 |
|
|
 |
|
| 9/11/2005 |
| Fletch Peterson: Gallon Challenge Backstory |
A Movie Review
by Wes Bennett
|
Fletch Peterson the IV: Tales of a Misguided Sexual Conquistador.
Forward by Travis Carter
Anyone who has asked Fletch the number of women he has seduced will usually be quite surprised when he claims that the number would make both Gene Simmons and Wilt Chamberlain green with envy. “Take every grain of sand, every star in the sky and multiply that number by the population of China and you might have a pretty good idea.”
Fletch has also been known to claim that his penis has the girth of whatever species of snake is in the Jon Voight movie called “Anaconda.”
I have never really gotten an explanation about why he chooses to wear a cucumber in his pants. The best that I can decipher, a man is at his most attractive when the male member is fully engorged with blood, it enables women to see just what they are in store for when they request the services of the love-sex machine.
Without the crucial presence of the vegetable, attempting to maintain his erection in public would be extremely difficult, and more importantly, after several hours of showmanship, his Jack Johnson would be too fatigued to perform such impressive and demanding sexual moves such as “The Flying Taco Shredder”, “The Pulsating Vagina Masher” or “The Chuck Norris Bingo.”
Arguably worse than the cucumber is the women’s underwear that Fletch insists on wearing underneath his boxer briefs. Fletch claims that the panties are necessary because he is seducing so many girls at once, there is always the chance that his room will be strewn with silk panties at any one time. At some point, you are going to get careless and women will find the underwear. The only way around this is wearing the underwear yourself, so as a last resort, you can claim that you yourself like to wear women’s thongs, and when they refuse to believe you, all you have to is pull down your boxers.
Personally, the more I think about it, no one has every actually seen Fletch seduce a woman. I have never heard a woman say anything remotely complementary about him. Of the numerous women Fletch has claimed that he has seduced, each and every one of them reacts with total shock and dismay if his name is ever even mentioned. No one will admit that they even so much as made out with Mr. Peterson let alone received the “African Magina-Vader.” There are some of us who suspect that he had not actually lost his virginity.
As well as being a virgin, I have also honestly thought that Fletch was insane. He never fails to amuse me with what I like to call “Fletch stories.” These stories involve him demonstrating a highly difficult sexual maneuver, using whatever he can find in the room: a broom, a chair, a giant stuffed bear, a small puppy or cactus. It doesn’t matter where we are, or how crowded the location is.
No matter how ridiculous his claims, I’ve learned better than to attempt to destroy his dream or persona. Periodically after months of rejection and denial, Fletch suffers very embarrassing, high-profile breakdowns, during which he questions both his manhood and identity. It’s always very awkward. We all are forced to look the other way and never, ever speak of it later on.
John Stratman and I have often wondered how something like this happens...
I-A Dream Deferred.
“Fletch, take me from behind again. Give me the Algerian Whiplash!”
“Fletch I need, I mean seriously, I need the “Alabama Manslide.”
“Please, the Bulgarian Face Mask. Give it to me.”
Three blond supermodels from Sweden, were covered with the light sweat of passion, flushed and out of breath, lying on the Giorgio Armani 5000 designer water bed.
Even for Fletch or “The Fletcher” as he liked to refer to himself, this was a little demanding. He had climaxed four times in the last two hours and had nearly exhausted his comprehensive arsenal of sexual moves, techniques and strategies. But when you were in the company of not one, not two, but three Swedish Lingerie models, “no” was not a word that could be thrown around lightly.
Fletch threw back the black satin sheets, wiped the sweat from his brow and took a hard look at himself in the mirror positioned directly above the bed. This was a moment of truth and he looked deep inside himself. He would not say no he decided, he would triumph!
But first, Fletch had to make a quick decision, he had to decide if he wanted to break out the “Mongolian Coldslaw” or the “Dirty Proctologist.” -Or a move that he had been perfecting for the past 6 years, like a self titled album that represented the pinnacle of an artist’s career, that he simply referred to as “The Fletcher.”
