Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Singles Party Antics

It all started so innocently enough.

It was 4:30pm on a Friday, a time where you are aware that the fantastic opportunities that a weekend presents are only too nigh. The past couple of weekends had yielded limited social contact and I was ready to roll the dice no matter how strong the odds were that the house was gonna win. I answer my phone to find Johnny on the other end who says that there is a 'singles party' in town tonight and, whilst I find the idea of agenda based organized interaction unromantic, the possibility that I might find myself in awkward situations is intriguing.

Three hours later I find myself at Johnny's where, after "gettin' down one time" and sinking a couple, this whole thing has suddenly seemed like a great idea. On the taxi ride there I quiz Johnny on this whole deal and am suddenly informed that this 'event' is being held "in a church or something". This perplexes me;

"What do you mean 'in a church or something'? Give me the ticket"

I snatch violently and see that, yes indeed, I am headed to a church. For a singles party. My mind swirls with pre-conceived ideas which gives this thing a whole lot of bad juju. But hey, in a house of God it would be diplomatically irresponsible not to, at the very least, have a representative of Satan. The rest of the ride there is filled giggling uncontrollably.

Once in town we look for a bar, anything to make what we are about to go through more palatable.

"John, are you sure you don't wanna find another church and get a quick one in before the party?"

I still got jokes.

After a couple more at a bar across the road we head out. The plan is set, as Johnny already has his ticket he can scout the place out. If there is anything less than 50 people there, I would rather give Johnny half the price of his ticket to go somewhere else. His reconnaissance mission proves fruitful and I am told they serve alcohol and food. The blood and body of Christ. Upon entering we see that we are clearly the youngest people in the room. I do have to give these people props, although they have an agenda, it is clearly on the table for all to see as we are eye-fucked on the entire walk across the room to the bar. Not just eye-fucked but our bodies are riddled and we spasm like we are on the wrong end of an Tommy gun incident. The wait to be served is long and, as a result, I get us two drinks each. If they are gonna show their hand then it is only fitting that it is reciprocated. These go down well and I am suddenly proclaiming myself "the best looking guy in this room".

I attempt to 'open' a group of girls by asking whether they remember if there was a firefighter in the Village People. Their answers are short, sharp and they are clearly looking down their nose at the beast that I am becoming. I reply that their opinions would matter "if they weren't yuck". The full moon is upon us and the beast spares none his wrath.

Outside I find Johnny smoking and talking to a group of mid-30 year old women. I introduce myself and prepare to say the word 'yuck' again. One of them, a short blonde women with an apple dumpling face and a steak and double cheese body starts talking to me. She is clearly into me - I don't blame her. Our discussion proves that "Terina" is extraordinarily ordinary. No hobbies, no passions, no real opinions and about as deep as a puddle. She says that she enjoys going to the gym but her body betrays her. People without any kind of 'edge' are tedious at best. If there isn't a chance that I will cut myself holding it then it won't hold my attention for very long, in fact it has already held my attention for too long. I have to give it up to Johnny at this point as he is keeping the rest of herd entertained which, I think speaks about something inherent about him, he is just so easy to be around.

I decide to go it alone inside where I find the old and the desperate dancing. This party clearly is in it's highest gear as the DJ has taken to playing the 'oldies', those novel pop music favourites guaranteed to get the crowd dancing. Lines of people are doing the 'Time Warp' however it is only 10pm and my time is nowhere near ready to be warped. I swear that if I hear anything by 'The Exponents' I will stab somebody with the nearest sharp object I find. I am suddenly approached by something far easier on the eye than the offerings up until this point. She asks me to guess her ethnicity, people who usually ask this kind of thing clearly belong to some group that are typically foreign to these lands. Under normal circumstances I would have said half-Maori but decide to "air it out a little".

"You look Spanish...but your not fully Spanish. Half-Portuguese"?

