When I was 16, I started dating this girl, let’s call her Susan B. Anthony. I don’t think that she and I had much in common – we were each vaguely attracted to one another, and she asked me to the Sno-Daze dance. That night after the dance, we had nothing better to do than sit in my Plymouth Reliant and make out for 4 hours.
Now, even at age 16, I was a large individual. I was probably about 6’4″ and tipping the scales at 220 or 230. The Plymouth Reliant, while being a fine steed of an automobile, is not renowned for it’s luxurious spaciousness.
So Susan B. Anthony and I parked my steady Reliant in her driveway. We didn’t have much to say. We were 16 years old and horny. What better plan than to make out for hours on end, uncomfortably wedged in the front two seats, with the armrest and parking brake hopelessly tangled in a mess of legs and torsos. Romantic? Not at all. Satisfying? Not particularly. Awesome? You’d better believe it.
This was a pattern that we repeated for the monthlong duration of our high school love affair. During this, I learned about makeout-time, when time progresses at 3 times faster than non-makout-time. I remember putting a 90 minute cassette in my tape deck, leaning over to kiss her, and then the tape finishing up.
I have fond memories of this awkward, fairly pointless relationship. We didn’t waste time having “sincere conversations” or “learning each other’s last names”. We just went for it and made out. What else is there when you’re 16?