I subscribed to Maxim sometime in 1998, a sophomore, a kid with certain borrowed goals. Cunnilinguistics. G-spot location. The snapping-open of a brassiere's rear clasp with one set of fingers. It was what the ladmag claimed to have to offer: a transformation for this drugless clarinetist who in high school found Usenet newsgroups and went right for alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.male.
It was like a reflex. A blink when one sneezes.
An ABC asshole, was the notion. A by-the-book cad. Brad was a model, he-man wrestler next door with fresh, spent rubbers dropped atop his wastecan's pile each evening his girlfriend visited from Osceola Mills, Pennsylvania. The sluggish lug spit Cope juice in an UTZ pretzeljug and pen-scribbled his ENGCMP 200 papers in a spiral notebook, handing them over, with payment, to be typed. To be embettered. He was dumb with a dumb face and a dick the other boys on the floor knew all about.
To be, then, frank: Brad had both an interest in women and the wherewithal to pursue said interest. He'd—they’d all—been given, it seemed in those years, a gift.
Years later, theatre majors replaced the wrestlers, and parties got moved from rowhouse basements to the overlit kitchens of two-bed apartments. The dancemusic got dragged backward in time, and in the absence of any made move Maria made the first move herself. At the butt end of her first full courtship she saw in this gawky acolyte some true zeal. In bed, she got worked thoroughly over: her brassiere, indeed, expertly unclasped; herself lapped alternatingly with the tongue's rough and smooth sides; her tang's inner front wall pwned come-hitheringly by a searching, earnest middle finger.
A sham seduction. It must have been like having some kind of servant.
At times, Maria'd reach in the dark and find in her hands consistent softnesses. "Most boys I've been with," she said once, "show ... an excitement while getting it on. But not you."
Silence.
"Why do you think that is?"
Maxim Magazine is published and was founded in the UK by a man named Felix Dennis. When not helping boys bed girls, Felix Dennis "launches" books of poetry, such as When Jack Sued Jill: Nursery Rhymes for Modern Times, wherein he, according to the FelixDennis.com team, "tak[es] inspiration from traditional nursery rhymes to rewrite his own, some-what [sic] darker versions tackling the outrages and absurdities of modern life in the 21st century."
The time came to call the whole thing off. Excuses used in self-defense: she wouldn't shave her legs, she was sleeping with that Laurence guy, she was still in love with her first boyfriend, she took charge too much.
It didn't take but an hour. Halfway through, a sharp stink stank up the place. She checked her bedroom, the hallway. On the carpet: dogshit, tracked in from a walk around her building to the back entrance.
"Oh, Dave," she said, shaking her head while one heart broke and another got only harder.
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