Streaking

Cal Ripkien’s 2,632straight games. The 1972 Miami Dolphins’ undefeated season. Joe DiMaggio’s 56 consecutive games with a hit. Orel Hershiser’s 59 consecutive scoreless innings. Bowling a 300. Pitching a perfect game. Pitching a tent. These are some of the all-time great “streaks.” However, when the sun sets on Monday, September 7, historians will be able to add another great streak to the annals of ass. Wilos will have gone the whole summer without hooking up with a chick.

Damn. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of dry spells (see: TI Initiations and the weeks to follow, sophomore year), but this one is pretty bad. It might not be my longest; but, given the circumstances (recent college grad with no job, a fact that has allowed me to go out any night I see fit), this one cuts deep. I mean, come on, not even a lousy d-floor make-out! Not even a lousy hj under the table at the Olive Garden whilst sharing a Chicken Carbonara and bowl of endless breadsticks!

My last intimate contact with a member of the opposite sex (aside from the goodnight kiss that my mother gives me on the forehead as she tucks me in to the bottom bunk of my bunk beds each and every night) was back in early June. I treated myself to a little “sky rockets in flight” with the broad upstairs after I finished packing up my college dorm room. Thought it’d be nice to give me something to smile about as I bid my school farewell in the rear-view mirror. Smooth, right? Resident Stud Wilos closes down shop with a bang (hiyo!). Gettin ready to slide on in to my post-collegiate victory lap wherein I would be up to my eyeballs in women. Nope. Nothin’.

I dunno what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that I wear a rubber “Livestrong”-type bracelet from my elementary school’s 5-Year Reunion. Maybe it’s the fact that I oftentimes over-serve myself to the point of losing control of my bladder. Maybe it’s the fact that my hair resembles that of Bozo the Clown. Maybe it’s Maybeline!

Whatever the underlying factors, I have come to the conclusion that the reason I am in the throes of this epic summer drought is that I do not posses the slightest hint of what one would call “game.” Boom. I have no game. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Looking back on it, as laughable as it sounds, all of the tail I pulled in high school stemmed from the fact that either a) the girl was a staunch practitioner of the Open Door Policy or b) I was a senior, the BIG varsity quarterback, and, quite simply put, I ran shit. (Cocky, much?)

Take last night, for example. I was out at a bar in Nantucket called the Chicken Box which is, to put it in layman’s terms, packed wall-to-wall with hot soup. I mean, there are some FBI (Female Body Inspector, of course) Certified, Grade A scorchers in there. And that’s the eye candy. My target range is more along the lines of the slightly overweight chick in the corner, eyes rolling back in her head, guzzling her seventh vodka-soda, and dancing by herself. But I can’t even bag that! You wanna know how my night ended?? (Probably not, but…) I ended up on a random beach by my house drinking scotch-and-waters with some bizarre dude that I shared a taxicab with. Hmm.

I really just don’t know how to get with chicks. Maybe you have to “talk to them.” Maybe you have to “spend time with them at the bar.” Perhaps it would behoove me not to be the guy sweating pure ethanol through two layers of shirts because he is running around the dance floor Rabil-ing dudes right and left. I dunno.

So, as I sit here on American Airlines flight number 853 headed for O’Hare Airport (from where our family will drive out to our grandparents farm), it looks like, save for an act of God or an act of incest, Labor Day will come to pass with old Wilos notching an astounding zero hookups in the season that was the summer of aught-nine. In the words of Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers, “hell of a season, pal.” And, with the way things are going, look out Cal, cause this streak ain’t ending anytime soon…

(Eds. Note: credit for picture goes to BJG)