Rated XX

Because I still havent left the Brisbane metro area, allow me to talk more about my private life. As my Aunt Debbie asks, "Why are you parading around naked in public with that blog of yours?"

Anyway, the last time I’d been with my college in a drinking situation was kinda ridiculous, in a way I may blog about in a future post. So I was understandably hesitant about doing it again. But you know how my college loves theme nights.

Bogan: The Australian version of Redneck. A mullet, a wifebeater, grotty pants, and a Ford truck. Makes an easy enough costume.

I arrive on time, only to find no one there. Wander around town for a good hour, go to the supermarket for a chocolate bar, and flirt with the cashier boy. Time well spent. By the time I return, friends have shown up. We play drinking games. Homophobic faction shows up, sees I’m fully integrated, and keeps their mouth shut. It’s all working quite well.

One boy at the bar strikes my attention. I know there’s probably rules against hitting on guys in a straight bar, but what the hell. I find out he’s learning ninjitsu, has a band, and would love to know the names of the girls I was with. Motherfucker.

Suddenly a girl comes and drags me away by the arm; I’ve never seen her before in my life. “We need an American,” she says. “My friend is studying drama, and she needs to know how to tell about a New York and a Boston accent. They sound so much the same.” Any Yankees or Red Sox fan will tell you that’s bullshit, so I gladly helped the friend on her American accents. Suddenly, another girl came up from behind me, and bit me gently in the cheek.

I whirl around; the most drunken skanky girl I’ve ever met stands before me. She straddles me, presses up against me, and nibbles my ear. I can only stand stunned, while my friends look on with keen interest. Even if this girl were attractive, which she wasn’t, the overwhelming drunkenness would prevent any genuine advance by even the biggest sketchballers. So I allow her to continue molesting me and slurring at me while I resume talking to my kidnapper and her friends, much like a whale ignores a barnacle.

Or in this case, like a barnacle ignores a whale.

The kidnapper explains: My college cohorts were debating my sexuality again, possibly after observing me attempt to flirt with ninja boy, and scary girl decided to find out for herself. Whether she was specifically sent by them or decided on her own was beyond our knowledge. The situation made me understandably uncomfortable, as it would anyone, but I’ll assume they’ll take my reaction as a sign of gayness.

Oh, if it were only that simple.

My kidnapper seems to have developed an inexplicable interest in me. I don’t understand it. She’s alittle thick, but not unattractive. I’m plainly way too skinny. From her conversations, she’s way more sexually experienced than me, so I don’t understand what she’s thinking. Yet, here she is, flirting and groping just as much as my previous assailant.

The last time this happened, I just told the girl I was gay. I didn’t want to deal with it. I never know what the fuck I’m doing with girls, and they’re always more complicated. Its funny; after my adolescent “sexual awakening”, I was primarily interested in girls. Guys were just kinda a “side fetish”. This lasted all through high school. However, high school was a time where I got little play. I just sucked with girls, simple as that. When college came around, I decided to stop simply thinking about and actually fool around with guys.

This proved far more effective, as men are sluts. Guys went from being a side fetish to my main interest, primarily because they were most accessible. Consequently, as I focused on guys more, I became attracted to them more and girls less. They took over as my primary interest. I decided when I went to Australia, I wouldn’t even bother wasting my time with girls. I’d join the GSA, I’d go to gay clubs, I’d essentially be fully gay. This is why all my experience in Australia and all my blogging has been about guys.

It’s quite widespread for gay guys to say they’re bisexual when coming out. I’ve never heard of a bi guy pretending to be gay. But here I was, ignoring girls because I feared them. Ignoring them until they became unimportant. I said I’d only get with a girl in Oz if one fell in my lap. And that’s just what happened.

The two of us, and two of her friends, decided to return to the university. If you’re not a total eco-hippie, you might not know what a slackline is. Think tightrope walking, but the rope is elastic and springy. She used me as a balance to walk it, though probably an excuse to touch me. Eventually we got busted by security, though not before having lots of fun at the poor guy’s expense.

Finally, the event I feared: The two other boys went home. It was just me and her. Delaying what I thought might be the inevitable, I invited her to get a kebab. She was short on money, so I paid for the two of us. Shit, I accidentally talked myself into a date. But surprisingly, I was enjoying myself. I even asked for her phone number before walking home, being well aware of the implications of such a request.

