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Heavy bass was rippling my clothes, my eardrums were hammered by rhythmic thumping and the darkness I saw before me was sporadically speared by rays of light…
What?
I was dancing.
Where?
In a club.
I thought about calling someone to piece together my night…but it’s hard to reach in your pocket, dial a number and start speaking when you’re reeling drunk, you’re in a club and your tongue is doing a triple deke in tonsil hockey while both your hands are shoved up a girl’s shirt with no indication of moving from their warm, soft perch.
I smirked around her tongue to no one in particular, “I’m back in the game, bitches.”
Let’s backtrack a bit.
I last left you in New York City having just avoided an inaugural Japanese/Dutch friendly tonsil hockey shootout with KVP overlooking the Statue of Liberty. Though the game of tonsil hockey does have its merits, hockey is the least of the four major sports and thus, languishing in this niche game only leaves one stranded at first in the national pastime.
I soon found my way back to Montreal near the end of
Drinking
I go hard...but this bottle looks emptyspring break and immediately got a call from DL who was “dying” to tell me about her vacation.
I went in with the usual nervousness and indecisiveness accompanying a date with a girl I like but unlike the long, drawn out emotional spillages of prior, DL ended in a bang,
literally.
Me: “So how was Puerto Rico?”
Her: “You know Malin Akerman? The one who shows her tits in Harold & Kumar?”
Me: “Yea? Why do you—“
Her: “I fucked her brother in Puerto Rico!”
Ok, DL is over. Not because she randomly fucked a guy—I’m no hyprocrite and I think random sex is good as it displays the amazingness of relationship sex while giving everyone involved experience—but telling me about her random sex meant she had zero interest in me.
And bragging about fucking a B-List celebrity’s
sibling is both sad
and lame, like war veterans with missing limbs.
I was depressed, but as I’ve mentioned previously, I wanted to keep her as a close friend. So I dropped my feelings and paved a sure road towards a close friendship.
Easier said than done…I remained in the dumps for a week.
Matchmaker's Birthday
in conjunction with curry party What briefly pushed my head out of the dregs of depression was the thought of KVP...but I've detailed how fucked up my relationship with her is.
But whatever, I'm Japanese...I'm used to doing pointless actions...like slamming planes into aircraft carriers when
the war is already fucking lost.
Even though I’m bent on going after KVP, I’m fully aware of the repercussions my chasing of her would bring. So I needed to find a good backup…
he’s chasing a coveted free agent with character issues, he needs to develop some arms in the farm system…
But there was nobody…no one even remotely possible. But ahhh, the beauty of friendship. The Princess called me up and gave me a tip: her best friend Christal Champagne (remember her?) had been single for a while and was getting lonely. “I’ll invite her to the next party,” she said, “Get it done!”
I was more than surprised. I’m not bad looking (I would rate myself a generous 11/16), I can socialize pretty well and I’m a pretty nice guy underneath, but I have glaring deficiencies. I’m nowhere near hot (that 11/16 score is grossly inflated due to a shortage of Japanese
males in the Northeast and not representative of my ghastly looks and railthin physique), I’m more abrasive than sandpaper shoes on a gravel road and I might be a nice guy underneath…but I’ve got five layers of asshole with which its securely covered.
And this was the guy she wanted to pimp her best friend out to?
Maybe she remembered I was a good kisser?
For whatever reason, she deemed me “best guy for her best friend to get with” so I was more than psyched. The next party was the Japanese club’s curry dinner of which the Princess and I are executives.
I grilled the Princess for a night and a day during the preparations for the party and laid out careful groundwork for the best course of action.
But I forgot one thing…cooking curry for 1 person is simpler than laughing at midgets on sight. Cooking curry for 8 is the same thing. Cooking curry from scratch for 60 fucking people is ridiculous.
Do you know how many onions, potatoes and carrots we had to fucking peel? 10 bagfuls, by my count. Do you know how long that fucking takes when you only have one fucking peeler? 6 hours. Do
Harakiri?