In a moment of inspiration, Fletch boldly set out to simultaneously attempt all three moves at the same time. He grabbed Vulasia by the hair and turned her over. As he signaled Anastasia and Sapphire to stand on their heads, he began something that no more than two men in the world would even be able to comprehend...
It was at this moment, as Fletch would vividly remember for the rest of his life, that the single most traumatic and lowest moment of his adolescence began-
Dorothy Peterson, walked into his room without warning, innocently holding a plate of cookies and milk for her 13 year old son. As she turned on the lights, a red-faced, bespectacled Fletch holding his manhood in one hand and a lubricated roll of paper towels in the other frantically pulled the covers over himself...
Fletch could only stare at her in disbelief.
“Fletch, I baked you some cookies because you’re such a good boy. Let me come over and pinch your cheek.”
Mrs. Peterson, amazingly could not see what was going on.
Fletch was forced to act.
“MOM!!!”
It was as if the lights had finally been turned on in Dorothy's mind. Suddenly it was all too clear, the lubricants, the nudie magazines, the paper towels, the pornography stacked next to the VCR. Maybe she should have knocked.
Dorothy let out a bloodcurdling scream, threw the tray straight into the air and covered her eyes. Young Fletch was doused in a combination of milk, cookies and shame.
Dorothy started to gather the cookies and wipe the milk off Fletch’s leg, prompting Fletch to scream out once again.
“MOM! PLEASE!”
Eugene Peterson, upon hearing the screams, ran upstairs and could immediately tell what had happened as he exchanged knowing glances with his son. He knew all to well what the repercussion of this night would be. He would be forced to pack up the masterful collection of pornography which he had spent the last twenty one years assembling and hiding from his naive wife. It was the end of an era.
Eugene nodded to Fletch and pulled the flustered Dorothy from the premisses. There had always been an unspoken understanding between father and son. Neither would talk about it, but they both knew. An unnatural obsession for porn ran in the family.
II-There goes My Hero, Ron Jeremy.
Fletch grew up in a moderately conservative household. Eugene had little to no personality while Dorothy had strong religious convictions. Both were fairly unattractive.
His Dad was a sloped-shouldered, bookish accountant, who had little to no advice for him when it came to social graces. Fletch inherited an unimpressive physique and a face that only a blind mother could love. He was not especially gifted in sports or academics. The only natural talent he could claim was an above average ability to articulate himself and a willingness to risk embarrassment.
From years of repressed sexuality, an oppressively dull job and dissatisfaction with his marriage, Eugene Peterson had accumulated a massive stash of pornography throughout the 1970s and 80s, that Fletch had discovered at the tender age of nine and a half.
It is important to note, that this was no ordinary stash of porn. It was the Louvre, the Smithsonian and the Pompidou all rolled into one glorious collection.
Lesbians, Trannys, groups, midgets, dogs, horses, anteaters... Fletch had literally seen it all. There were things in that collection that would have made Jenna Jameson herself, red with embarrassment.
The first time young Fletch sat down and watched one of these tapes, he was award of a rather funny feeling in his crotchal regions, one that was very similar to the one he felt while climbing the rope in gym class.
Fletch quickly discovered and then mastered the art of self gratification. It wasn’t long before he was spending nearly all of his time in the basement, under the pretense of building tiny models of locomotive trains.
These debaucherous marathon pornography sessions had quite a negative effect on Fletch’s maturation process in terms of interaction with girls his age.
While most boys were developing their skills, talking, holding hands, exchanging small gifts, kissing on the cheek and at the very least interacting with their female classmates. Fletch was not at all interested in such pointless and unsatisfying acts. He knew that girls in middle schools would not be able to engage in the hardcore action that he was now obsessed with.
He would make comments such as, “She’s going to be able to take anal like a champ,” that would baffle and confuse his more innocent classmates.
Fletch had always had a huge imagination that would run wild at the sight of even a marginally attractive woman. In his mind, he had seduced five times the women that Peter North had. In these early stages of his development, Fletch begin to see women more as fantasy figures rather than real people with whom he could actually approach and have a conversation with.
Slowly but surely, Fletch was starting to decide that real life was not such a great place to be. There was laughing, awkward pauses, bad breath, food caught in teeth and uncomfortable silences.
