June 29, 2008


I figured spending the morning at Zuma might bring some insight, but I got more than I expected. I got bookended between two flourishing stages of male adolescence; our blanket was soon situated between a four-gaggle of 15-year-old boys and quintet of 8th grader boys. I laid there watching my dad trying to keep his balance out in the surf, thinking that seven weeks ago when I got here, he was nearly dead. And now here we are at the beach. I am near ready to cry about this gratitude when the older boys return from the water, throw themselves into the sand and the biggest one begins filling the silence by announcing what his goal is for the summer: invite the class slut over to his house as he has it on good authority that she'll let anyone "blow a load on her tits". His friend replied wearily, "Dude, you are into some sick stuff." He followed this with a funny/painful sounding mutual devirginization anecdote involving A LOT of this. I pressed my face into the towel to keep from laughing out loud. He segued into detailing all six times he's ever used a condom--loud enough so that the older girls on the other side of him who were sneaking sips of Hypnotiq from their purses would hear. Who needs tearful reflections on mortality when there's this kid terrifying his friends with this spring's jizz mishaps?! Teenagers are fucking geniuses. The younger boys, to my right only talked about their who has the worst skimboarding injuries, baseball and what the best snacks are. "I could live on curly fries and Sour Patch, dude."

Posted by Jessica at June 29, 2008 05:58 PM | TrackBack