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Stealing Drew Barrymore 1995 -- True Story Of A Boy Getting His First Playboy

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What could turn a mild-mannered 13-year-old boy into a bona fide criminal?

Hormones. Raging, newly-acquired, teenage hormones.

When I started going through the puberty, I was an unwieldy ball of energy, and every last bit of that testosterone-fueled energy was spent trying to obtain pornography. The pursuit of smut left me powerless. This was happening, by any means necessary.

For those who have grown up with the Internet, it must be impossible for you to imagine how difficult it was for underage boys to see photos of naked women. You needed to have an understanding older brother or a shady uncle who would buy a Hustler magazine for you. Or, maybe a friend with dad who had a Playboy subscription and didn't hide the copies very well. Or be one of the few very lucky souls who would just find issues of Penthouse in the woods or behind a dumpster for seemingly no reason.

I'd previously seen a few pages of '70s smut via my friend Barry. His dad left a few relics in the crawl space in Barry's bedroom. This was a helluva find. But at the end of the day, these pubic-hair-heavy mags remained in Barry's house. It was like seeing your buddy win a ton of in Vegas, but you go home with empty pockets. Screw that! I needed a Playboy to call my very own.

So to Center Lane Stationary I went. This was a nearby convenience store I'd ride my skateboard to. As an innocent 12-year old, I'd pick up some candy there, maybe even a WWF wrestling magazine. And since I was a talkative kid, the clerk knew me well. I'd gained his trust. His name was Sonjay.

That trust led me to my bout of adolescent deviousness. My game plan would be to enter the store, engage my turban clad pal in a brief back-and-forth, then, as per usual, I'd peruse a magazine article about The Ultimate Warrior or Randy "Macho Man" Savage. When no one was looking, I'd bend down to tie my shoe and slip the Playboy into my pants.

What I didn't account for was that the naughty magazines were kept on the top shelf. And I hadn't yet hit my growth spurt. Sh*t!

A less ambitious chap may have headed home, his tail between his stubby little legs. But not Peter Hoare, damnit! Oh, no. I'd have to devise a Plan B. And I did -- kind of.

Plan B lacked the grace of Plan A. An "Ocean's 11" style heist, this was not. Here's what actually happened. First, stupid little Pete burst into the store like he was on fire. Like a horny little gazelle, channeling Air Jordan, I leapt to the top shelf, snatched the coveted magazine and, like a track-and-field star after hearing the gun, I exploded out of the store -- leaving what I could only assume was a gravely disappointed Sonjay in my wake.

Could I ever return to that store to eat Snicker bars and read about Wrestlemania? Would Sonjay and I ever bro out again? No. But did I obtain a motherf**kin' Playboy!? I sure did. I was officially a thief for the first time, but was the juice was worth the squeeze? Hell to the yes.

I'll always remember that magazine fondly.

Drew Barrymore. January 1995.

Cheers,

Peter Hoare

P.S. Sorry, Sonjay. My bad.

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Peter Hoare (@PeterHoare) is a screenwriter and dashingly handsome humorist.

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