimized his business. Furthermore, what did pornography necessarily have to do with France? It was as ludicrous as thinking a name like “Ye Olde Intercourse Emporium” added a certain Ben Franklin-esque, colonial charm.

I happen to precede my best friend Alicia in birth by several weeks, and as such became legal before her. On the occasion of her 17th birthday, I got her a subscription to Seventeen magazine, which I thought was a really clever (and timely) present. As her 18th birthday loomed however, I wanted to continue this tradition and get her a gift (or gifts) commensurate with her age. Cigarettes were already a given as we both smoked Camel Lights at the time. I also purchased some camouflage tights I knew she’d like. Having recently registered for Selective Service, I thought I'd get her a pair of stockings in the off-off-chance she was drafted. (Please note the irony in desperately wanting to appear heterosexual, while buying my best gal pal panty hose.) And thanks to my Dad's political leanings in 1992, I also secured her a H. Ross Perot for President campaign button (which didn't go over well at all, let me tell you).

Finally, it was my plan to get her a deck of playing cards. Not just any old deck, mind you. We had both recently become addicted to a game called Egyptian Rat Screw, and played it incessantly almost every time we got together. And while there were plenty of decks between us, it was my brilliant idea to buy some featuring naked men. That way, I could also knock out the legal-to-purchase-pornography element. Where though would I be able to find such an item, if such an item existed? I decided to try Le Sex Shoppe. There, I hoped to purchase Alicia's gift as well as a gift (or gifts) for myself.

I hopped in The Aerostar and headed to the intersection of Westerville and Dublin-Granville Roads. Once there, I took my time and perused the entire store. I briefly glanced through the hetero movie and magazine offerings, before moving on to the marital aids. I remember looking at Ben Wah Balls because they had my name in the title but also because I had no earthly idea what they were used for. I was similarly mystified by cockrings. Ultimately I settled on a copy of a magazine called Thrust as well as an issue of Freshmen with a particularly comely, nubile lad on the cover, around my age, showing just a hint of jockstrap.

I hadn't as yet seen any playing cards, but as I approached the cashier I saw a display case with several items under glass. I quickly scanned through the items which included little bottles of liquid labeled "leather cleaner," erection-enhancing creams, something called Anal-Ease, penis-shaped pasta, edible underwear, and various other ointments, candies and gag gifts.

Finally, I saw a deck of cards. Sadly though, they did not have naked men on them. Instead they were titled "Shaved Asian Twats." I considered for a moment whether these would be an appropriate birthday gift for a dear heterosexual girl friend.

Ultimately, I decided no.

I asked the cashier if he had any other playing card choices besides the curiosity in front of me. Without looking up from his book, he pointed to several other decks I had somehow neglected to see. There were so many varieties in fact, I was kind of shocked. Apparently there’s more of a market for pornographic playing cards than I thought. I settled on a retro-70s deck that looked kitschy and hilarious. Judging from the Magnum PI look-alike on the packaging (sporting a tool belt and nothing else), the deck would be equal parts Tom of Finland and The Village People. They would be perfect for Alicia.

With something for her and a little something something for me, I paid for my items and left the store feeling accomplished and a little turned on, which is a great confluence of emotions. I got to the minivan in the parking lot, my purchases safely obscured by a generic brown paper bag, when I realized I had locked the doors. Not only had I locked the doors, but I had locked the doors with the keys inside.

Eroticized elation turned to horror. In a panic, I tried all the doors hoping against hope that maybe one was somehow unlocked. No luck. I tried again thinking maybe somehow I missed one the first time around. Still no luck. I even tried the large hatchback door figuring I could scramble over the minivan's backseat bench if need be. Sure it might be embarrassing, but nothing would be more humiliating than having to call my father (or God forbid my mother), telling them I locked myself out of the car in the parking lot of an adult bookstore. All the doors however, were hopelessly locked. And upon closer inspection, none of the windows were cracked either. Curse you power locks and windows!

Various courses of action flew around inside my head. I didn’t want to call my parents but ultimately what choice did I have? Walking the 15 miles back to my house in the hope that I could get my father’s extra set of keys away from him was too risky. Plus, it involved walking back, which did not appeal to me at all. (Why had I sold my moped?) Calling Alicia to come meet me with a coat hanger wouldn’t do any good either. I was fairly certain neither of us would know what to do with one. I even considered breaking a window but was stymied as to the best way to accomplish this. Do I use my fist? That sounded painful. A brick or large stone? There didn't seem to be any likely candidates in the parking lot. Maybe I could purchase the largest, heaviest dildo inside the store and repeatedly hit a window with it until it shattered? No. Dildos were expensive (I should know, I checked!) and breaking a window by however means might attract the attention of the cops. Though the idea of seeing someone wailing on a minivan window with an extra-large dong sounds hilarious to me now, I understood then that it would make a bad situation even worse.

Fresh out of ideas and resigned to the inevitable, I'm sure I cried. I had to call home. What else was there to do? Unless a magical membership to AAA suddenly fell out of the sky, or I suddenly perfected the art of time travel, I was going to have to find a payphone and own up to my transgression.