In the movies, the women had large lips and breasts, long hair and deep throats. Best of all, they never, I mean never, said no. And if they did say no, it meant yes.
Fletch would engage in sporadic attempts to speak with women that would inevitably fail, thus sending him back into the dingy basement for marathon sessions of Lesbian strap-on action. He was starting to lose all touch with reality.
Each attempt would prove more and more disastrous and would take him more and more time to recover and work up the nerve to talk to a girl for almost a month.
Out of all the failures of Fletch’s early attempts at womanizing, he would remember one day as the all time worst. That one day would literally stunt his emotional growth for years.
III-The Allison Haslam incident.
The Junior High school Fletch, was a far cry from the confident, fast-talking College era Fletch.
Back in 9th grade, because of the constant rejection, Fletch was terrified of women. It would sometimes take him hours to even work up the nerve to talk to one. He would sweat profusely, sometimes throwing up in his mouth because of extreme nausea.
As noted earlier, in the movies, there was only the time taken to tell the other person that you wanted to engage in the physical act of love. But unlike John Holmes, he lacked the confident “porn-stache”, the hairy chest, the gold medallion, the glazed over expression and most of all, the 14-inch cock.
Fletch also never really had a grasp on his limitations. Rather than go after the midlevel girls, or the slightly less attractive friends, he insisted on hitting on the absolute hottest women in the class, often those in the grades above him. It never occurred to him to start low and work his way up. Besides, he knew very little about these strange girls who were not tall, blonde and gorgeous- they were not in any of his videos and for all he knew, were not even capable of engaging in the art of coitus.
On September 18th 1997, Fletch’s fellow nerdy friends Ed “Ace” Frehley and Boogers “Tits” McGee, had triple-dared Fletch to talk to Allison Haslam, the most popular girl in school, after he speculated that she was most likely was clean-shaven in her most intimate erogenous zones.
After much heckling, Fletch stood up, tucked in his shirt, smoothed his hair and asked how he looked. The appearance of the pudgy, zit-faced, bespectacled Fletch, asking them to evaluate his appearance, before he attempted to speak to the hottest girl in school was simply too much. For Ace and Boogers, this only resulted in uproarious laughter. This of course only infuriated the hotheaded Fletch, who sternly snapped, “We’ll see whose laughing when I’m getting anal in the bathroom during gym class,” before storming off.
Fletch left the safe haven of the stoners, outcasts and nerds, and walked slowly across the cafeteria into the “A List” section, filled with the popular kids, the basketball players, the girls with large breasts and the rest of the beautiful people. Already Fletch could feel the hateful gazes on his back. “What is he doing here?”
But he had to stay strong. Before sex, there was always a brief exchange of words. It didn’t really matter what he said, so long as he said something.
When Allison noticed Fletch out of the corner of her eye standing directly behind her, she could only hope that he would leave. He was threatening to interrupt her discussion with Whitney Forester, Amy Hilton, Catherine Polister, Lauren Whitfeild and Katie Nicole, about which varsity football player would be most likely to cheat on their girlfriends with one of the freshman.
Whitney was the only underclassmen allowed into the discussion.
It had taken years to make it to the cool table and for a girl with a reputation as spotless as hers, in the vicious social circle of Richard Nixon High, competition was tough.
Her biggest rival, Jessica VanSwandle had just given a hand job to the basketball captain in the janitorial closet. This week was absolutely pivotal to her social status. It was literally hanging by a thread.
Any kind of slip up and she would be asked to leave and Jessica VanSwandle would quickly assume her place. She had worked for years to get to that point and she was not about to let some lowlife like Fletch Peterson soil her reputation and strip her of the social Intercontinental title.
She would forever be labeled the girl who nerdy freshman boys approach. They would make cracks about him talking to her for years. Why had he had the nerve to pick her!?
She had to make an example of him. She had to do something so cruel and malicious that it would cement her position as the coolest underclassmen and give her just enough momentum to crack the elite cliques of the Senior class, that would give her opportunities to sleep with Football players in the backseats of mini vans. How she reacted right here, right now would literally determine her social destiny.