The Princess and I start a Japanese ritual you know how long it takes to cut 10 pounds of beef into minute squares? 2 hours. Do you know how many loads of rice you have to put into tiny rice cookers to feed that many people? 45.
By the time the dinner rolled around, all the executives were so fucking tired and fed up that we did the only reasonable thing.
We got trashed.
I was keeling over in inebriation and pretty soon I was sloppily hitting on Christal Champagne. She was actually reciprocating. In the midst of my continued drunken try to get her, the Princess came over and attempted to wingman.
But females suck as wingmen (wingowmen?). Japanese females suck even more. And drunken Japanese females are only useful for Japanese rape AVs.
“Gen is a nice guy!”
I glanced over at her with a nervous smile.
Champage employed the only answer she could use, “Um, ok…”
I tried to defuse the situation. “Haha, you always think everyone is nice when you’re drunk!”
“Stop being so modest Gen! You guys should kiss!”
She smashed our heads together.
Our foreheads cracked against each other and our
bodies slammed together and maybe for the briefest of seconds, our lips might’ve grazed…
he went to first on a beanball, but was immediately picked off, what an idiot…but I wasn’t really paying attention because the chocolate cake she had been holding was now sliding down her (formerly) pristine white jacket.
Everyone around us had been drawn in by the crack of our heads and now all stood around hushed as they all watched the cake slowly leaving a trail of cream on her jacket. As usual amongst Asians, no one did anything…and the cake splattered into a cream explosion on the ground.
Lascivious thoughts briefly raced through my mind as I viewed the carnage of cream over her body, but I threw them aside to save a girl who was looking down at a ruined outfit while everyone else watched from a cold distance.
I grabbed her hand and quickly led her to the bathroom, shutting the door behind us.
“Let’s wash this out.”
I started washing out her jacket with water and soap, avoiding glancing at her face so she could compose herself.
She finally gained control and turned to the sink.
Together we washed the jacket in silence.
As we later sat in one of the bedrooms of the apartment, drying her jackets with a blowdryer, she finally broke the silence.
“I’ve known you for over a year…I thought you were crazy…and stuff. I didn’t know you were nice.”
“I’m not nice,” I said, both bluntly…and truthfully.
She smiled at me, “No, you are.”
“No I’m not,” this time I was adamant. I have a reputation as a partygoing asshole to keep. I couldn’t be bogged down with an adjective like “nice”.
She didn’t bother to reply and looked back down at her shirt. But her wispy smile easily told me what she was thinking.
The droning whine of the blowdryer and the muffled shouts of the party took over. This time I traversed across the silence.
“I…I guess I don’t know much about you, either. Let’s start over, I’m Gen.”
It wasn’t my usual smarmy, cocksure introduction. My usual overblown, egotistical, in-your-fucking-face greeting. It was quick. Simple. The first time I had ever employed it. It wasn’t strange, or awkward. It was natural.
She stretched out her hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Christal.”
I took it and shook. “Nice to meet you.”
We both stared down at our hands…and then burst out laughing. Her into a giggling fit and me into a bellowing guffaw.
Our laughter continued a little too long and once again the blowdryer’s steady hum and the sporadic shouts from the party filtered back into the conversation. But we were still holding hands.
We both looked at each other.
“Can I kiss you?”
A no-frills question that stated my intentions without any pointless flirting, posturing and posing.
She offered her cheek.
I laid a soft kiss on the smooth surface.
She slowly opened her eyes, “You’re a good kisser.”
“Oh…thanks.”
I looked back up. “Are you?”
The first flirtatious line. But it wasn’t tossed in with a smirk, it wasn’t asked with a raised eyebrow or with an uplifted chin. It was a genuine question.
She hesitated, looking down.
I gave her a reassuring squeeze with our interlocked hands.
