I’d thought the flies were brutal at lunch the day before, but I was wrong. In fact, throughout the trip I continued thinking the flies could not get worse, and was continually proven wrong. However, George mastered the art of putting a t-shirt on his head and securing it with a hat. Looked like a cross between Lawrence of Arabia and the KKK, but it was a look I’d be rocking many times before the end of the trip. And don’t tell Jess, but it was the Voice campaign shirt was I was using. Considering how badly they were trounced in the elections, that shirt might as well go to some good use.
It’s a little-known fact that when it’s hot out, you sweat. Ok, maybe that’s a small fib, but I had no idea one could sweat to the insane pool-filling amounts I could. I started our big hike carrying 2 liters of water (that recurring number), and sculled before we were half done. Mind you, our big hike was only 2 hours round trip, but clamoring over boulders in the full mid-day sun, half an hour will sweat you 2 liters. The trip was grueling, but as we’ve seen, it’s always about the destination.
The vista was gorgeous. We stood in the path of a waterfall, now down to a trickle in the wet season. Below us lay the green-tinged billabong, and beyond that, the sprawling forests of Kakadu. Of course, the real reward was the still-wet source pool just a hundred meters further, but one final obstacle lay in our path:
The Cane Toad (Bufo marinus) was introduced to Australia in 1935 by the most moronic bogan fuckhead this side of the equator. This poisonous delicacy has spread all over northern Australia and multiplied in ways that would make rabbits blush, slaughtering native wildlife in the process. The toads are a relatively recent arrival to Kakadu, and we used to think we could actually slow their progress. Each toad killed is thousands of eggs not laid, and now the charge to save the national park lay in David’s capable hands.
Somewhere along the line, John had challenged David to kill a Cane Toad. However, the usual methods of poisoning and freezing were not available to us in the middle of the wilderness. David would need more primitive methods. Grimacing in anticipation, he picked up a decent sized rock, and dropped it on the unflinching toad. It bounced right off. Shocked at the toad’s resilience, David tried again, to the same result. We realized if we wanted this toad dead, we would need true commitment. David once more wielded his rock, and brought it down with immense force on the toad’s head. Then again. Over and over, with surprising rage, David bludgeoned the toad’s face into the bedrock until its blood and brains began to flow. The toad was dead, and David had fulfilled whatever bizarre ritual of manhood he had set out for himself.
By the time we arrived at our third watering hole of the trip, I had ceased wearing my watch. Time was irrelevant; divisions of time were based on trips to waterfall plunge pools. Still sweating bullets, I looked forward with heated anticipation at jumping in (albeit at no deeper than 6 feet, there were no dramatic cliffdives), but before I could even take my shoes off, John exclaimed, “A snake just swam across the pool!” I was off in the direction he was pointing, crashing through the undergrowth, before he could even finish his sentence.
Panting from the dash, I looked around frantically to find his snake. Finding nothing, I resigned that it must’ve hid under the rocks, and prepared to enter the water… at which point I nearly stumbled over the Water Monitor. A diminutive relative of the Komodo Dragon at only 3 feet long, it still had nasty claws, a whip tail, and a bacteria-laden bite. It locked eyes with me and simply stared.
“Can you keep it occupied until I swim over?!” John called across the pool, already donning his goggles and slipping in. We continued our Mexican standoff, peering into reptilian eyes, as John and David approached. They crept up stealthily, almost making contact, and John reached out. The monitor bolted before it even touched, and I sprinted after it, crashing through undergrowth, among other things, determined not to lose it.
Escaping the tripping stumps and tangling vines, I found nothing. The monitor had escaped. I sighed, and felt a stab behind my ear. Confused, I looked behind me, and found nobody. Then another behind my other ear. A strangle prickly sensation was breaking out all over my body, and it was starting to hurt. I lifted my shirt, to reveal a dozen ants attempting to rip my flesh. I must’ve run right through a Green Ant nest, and now the soldiers were swarming my entire body, taking their aggression out on me.
Stripping down almost naked, I began madly brushing myself off, garnering quizzical looks from John and David. Luckily, none of them went for the scrotum. Finally clean of ants, I turned my shirt inside out, and began picking off the stragglers, angrily biting them in half and spitting out their heads. Who’s on top of the food chain now, bitches?! However, my victory feast was short lived; David found the monitor again and the chase resumed.
The monitor was a slick opponent; every time John and David approached it resting, it would slip off again and hide, not to be found until it came up for air again. I stayed on the shore to track its escapes. I desperately wanted to be part of the chase, but I knew my role was vital. Eventually, the two of them coaxed the lizard into a mini cove, where I was waiting on top to catch it. Cornered and unable to swim away, it made a break for the land, and I was ready. However, before I got my big debut, John grabbed it by the tail, swung around, and grabbed it behind the head, making the big catch. David cheered our success, but I felt an immediate burning jealousy, greener than my nemesis ants.
In fact, I’ll admit it: When John took it out of the water to show off his catch to the rest of the group, and it took a big wet fragrant shit on his bathing suit, I laughed.
While John and David took turns holding it and posing for the camera, I stripped and prepared for my consolation prize. I took my spot in the water near our mini cove, and waited for the group to finish fawning over our catch. Satisfied, they released it at the water’s edge, and it dove in.
To the average observer, it won’t seem like a big deal. However, as I swam beside it, watching its graceful moves, its deft acrobatics, its blistering speed, and its ultimate return to freedom, all with gentle flicks of its tail, I wondered what got me here. How was I on the other side of the world, in the land of reptiles, underwater and out of my element, sharing this moment with a miniature crocodile? Still watching and awestruck, I could only attribute it to magic.
