I was reminiscing with a friend of mine over at least four too many beers, when he hit me with this bizarre tale of virginity's end. Not entirely sure it's true; I don't know the guy that well.
He hails from some midwestern wide spot in the road (Dog Dick, Iowa? Stink Finger, Nebraska? Something like that) and apparently, like many of his small-town colleagues, he lost his cherry to a local prostitute named Angie. While not the most comely of maidens, Angie was vastly accommodating, which more than made up for any shortcomings in the charisma department. My friend described her as a rather strapping specimen "but not fat. She wasn't fat!" Robust might be a better word, sturdy as Grandpa's walking stick. Life is not a taffy pull out on the prairie.
Anyway, my buddy wanted to get the whole virginity thing out of the way, so he set out one Friday night to secure the services of Miss Angie, his head full of heavenly visions of perfumed sheets, a bountiful bosom and secret sexy arts that would not only transport him to untold pinnacles of passion and rapture, but would magically morph him from awkward farm-boy geek, to he-man of masterful lovemaking skills. No sane woman would be safe from his masculine magnetism.
Angie wasn't hard to find; when not entertaining a beau, she was usually holding court at Bob's Beehive, one of only two taverns in Dog Dick or Stink Finger or whatever the hell this burg was called. My friend was only 16, but since he was simply looking for Angie and not beer, no one gave him any static about being a snot-nosed kid in a place that sold alcohol.
So he brazened out his proposal and after agreeing on a fee for services rendered, they left the bar. He assumed she had some silken boudoir full of scented candles and body oils and whatnot (too many letters to Penthouse might explain this misconception), but such was not the case. Angie had a van. It was parked a few blocks away.
It was an old Econoline with a mattress in the back. Also in attendance was her dog, Trapper. To Angie's credit, she did tidy up the bed somewhat and made sure Trapper was securely fastened. She explained that the dog was present to keep anyone from trying anything she deemed "funny."
My friend didn't recall exactly what breed of dog Trapper was, but he was sufficiently large and growly enough to make him a wee bit nervous, which was ironic since Angie was much bigger and stronger than he was himself.
"She could have snapped me like a breadstick," he admitted sheepishly. But trooper that he was, he managed to hold up his end of the nooky bargain, even with a menacing mutt just inches from his bouncing (and dangerously exposed) butt.
"All things considered, it wasn't the worst sexual experience of my life," he said philosophically. I was too stunned to laugh and we ordered up another pair of pints. Bullshit or not, it's a great story.