Fletch cleared his throat and actually interrupted their conversation. He just couldn’t take a hint.
Almost all of the ‘A list’ area stopped what they were doing. This was literally unheard of, what Fletch was doing.
Fletch tapped her on the back and said, “Hey Allison. Listen I’ve got a question for you. I’ve seen you looking at me and wondered if you wanted to make this happen?”
You could have heard a pin drop. Every girl looked at Fletch in horror.
“Yeah, you and me. I want to do things for you. Things, I know you’d like.”
Fletch made a dramatic pause.
“Sexual things.”
This was absolutely shocking. Some of the jocks started to laugh, others were simply too shocked.
All eyes shifted off Fletch and onto Allison, waiting for her reaction.
She stood up slowly, taking time to make her actions as dramatic as possible.
First she threw her water in Fletch’s face.
But he wasn’t phased.
“You like it wet? I can do that.”
Fletch than asked the question that would become a legendary catch phrase for years and years.
“You want me to do you on the table?”
Allison grabbed a plate of almost uneaten spaghetti, pulled Fletch’s shirt back and dumped it inside. This started to get the crowd going.
Miraculously, Fletch was still unphased.
“You like it dirty don’t you?”
Again the boys howled and snickered. He was making a mockery of her, she had to take it up a notch.
Allison did the worst thing she could think of. She reached into Sarah Craig’s purse, took out the industrial strength Mace Pepper Spray and thoroughly doused Fletch in the face...
The rest of lunch was spent gossiping and spreading rumors over the muffled sounds of Fletch screaming, crying and whimpering into his shirt. After awhile, it was fairly easy to ignore and step over his spasming body. Whitney had cemented her place at the table and had no more use for him.
No one really took notice ten minutes later, when Boogers and Ace led the devastated Fletch back to the comforting confines of the science building or “The Nerdery” as most referred to it.
IV- The Wisdom of Kyler Tyler.
Despite the lifelong memories of humiliation and trauma, there would be some positive things to come out of those incredible ashes of failure, that would abstractly give rise the to persona of “The Sexual Conquistador,” the larger than life character that Fletch would continuously strive to become all the way through his late 20s.
Obviously things had not been easy for Fletch in his younger days. He had no real social skills and a growing fear of real women. His attempts to pass notes or talk to girls would only result in humiliation and scorn. He had an enormous arsenal of sexual moves and techniques but no way to practice them or ever try them out on an actual human being.
Fletch attempted to change things. He bought new clothes, changed his hair, wore sunglasses at night, developed a slimmer midsection and began wearing contacts.
Basing his philosophies off porn stars and men such as Gene Simmons and Wilt Chamberlin, men who had seduced women by the hundreds, had not worked. He needed some kind of a mentor in order to transform into the machine of love he knew he was capable of becoming.
His teacher would have to have an incredible amount of experience. He would also have to be willing to take a freshman high schooler under his belt and show him the proverbial ropes to victory.
There was one man and one man alone who fit this description. A man who would hang out at the local bowling alley/arcade, “Big Earl’s Bowling Emporium,” and hit on the high school girls.
Kyler “Steven” Tyler. He stood at a solid five feet eleven with an amazing mullet, a red leather jacket, mustache, armbands, barbed wire tattoos and mirror aviator shades.
It was 1997, Fletch was 14 years old, just entering into ninth grade and Kyler was twenty-nine.
Kyler was a local legend. In the history of “Big Earls” it was without question that Kyler had essentially ruled the establishment for six years, an unheard of streak.
He entered his prime in 1987 at age 17 when he defeated “Mad” Max Herburlson, in the City Bowling Finals by three pins, bowling a 234. That same night, he set the high score in “Pole Position” and the Rocky III pin ball game, lip-synched perfectly on top of a table to Autograph’s “Turn up The Radio” as he pounded a beer, sniffed cocaine off Alicia Crampler’s right breast and got a hand job from not one, but two freshman girls in the bathroom at midnight. It was the stuff of legend.