Even after a recharging swim, the return trip was no less grueling. And really, Simon stopping us in the middle of the sun-baked savannah to talk about fire was both ironic and cruel.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Kaka-Doh! (Part 2: The First Day)
This might be a good point to introduce the cast of characters. Firstly, there’s John, another American from St. Louis who I actually met in Los Angeles. I have an innate ability to read John’s mind, but only because we habitually have the same thought about wildlife: “Lets catch it!” I’ve never known how comfortable he is with me, being strict Roman Catholic, but I’ve never brought it up, and neither has he. Instead, we’ve founded a friendship on a foundation of catching wild shit. I hope to continue when we return to America.
His friend is David. He is an interesting character. Very artsy, very into the aesthetic. He would stop us regularly to drool over Darwin’s booming pearl industry. He loves jewelry, art, and fashion, and has definite feminine speech patterns and mannerisms. He’s also completely heterosexual, and the two of us jointly defy every misconception about gay people. However, he never seemed to like me, and we never really hit it off. My obligatory Facebook friend invite being left in perpetual limbo probably attests to that. But hey, we’re just highly different people I suppose.
Our dynamic of basically only having John in common thrust a somewhat unwilling John into a leadership role to compromise between the two us, but I enjoyed being the devil on the shoulder during the trip, always encouraging more exploring, later hours, and more adventure.
Accompanying us was a colorful cast of characters. There was a married couple in their 30’s; the wife was named Lindsey, and the man, whose name escapes me, will be called George. Despite their advanced age, they could hike with the best of us, and they would be the source of the most amusement to me on the last night.
Also coming along were the three European boys: Jakob (24) looked stereotypically Nordic blond, and always had a goofy smile on his face. He was also probably the most athletic among us, being the only one able of climbing up the slippery slope of the rock pool. He stuck to the most part with Jasper (26), another stereotypical Nordic blond, except with a lazy eye. They were traveling the world together, and I half wondered if Jakob kept Jasper around as his wingman in bars. I was eventually proven wrong, as only Jasper picked up in the bar on the last night. Finally, there was Martin (29), a quiet German who rarely spoke. He made for a decent tentmate and seemed rather friendly, though I still avoided disclosing my jewish heritage.
Finally, there were our tour guides, Simon and Beck. Simon was new at the game, but was rather knowledgeable, especially about Aboriginal culture. However, he was always scared because he was being judged by Beck. She was the outgoing tour guide, and was giving him his final review. They were both fairly heavily and creatively tattooed and pierced, and their attitude was snarky and quick to mock. I loved them immediately.
Our first stop was a crocodile cruise. While other companies make their crocs jump out of the water, our guide was au naturale. The old man also made a point of deriding the late great Steve Irwin. I was amused watching John grimace, and avoided announcing to the guide that 3 of us were wearing Wildlife Warriors wristbands from Steve’s charity.
The crocs themselves were pretty neat, cruising past the boat lazily, eying us with hunger and contempt. Oddly, I wondered if the experience was akin to being in a gay bathhouse. We also had the pleasure of seeing a big Salty nearly take down a Freshy. Overall, a relaxing leisurely cruise that lulled us into a false sense of security.
Upon arrival in Kakadu, we had a picnic, and I became fully acquainted with the spawn of Satan: Flies. Buzzing in my ears, walking on the surface of my eyeballs, slurping white blood cells from the gaping hole in my eyebrow… I was almost ready to call it quits right there, and might’ve if I’d known it would only get worse. But eventually we finished lunch and soldiered on to our first hike.
Our first hike was more like walking on the sandy boardwalk at Jones Beach. I was actually a little disappointed. We did see Golden Orb Spiders and the somewhat rare Rainbow Pitta (one of only 4 suboscines in Australia. Trust me, I got tested on that). We even saw Ant Lions in action. However, the hike was irrelevant to what we were hiking to.
It was described in the itinerary as a dip in a waterfall plunge pool. What I was not aware of was the fact that we’d be the ones doing the plunging. From about 30 feet up. We clamored up sharp hot rocks to what was essentially a miniature cliff. The lower jump was easy enough, and the water was actually quite warm, but I knew I wasn’t going to be satisfied unless I took the high dive.
Now, you should know I have a mild fear of heights. That’s why I do things like rock climb, roller coaster, and bungee jump. I do it to strike back at my fear. But this time, there were no support ropes, safety systems, or brakes. Just the water. At maybe 30 feet, it was the smallest of any of my height challenges, but it petrified me more than all the others combined. And you know jumps always look higher from the top.
I climbed up to the top, and planted my feet on the edge, just as Beck coached. But I sat down. My legs felt like jelly. She called up, asking me if I had any trouble standing, but I just lied and said ‘no’. Thoughts whirled in my head. What if I broke a leg? Or my spine? What if I had my eyebrow piercing ripped out of my face upon impact with the water? If I pass out on hitting the water, or even from fear during the fall, I could drown… Then I stood up and jumped.
My head cleared of all thoughts in the jump. I was a blank entity, just falling through space. Until I hit the water, of course. Accidentally flipped over underwater, and got the substance lodged in my ears, nose, and every sinus. Don’t you hate that feeling when warm water oozes out of your ears? As do I, but it took me a good 5 hours to experience it. In the meanwhile, I swam over to a mini waterfall, where hot water from above washed over me. Tiny rocket frogs scampered all over the sheer vertical wet walls, and fled my arrival like Godzilla. I settled into the warm falls, laid back my head, and waited for the gentle frogs’ return. I’d found Australia.