Wisely though, I figured that while I would certainly be found guilty of going to an adult bookstore I did not have to be found out for purchasing pornography. One sin did not necessarily equal the other. Would a good parent punish a child for curiosity? Not as severely, or so I reasoned. I took the brown paper bag containing both Alicia’s gift as well as my carefully chosen magazine selections and placed it behind a cinder block wall separating the dumpster from the rest of the parking lot. If I wasn't grounded for life or forced to endure restricted car access, I could come back and retrieve my purchases some time later. I made a silent prayer for it not to rain in the next few days, though I understood God was probably not on my side in this regard.

Walking toward Dublin-Granville Road in search of a public telephone, I noticed a brightly lit used car dealership across the street. Why not ask someone there for help? If anyone would have a lock-jimmying device besides the police or a tow truck it would be a dealership. I crossed the street and made a beeline for the sales office.

The office, which looked more like a converted mobile home than a fancy showroom, was staffed by three men who happened to be in the middle of an intense discussion about hunting and taxidermy. They didn't show signs of stopping, nor did they look too eager to greet a potential customer, so I just sort of stood there awkwardly waiting for them to finish.

Finally they reached some sort of agreement and the eldest of the three turned to me and asked, "Can I help you, son?"

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiii..." I drew the word out a really long time unintentionally as I had suddenly lost my train of thought. "I locked my keys in my car and I was wondering if maybe you had a coat hanger or one of those skinny things you sorta shove down the side of the... y'know, the um, door, which can undo the lock mechanism... somehow?"

It's funny how powers of speech can fail you in uncomfortable situations, especially when you’ve been practicing what you’re going to say, as I had been doing, the entire walk over. While I never imagined myself as the sort of moron who would lock his keys in his car, given my response I'm sure these three men had no trouble believing that I was just such a moron.

"You need a slim jim?" the eldest asked.

"A what?" I asked, worried that in lieu of offering assistance he was offering me a compressed-meat snack.

"It's called a slim jim. It'll unlock your car door." He responded as he fiddled around in the top drawer of his desk. Having retrieved something not endorsed by Macho Man Randy Savage, he then asked "Where are you parked?"

"Across the street." I said and followed him outside the office.

“Across the street, where?”

“Over there.” I said as I motioned in the general direction of the adult bookstore, without really pointing at it.

“The Waffle House?”

“No, um… Le Sex Shoppe.”

“Oh.”

An uncomfortable pause settled between us. My mortification was compounded by the fact that in an effort to sound more mature or funny (or something), I had pronounced “Le Sex Shoppe” with a distinctly French inflection. Four years of French were paying off in bizarre ways and while I’m sure Mme. Gibson would’ve been proud of her pupil, this was hardly the time to trot out my accent. Especially on a used car salesman who in addition to thinking I was a perverted sicko now probably thought I was a fruity psychopath. Needless to say, we didn’t speak the rest of the walk.

To my surprise and relief, The Aerostar’s locks were jimmied on the first try. Wisely resisting the overwhelming urge to hug my new hero, I thanked him again and again. Had you been at The Waffle House that day you would’ve caught me jumping up and down, woo-hooing and vigorously shaking the hand of a man several decades my senior. Given our location, I’m sure it looked like a suspicious exchange. Regardless, the slim jim and the man who wielded it had single-handedly saved me from what could’ve been a serious blow to my car-enabled freedom, not to mention my life.

I hopped into the driver’s seat making several motions in order to look like I was heading out. I started the car, looked in the glove compartment, fastened my seatbelt, fiddled with the stereo, looked in the glove compartment again, until the man was safely across the street. When he was finally out of sight, I got out of the car (leaving the door wide open) and retrieved my brown paper package from behind the dumpster.

Again as I drove home, I experienced a great confluence of emotions. There was relief and exhilaration, joy and happiness, not to mention the feeling that I was one lucky son of a bitch. I had been saved. The crisis had been averted. No windows had been broken. No parents had been called. No pornography had been sacrificed. And I had Alicia’s birthday present which was sure to be a classic. No one would ever know a thing.

Whether or not God was involved (and again I doubted this), some higher power had sent a guardian angel to me. A mustachioed angel of mercy in faded Wranglers and a flannel shirt who sold used cars during the day and gutted animals for sport on the weekend. It’s just too bad I never asked him his name. Should I ever be in the market for a like-new, low-mileage 1992 Oldsmobile Cutless Sierra however, I know right where to go!

And though it seems like a bizarre epilogue to a story that covers so much ground, I am happy to report that Alicia still has the deck of 54 naked men playing cards (counting the jokers of course). And while I currently live 1500 miles from her, when we happen to get together we often play Egyptian Rat Screw for old times’ sake. We don’t play with those specific cards however. We determined a long time ago that the images were just too distracting. And not in a good way either. Perhaps it was the tube socks. Perhaps it was the feathered hair. Perhaps it was the too often wooly privates in desperate need of manscaping. Regardless, they’re great for a laugh. Much like stories of personal, mortifying embarrassment tend to be after a few years.