It's good. Craig is straight money in the pocket. The next half hour is filled with her making excuses to touch me whilst I wallow in my own awesomeness. I suddenly feel a presence and turn to see Terina who hands me a slip of paper right in front of Portugal. Looking at this simply would say that all she was doing was attempting to continue contact with someone she felt a connection with, but I see through this thinly-veiled action. She was attempting to stake a claim and scare off a rival predator. It was a gank - plain and simple. That'll do pig, that'll do.

Portugal quizzes me on my affiliation with Terina and I attempt to diffuse this by asserting that "when your out people give you their numbers....you know how it is?". Clearly she doesn't. Johnny is ready to leave and Portugal weakly gives me a phone number. This is b.s.. Johnny and I get our groove on at other bars but we are drunk and hungry for the slaughter. I text both Portugal and Terina to see if they were "still in town with some friends" and "tell them to meet us at another bar". The motivations for this are simple, to the winner go the spoils. We arrive at the rendezvous point to find Terina and her friends all sitting outside. No Portugal - this is b.s.. A couple of drinks later and my conscience has been beaten into submission so I am suddenly thinking that this is almost a good idea. They invite us back to their place and whilst Johnny is keen I am the semi that still needs to be guided in and out. We agree to meet them back at their car however our taxi takes us some place else. The Gods of chance are clearly smiling upon us. I get a phone call enquiring where we are and I tell her that we are on the way....which we were.... weakly, however we quickly bail when navigation becomes impossible. My phone is going again, which I ignore, and five minutes later I retrieve a voice message stating;

"It was good to meet you, obviously you got lost. Give me a call during the week."

She sounds remarkably composed and, without a hint of desperation in the message, I briefly consider it. For composure under pressure is an admirable trait and the lack thereof will severely lower your social value. Thus the economics of the situation will prove that we are all selfish utility maximisers in search of the greatest value.

After noshing out on kebabs Johnny and I are both in a taxi on the way to his place. My phone is ringing again which means that desperation has won out however this decrease in your social value and my sobering up means that this has reverted to a opportunity that is most unpalatable. I arrive home at 4am feeling most self righteous. Craig had the opportunity to do something disgusting, and rather than compromise my own well-being "for the fellas" I not only held steadfast but resisted the forces around me which would have given me an excuse. A second glance at my phone sees that I missed yet another phone call.

That'll do pig. That'll do.

Saturday, November 1, 2008


This was the my first foray into writing, and specifically, trying to incorporate any kind of social commentary. This 'quasi-factual' piece originated after I received a message on a social networking site from a friend of a (now ex) girlfriend. This person fancied them self as a sort of deviant/scenester/exhibitionist and their message contained questions like "what is your favorite part of my body?" and "what would you want to do to me?"

Seeming like a desperate cry for attention I yielded and wrote the following post;

We are both at the same bar, with different parties, but penetrating stares mean that we are both aware the other is looking. As the night moves on, the courage only afforded by power drinking beers leads me to approach you and we engage in small talk, both pretending to care yet both aware what a precursor this task really is. You ask me to dance and whilst usually I feel this is something only girls and homos partake in, I am aware that this is one of the hoops that women use to screen potential suitors and validate their actions (along with other such vacuous factors such as how much money I make or what kind of car I drive). We dance, well, you dance seductively whilst I resemble an epileptic in a full body cast and once you are fully satisfied that we have made a “connection” (which is totally ironic as dancing is the least engaging format, both interpersonally and with music) you drop the bomb on me: “How about we go back to your place?”. I react manically and mechanically, there is no need to give the boys notice as it would only lead to ridicule, and within minutes we are both in a taxi.

The taxi is a lot longer than the 10 minutes that it takes to get back to my place. We have exhausted all the small talk there is to make and change of environment means that those awkward silences are now compounded by the incessant beep of the taxi meter and the cultural gap between driver and passenger. We know what we are both here for yet strain for dialogue both neck deep in the illusion that this could possibly something more than what it really is.

