So, I told you yesterday about the missing porno flick: Anal Clinic, which has probably offended the delicate sensibilities of half my readers. Many of you wondered where the hell the porno went, but in order for me to tell you, I need to give you some background so it makes sense.
In the last years of my High School Experience (I make it sound like I was there for longer than four years. I DID NOT FAIL HIGH SCHOOL, PEOPLE.) I began dating a guy who I’ve mentioned before: Tim. Tim is the guy who messed around with Molly, which I walked in to see.
But before this happened, he was my boyfriend for a couple of years. Tim was a year younger than me, and his family had money, and I mean some serious money. They ran a tobacco and candy distribution company that was hitting the big time for our area, so they made major bank. I mentioned finding a gold brick while looking for Anal Clinic, and it was the truth: there was always crazy crap like that floating around, hundred dollar bills shoved in random places as if by accident. While I was tempted to steal the gold brick, what the fcuk would I have done with it? I’m pretty sure Starbucks wouldn’t take it.
So this family had a butt load of money, and they built a house in an exclusive neighborhood in my hometown, but they made the ridiculous decision to design it themselves, so it ended up being pretty stupid looking. Just like it would be if MY non-architect self tried to design a house and no one told me it was a bad idea.
(My advice to you: if you’re ever in the position to design a house without a degree in architecture, please don’t do it. It will be completely obvious)
But this was a house that was huge, sprawling and well-used. The kids in that family tended to attract some of the more creative friends who would pretty much move in and make mischief with anyone who would come over. I’d call it a Party House, but it wasn’t, not really. It was more like a mini-mental institution for rich kids.
By the time Tim and I started dating, his house had been well-established as the place to do the wackiest shit imaginable. Just as an example: when Tim and I literally first started dating, we went into the guest bedroom on the main floor to make out, right? In the middle of our make out session, three kids in full army gear snuck in, shimmied across the floor on their stomachs and began to pelt us with frozen grapes.
Why? I don’t know. What I did know was that this was absolute mayhem and I loved every second of it.
We’d frequently order pizzas only to scare the delivery driver. There was an alcove on top of the front door in the foyer that someone would stand perched upon when the driver would pull up. He’d walk to the house with the pizza, ring the doorbell, and someone downstairs would open it, showcasing an empty foyer. THEN, whomever was perched on the alcove would jump down in front of the started kid and pay for the pizza.
Freaked ’em right out.
Another favorite trick was to make slip and slides with garbage bags in the backyard which was on something of a hill. We’d fill up the yard pretty much full of water, turning the grass to mud, and hurl ourselves down it. When we’d get tired of that, we’d make mud people, dress them in Tim’s mom’s dress clothes, naked mud wrestle, then jump into the hot tub and wash off. IN THE HOT TUB.
Nothing was off limits, nothing was sacred, and nothing stopped us. It was freedom and chaos all rolled into one gigantic mud ball.
Another time we found a huge dead fish–from where? Who knows–and on one of the hottest days of the summer, put the rotting body on hood of one of the other kids cars. It actually stripped off some of the paint.
But this is the house I brought Anal Clinic back to watch it. And like several of my driver’s licenses it went missing, probably, I would suspect, by someone intent upon making me do exactly what I had to do: go to a video store and pay for a porno called Anal Clinic. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed by that?
I like to think of those years as the reason I was blessed with two rambunctious boys: I’m obviously well equipped to handle it.
Aunt Becky wants to hear YOUR stories of mischief making. I cannot possibly be the only person who got up to this sort of crazy shit…Am I?