The return trip was pretty nondescript, except for the fact that I ate ants. Apparently, according to Beck, my fears of the Green Ants are unfounded, and they’re actually quite delicious. I picked one off a branch, and it stung my tongue. Surprisingly, it was delicious. I didn’t even mind the sting, as I was going to eat it anyway; instead of take-out, delivery. They kinda taste like lemon sorbet. I got my daily vitamin C intake from a few more ants before leaving to make camp. I didn’t know then that they’d get their revenge.
That night over dinner and tea (it’s a Commonwealth thing), I asked Beck where I could find snakes. She told me, half-jokingly, that I could find them in the bathroom, which was really just a permanent porta-potty, an oxymoron in its own right. Maybe she was making lewd commentary on the wily and dangerous Trouser Snake.
Despite our sleepiness, there was no rest for the wicked. The three musketeers were going spotlighting for animals at night. The night’s catch was a real freakshow; Huntsman Spiders missing legs, Geckos missing tails, and the creepiest Kookaburra just staring at us. David crapped out relatively early, but John and I soldiered on in the other direction. As I crept quietly in the bush trying to trace a sound, I was rudely interrupted by John racing back. “Hurry up, I’ve a snake!”
I followed and ended up at… the bathroom. Was Beck right, or was this just the skuzziest crack-on ever? But to my amazement, he was right. There on the ground right outside the permanent porta-potty was a small snake. We took turns trying to pick it up and ID it without getting fatally envenomed. In the back of my mind, I could hear my friends cashing in on their bets. The way to tell is by finding the heat pits under the jaw characteristic of pythons. Not easy when it’s snapping at you and you might die. I’m sorry to say I dropped it twice during two close calls. But finally we IDed it properly as a (ironically enough) juvenile Children’s Python.
We took pictures, which I regretted since days of not showering left my face splotchier than a Jackson Pollack painting, but we wanted to document our success. We even had the decency of bringing it back to the sleeping David to pose with. However, we didn’t wake anyone else. This was our thing, our success. We let it go, and tried to sleep.
Keyword of course is tried. 2 nights of no sleep and 2 Tylenol PM could not knock me out. It was just too fucking humid. Instead, I stayed up to watch the distant lightning, and glower angrily at my blissfully sleeping German tentmate. At least he didn’t snore.
With about 2 hours of sleep under my belt (recurring number, apparently), I was woken with a rousing start by Simon. “Hey, where are those boys that love snakes? I found something!” Didn’t take much guessing what it was. Apparently when he got up to make breakfast, a snake crept into his tent and took up his former warm spot. But I was still drowsy as fuck, and could barely care. I busted out John’s ID book and found it: Orange-Naped Moonsnake. This front-fanged elapid is a close relative of the Cobra, and its bite is about as deadly as a bee sting. Minus the potential anaphylactic shock. As tempting as it was, we did not add it to our breakfast roster, and we let it go on its merry way. Why exactly did we do all that painstaking hunting late last night when snakes would just come to us?
His friend is David. He is an interesting character. Very artsy, very into the aesthetic. He would stop us regularly to drool over Darwin’s booming pearl industry. He loves jewelry, art, and fashion, and has definite feminine speech patterns and mannerisms. He’s also completely heterosexual, and the two of us jointly defy every misconception about gay people. However, he never seemed to like me, and we never really hit it off. My obligatory Facebook friend invite being left in perpetual limbo probably attests to that. But hey, we’re just highly different people I suppose.
Our dynamic of basically only having John in common thrust a somewhat unwilling John into a leadership role to compromise between the two us, but I enjoyed being the devil on the shoulder during the trip, always encouraging more exploring, later hours, and more adventure.
Accompanying us was a colorful cast of characters. There was a married couple in their 30’s; the wife was named Lindsey, and the man, whose name escapes me, will be called George. Despite their advanced age, they could hike with the best of us, and they would be the source of the most amusement to me on the last night.
Also coming along were the three European boys: Jakob (24) looked stereotypically Nordic blond, and always had a goofy smile on his face. He was also probably the most athletic among us, being the only one able of climbing up the slippery slope of the rock pool. He stuck to the most part with Jasper (26), another stereotypical Nordic blond, except with a lazy eye. They were traveling the world together, and I half wondered if Jakob kept Jasper around as his wingman in bars. I was eventually proven wrong, as only Jasper picked up in the bar on the last night. Finally, there was Martin (29), a quiet German who rarely spoke. He made for a decent tentmate and seemed rather friendly, though I still avoided disclosing my jewish heritage.
Finally, there were our tour guides, Simon and Beck. Simon was new at the game, but was rather knowledgeable, especially about Aboriginal culture. However, he was always scared because he was being judged by Beck. She was the outgoing tour guide, and was giving him his final review. They were both fairly heavily and creatively tattooed and pierced, and their attitude was snarky and quick to mock. I loved them immediately.
Our first stop was a crocodile cruise. While other companies make their crocs jump out of the water, our guide was au naturale. The old man also made a point of deriding the late great Steve Irwin. I was amused watching John grimace, and avoided announcing to the guide that 3 of us were wearing Wildlife Warriors wristbands from Steve’s charity.
The crocs themselves were pretty neat, cruising past the boat lazily, eying us with hunger and contempt. Oddly, I wondered if the experience was akin to being in a gay bathhouse. We also had the pleasure of seeing a big Salty nearly take down a Freshy. Overall, a relaxing leisurely cruise that lulled us into a false sense of security.
