I once sat on a couch in a rented townhouse playing Wii Sports with a skinny psychology major fifteen years my junior whom I’d known for a little over a day, and as we swatted polygonal tennis balls at one another, we spontaneously launched into an hours-long conversation about kinky sex and serial killers. It was the purest thing ever.

I regret not taking her upstairs and fucking her. She was a little risk-taker and a man-pleaser, so even if she hadn’t wanted to fuck me, she probably would have played along just to make me happy. The night before, at the party I was hosting, she’d put on a bikini, put her arms around me, whispered that the success of my project was important to her, and assured me she would try to make something good happen.

So she invited over a couple of strippers she knew, consumed her body weight in tequila, and tried to convince the strippers to fuck her on camera. I have no idea if she could have pulled it off, because she passed out while dancing in a circle to 50 Cent’s In Da Club. I appreciated that she tried, though. She was a good girl.

Best moment I got from the strippers? This exchange while sitting around the pool smoking cigarettes:

“I was talkin’ to my cousin the other day.”

“How’s he doin’?”

“Good, I guess. But it’s crazy, girl.”

“What is?”

“How much the world changes. I said somethin’ to him about how hot Johnny Knoxville is, and he didn’t know who the fuck I was talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I said, ‘Shane, you been in jail so long you don’t even know what Jackass is!’”