She leaned forward and as our lips met, we simultaneously drooped our eyelids to remember the moment.
In the club
Don't remember We kissed a few more times but she didn’t seem intent on making out and I wasn’t intent on fixing something that wasn’t broken. The blowdryer and jacket had lain forgotten and when we stopped, we discovered the jacket was completely dry and not a mark of cake remained.
She put it on and taking a deep breath, we left the sanctuary of the bedroom for the wildness of the party. We ran into D-German first.
“Is holding hands the new style?”
I had forgotten we were still holding hands like the Korean War. We quickly dropped our hands to our sides, blushing.
Matchmaker joined us. “Oi, Gen. Why aren’t you drinking?!”
I gave him an incredulous look…I was standing next to a girl…didn’t any of these motherfuckers understand wingman responsibilities…jesus, where the fuck is Teddy when you need him?
To shut up the peanut gallery, I grabbed the nearest bottle and threw it back. And almost threw it back up. My old friend, vodka. But I held the bile down and smiled as everyone went nuts around me.
Then something even more ridiculous happened. Christal Champagne grabbed a bottle (Vodka Ice, a
7%!d(MISSING)rink) and threw it back.
Holy shit. A small Asian girl who actually drinks?
She smiled at me with an eyebrow raised…
Soon the whole party was raising glasses towards the ceiling and pounding shit back.
I found myself in a little crevice by the living room with D-German, K-Bomb and Christal Champagne.
Pretty soon, K-Bomb and D-German started talking about their fantasy that they talk about at every fucking party. Having a threesome.
I’m not too intresested in threesomes…I only have one cock, what good is two pussies?
And from experience, a fivesome wasn’t any better than normal sex so I don’t see a threesome being better. So I found the topic boring.
Somehow, the conversation turned to daring each other to kiss someone of the same sex.
D-German posed the question, “If me and Gen make out, will you girls?”
They hesitated but hastily agreed. Everyone was smashed, who the fuck cares?
I looked at D-German. “I’m not gay” ran repeatedly through our minds but seeing the two of them make out would be hot…
Before I could formulate my thoughts, D-German grabbed my face and quickly made out with me.
I pulled
In the club
Before 2nd base, I guess away furiously wiping my lips. What THE fuck?
K-Bomb and Christal Champagne made out.
We stood around trying to figure out what to do now.
D-German: “Time to switch!”
I turned to Christal Champagne, a blush (or Asian glow) forming on both of our faces…
But D-German and K-Bomb pushed us apart.
“I’m bored of K-Bomb…she’s my girlfriend.”
“Same here! D-German is soooo boring!”
A small fire of jealously flared up as I watched D-German start kissing Christal Champagne…but then they finished and I realized the situation I was in.
I’ve detailed my ridiculous history with K-Bomb, plus making out with your best friend’s girlfriend in front of him is more than strange…
But alcohol makes everything ok, so I made out with K-Bomb.
Soon a trashed Princess joined our foursome and another round of making out started.
Panting from a series of tonsil hockey longer than the NHL postseason, we all quickly chugged wine to rid the taste of four other people from our mouths.
Next thing I realize, I’m grinding Christal Champagne in a club with both her hands up my shirt fondling my chest hair and our tongues in each other’s mouths.
My arms were uselessly directing her hips to the beat so I put them up her shirt.
Christal Champange is hot, but she is extremely Asian so her second base wasn’t actually a Keystone bag but a painted on plate.
But who the fuck cares?
A double is a double in any park.
And as Lil’ Jon yelled out
“Oh skeet skeet skeet motherfucka!” I could feel her tongue singling along in my mouth.
This is the life, bitches!
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yakyu otaku
T.J. Smith
Chaucer would be Jealous.
"I had forgotten we were still holding hands like the Korean War." "her second base wasn’t actually a Keystone bag but a painted on plate." You are the MASTER of comic similes and metaphors. There is no second.