Upon arrival in Kakadu, we had a picnic, and I became fully acquainted with the spawn of Satan: Flies. Buzzing in my ears, walking on the surface of my eyeballs, slurping white blood cells from the gaping hole in my eyebrow… I was almost ready to call it quits right there, and might’ve if I’d known it would only get worse. But eventually we finished lunch and soldiered on to our first hike.
Our first hike was more like walking on the sandy boardwalk at Jones Beach. I was actually a little disappointed. We did see Golden Orb Spiders and the somewhat rare Rainbow Pitta (one of only 4 suboscines in Australia. Trust me, I got tested on that). We even saw Ant Lions in action. However, the hike was irrelevant to what we were hiking to.
It was described in the itinerary as a dip in a waterfall plunge pool. What I was not aware of was the fact that we’d be the ones doing the plunging. From about 30 feet up. We clamored up sharp hot rocks to what was essentially a miniature cliff. The lower jump was easy enough, and the water was actually quite warm, but I knew I wasn’t going to be satisfied unless I took the high dive.
Now, you should know I have a mild fear of heights. That’s why I do things like rock climb, roller coaster, and bungee jump. I do it to strike back at my fear. But this time, there were no support ropes, safety systems, or brakes. Just the water. At maybe 30 feet, it was the smallest of any of my height challenges, but it petrified me more than all the others combined. And you know jumps always look higher from the top.
I climbed up to the top, and planted my feet on the edge, just as Beck coached. But I sat down. My legs felt like jelly. She called up, asking me if I had any trouble standing, but I just lied and said ‘no’. Thoughts whirled in my head. What if I broke a leg? Or my spine? What if I had my eyebrow piercing ripped out of my face upon impact with the water? If I pass out on hitting the water, or even from fear during the fall, I could drown… Then I stood up and jumped.
My head cleared of all thoughts in the jump. I was a blank entity, just falling through space. Until I hit the water, of course. Accidentally flipped over underwater, and got the substance lodged in my ears, nose, and every sinus. Don’t you hate that feeling when warm water oozes out of your ears? As do I, but it took me a good 5 hours to experience it. In the meanwhile, I swam over to a mini waterfall, where hot water from above washed over me. Tiny rocket frogs scampered all over the sheer vertical wet walls, and fled my arrival like Godzilla. I settled into the warm falls, laid back my head, and waited for the gentle frogs’ return. I’d found Australia.
The return trip was pretty nondescript, except for the fact that I ate ants. Apparently, according to Beck, my fears of the Green Ants are unfounded, and they’re actually quite delicious. I picked one off a branch, and it stung my tongue. Surprisingly, it was delicious. I didn’t even mind the sting, as I was going to eat it anyway; instead of take-out, delivery. They kinda taste like lemon sorbet. I got my daily vitamin C intake from a few more ants before leaving to make camp. I didn’t know then that they’d get their revenge.
That night over dinner and tea (it’s a Commonwealth thing), I asked Beck where I could find snakes. She told me, half-jokingly, that I could find them in the bathroom, which was really just a permanent porta-potty, an oxymoron in its own right. Maybe she was making lewd commentary on the wily and dangerous Trouser Snake.
Despite our sleepiness, there was no rest for the wicked. The three musketeers were going spotlighting for animals at night. The night’s catch was a real freakshow; Huntsman Spiders missing legs, Geckos missing tails, and the creepiest Kookaburra just staring at us. David crapped out relatively early, but John and I soldiered on in the other direction. As I crept quietly in the bush trying to trace a sound, I was rudely interrupted by John racing back. “Hurry up, I’ve a snake!”
I followed and ended up at… the bathroom. Was Beck right, or was this just the skuzziest crack-on ever? But to my amazement, he was right. There on the ground right outside the permanent porta-potty was a small snake. We took turns trying to pick it up and ID it without getting fatally envenomed. In the back of my mind, I could hear my friends cashing in on their bets. The way to tell is by finding the heat pits under the jaw characteristic of pythons. Not easy when it’s snapping at you and you might die. I’m sorry to say I dropped it twice during two close calls. But finally we IDed it properly as a (ironically enough) juvenile Children’s Python.
We took pictures, which I regretted since days of not showering left my face splotchier than a Jackson Pollack painting, but we wanted to document our success. We even had the decency of bringing it back to the sleeping David to pose with. However, we didn’t wake anyone else. This was our thing, our success. We let it go, and tried to sleep.
Keyword of course is tried. 2 nights of no sleep and 2 Tylenol PM could not knock me out. It was just too fucking humid. Instead, I stayed up to watch the distant lightning, and glower angrily at my blissfully sleeping German tentmate. At least he didn’t snore.
With about 2 hours of sleep under my belt (recurring number, apparently), I was woken with a rousing start by Simon. “Hey, where are those boys that love snakes? I found something!” Didn’t take much guessing what it was. Apparently when he got up to make breakfast, a snake crept into his tent and took up his former warm spot. But I was still drowsy as fuck, and could barely care. I busted out John’s ID book and found it: Orange-Naped Moonsnake. This front-fanged elapid is a close relative of the Cobra, and its bite is about as deadly as a bee sting. Minus the potential anaphylactic shock. As tempting as it was, we did not add it to our breakfast roster, and we let it go on its merry way. Why exactly did we do all that painstaking hunting late last night when snakes would just come to us?
Kaka-Doh! (Part 1: Darwin)
Don’t expect this as a regular return. I was just slightly inspired by Dan’s prodding to right about a recent trip I took. It also returns to the original reason I wrote this blog: So I can remember cool things I did in Oz down the line. In the beginning, it chronicled my learning to cope. In the middle, it documented my sexcapades and unintentional outing; my transformation from closet case to someone filled with identity pride. Now all that’s left is the travel. So allow me to regale you with my time in Darwin, more for my sake than yours.
