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I tell myself I want to see how I measure up. You never see that in Playboy and rarely in Penthouse, but I’m obsessed and try not to think about why. I flip through the pages to find a photo set with both a guy and a girl. They snap a couple of practice shots then decide not to waste precious film. Don and Mike fiddle with his mom’s new Polaroid camera. I grab a Penthouse magazine from his desk and lie down on his day bed. We don’t have one, but he’s still working out and it shows. He was on a wrestling team before he changed schools.
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I notice, not for the first time, the deep V shape from his broad shoulders down to muscular hips that pull open the pockets of his snug chinos. Mike is a little shorter than me, good-looking and built like a superhero. We’d prefer a longer Beatles look but our school won’t allow it. His blue eyes shine under floppy blonde bangs like The Beach Boys, kind of like most of us wear our hair. Mike’s hilarious, grinning wildly with his tongue hanging out. I like it because it makes my dick hard, especially if you turn backwards like this.” He turns so the belt jiggles his front. “Can you believe this shit? She spent a bunch of money on this thing and hasn’t lost a pound. Mike goes over to his mother’s reducing machine, puts the wide fabric belt around his hips, and flips the chrome toggle switch to “On.” He laughs over a rhythmic thump. He puts on The Lovin Spoonful and we sing along to Summer in the City, way out of tune. The living room with its plastic-covered furniture is off-limits, but the kitchen is open on the other side to the den where Mike sleeps on a daybed in a cozy alcove. We talk a bit and Mike says, “Let’s go to my house and listen to records.” Don, also from a broken, financially stretched household, lives on the way, so Mike often gives him a ride. His mom takes the bus to work, so he gets the car for school. She’s a joiner I’m not, so I’m hanging out with the guys. We spend a lot of time on the phone and I visit her at her house regularly where I am liked by all, which is nice. I sure miss her as a girlfriend, but having her as my best friend will do. She comes from a strict Catholic family with judge for a father, but she’s a risk-taker, always getting grounded. I’m not quite over her and still think about our late afternoons in City Park when she’d lie to her parents about where she was and we’d make out in the back seat of my car. She is whip-smart, funny, irreverent, and sexy. Her parents are pretty strict, so unless she has one of her many extracurricular activities she goes straight home to look after her younger sister and brothers. She moved on, but we’re still best friends and hang out a lot. When I turned 17, I loved her so bad it hurt. We’d been on-again-off-again since the fourth grade. My first love Bonnie dumped me for a square-jawed Adonis. None of us has a girlfriend at the moment. We’re always looking for “kicks,” and the popular song of the same name by Paul Revere and The Raiders has become our anthem.
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I really want some pot, but for all the news stories about it, no one has any or knows how to get it. We gave up sniffing glue when we heard it’s bad for your lungs. I know because sometimes he takes us joyriding while we swill quarts of beer. My high school fraternity brothers Mike Kerlec and Don Caspary are leaning on Mike’s mom’s new car, a 1966 candy-apple-red Ford Fairlane 390 that’s scary fast even with the A/C on.