Trying to Get Laid on Thanksgiving: A Heartwarming Holiday Tale

Look, all this bullshit about the pilgrims coming here to escape religious persecution and rapid Wal-Mart expansion is pure BS. They came here for the crazy sex, mind altering substances and crazy sex. But especially the crazy sex. By pursuing libidinous enrapture every Thanksgiving, I feel like I’m living my life the way the pilgrims intended. Hell, I’ll even put one of those l’il pilgrimmy hats on my cock if it helps enhance the mood for the lady I’m somehow able to con into shacking up with me for the night.

You see, to me, Thanksgiving is not so much a time for reconnecting with family as it is an opportunity to return to former stomping grounds and check in on those folks from our past whom we coulda/woulda/shoulda banged but for some reason never closed the deal. Not very glamorous, I know. But that’s how I roll.

This year, as I leave the east coast behind for the mid-west, I’m hoping that I find a bit more success than I did last Thanksgiving, when I met up with Nancy, an old high school pal who had recently divorced and still possessed that body–the one that fueled at least a million fantasies in my tormented teenage mind.

We met downtown in a shady bar and started downing booze like it was our jobs. With each sip, she spilled a little bit more. How her ex never truly satisfied her, how she felt the need to embrace a somewhat less restrained lifestyle, how her head was brimming with outrageous desires.

I just sat and nodded, ordering round after round and imagining myself pouring champagne down her back and drinking it from between her ass cheeks.

That’s when she mentioned him.

“I asked Mitch to meet us here as well,” she said, as the thought of waking up underneath her quickly dissolved. “He’s divorced too, and having a rough go of it.”

No sooner did she say this than Mitch came bounding in the door. With his million dollar and no doubt surgically-enhanced smile and a suit that cost about as much as my car. Still, I held my ground, having invested a good size bar tab and two hours of feigned interest. “It’ll be a challenge,” I figgered, “but I’m always up for one of those.”

Then she asked Mitch what he’d been doing with himself. And he replied, “Oh, I’m an astronaut.”

And that was it for me. Because nothing I could conjure in the darkest recesses of my mind would top that. Turns out the fucking guy walked on the moon. The best I could offer was a few marketing brochures I’d written and that time I came thisclose to salesman of the month. Hell, by the end of the night, I wanted to screw Mitch, so I could only imagine what was rolling through Nancy’s mind as Mitch told us about the time he punched out a Russian cosmonaut. In space.

Another beer and I excused myself, leaving the spoils to the victor and dragging my sorry, non-space voyaging ass back out into the cold winter’s night. Waking up alone the next day, I felt surprisingly good about the whole thing, selflessly admitting that the better man had won.

But I still added “lion tamer” to my business card. Just in case.

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