And just a side note, don’t try reading it all in one sitting. It’s just too long and detail oriented.
Upon arrival at the airport, we check our bags at the counter. The not-bad-looking man at the counter asks me where I’m going, so I tell him Darwin. He asks me my name, so I tell him, and he punches away at his keyboard. Two slips of paper pop out of the printer, and he staples them together and hands them to me. Then he weighs my bag, and satisfied by its light mass, sends it on the conveyer belt to get boarded on the plane.
What’s wrong with this picture? Oh, right, they never checked my I.D. Not once. I told them my name, and they gave me my ticket. Security nearly confiscated my aerosol bug spray can, and wanded my bag for drugs and bombs, but they too failed to check my idea. It wasn’t even the fact that I could be a terrorist that bothered me, because really, who’d want to suicide attack Darwin? It’s the fact that I so so easily could’ve just stolen anyone’s ticket with only their name.
We then boarded the plane, which consisted of walking out onto the tarmac in a lightning storm. Believing that boarding a plane could never be cool, Australia never fails to surprise me.
4 hours, 4 book chapters, 3 Kaiser Chiefs albums and 1 frantic hair pulling session later, we arrived at Darwin at about 1am. I enjoyed my first experience in a backpacker hostel. The whole place was dirty, the front desk manager was gruff and tattooed from head to toe, his assistant repeatedly reminded us of her opinion that all Americans are idiots, most of our keys couldn’t open our doors (unless we really are idiots), housekeepers threatened us for things we didn’t do, our roomies were angry Irishmen who cursed in their sleep, and I refused to take a dip in the fluid-filled “hot tub” at the end of the hall.
I also got no sleep, which would set the pattern for the next 4 nights.
The next day, we arose bright and early for our free day in Darwin. After feeding fish in the harbor in the morning, we ran out of things to do. So we walked the Esplanade, which made for a surprisingly mellow morning. We saw some beautiful vistas, beautiful flowers, and wrinkly people. I spent much of it trying to avoid being bitten by Green Ants, an animal that would come to take its revenge later. We also walked down to the empty rocky beach, where I caught crabs. These itched less than the ones from the hostel bed.
From the wrinkly old people, we learned about Darwin’s rich history during World War 2, which consisted mostly of getting bombed once. This was apparently enough to make a film staring Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman to be released next year. If you believe this is weak grounds to make a movie, you’d be right. Just look at Pearl Harbor.
Other highlights of the day include multiple failures to catch a Gilbert’s Dragon (those fuckers run fast!), a successful capture of a strange blotchy gecko that could be an entirely new subspecies, and a skink whose spine I accidentally broke in the capture process. This would set the pattern for the rest of the trip, as I would not once catch a skink alive. I ate a kangaroo burger (stringy, but delicious), and we were done with the entire city by lunch. So we spent our afternoon essentially trying to find me a place to buy board shorts. Hiking in 100+ degrees and humidity is a bitch in jeans.
I succeeded in buying some nice shorts, but this was the first time I’d been outside in non-jeans in 2 years. In comparison to the color of my legs, Casper looks downright negro. I also hadn’t automatically learned to lube up my legs when going hiking, and enjoyed a dry red cracking burn in the stretchy back of my knees the entire trip.
A night of no sleep, the first of many, and its time to take nature by the horns.
And just a side note, don’t try reading it all in one sitting. It’s just too long and detail oriented.
Upon arrival at the airport, we check our bags at the counter. The not-bad-looking man at the counter asks me where I’m going, so I tell him Darwin. He asks me my name, so I tell him, and he punches away at his keyboard. Two slips of paper pop out of the printer, and he staples them together and hands them to me. Then he weighs my bag, and satisfied by its light mass, sends it on the conveyer belt to get boarded on the plane.
What’s wrong with this picture? Oh, right, they never checked my I.D. Not once. I told them my name, and they gave me my ticket. Security nearly confiscated my aerosol bug spray can, and wanded my bag for drugs and bombs, but they too failed to check my idea. It wasn’t even the fact that I could be a terrorist that bothered me, because really, who’d want to suicide attack Darwin? It’s the fact that I so so easily could’ve just stolen anyone’s ticket with only their name.
We then boarded the plane, which consisted of walking out onto the tarmac in a lightning storm. Believing that boarding a plane could never be cool, Australia never fails to surprise me.
4 hours, 4 book chapters, 3 Kaiser Chiefs albums and 1 frantic hair pulling session later, we arrived at Darwin at about 1am. I enjoyed my first experience in a backpacker hostel. The whole place was dirty, the front desk manager was gruff and tattooed from head to toe, his assistant repeatedly reminded us of her opinion that all Americans are idiots, most of our keys couldn’t open our doors (unless we really are idiots), housekeepers threatened us for things we didn’t do, our roomies were angry Irishmen who cursed in their sleep, and I refused to take a dip in the fluid-filled “hot tub” at the end of the hall.
I also got no sleep, which would set the pattern for the next 4 nights.
The next day, we arose bright and early for our free day in Darwin. After feeding fish in the harbor in the morning, we ran out of things to do. So we walked the Esplanade, which made for a surprisingly mellow morning. We saw some beautiful vistas, beautiful flowers, and wrinkly people. I spent much of it trying to avoid being bitten by Green Ants, an animal that would come to take its revenge later. We also walked down to the empty rocky beach, where I caught crabs. These itched less than the ones from the hostel bed.
