American Pie's 15 years old. In honor, I found out what it's really like to bang a pie.

On July 9th, 1999, American Pie hit theaters. For its time -- that Y2K-frenzied, AOL-fueled, pre-September 11th moment -- it was groundbreaking. Or perhaps I should say crustbreaking, because sex! With pastries!

Ah, the sex. As an impressionable 11-year-old, I wasn't allowed to see the R-rated American Pie in theaters; my parents wouldn't dream of bringing me, and I lived in a town so small, there weren't any bad-element 17-year-olds to buy me illicit tickets. But eventually, the film hit video-store shelves, and soon thereafter I found myself in front of the big-box Magnavox in a buddy's basement, watching Jim, Kevin, Finch, Oz, and Stifler hustle flesh. So THIS is what it's gonna be like, I thought to myself. My future never looked so promising.

While a lot has changed about America since that day in the basement in 1999 (Tara Reid, for example), almost nothing has changed about pie. So to celebrate the timelessness of its titular delicacy, I rewatched American Pie, then made sweet love to a warm apple pie. Here's what happened.

Act I: rewatching the film

There are plenty of things I remember about American Pie -- the Botox-y lifelessness of Oz's face, the lexiconical introduction of "MILF", Shannon Elizabeth, generally -- but my first thought upon viewing it 15 years later, was, "Man, American Pie isn't a sexy movie." Gone was the childlike thrill, gone was the salaciousness. Several times, I caught myself responding to old emails -- like, ancient, completely ignorable emails -- on my phone instead of watching. American Pie is boring.

Blame the rise of Internet porn or the heteronormative plotline or the fact that Jason Biggs is now Orange Is the New Black's Larry more than he ever was Pie's Jim. Whatever it was like to watch this flick, these days it's just an unsexy bummer.

Would the penetrative piece of this puzzle let me down similarly? I was determined to find out.

Act II: preparing for romance

There comes a time in every man's life when he reflects upon his choices. I encountered one such threshold when I found myself considering -- with no lack of critical, evaluative, strategic thought -- the best way to go about coitus-ing an apple pie. Despite what the movie suggests, coitus-ing a pie is not a straightforward proposition. The preparations I made were these:

Pie type
The first debate was homemade vs. store-bought. I'm not much of a cook, but I was prepossessed with the notion that crafting the pie with my own hands, in my own kitchen would be the most faithful adaptation. After all, Jim's Mom made the one he bangs in the movie. Plus, it seemed more intimate that way. Ultimately I opted for a store-bought pie because a) I'm lazy; b) I'm genuinely not much of a cook; and c) it seemed a little incest-y to make something with the sole intention of boning it as it cooled.

Crust type
Then, there was a question of upper crust. I made the horrible error of buying a standard-domed (!) pie at first, only to realize, upon rewatching the film, that American Pie's version is lattice-worked. "Almost" may count in horseshoes and hand grenades, but it does not count in cinematically authentic pastry-sex. Back to the store I went.

Pie temperature
Seeing as how Oz's description of the act ("like warm apple pie") became the pull quote for an entire generation of horny teenagers, there was no doubt here. Tepid be the temptation. My microwave became my wingman, which is a sentence I just wrote, so I guess this is rock bottom now?

Love-making surface
Biggs uses a breakfast bar in a suburban kitchen. I live in Brooklyn, where I have neither countertop nor full kitchen. I opted for the next best venue to support my torrid lovemaking: the floor.

15 years ago, the safe sex movement was nascent. These days, it's omnipresent. I'm no gambler when it comes to sexual responsibility, so out of respect for my body, and the pie's innards, I purchased condoms.

A contentious decision, this was. I ultimately went with "Scotty Doesn't Know" to set the mood. Though the song is actually from 2004's EuroTrip, I figured it'd be better background noise than the alternative: marching band tunes. Because, y'know, band camp.

Enthusiastic & continuous consent

Act III: sexing the pie

Just like that, it was time. With the preparations made, my girlfriend at the movies, and having just opened an $11 bottle of rosé, I sidled up seductively to my gorgeous, full-bodied pie. She is a thing of beauty, I said to myself. Wait, what the hell is wrong with you?! I said to myself immediately thereafter. Either way, man and pie were about to get down.

The act
Sometimes, sex is mischaracterized as being like Twister, usually by people who have never had intercourse (me!) but looooove floor games (also me!). Whatever the veracity of that claim, making love to a pie is a LOT like Twister. I start off in a modified missionary position to account for the shallowness of my partner. Immediately I feel my abs -- ravaged by years of pulled pork -- give out. Brow furrowed and quads aching, I recall why I hate exercise. After just a few uninspired thrusts, the flaky lattice-work crust is everywhere. On my gut. On the floor. On my face?!

The sensation is not ideal. You know those times when you jump in a pool, and the water is the same exact temperature as your body, and, for a moment, you can't feel your skin? Boning your dessert feels like that. I decide almost immediately that I will not call this pie again.

The, ahem, "issues"
Perhaps it's time to switch positions. I don't want to say I've read the Kama Sutra or anything, but I've read the Kama Sutra, so I have a menu of man-to-pie poses in my arsenal. Tenderly, I make the move to cowgirl (cowpie?) -- and that's where the trouble starts. I, uh... I can't perform. Don't stress; this happens to all guys, I comfort myself. Oh god, no it doesn't! Panicked, I search for an explanation. Fear wracks my body. If you've ever been walked-in-upon in the throes of self-passion, you know what happened next. Total failure.

The mood -- tenuous to begin with, considering I was trying to pound a pie -- vanishes. Shame washes over me in waves. I feel like I've let down my entire generation and Jennifer Coolidge. "I swear, this has never happened to me," I sheepishly say aloud. From its perch on my midsection, the punctured pie leers silently back at me. Looks like I was the one who wouldn't be getting called back. Cruel fate, thou mock me.

The clean-up
There's nothing left to do but hit the shower and think about what happened, so I do. If the apple pie was a person, I'd call it a cab. Luckily, it is, in fact, still a pie, so I unceremoniously throw it in the trash and sweep up the flaky flotsam that remains -- the last physical evidence of our once-potent love.


It took me years to realize American Pie wasn't a true-to-life retelling of the American high school experience, but it only took about five minutes for me to discover how outlandish the idea of pie-loving truly was. It is the dumbest. Maybe a man more virile than I could pull off the impossible and give this story its proper climax (see what I did there?), but for this author at least, humping a pie is a grander fiction than Stifler's entire persona.

Did I learn something? Yeah, I did: Leave your adolescence where it lies. Don't dig it up and try to bang it.

Dave Infante is a senior writer for Thrillist food & drink. He will not be sending this piece to his parents. Interrogate him on Twitter: @dinfontay.