The whole time, my mind was flipping through excuses. She is a little thick. And such an experienced girl wouldn’t want innocent ol’ me. I’ll say something stupid to make her dislike me. Surely there must be dozens of excuses in my bag, things I’ve told myself to back out of things back at my home school. Fearing girls so you back out of chances so you don’t get experience so you fear girls. A fun cycle, but not one I can afford to keep spinning forever.

If you’ve noticed a trend about this blog, its that trends continue. I’ve been in potential sexing situations with no less than 5 girls in the last two weeks. Luckily something intervenes (friends want to go home, bar closes, well timed text message from an ex…).

And just as I’ve finished establishing myself as the res-college token fag…

Procrasti-nation

Dear readers, allow me waste both your and my time.

I returned from the rainforest on the 28th, a Friday. That gave me nearly 2 weeks. Its understandable after such an exhausting trip that I would want to rest.

Saturday and Sunday roll by. Don’t go out, don’t do work, simply enjoy the remnants of my mid-semester break. I’m sure you can all relate.

Monday breezes in, and I’m finally ready to get started. Two 2000 word research essays wont do themselves, ya know? Except, turns out there’s a themed college party. I have about the same willpower to resist alcohol as an infant does to sucking titties.

Tuesday, and I’m free all afternoon. However, on my way to the library, I decide to stop by the Red Room, the university bar, to say hello to a few friends of mine briefly. This is at 2pm. We’re kicked out of the Red Room at 7pm, at which point we go to the middle of an abandoned lot and all share a handle of Smirnoff. Pretty sure alcohol kills the herpes virus, right? I make it back to my room after 10, and have to endure a girl snoring on my floor with her cooch hanging out. How she managed to strip and flash me in her sleep is beyond my simple powers to process.

Wednesday, I forsake class to crash in Carden Room for a good 3 pathetic hours. At which point we go to the Red Room for trivia night. I show off my dorkitude and win us a free jug of beer, but again work and I pass like ships in the night.

Thursday, I need to get started. The paper is due Monday. Sunday night is gay night at The Family, so that’s already a write-off. So maybe I’ll just go on an optional field trip to the middle of the forest at night to look for Sugar Gliders. That’s productive. Afterwards, the tutors and a few of us who hang behind share some beers and reminisce about home. Another box of the calendar x-ed off.

Friday is college bar night, not to be confused with the Red Room, the university bar. After a fungal lab steals my entire afternoon (a legitimate excuse), I need to make a choice. After all, last time I went to college bar, it was boring as sin.

Ah, fuck it. I’ll go to college bar later. Give myself 2 hours to do some serious work.

2 hours of reading a funny book later, its time to make my requisite quick visit to the bar. The standard dress code is a collared shirt, so I slip on something nice, walk down the block, and come face to face with Wonder Woman. And The Riddler. And is that supposed to be Jack Sparrow? Yes, it’s another theme night. They always seem to find an excuse to wear tights.

After an hour or so and a few beers, I’m ready to go. But one girl wont hear of it. I must, she demands, come to a house party full of strangers I’ve never even heard of. But sure, why not. Its not like 30% of my grade is due Monday.

The party is composed mainly of Argentinean and French exchange students. Strange bedfellows, literally enough. With nothing in common with the crowd, we decide to pilfer booze. A sack of boxed wine will do. I lean my head back, and she attempts to pour it into my mouth.

I discover the purpose of a secondary palate as she pours it into my nose.

After spilling all over me and nearly throwing up, we mingle alittle bit. A girl from Singapore tries to pick me up. The entire Argentinean college soccer team tries to pick her us. We decide we’d rather drink whiskey, eat kebabs, and call it a night. All things considered, 2am is still fairly early, but I’m in no state to work.

Its Saturday, and I’ve already declared Sunday a write-off. I have no choice but to stay in, break my 5 night (or afternoon) drinking streak, and accomplish some serious work. And to be honest, I actually do get work accomplished. I find about 4 sources to use on my essay before I take a break. Decide to go research Sydney gay bars for a bit.

No better way than to ask the locals, I suppose. Find myself a gay Australian internet chat, and ask away. If you think that sounds sleazy, you’re right. If you’re suspicious of who’s on a chatroom like this, you should be. If you’re curious why I spent the next 5 hours trying to preemptively pick up strangers in Sydney to go clubbing (or more) with, despite the fact that I have a giant essay looming, despite the fact that I’m not going for a month and a half, you need to shut the fuck up and stop thinking.