From the wrinkly old people, we learned about Darwin’s rich history during World War 2, which consisted mostly of getting bombed once. This was apparently enough to make a film staring Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman to be released next year. If you believe this is weak grounds to make a movie, you’d be right. Just look at Pearl Harbor.
Other highlights of the day include multiple failures to catch a Gilbert’s Dragon (those fuckers run fast!), a successful capture of a strange blotchy gecko that could be an entirely new subspecies, and a skink whose spine I accidentally broke in the capture process. This would set the pattern for the rest of the trip, as I would not once catch a skink alive. I ate a kangaroo burger (stringy, but delicious), and we were done with the entire city by lunch. So we spent our afternoon essentially trying to find me a place to buy board shorts. Hiking in 100+ degrees and humidity is a bitch in jeans.
I succeeded in buying some nice shorts, but this was the first time I’d been outside in non-jeans in 2 years. In comparison to the color of my legs, Casper looks downright negro. I also hadn’t automatically learned to lube up my legs when going hiking, and enjoyed a dry red cracking burn in the stretchy back of my knees the entire trip.
A night of no sleep, the first of many, and its time to take nature by the horns.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Our Man Fred (or Australia Zoo, Round 2)
In a way, my theory was wrong. I went to Australia Zoo with the ever-awesome Martha because I was worried we wouldn’t have enough time on our later class field trip. No, we certainly had time; we just chose to spend it with one animal and one man.
Professor Craig Franklin (who’s name I always desperately pray I don’t say as Larry Craig – its just a reflex) has become a very famous man as of late. If you’re as obsessive about the Crocodile Hunter as my friend John is, you’ve probably seen the episode “Search For A Super Croc” at least once. I think I can claim 3 times. In it, they try to find and trap the largest crocs in the York Peninsula they can find to attach satellite trackers.
Now I’ll need to go back a 4th time to try and spot Craig. Little did I know our guest lecturer was also the man responsible for this groundbreaking research. As he chatted with us, sharing his dangerous and breathtaking close calls, astounding raw data, and intimately personal campfire stories of Steve before the very end, we knew we had to get to know this man better, just as he’d acquainted us with Bananahead, Nesbit, Supercroc, and Steve Irwin.
In short, me and John cornered him in class and talked his ear off, stalking him all the way across campus to the bus stop. The man was brilliant, fascinating, humble, and apparently quite patient with his two-person bratty fanclub. I think John was trying to suck up in case he wanted to come back work under him for a PhD. Cant say I wasn’t doing the same. But eventually we had to part, with promise he’d lead our later trip to Australia Zoo.
Larry Craig… err, I mean Daniel Craig… err, Craig Franklin was a no-show. We were assigned a cute and perky young tour guide, but we doubted she’d have the heft to get us back stage like Craig. Nor could we pick his vast brain or suck up more. Very disappointing. That’s why this blog post isn’t about him. Psych!
The beginning of the day was pretty average, and despite the trivia-spewing of our tour guide, very much the same as last time. The cassowaries were still threatening, the koalas were still high (Though, we saw a rare sight of one actually moving! Walking on the ground, no less! Fancy that), and the kangaroos still had deep psyche complexes from being hassled by children day in and day out. Considering we didn’t pay a cent, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning.
When our group was taken to the requisite Crocoseum show, I knew I’d need to spice it up somehow. So, when the time was right, I got out of my seat, slipped out the back, and made my way to the croc enclosures. Looking over them all, lined in a row, was a young man. Judging from the khaki, I guessed he was a zoo volunteer, just curious like me. Turns out he’s actually younger than me, single, a Scorpio, and an experienced crocodile keeper. The newest member of the Croc Men. They fascinated me, catching and keeping some of the biggest and most dangerous wildlife on earth, and here this one isn’t even 20.
As they prepared to release Norman into the canal, John came running. Once again, we had the same idea. A real Shinichi-Heiji dynamic the two of us have going, despite the fact I make sour cream look like coffee ice cream.
It was all a bit anticlimactic, but we learned Graham was up this afternoon. Graham, for those not in the know, is a very infamous crocodile. He is the only captive to have ever bit Steve, and on one dark and scary evening, it nearly killed Wes, settling on just stealing a large piece of ass flesh. We couldn’t wait to meet him.
First though, our class was given talks by some of the keepers. A parrot and his human stopped by. Followed by two eye candy keepers and their respective cuddling koalas, as well as a cheeky possum. The two Croc Men from the show came around with their pettable alligator, but the highlight had to be the reptile keeper and his two snakes.
While everyone was still a little scared, I broke the dam by asking to hold the endangered Woma Python. It rested its head on my palm as a sign of comfort, and let me pick it up and hold it to everyone. It responded by licking my face. After that, everyone was antsy to hold it and the Carpet Python. Considering I’ve had a number of encounters with that pleasant serpent, I let everyone else enjoy it, watching with amusement as the python crowd surfed along the laps of everyone sitting at the bench. I think even the most snake-hating among us learned to like these friendly slithering beauties.
Armed with an hour of free time, most of the class chose to visit the previously-neglected tigers. John and I debated, but decided we’d much rather watch Graham in action. We returned in time to see the gate rolled up, and the angry dinosaur lumber out of its cage. Even from our safe perch 20 feet up, I felt a little intimidated. Our young Croc Man was back, still smiling, while a grumpy looking old fellow in khaki watched silently.
Graham’s performance was, to be honest, lazy. Even the crowd could sense it. The crocodile, instead of bursting out of the water like Norman or Mossman, strolled out of the water with no apparent hurry or aggression, and opened its mouth to have a piece of meat thrown in. Was this the same beast who nearly claimed Wes’ life?