That night began what was an unrivaled run of dominance. He was a local legend, one that had achieved carnal knowledge of hundreds of young, dirty teenagers around town, usually on the premisses of Big Earls.
By 1997, Kyler was reminiscent of an aging Jerry Rice or Muhammad Ali past their prime. Surviving on reputation alone, to the point that no one had the nerve to tell them to quit. There was respect, but more and more there was simply the stifling of laughter.
Kyler was never able to achieve anything in his life outside of Big Earl’s. He had ventured off to College and been just another guy. No one knew who he was, guys were bigger, cooler, smarter, could drink more and worst of all, no one gave two shits about bowling. After a few weeks, he returned to the comforting confines of “Ray’s Bowling Emporium,” to handshakes, high fives, cheers and the adoring gaze of the senior girls and had not left since.
He dropped out of school and started working for UPS during the day, but at night, when he entered Ray’s, he was still a legend.
Kyler managed to do fairly well for a long time, but as he entered into his mid-20s, things were starting to get a little bit more awkward. Kyler’s hair seemed to thinning ever so slightly, he was gaining a little bit of weight, his face was getting puffy and more and more, he had to remind people who he was.
Although Kyler was able to avoid going home alone some of the time, more and more often, girls would snicker when he went up to talk to them.
Before too long, he would have to leave Ray’s and start hanging out with people his own age, something he had been avoiding for years, and he would be a complete joke. Kyler was unable to relate to people his own age. Most of them had wifes and solid careers and they certainly didn’t hang out the high school bowling alley.
Even if it wasn’t quite the same at Ray’s, even if he was a little too old, it was better than being on the outside. Kyler figured he could milk Ray’s for at least another two years.
When a young Fletch approached him, respectful and eager to learn, Kyler was more than happy to pass on all of his knowledge. He would have someone to teach, he would have a protégé and all his secrets would live on.
V: WALK THIS WAY.
Obviously a man like Kyler was completely out of touch with reality, living over ten years in the past. Many of his techniques were only successful because of his high status, legendary reputation and his ability to procure alcohol and weed for the Sophomores. Nothing Kyler taught could ever work for someone like Fletch. But in the years they knew each other, neither Kyler or Fletch had any doubt they knew what they were doing. The techniques they practiced were guaranteed to work.
First and foremost, when talking to another male, the best way to describe anything is in terms of sex.
When in doubt, demonstrate. Grab anything and everything in the room to demonstrate a point. A cactus, a vase, a bag of sand, a donut or a miniature model of a vagina would always work.
Confidence, confidence, confidence.
Women want sex. The sooner you acknowledge this, the better. In the rare instance that they don’t know, remind them until they remember.
The crotch needs to be as large as possible. A cucumber covered in tinfoil, a tennis ball, a roll of bread- any of these would work.
A woman immediately looks at your crotchal areas to decide if you are a worthy sexual partner. Groin size is infinitely more important than physical build, hygiene or least of all personality, if you were forced to prioritize.
You have to talk a good game. Women want to be controlled, they want to be impressed. There is no absolutely no place for vulnerability.
Women are essentially prostitutes. Money has to be spent in order to get the best. Girls who are more attractive know this and will hold out for the best. Always shoot for the top and work your way back down. If you have to, bite the bullet, pay for drinks, food and flowers it all adds up and will get you closer to the ultimate goal.
A woman should be given only a few chances for seduction. If she refuses, threaten to give her a bad reputation. If she still refuses, tell the boys she has syphilis.
There were certain moves that women could not resist: the soul train, oil on the inner thighs, and the most sure fire technique: a motel. Nothing gets a woman in the mood like pulling into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn.
Above all, if a woman did not respond, she was wrong. You were not at fault. Simply move onto someone else, but do not question your moves. Questioning and self examination are not traits of champions. They’re what losers do.
Under Kyler’s supervision at the alley, Fletch spent nearly four years of high school, repeatedly getting slapped after extremely short interactions with girls. After all this time, Fletch had managed to make out with two girls just before they passed out in a janitorial closet. Kyler always was able to explain things away, and Fletch never thought to question Kyler’s techniques. After all, he had hooked up with 74 girls on the premises.
