Palmerfest deserves more than what I am about to write here in this blurb. If I could apologize I would. I will devote some additional electronic space to such things down the road.
For now, I want to tell you about why you should lock your windows before not having sex with Kellie for a second time on your first, second one night stand.
Let’s go back in time. One night stands are only one night stands until you’ve had sex with the one nighter for a second time. I don’t know what they turn into after that. In my sexual resume, I’ve only had one, one night stand. The Doug definition of a one night stand is when you pick up someone, have sex and never hook up again. (That is also pretty close to the definition of marriage.) My one night stand was with Kellie. And because we’ve all ready pulled it out of the sack, I guess I would have to admit that I’ve never had a one night stand if I stick with my definition. I’d hate to say “two night stand” because then people assume it was back to back nights and ask what 48 hours of sex is like and if dust comes out of your pee pee after the 20th time.
We have not really gone back in time yet. Let me flip the switch on the machine marked “TIME.”
I met Kellie through my housemate Betsy. Betsy invited me to a party. At that party, Kellie and I hit it off. There were drinks and jokes and then Kellie suggested we leave. I agreed. We left. We went back to 19 Palmer and had sex. My first one night stand!
That morning after, I started to feel a bit of regret. Kellie was a cute girl and for the hour or so that we talked, she seemed like a cool chick. (She slept with me. That was cool.) The regret was amplified by Betsy and my housemates mocking me through teasing and song.*
*If you are under 20, skip this explanation of the mocking. I don’t think you’ll get it.
Remember the episode of Cheers when Woody writes a song for his girlfriend, Kelly? The song goes like this (to the dismay of all women named Kelly.) Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, K-E-L-L-Y. I heard that for about a week.
After that, I didn’t see Kellie for a long while. Betsy would sometimes mention that she saw her. K-E-L-L-Y. But I really didn't run in her circles and she didn’t run in mine. Weeks pass…
Enter Palmerfest. A springtime tradition at OU. A block party combining alcohol with neighborhoodliness and bands and more alcohol. Ask any OU graduate and they will tell you that they had something to do with the first Palmerfest. Let them. It’s such a beautiful creation that everyone wants to feel like they were a part of its birth. The originators know who they are.
Like any street party we started drinking early. I was drunk all day. We played volleyball. There were bands. At some point, several of us were on the back roof naked with socks on our wieners. It was Palmerfest.
Around 5:00pm, I squeezed my way through 19 Palmer to grab a house beer. I think I was drinking out of a tennis ball can. Then I saw her. Kellie was going with the crowd in the opposite direction. She was dressed in black. She said hi. So did I. And that was it. She was momentumed past me. Our first meeting after the one night stand went as well as any guy would want it. I promised myself I would never sleep with her again.
A few hours and several tennis ball cans later, I was coaxed into forgetting that promise. Back in the house I was looking for a beer or a place to fall down. Kellie, out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and led me to my first floor bedroom. She opened the double doors. Walked me inside. She closed the double doors. She locked the doors. LIghts off. She sat me down on the bed. I was completely helpless or pretended to be. Kellie took off my shirt and shoes and shorts. She then stripped down to her underwear and we started making out. Then we started having sex. Then Meyer was standing on my bed saying, “Doug. Doug. Doug. Doug. Doug” in that half laughing half tsk tsk tsk Meyer kind of way. My bedroom window was open and Meyer simply crawled past the eight people on the porch looking through the window at me having sex and climbed on the bed. Naked, I staggered out of bed and with a cross between a shuffle and a tackle, I shoved Meyer to the doors, fumbled with the lock and shoved him out.
I then went to the window where the eight people were vying for good seats and shut it. I adjusted the blanket that covered most the window and fell back into bed. I’m sure we laughed for two to three second before getting back into it. We had great sex, mostly due to large amounts of liquor anti-freeze I had coursing through my extremities.
I woke up and tried to remember what I had done in the past 24 hours. Some of what I had done came rushing back when I realized my arm was under something or someone. It was a naked someone. I remembered within that fog of the tennis ball cans of beer and sock on the cock and the bands and the being dragged into the bedroom. And I also remembered the sex. Man, I had never lasted that long. Just thinking about it… I rolled over and started kissing her. She kissed back. Our bodies aligned. We were going to have sex again.
(Here is the part where I wish I wouldn’t write what I am about to. But we’re good friends and you deserve the whole story.)
We were going to have sex again. I started to get into position and BAM… I was done. I had barely touched her and I lost it. I had to think of something so I said the following pathetic line: “I don’t think we should do this” and turned away. What a loser.
She got up a few minutes later, dressed and left. She took my one night stand and left me with a two night, not consecutive, stand. With a side order of I came without actually having sex.
I went outside and started to pick up the thousands of crushed cans from the backyard. It was my little Palmerfest tradition. After a bit, other housemates joined me in the cleanup and we shared stories from the day before. I came clean on the hooking up part. I left the morning after sex (does that even count as sex?) out of the story until now.
Palmerfest is still around but the backyard and back roof are not. Mr. Gevas turned several of the Palmer Street houses into duplexes, eating up the backyards and our volleyball court. I have not been to a Palmerfest since 1993. As one of the thousands of people who created it, you’d think I’d get a personal invitation every year.