Before all the sick pedophiles and criminals had to go and ruin the social outlook on internet hookups, there was actually a time when young individuals like me could engage available girls in pithy dialogue and then crudely arrange the subsequent romantic encounters without much of a challenge, pretty much on a regular basis. The vast expanse of AOL chatrooms (sort of the Facebook of the 90's) was the catalyst for some of most awesome adventures ever. All you needed to do was answer those three important questions: A/S/L? (Age. Sex. Location.)

A few rude comments, half a blowjob, and a sadly unfinished handjob in the woods later, it was fair to say we had been taken advantage of. Since we were in high school with little responsibility and lots of time, my inner circle of friends began exploiting this emerging market soon after getting driver's licenses. Like any young group of ambitious males, our primary agenda was to hook up with girls. Despite being challenged by the social limits of adolescence, we remained steadfast in our determination to conquer the opposite sex, and so we were inexorably compelled to exploit what resources we did have access to, apropos the timely emergence of America Online.

Watching that blue lightning bolt gratuitously flash through the box in the Windows ‘95 screen was more than just a signal of our connection to thousands of people across the world. It was a means to facilitate our cruel intentions. During that time most people were not on the internet, so we took them as they came, whatever town they lived in—and I must say that learning how to navigate throughout Eastern Massachusetts (and parts of New England) without the possibility of GPS by the time I was 18 years old is all thanks to AOL.

Unfortunately for the girls we met, we were young and stupid and really just didn't give a fuck.

AOL chatroom directory

The Cape Cod Facial

I can vividly recall this unforgettable day. Thanks to some assiduous online prospecting, my good pal "Ronald" fortuitously won the affection of a young lass from Cape Cod, who while unwittingly hopeless seemed quite interested in meeting us gents for an outing at the beach. As I remember she was fine young lady, offering each of us accommodation for the long trip we selflessly endured to reach the Cape for this rendezvous.

Alright, alright, the chick just said that if we came she would blow us.

So after getting driving directions (this was before GPS and smart phones), the three of us hopped into my parents run-down, grey Isuzu Rodeo and hit the road like…well like three guys going to get blowjobs. Amazingly, after an hour drive, the agreeable skin flutist's directions got us to the exact location (and this is the best it's going to get for her), which was a small beach inlet with crappy picnic tables and a few rotted stumps that used to be a boat dock; sort of like a local white-trashy shore dwelling for her and her friends. Anyhow, we parked the vehicle, dismounted, and approached the group…and wouldn't you know it the pack leader was missing more than two teeth.

To make a long story short, a few rude comments, half a blowjob, and a sadly unfinished handjob in the woods later, it was fair to say that each of us felt as if we had been taken advantage of. We expected results, not excuses. We expected an honored commitment, not to be bamboozled, not to be led down a path of deception, not to have our aspirations crushed at the hands of a vile scorpion mistress…well at least that's the way we saw it. Needless to say, arriving at this predicament naturally prompted our insolent teenage minds to exact vengeance, so we came up with a plan.

We parlayed a bit longer, kept things cordial with our host, and then informed her it was time for us to leave. "Sleeve" as we call it. We had a system of communication that we used in front of girls; the prompt for the person with the car to tell the rest of the group "let's leave" was a simple tug on the shirt sleeve, and then done multiple times depending on the level of urgency, but I digress.

So the three of us got back in the Isuzi (which was conveniently parked on a dusty, dirt road) and solidified our strategy. We closed the doors, rolled down the windows, and then summoned her over to the car for a last "farewell." I was in the driver's seat, so I volunteered to call the commands. My timing had to be perfect. The execution had to be flawless. Our pride and contentment depended on it.

As she hesitantly approached, we got into position while devilishly eyeing each other with anticipation…and as she made her final step towards my friend in the backseat window, victory was upon us. With the voice in my head roaring "FINISH HER!" I gave the commands for us to execute…and all together as I quietly whispered "One, two, three…." HAWWWKKKKKKTOOOOOWAP… right in her face, followed by a mouthful of dirt from me frantically peeling off like I was being chased by a T-Rex. We then proceeded to profusely laugh for a solid 25 minutes on the drive home.