There were a few women who were not offended, who were simply amused by Fletch’s behavior, assuming it was a joke. They would only laugh when he put the moves on them. But with both types of girls, the results were the same: no action for Fletch.
VI- The Ladies of Georgia College.
It was little wonder, that not only was Fletch a virgin when he arrived at Georgia College, he had barely gotten past second base. If anything the sexual frustration and failure caused his behavior to became even more erratic and bizarre.
Fletch knew that women were attracted to confidence, first and foremost. He was able to capture their attention and take girls home from parties who were willing to fool around, but were of course unprepared for his graphic sexual requests and they would soon become offended and storm out.
Even though it was very rare for girls to tolerate Fletch for more than a few minutes and he was among the most unsuccessful of his peers when it came to women, he was relentless in the advice that he would provide for everyone who crossed his path.
Travis and nearly all of Fletch’s friends had learned years ago the difference between a real story and what they began referring to as “Fletch stories.”
Fletch would also apply the same irrational ideas and expectations to Travis, repeatedly assuming that any girl who Travis had an interest in, had engaged in anal sex, in the bathroom of whatever party had been thrown that weekend.
Fletch would indulge himself with outrageous trips to the country club in which he would shamelessly hit on the older, wealthy women and heckle the stern, conservative members. He would drink large amounts of Scotch on his uncle, Rodney “King” Peterson’s tab, once going as far as to take out his penis and parade around the room, like he was riding an imaginary horse shouting, “Who wants the ‘Bulgarian Lasso’ baby, who wants it?”
Luckily Rodney was among the most influential and wealthy members of the community and always managed to smooth things over. Rodney had always felt sorry for his perpetually lonely and over sexed nephew.
Then there was his torrid relationship with the infamous Samantha Wilson who had even hooked up with challenge competitor Christy Edison.
Samantha was legendary for her promiscuity and good looks. It was well known that during her freshman year, she had slept with every member of the varsity athletic teams except for the diving and cross country squads.
However, the downside to this was she was mentally unstable. She would shout out random lyrics from Journey songs during sex, pilfer random objects from her partner’s rooms and sometimes begin screaming with uncontrollable rage and hatred at fire hydrants. Even still, she was probably Fletch’s best chance of losing his virginity.
Though she maintained a high volume of sexual partners, she was very jealous and demanded monogamy from each and every partner. In recent years her erratic behavior was decreasing the number of men who were interested in her.
She, unlike almost any of the other girls on campus, was charmed and excited by Fletch’s raw sexual energy. They begin seeing each other and Fletch was forced to curb his random advances toward the other girls at school.
Samantha followed him around, eventually making appearances first at the frisbee game and later at the actual gallon challenge.
She delighted in bringing him just to the point of sex and then stopping. Normally she would have taken great pleasure in seducing someone like Fletch, but his mouth was too much for even her to take.
She had heard it all, but the mouth on him was despicable. Never had she encountered anyone so vulgar and his frustration and anticipation proved to be incredibly entertaining and provided more pleasure than a mere sexual encounter. He obviously had no experience and she doubted he could outperform some of the bartenders at Topper’s, who she was seeing on the side.
Despite Samantha’s games and his dwindling hopes of losing his virginity, The Gallon Challenge would represent a pivotal event in his life. The Challenge would be an extremely high profile event that lots of girls would see.
Fletch figured that if he won, the challenge would ensure that he had free love for night upon pleasure filled night.
If he faltered, the vomiting would disgust almost any woman. None of the respected sex symbols he grew up idolizing had ever used vomit as a way to attract and pleasure women. All he could hope is that his cool demeanor and peanut butter sandwiches would carry him to victory. Only then could he transform himself into a stallion of love running free with pleasure and lubricants-
|
| |
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| "We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then question the manner in which I provide it." |
- Jack Nicholson
A Few Good Men
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
Distributed Beers
|
| 5 |
Sierra Nevada Bigfoot |
| 4 |
Guinness Draught |
| 3 |
Newcastle Brown Ale |
| 2 |
Bass Pale Ale |
| 1 |
Samuel Adams Boston Lager |
|
|
|
|
|