We get back to my place and you are impressed by my digs, I respond by telling you that it is my parents house and we will have to be quiet which I can see totally rocks your boat. Inside I quickly use the bathroom then make us a couple of drinks and we fumble with conversation until we have re-covered what we already know. You see my array of conveniently placed instruments and ask me to play you something, I usually don’t "whore my art" like that but respond with a beautiful ballad which makes you weak at the knees and you query it, “Did you write that?”. My response is in the affirmative and I weave a magical story that my inspiration came from having my heart broken by the one person I ever thought could understand me, I am comfortable in the knowledge that you have never heard 'Interstate Love Song' by the Stone Temple Pilots. You sit down next to me and we start discussing matters of the heart, you seem cold and calculated but fortunately I have enough game to defuse it. I tell you that I think that you are hiding something as what you are telling me is not what I see in your eyes and you ask me what I see. I respond, “I see a crazy calm, like your tired of running. Your ready to face what you want to face, but you don’t want to face it alone….”. We kiss passionately and I thank Sin City and Josh Hartnett for giving me both the dialogue and the delivery.

You pull me into my room and our bodies grind like continental plates, you push me away, “We shouldn’t be doing this…I have a boyfriend!”. I also have a girlfriend but dealt with this moral implication before we jumped in the taxi. I don’t know why girls try to stop at this point, they ARE already a slut, and what (?) like post-action regret means there shouldn’t be any consequence (you have already kissed me and slept with me in your head)? I comfort you and give you some b.s. about “the heart sometimes being smarter than the head” which seems to validate your action. I care little about the schism in the virgin-whore dichotomy. We get back down to business furiously tearing at each others clothes, it has been a while for me and as a result I grope you like I am trying to crush a piece of fruit. You reach down my pants and grab hold of my throbbing f*ck stick, you notice the tip is moist and put this down to pre-cum but only I know it’s because I didn’t shake properly after using the bathroom. I am very aroused though and in an attempt to “make this party last a while” I go down on you where I am startled to find you ungroomed. I quip, “I hope that it has had it’s shots?!?”, you look confused and I save up my laughter for when I relay it to the boys later. After a couple of minutes of back-arching pleasure you ask me if I have a condom so I guess you must be ready. I roll out of bed to find the condoms amongst the mess in my room banging my knee on the bedside table…now this fucking hurts (right on the knee!) and I take a minute to rub it frantically, my eyes shrink wrapped in tears. Leftover food and sweaty clothes dot a landscape surrounded by air brushed pictures of models in seductive poses. These pictures fuel your insecurity, you know that you could NEVER match up in comparison and you start covering up. With the light on you get a full view of my physical splendor…. I am a lot paler and chubbier than my Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirt led you to believe but my shaved hog creates a 'bigger than average' illusion. The low artificial lighting compliments you and your body seems iridescent, just when I think I have a full view the selective darkness teases me. I find the condoms, "ribbed, for her pleasure"…that’s right….I’m thinking of you baby. Due to the pain in my knee my once proud boner is now limp and I coerce you to give me some head, which you do and all I can think about is how I am about to get snowballed the next time we kiss….it happens to every guy…we just don’t talk about it. In minutes (ok, minute) I am back to where I need to be and roll a condom on, mount you and thrust gently enough not to awake the hibernating bear that resides between your thighs. I flip you over and with my thumb try to give you 'the rhino' which is first verbally dismissed and then, on the second attempt, swatted forcefully away. It has been a minute or so and suddenly I am not as drunk as I once was…my mind begins to wander. Firstly, to what I have done tonight then to the models on my wall….then it all gets too much. I explode with absolute fury and go limp, a sweaty spent pile on the bed and you seem unsatisfied and bewildered.

The silence is back, I am sleepy and want you out of here. You prod me to let you stay but I lie and say that I have something important tomorrow and order you taxi you never requested. You think I am coming outside to wait with you but only go as far as the door, I mean we are both certain that we won’t see each other again…the first interaction has been uncomfortable enough.