After the show, we went to take a closer look. For some reason, they weren’t letting Graham back out. The old man stood at the gate, calling on his walkie-talkie, while the croc just stared up at him. Air bubbles slowly leaked out of its face from an unhealed bite injury decades before. Graham stared up at the old man with an intense hate, opened its mouth to reveal dozens of sharp teeth, and gently head bashed the gate, revealing just how much potential he had if he wanted. We suddenly realized what Graham really was. The lazy act was simply because he knew he wouldn’t have to put any effort in to getting the food. The younger crocs hadn’t learned that yet. Graham was old, immensely powerful, and most frightening of all, experienced and highly cunning. He wanted to kill his captors, and nearly succeeded twice.
Curious about the man at whom the crocodile carried so much contempt, we went down and struck up a conversation. His name was Fred.
Fred is the zoo’s main groundskeeper, and has been for almost 12 years. If that doesn’t seem like a big deal, his side job is being the oldest and most experienced of the Croc Men. In reality, being a crocodile keeper is mainly just being a glorified gardener, mowing their enclosures and occasionally feeding them for the public. The only big difference is that angry crocs would occasionally lash our and destroy their lawn mowers.
But Fred was more than a landscaper; he was vital to the zoo. If Wes was Steve’s right hand man, and Terri was his left hand mate, Fred was behind him, covering his ass. For almost half an hour, he entertained us with stories of Steve and Wes’ hijinx, and the role he played that nobody in the public knew about. I think he preferred being a no-name. But, whether he was being a gardener, a croc catcher, a security guard, a wildlife rescuer and rehabilitator, a celebrity ambassador, or helping Steve turn a large tract of weeds into a beautiful new koala hospital or tiger breeding center, he was always in the center of things. Hell, the zoo curator is his daughter!
He certainly didn’t pull any punches just because we were visitors. He cursed like a sailor, and told us he shares this trait with Prince Harry. He called Justin Timberlake out on being a total wuss with snakes, and rightfully declared Christina Aguilera a “total bitch”. He’d hobnobbed with Presidents and Prime Ministers, celebrities of all shades, and even the Dali Lama, and still retained his gruff but personable style fitting to a real bushman. We soaked up his stories until the minute we had to leave. But, we were left with a little surprise.
The reason Graham was being held in the Crocoseum was so they could replace his enclosure gate with a shiny new door. The Croc Men (who are apparently also construction workers and interior decorators) worked fever pitch while we sat around with Fred and got real close and intimate with Graham. When they were all done, they called out to Fred, who relayed the message on his walkie-talkie. A woman’s voice answered, a voice that seemed eerily familiar. As they conversed back and forth about day-to-day zoo matters, I wasn’t paying the closest attention; I was hypnotized, locking eye contact with our prehistoric friend. But I was snapped back to reality as Fred signed off, “Thanks, see ya Terri.” Like a brick to the head, I realized why the voice sounded so familiar; John and I were eavesdropping on a conversation with the boss of Australia Zoo, Terri Irwin.
Gloating all the way back to the bus, we found out the group on the tram to the tigers passed by Terri and Bindi, who gave a requisite wave as they passed. They too were understandably excited. However, despite never seeing her face in person, I still feel we got the better deal. Instead of the public smile, we listened in on the real zoo, and we experienced Steve Irwin through Craig and Fred in a way that’s the closest we’ll get now that he’s dead. But to them and through them, he’s still alive, leading the charge to save the world.
Professor Craig Franklin (who’s name I always desperately pray I don’t say as Larry Craig – its just a reflex) has become a very famous man as of late. If you’re as obsessive about the Crocodile Hunter as my friend John is, you’ve probably seen the episode “Search For A Super Croc” at least once. I think I can claim 3 times. In it, they try to find and trap the largest crocs in the York Peninsula they can find to attach satellite trackers.
Now I’ll need to go back a 4th time to try and spot Craig. Little did I know our guest lecturer was also the man responsible for this groundbreaking research. As he chatted with us, sharing his dangerous and breathtaking close calls, astounding raw data, and intimately personal campfire stories of Steve before the very end, we knew we had to get to know this man better, just as he’d acquainted us with Bananahead, Nesbit, Supercroc, and Steve Irwin.
In short, me and John cornered him in class and talked his ear off, stalking him all the way across campus to the bus stop. The man was brilliant, fascinating, humble, and apparently quite patient with his two-person bratty fanclub. I think John was trying to suck up in case he wanted to come back work under him for a PhD. Cant say I wasn’t doing the same. But eventually we had to part, with promise he’d lead our later trip to Australia Zoo.
Larry Craig… err, I mean Daniel Craig… err, Craig Franklin was a no-show. We were assigned a cute and perky young tour guide, but we doubted she’d have the heft to get us back stage like Craig. Nor could we pick his vast brain or suck up more. Very disappointing. That’s why this blog post isn’t about him. Psych!
The beginning of the day was pretty average, and despite the trivia-spewing of our tour guide, very much the same as last time. The cassowaries were still threatening, the koalas were still high (Though, we saw a rare sight of one actually moving! Walking on the ground, no less! Fancy that), and the kangaroos still had deep psyche complexes from being hassled by children day in and day out. Considering we didn’t pay a cent, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning.
When our group was taken to the requisite Crocoseum show, I knew I’d need to spice it up somehow. So, when the time was right, I got out of my seat, slipped out the back, and made my way to the croc enclosures. Looking over them all, lined in a row, was a young man. Judging from the khaki, I guessed he was a zoo volunteer, just curious like me. Turns out he’s actually younger than me, single, a Scorpio, and an experienced crocodile keeper. The newest member of the Croc Men. They fascinated me, catching and keeping some of the biggest and most dangerous wildlife on earth, and here this one isn’t even 20.
