Lost my virginity yesterday.
And rather like that time when you lost your virginity virginity, you can’t expect your first time to be with a porn star or a super model. But still, on that magical night, your prom date/babysitter/girl next door might as well be Jenna Jameson, Cindy Crawford, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Garner and Jessica Rabbit all rolled into one, with J-Lo’s booty and an Ann Margret voice.
No matter how she looks to your buddies, to you she’s hawt, and she makes you happy in your pants.
That’s what yesterday was like for me, because I am no longer one of those people who neither owns a 1911 nor a WWII era milsurp rifle.
I worshiped at the church of John Moses Browning (PBUH) all throughout childhood, every time I looked over that square-backed A-5 receiver or worked the lever on a Winchester ’94. But I had never worshiped at the cathedral of (arguably) his greatest creation, the Colt 1911A1.
Let me introduce you to my new baby, a High Standard Crusader 1911 in (what else?) .45 ACP. Officer length, 7+1 capacity, and I picked up a couple of extra Chip McCormick mags for it.
She may not be a Kimber or one of Colt’s finer offerings, but to me she looks hawt, and she makes me happy in my pants. Can’t wait to shoot her.
I consulted a few experts who guided my purchase, rather like the experienced buddy in high school who offered to hook you up with one of the homelier names in his little black book. Spent less than $500, and that’s including tax and the two extra mags.
And then I prowled around some more, looking for something of a WWII vintage to catch my eye. Like I said, I was a milsurp virgin. I wasn’t expecting to find a star gauge ’03 Springfield with perfect finish and matching numbers. I’d have been happy with something reasonably well-preserved, and not too homely. Maybe even stoop to picking up a coyote date Carcano.
But then I saw her…
I tried to ignore her blatant come-ons as I browsed other booths, but I found myself sneaking glances over at her table, and a couple of times she caught me looking and winked coyly, even as she was being fondled by other admirers.
The little tart.
So I fled the gun show like my tail was on fire, went home and thought about it. Exchanged e-mails with a few friends.
One of them told me, “Stay away from that girl, dude. She’s after something. Citizenship, maybe. And her pimp is asking way too much for what she’s offering.”
So I consulted another friend, one worldlier and wiser in the ways of gun show tarts like Yelena. “I don’t know,” she mused. “Personally I wouldn’t give more than a hundred for her, but she may have other redeeming qualities that make her worth more. Finnish citizenship, for example. Maybe an octagonal receiver, too. But ultimately, the decision is yours to make. Does she look hawt to you? Does she make you happy in your pants?”
So I went back, warily checking her out. I know these Russian chicks. They Instant Message you out of the blue, promising all sorts of things, telling you how much they love you before you’ve even gotten to know one another. If you’re not careful, they’ll clean out your bank account or even give you a nasty virus.
But the more we made small talk, the more I felt a connection. I noticed her octagonal receiver, and she proudly showed off her bright and shiny bore to me, barely dimmed or pitted with the passing of years. I remarked on the quality of her finish, and she blushed charmingly and offered an embarrassing admission, all the more refreshing in its honesty.
She’d had some work done.
She’d been re-arsenaled shortly after the war, and spent a lot of time in storage. But rather than turn me off, it made me want her even more. And when she flashed me her bayonet and a glimpse of her accessory pouches, I was hooked.
And I knew, just knew, that unlike my Russian IM girls, this one wouldn’t hurt me, and she could be trusted with my credit card number. It was love, I tell you. Love.
This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Plus, I think she’s hawt, and she makes me happy in my pants.