I try to write at 4am. It doesn’t work. Instead, I’ll set my clock to noon, have lunch, and have a good 5 hours to write my essay before going to The Family.

I wake up at about 5pm. Ahh, fuck me in the goat ass!

So here I sit, dear friends. Its Sunday night, and I have a giant essay looming. The responsible thing to do is to not go out clubbing. On the other hand, I could go out, then afterwards attempt to write a paper at 9am while hung over and still coming down from a mystery pill. Decide for me, dear blog readers (all 2 of you), because I’m done using this blog post as another method to delay the inevitable.

Sometime, Losing is the Right Thing

Flush from my success Friday, and still creeped out by drunken female 40+ advisor grinding up to all us college boys Saturday, I was looking forward to this birthday party tonight. This was a return to The Family, and was going to include the regular cast of characters, including One, Two, Three, and Four.

Now, throw in 2 more. Five is a freshman engineering student. Kinda cute. I should’ve learned my lesson already about freshers, but plainly the forbidden fruit is too tempting. Finally, a lesbian friend of ours came with. She came with the intent of congratulating the birthday boy, then getting wasted on pills. She also thought her contact could get me some too.

Immediately upon arrival, I’m faced with a choice. Is Two being flirty again? Should I try one more time? Or ignore him and go for Five? Its one of those situations where you might as well flip a coin. The mental dice roll, and I go off to dance with Two.

About 20 minutes later, I realize I made the wrong choice. The boy just has a flirty demeanor; he has no intention of hooking up with me again. Well, scratch that. Where’s Five?

Grinding up with One, of course. I was rather stunned. Now, perhaps I forget to mention, One is one in the same as the French Kid. You know, that one I kinda manipulated before guilting myself out and pushing him away. Since then, I’d encouraged him to go out and meet someone new. Mission accomplished?

I surprised myself by being angry. Here, that pitiable French kid is trying to steal my prey! The amateur, I should go over right now and have a little fun. I can have either of them if I want. Fucking cumdumsters.

I storm off, only to pass Three with a new beau of his own. This leaves only me. Tempted to call up the boy from Friday, but best not jump the gun, ya know? Instead, I’ll find my lesbian and her pills.

She’s already slipping into an altered state, and is nuzzled into some floozy’s arms. I ask her if she has extra, but no, her source only had enough for her tonight. Goddammit, The Family is supposed to be easy! This just isn’t my night.

Nothing better to do, I return to Two, still dancing into oblivion. We’re friends, and I can dance platonically. However, I still have my eyes on the two lovebirds. Anger yields to temptation; the desire to interfere is powerful.

But, here’s the funny thing. There’s a reason I didn’t go far with One. And frankly, Five is just like him. Neither would be a good pick, hookup or otherwise. Why am I so tempted to jump in then?

The answer comes easily: My ego. This ugly beast has grown too much too fast, and now its taking over. Because they’re not sitting on my shoulders anymore, my conscience is getting suppressed. But should I do the selfish thing or the right thing?

That answer is obvious. Resentful and alone, I let them do their thing. I owe it to the French boy. First I used him, then I coached him. How dare I step in now. Besides, they’re a cute couple.

Earlier than I expected, people start to leave. Three and his new friend vanish. One and Five, gone. Out of curiosity, I check the bathroom, seeing if I recognize two pairs of familiar shoes in any of the stalls.

My lesbian friend is sitting outside of the bathrooms on a bench, looking queasy. I ask her what’s wrong. Apparently, her pills were bad pills. The fun was short lived, and now she feels like shit and is about to crap out home. Her tonight and tomorrow are basically scuttled.

At the bar, Two is enjoying his last drink of the night. It’s his bedtime too. An odd curiosity washing over me, I ask him a question at the back of my head since we got here: That text message, right before you kissed me. What did it say?

It was never a text message. I realized what it earlier on the dance floor. I found out his disinterest in hooking up again by chatting, but it was hard as hell to hear. So we used our phones, typing text messages and showing them to each other as a form of conversation. This time I was only tipsy, so I realized what was going on. Last time I was completely shitfaced, so I had no fucking clue.

It said “I’ll make out with you, but we’re not having sex.”