As they prepared to release Norman into the canal, John came running. Once again, we had the same idea. A real Shinichi-Heiji dynamic the two of us have going, despite the fact I make sour cream look like coffee ice cream.
It was all a bit anticlimactic, but we learned Graham was up this afternoon. Graham, for those not in the know, is a very infamous crocodile. He is the only captive to have ever bit Steve, and on one dark and scary evening, it nearly killed Wes, settling on just stealing a large piece of ass flesh. We couldn’t wait to meet him.
First though, our class was given talks by some of the keepers. A parrot and his human stopped by. Followed by two eye candy keepers and their respective cuddling koalas, as well as a cheeky possum. The two Croc Men from the show came around with their pettable alligator, but the highlight had to be the reptile keeper and his two snakes.
While everyone was still a little scared, I broke the dam by asking to hold the endangered Woma Python. It rested its head on my palm as a sign of comfort, and let me pick it up and hold it to everyone. It responded by licking my face. After that, everyone was antsy to hold it and the Carpet Python. Considering I’ve had a number of encounters with that pleasant serpent, I let everyone else enjoy it, watching with amusement as the python crowd surfed along the laps of everyone sitting at the bench. I think even the most snake-hating among us learned to like these friendly slithering beauties.
Armed with an hour of free time, most of the class chose to visit the previously-neglected tigers. John and I debated, but decided we’d much rather watch Graham in action. We returned in time to see the gate rolled up, and the angry dinosaur lumber out of its cage. Even from our safe perch 20 feet up, I felt a little intimidated. Our young Croc Man was back, still smiling, while a grumpy looking old fellow in khaki watched silently.
Graham’s performance was, to be honest, lazy. Even the crowd could sense it. The crocodile, instead of bursting out of the water like Norman or Mossman, strolled out of the water with no apparent hurry or aggression, and opened its mouth to have a piece of meat thrown in. Was this the same beast who nearly claimed Wes’ life?
After the show, we went to take a closer look. For some reason, they weren’t letting Graham back out. The old man stood at the gate, calling on his walkie-talkie, while the croc just stared up at him. Air bubbles slowly leaked out of its face from an unhealed bite injury decades before. Graham stared up at the old man with an intense hate, opened its mouth to reveal dozens of sharp teeth, and gently head bashed the gate, revealing just how much potential he had if he wanted. We suddenly realized what Graham really was. The lazy act was simply because he knew he wouldn’t have to put any effort in to getting the food. The younger crocs hadn’t learned that yet. Graham was old, immensely powerful, and most frightening of all, experienced and highly cunning. He wanted to kill his captors, and nearly succeeded twice.
Curious about the man at whom the crocodile carried so much contempt, we went down and struck up a conversation. His name was Fred.
Fred is the zoo’s main groundskeeper, and has been for almost 12 years. If that doesn’t seem like a big deal, his side job is being the oldest and most experienced of the Croc Men. In reality, being a crocodile keeper is mainly just being a glorified gardener, mowing their enclosures and occasionally feeding them for the public. The only big difference is that angry crocs would occasionally lash our and destroy their lawn mowers.
But Fred was more than a landscaper; he was vital to the zoo. If Wes was Steve’s right hand man, and Terri was his left hand mate, Fred was behind him, covering his ass. For almost half an hour, he entertained us with stories of Steve and Wes’ hijinx, and the role he played that nobody in the public knew about. I think he preferred being a no-name. But, whether he was being a gardener, a croc catcher, a security guard, a wildlife rescuer and rehabilitator, a celebrity ambassador, or helping Steve turn a large tract of weeds into a beautiful new koala hospital or tiger breeding center, he was always in the center of things. Hell, the zoo curator is his daughter!
He certainly didn’t pull any punches just because we were visitors. He cursed like a sailor, and told us he shares this trait with Prince Harry. He called Justin Timberlake out on being a total wuss with snakes, and rightfully declared Christina Aguilera a “total bitch”. He’d hobnobbed with Presidents and Prime Ministers, celebrities of all shades, and even the Dali Lama, and still retained his gruff but personable style fitting to a real bushman. We soaked up his stories until the minute we had to leave. But, we were left with a little surprise.
The reason Graham was being held in the Crocoseum was so they could replace his enclosure gate with a shiny new door. The Croc Men (who are apparently also construction workers and interior decorators) worked fever pitch while we sat around with Fred and got real close and intimate with Graham. When they were all done, they called out to Fred, who relayed the message on his walkie-talkie. A woman’s voice answered, a voice that seemed eerily familiar. As they conversed back and forth about day-to-day zoo matters, I wasn’t paying the closest attention; I was hypnotized, locking eye contact with our prehistoric friend. But I was snapped back to reality as Fred signed off, “Thanks, see ya Terri.” Like a brick to the head, I realized why the voice sounded so familiar; John and I were eavesdropping on a conversation with the boss of Australia Zoo, Terri Irwin.
Gloating all the way back to the bus, we found out the group on the tram to the tigers passed by Terri and Bindi, who gave a requisite wave as they passed. They too were understandably excited. However, despite never seeing her face in person, I still feel we got the better deal. Instead of the public smile, we listened in on the real zoo, and we experienced Steve Irwin through Craig and Fred in a way that’s the closest we’ll get now that he’s dead. But to them and through them, he’s still alive, leading the charge to save the world.
Friday, October 12, 2007
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…
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…
Sunday, October 7, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)