Checkmate

When Schmoozer's best friend walked in Schmoozer's house Saturday night, he found Schmoozer and me mid-chess game. He walked to the fridge and a grabbed beer before pulling up a chair to the table. It was my turn.

I ran a finger across the tip of my bishop. The Best Friend growled. I eyed him curiously.

"Not that piece," he enunciated.

I picked up my knight and looked at him. He didn't protest. I moved it across the board.

"Bup bup bup!" he interjected as he rolled his eyes.

I quickly picked it up again and found another place for it. The Best Friend was silent.

Schmoozer leaned forward and studied the board. Then he gasped as he collapsed back into his chair. "What did you do?!" he shouted at the Best Friend. "I was beating her!"

"Ha!" I laughed as I thumbed my nose at him. Usually the Best Friend is the grumpy one; it was funny to see Schmoozer irritated as his best friend laughed.

We played this way for a little while, with the Best Friend correcting my moves if I was about to make a colossal mistake.

After I beat Schmoozer, the Best Friend moved opposite of me and set up the table as Schmoozer got us another round of beers.

"I'm not very good at chess," I warned him. "I don't strategize and I can't see anything further out than two moves."

I drained the last of my beer as Schmoozer produced a new can in front of me. "There are sprinters and there are marathoners in life," I continued, heady from spirits. "And I am most definitely a sprinter. I'm more of the philosophy if it feels good, do it. Being short sighted doesn't allow for strategy and plotting."

The double entendre was intentional. The Best Friend laughed.

"Right now I feel like wreaking havoc," I demonstrated. "So I'm taking your bishop!"

Amazingly enough, I won that chess game too.

We piled in the Best Friend's car and headed to the bars. Schmoozer and I wanted to go somewhere cheap, but the Best Friend talked us in to going to the Irish pub, of Statham and Girl from Irish Pub fame. Facebook told me that they were there the previous night.

Schmoozer climbed onto one picnic bench on the patio. I climbed onto the other. The Best Friend stood at the head of the table and weighed his options. He then tried to join Schmoozer.

"Wait! What are you doing?" cried Schmoozer. "If there is a spot next to a girl, you take that one. You don't sit next to another dude."

"But if I sat here, I could look at the girl," he justified.

Girl, party of one, right here.

"No. Just no," argued Schmoozer.

The Best Friend took a seat next to me. "He's just so clueless," sighed Schmoozer.

I looked at Schmoozer, "You know, you could sit on the other side of me. I could be sandwiched!" I giggled.

Schmoozer groaned.

The boys each ordered McSorely's Dark. I'd never had it, but it is served two glasses at a time, which was good enough for me.

"So I've been thinking," I announced. "Do you think when you're 80 and old and crusty, do you think you'll look back on your sex life and be satisfied with or regret the number of people you've slept with? I mean, when you're 80, could there really have been enough randoms?"

"You're just asking this since it's been awhile!" laughed Schmoozer.

"Yes, it's been awhile," I huffed.

"People never think, I should have worked more," he answered.

"But do they think, I should have had less sex?" I asked.

"No," he shook his head.

"That's what I'm thinking. So, to more randoms!" I cheered. We clinked glasses.

I looked over at the Best Friend, who had remained silent during the conversation. "What do you think?"

"I think, if you've found the right person, it won't matter."

Schmoozer and I met each other's glance across the table and held it. I remember feeling the same way as the Best Friend. That finding the one special person will solve all of life's problems. Problem is, I don't feel that way anymore.

Schmoozer was the first to break the stare and bust out laughing.  "Ah, Best Friend," he toasted. "We're just too cynical for you." I snickered.

I thought about the surrounding conversations where we talked about the number of people we've slept with and the relationships we've had. What it comes down to is that the Best Friend is still a baby. Despite him being the oldest of the three of us, he's had the least life experience. He didn't know at which side of the picnic table to sit. He hasn't had the relationships and subsequent destruction. He's untainted.

As I put my first mug of McSorely's down and picked up the second one, I found it endearing. A man in his thirties who's untainted. I didn't know those existed.

And maybe that's what separates the Sprinters from the Marathoners. I often throw myself into things and simply wish for the best. I sleep with men too soon. I can never see more than two steps ahead.

How will you feel about your sex life when you're 80 and old and crusty?