If you're still reading this, then maybe it wasn't clear what happened: we all spit in her face from out of the car at the same time and peeled off, and I think we are going to hell for it.

The Tomato Sauce Piss Pot

And yet another adventure we embarked upon as a group, only this time to meet up with a redhead chick at her place of residence…while her parents were elsewhere. This time the three of us pre-negotiated that said freckled ginger was to bring some female companions, you know, to even things up and give everyone a purpose. So once more we piled into the car and shoved off on a new adventure to go hook up with the three chicks… or so we thought.

Upon arriving we were again treated to false expectations as there was only one girl and the three of us. After getting inside her house and hearing the bad news about her friends not coming, my friend (the one who set up this shit deal with the fire crotch) inevitably persuaded her to adjourn upstairs to the bedroom to commence fornication.

That left me and my other friend alone in the rest of the house. Wrong answer.

Upon a quick scan of the kitchen, we immediately spotted a large pot full of tomato sauce innocently warming on the stove for what I assumed to be dinner later on. We looked at one another with wicked grins on our faces, clearly in agreement over the next move. As we thought to ourselves "fuck this bitch and fuck that sauce," we carefully proceeded to move the pot onto the floor, uncover it, and then take turns pissing in it while trying not to laugh.

After hysterically picturing the girl sitting down to eat with her parents (unaware that their daughter is a slut) smothering that tomato sauce all over their food, we returned the pot to the way we found it (plus one ingredient) and tried not to be obvious until my friend was finished so we could leave and then raucously laugh all the way home. Given the act we had already committed in Cape Cod, adding our "special sauce" to the pot wasn't much of a stretch.

The "Kickboxer"

The adventure this time was my brainchild. And it was the same old course of action: meet a girl in a chatroom, make small talk, send her a picture…"ohh your cute"…blah blah…and fast forward to, "Hey, so are we gonna chill or what?" "Sure." "Can you bring a friend for my friend?" "Ok." "Is your friend cute?" "Ya she is pretty." Well, like many other people at the time, she didn't have an electronic picture of herself to send back. "What do you look like?" I asked. "I'm 5'4", cute, brown hair and eyes, and I do kickboxing, so I have a nice body too."

Fucking lying bitch.

My cursory risk assessment had failed. Instead of a "kickboxer" and a cute friend, we ended up meeting a fraudulent fat dump and her mountain troll sidekick. Usually when we met girls online who provided entirely misleading descriptions of their personal appearances, our instincts would tell us to call them fat and cut our losses, but on some occasions it was such a far drive that it would have been a shame to leave without getting something. So during times of adversity, like any true friends, we motivated each other to make the most out of the situation.

After an uncomfortable reaction at the door, we entered the house (which reeked of cat piss and teenage insecurity), followed them inside their nasty living room, and grudgingly sat down on the worn-out couch. I didn't see a cat, and upon feeling that first instinct I promptly urged my friend to bolt for the exit at the first opportunity. She was disgusting. I was let down and just wanted to give up. To my short-lived relief, both of them briefly left the room for whatever reason and instantaneously I stood up and scampered towards the door while whispering, "Dude let's get the fuck out of here…."

But being the good friend that he was, despite my angst and with that iniquitous grin on his face, he stayed put in the seat. He reminded me of the situation at hand…that I was the one who brokered this deal, that we had driven all the way out there, and that I better get in there and persuade that fat hog to give me head. I resisted until he made me appreciate the noticeable disparity in the scales of our attractiveness and the inherent advantage it gave me. In other words, she was gross and I wasn't, so with just a little persuasion it should be easy to talk her into fellatio. And with that, man-logic took over and I sat back down.

I can remember hesitantly pushing through with the unpleasant small talk, embarrassed to pretend that I was even remotely interested in her, but nonetheless remaining committed to my goal. Eventually I got this lying, fat "kickboxer" to show me her bedroom, where we proceeded to cuddle on the bed while I hated myself a little more as each second passed. As we began fooling around, which to me was like fondling a hairless, talking-silverback, I finally just blurted out, "Will you give me head please?" "Well are we going to hang out again?" "Uh, yeah of course we are." And as if I had just uttered the magic password, she went downtown quicker than a Harlem prostitute, making me realize that it was all worth it. Then we bolted for the door.

And that's what friends are for.