I’d been fogging up the windows with Magda Biedermann for the better part of our senior year. As graduation approached, I had only one thing on my mind: consummating our relationship (and coincidentally, losing my virginity) before being drafted and sent off to Vietnam. Her motives were considerably more funereal: she wanted to get married and carry our little bun in her oven.
My rapaciousness was no match for Magda’s wholesome ambitions, so progress was painfully slow. While I was able to reach first base through a cunning synthesis of deception, chicanery and Olympic-class flexibility, there were no indications that I’d get any further, let alone slide into home. And, time was quickly running out.
I thought she’d finally caved in during a passionate tussle in the back seat of my mother’s Pontiac. After pinning me down with a Flying Forearm Smash, followed by a humbling Testicular Claw, Magda agreed to sacrifice her loins provided I write her a love song before I left – her idea of the ultimate commitment between a man and a woman.