We parted on very amicable terms. Now it was just me and Four, and I returned to dancing with total strangers. However, I had trouble even faking a smile. My ego was bruised, and more fragile than I gave it credit. And on top of it all, kids from my res-college show up.

I was already outed to all of them, so my presence here is no shocker. In fact, was quite the pleasant exchange. I hang out with them for half-hour or so until hunger drives me to leave the club and go to McDonalds.

For the record, nothing is better than McDonalds when you’re drunk and starving.

Sobered up and sitting alone in Brunswick Street Mall digesting oily food in an upset stomach, it was easy to feel like crap. Until I got a text from Two. “Thanks for tonight, lets do it again some other time.”

So maybe I’m not having sex, I’ve made a friend and drinking buddy. That’s enough for one night. Instead of going to the bar, I go crash at Three’s place instead.
Five is there, half asleep, but One is nowhere to be found. Taxi home, apparently. I ask somewhat sardonically if their evening ended well.

“We decided to stop before things went too far. Maybe we’ll go out again some time.”

Invasive as ever, I ask what “too far” was, and nearly broke out laughing when I heard. Kissing. Kissing was too far. They never even made out. Hell, even I made out with the French kid the night we went dancing.

It was all abundantly clear to me then. We’re all basically the same age. Two of us are exchange students. But we’re all in very different places. Five is exactly what the French boy needs. They’re both naïve and sweet, and they can take their time exploring themselves and each other.

The next morning (after 3 hours of uncomfortable sleep) I fulfilled my wish for pancakes, and crawled back to my dorm at 9am. Things are as they should be…

Except, Five and One make out two days later and are now dating. And when I call my Friday make-out on Monday, he tells me that he enjoyed my company, but cannot see me in “that way”. Turns out in the 48 hours since I talked to him last, he found the boy of his dreams and is now in a monogamous relationship. Though, I guess he must be a real clingy motherfucker. I’m better off not tied to him.

So maybe I’m alone, and missed out on multiple chances, but right now, things really are as they should be.

Anatomy Of A Hookup

Allow me to explain how this works.

Step 1: Go to a gay club. It’s a risky proposition going by yourself, since you have no fallback. However, it also gives you the most freedom. The choice is yours.

Step 2: Find a group of heterosexual girls. Integrate yourself into their group with self-deprecating wisecracks. Tell them you’ve just arrived in Australia, that you don’t know any gay people, and that you’ve never been to a gay club. Doesn’t matter if all three are blatant lies; the sympathy you evoke will make them vital allies.

Step 3: Go dancing with said straight girls. They wont mind if you dance like crap. Use this opportunity to scout around and eyefuck any potential opportunities.

Step 4: Choose someone on the dance floor. Someone cute, someone young, someone just on that cusp of being out of your league. Say to yourself “I’m going to have this boy by the end of the night.” In some cases, its made easier if he’s dancing with hags. These can be identified by being generally overweight and unattractive, and he’s not dancing with them in any sexual manner.

Step 5: Find an excuse to talk to the hags. In this specific case, I asked one where she got the glowstick around her neck. Repeat the same self-deprecating humor and blatant lies about your experience; hetero girls are hetero girls, whether they’re in a pack to avoid sketch men or out with their favorite queer.

Step 6: Invite the whole group to go dancing. Dance with all of them, especially with the hags. This will make said queer grateful for the attention you’re giving them, and make you look like a nice guy. However, never stop making eye contact and giving sexy looks to the boy, no matter who you’re dancing with.

Step 7: Optional. Take a break to go back for drinks, or even leave the bar for some kebabs. Continue to be witty. Steve Irwin references always useful.

Step 8: When the hags decide to go, ask the boy for his number. He’ll probably give it to you.

Step 9: When the hags look impatient, tell them to hold on for a minute. Then grab the boy around the waste, move in, and start making out with him in front of them for about 5 minutes. Then pretend to finish, before going back for an extra 2 minutes.

Step 10: Tell him to come back next Friday for more, with a self-absorbed smirk.

Step 11: On the bus home, accidentally sit next to a girl who happens to have gone to the same bar, go to the same college, and be in the same field course as you. Exchange numbers with her. Especially useful if she’s a lesbian. Now you have a new hookup and a new wingman (wingwoman), when you were all worried at 8pm that the night would be a total disappointment.

Step 12: Repeat on Sunday.

Veni Vidi Vici.