Believe it or not, in my junior and senior years of high school, there was a significant amount of discussion in my house about whether I should apply to the US Naval Academy.

My uncle is a career navy man and a fairly big wig who assured me and my family that it would not be too difficult to get in.  I had the grades (or close to them), and since I was one of the few people in my neighborhood and Philadelphia in general who could read above a tenth grade level (just kidding, neighbors and Philadelphians!), getting the required congressional recommendations would probably not have been too much of a hassle.  Adding momentum to the idea was that the Naval Academy is practically free, which was important since my family figured we could spend about $3000 a year on my college education (not a lot of colleges cost $3000 a year, even way back in 1997).  All these factors, combined with the fact that I’d make my grandfather, a World War II vet, and my father, a Real Man unlike his Son Who Likes To Read and Fears Bugs, finally proud of me, made the idea of at least applying to the Naval Academy compelling.

But ay, there was a rub, namely my inability to do a single push-up or even look at a flight of stairs without getting short of breath.  At that point in my life, I could barely get through a masturbation session without stopping mid-jerk to take a quick cat nap.  (Indeed, the fact that I even used the phrased "cat nap" proved that I wouldn’t make the best military man.)  All the running, yelling, getting told what to do, and running really turned me off.  And the required service after graduation (four years?), well, let’s just say I wasn’t prepared to sign the next eight years of my life away at the age of 18, especially when the bulk of those eight years would involve a tremendous amount of exercising.       

So instead I didn’t apply to the Naval Academy and sent applications to a crapload of Jesuit schools and a few others, praying that one of them would deliver a nice financial aid package.  You know how the rest of the story goes: after Boston College came with a generous offer, I went there, had a spectacular time, got a job in NYC after graduation, toiled for a bit but then became an international phenomenon, almost had a threesome, and now live such a luxurious lifestyle that I actually pronounce diamonds in three syllables (di-uh-monds).  Seeing how my life turned out, with all its fine linens and expensive cheeses, I never regretted my decision not to apply to the Naval Academy.

Until this past weekend, that is.

The past seven days have been Fleet Week in New York City.  From my understanding, the purpose of Fleet Week is two-fold.  First, civilians get a chance to explore battleships and aircraft, which are docked and, um, parked (?) in various places in the city.  Second, sailors and Marines get to hang out and enjoy NYC - and sleep with pretty much whatever women they want without so much as having to buy a drink or even ask a name. 

While I didn’t check out any military cruisers or planes this weekend, I witnessed first-hand the great "enjoyment" these sailors and Marines had in New York City.  My buddy Jeremy had a friend in town for Fleet Week, a Marine named Booker, who rolled with a whole group of Marines, with whom we hung out this weekend.  And, ladies and gentlemen, if I am not joining the Marines, I am at least getting myself a short hair cut and investing in some dress blues.  Because, well, wow. 

The phrase "shooting fish in a barrel" would not apply to how easily these Marines were able to pick up women.  Instead, it’d be closer to the fish jumping out of the barrel into the Marines’ hands.  And then fucking them.  And the fish also give them some money.  Something like that.  I’m not real poetic.  Let’s just move on.  

Women attacked our new Marine friends as soon as they entered a room.  It was legitimately unsettling how quickly women would approach and touch these guys; I had only seen such bold displays of female aggression in strip clubs or in those fantasy sequences I play in my head in which I’m the warden in an all-female prison.  All they had to do was show up and stand in one place and shortly (and I mean within seconds) they’d be surrounded by women. 

Early on, I thought that this might work to my advantage.  After all, there simply weren’t enough Marines to go around (in our crew, at least), and by being buddy-buddy with them, maybe that would make me more attractive to these women; perhaps they’d think I was a former Marine, or that I hung out near Marine bases, or that I least could lift more than 40 pounds over my head.  If not, again, odds were in my favor: my buddies Jeremy and Brian and I were hanging out with four Marines, and at least a dozen women were around these guys at all times.  Even if each Marine could handle two women each, that left four women for me, Jeremy and Brian – and Brian’s eyes are usually closed just around midnight, when the booze catches up with him.  Statistically, I had a real shot.

But no.  Not even close, actually.  I was way out of my element and completely out-classed.  Typically, I go to certain kinds of bars (dives) to meet certain kinds of women (loners).  This weekend, Jeremy, knowing he couldn’t take his Marine buddy to our dark, basement bars of choice, we bit the bullet and went to all sorts of douchey bars, including the infamous Sutton Place, which I have decried as the single worst bar in New York City.  On most nights Sutton Place could double as a stop on the Long Island Railroad, so full is it of gelled-out over-tanned meatheads looking to fight and dolled-up over-tanned Barbie dolls looking to fuck.  The night we went was no exception, but our Marine friends, real men who shoot people and fight for freedom, thrived, putting to shame the normal clientele of guidos, who can list the top five bestest suntan lotions on the market and spend 80% of their lives pretending to be Tony Montana or Tony Soprano. 

Meanwhile, I have an internet diary and a day job at a law firm.  Jeremy works in the "music industry" and is actually physically afraid of most women.  Brian works at an entertainment news show and, as mentioned above, his eyes were closed just after midnight.

So we saddled up to the bar, occasionally glancing over our shoulders to check out one of our new Marine buddies making out with a girl with $8000 boobs.  Make no mistake; it was not jealousy that we felt.  Well, ok, we felt some jealousy, but for the most part, we were happy for our Marine buddies.  I have made almost a second career out of watching men who are not me make out with women at bars, but never before have I seen a group of guys so deserving of some heavy petting with loose Long Island girls. 

[Honesty compels me to report that I did play a small role as potential saboteur, buying numerous shots for the Marines, hoping that they'd get so drunk they'd pass out and be unable to tend to their now-riled up ladies' needs, at which point I'd step in and say something like, "Yep - they've had too much to drink. Greenies. I remember how drunk I got during my first Fleet Week. Of course, I'm no longer in the Corps, as once you say the lives of 1000 children you get a honorable discharge and free access to fighter jets 24 hours a day. Say, you girls like wine?"]

I spent a good portion of Saturday, the day after our night at Sutton Place, laying on my couch eating jello with my fingers.  Do you know why I did this?  Because I could.  Do you know why I could do this?  Because men and women like Jeremy’s buddy Booker and his friends are out there fighting for my freedom, making it possible for me to live a slothful – yet entirely and 100% awesome – life.  So as I looked over my shoulder at my Marine friends at Sutton Place, I smiled.  I smiled for my new friends, who were enjoying themselves with some lovely ladies, smiled for myself, as I would surely masturbate to the scene at a later time, and smiled for my country, knowing it was in good hands.      

(Now can anybody score me any sort of military uniform?  Inquire within for sizes – I’m not posting my measurements all over the internet.)