Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

Sorry, Meyer

          Friend or acquaintance? The line between the two is tough to draw. We trust our friends. They trust us. We call them up. We tell them stories. We share time and experiences together. With an acquaintance, we say what’s up when we see them. We laugh with them. We know them through friends. They really aren’t that important to us; they’re just “cool.” One Vegas night, an enticing situation forced me to draw this line. 

         A group of seven of us headed out to Vegas for KG’s twenty-fifth birthday. I was a close friend of six of the seven guys who went, except Meyer. I knew Meyer through Ron, and we’d said maybe fifty words to each other prior to this trip. Still not comfortable with our entire group, Meyer was quiet and reserved.

         After an uneventful Friday night, we decided to go big the next night. Except for me, all my friends took at least forty-five minutes to get ready. I don’t understand why most of my guy friends do this. I know it’s important to be well groomed, but to spend forty-five minutes shaving, showering, putting on lotion, and ironing is just dumb. All that wasted time could be spent socializing or drinking or both. It only takes me eleven minutes maximum to get ready (I’ve been timed before), and this includes shitting, shaving, showering, getting dressed, deodorant, and hair. Fuck ironing. Fuck lotion. But my friends see things differently. After waiting impatiently for them to get ready, followed by yet another wait in an hour-long line to get into Studio 54, we finally walked in the club at 1 a.m. I double-fisted beers immediately.    

         The club was already on its steady descent when we got there, and my pickup lines were failing gloriously. On my fifteenth attempt, I approached a girl and asked her if her boots were “snow boots.” She became furious with me and told me with conviction to “fuck off.” I didn’t fuck off and went around her little circle of friends to the hottest chick in her group. I guess they all saw me try and talk to her, and the group of four looked at me in unison and said, “Bye bye.” I didn’t know whether to count this as 0 for 2 or 0 for 4. Whatever. My night continued.


        An hour and ten more 0-fers later, the club had nearly cleared out. I’d hit on any girl worth hitting on, and all had failed. I noticed Meyer talking with an okay-looking Goth chick wearing a spiky belt. With her dyed-black hair and neatly trimmed bangs hanging over her forehead, she looked straight out of the 1950s. I vaguely recalled Meyer talking to this same chick an hour ago, and I wondered if he was getting anywhere. She seemed uninterested, and a minute later, Meyer walked away while she stood alone with her arms folded. 0 for 25? Better make that 26. I moved in. Sorry, Meyer.


Me: “Are you into Tiger Army?”


Her:No, what’s that?” (I liked how she said “No” before even knowing what it was. She was probably used to being insulted.)


Me: “It’s a punk band. I was just looking at your belt, and I figured you’d be into them.”


Her: [looking down at her belt] “No, are they good?”


Me: “Yeah, they’re real good. But I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them. What a poser.” (I faked a laugh, but pulled it off.)


Her: “I’m not a poser! I probably know more about punk than you do.”


Me: “I don’t know about that. Who’s your favorite band?”


Her:Uh, I dunno. I like a lot of bands—the Misfits, Bad Religion, Saves the Day—”


Me: “Saves the Day!? Have you ever listened to any of their lyrics?”


Her: “Yeah, kinda.”


Me: “Okay, they talk about cutting legs off and shit because they’re depressed. I don’t know if we should be talking anymore.”


Her: “Yeah, they’re kind of like that. But they’re good.”


Me: “I guess.”


Despite losing all credibility with the “Saves the Day” fiasco, this girl was mine for the taking. Our conversation continued, and the connection was there. Her arms unfolded; her body language turned positive; and her once docile face now couldn’t stop smiling. Deep down I was somewhat hoping this chick would actually turn me down so I could at least know that I gave it a shot and failed, leaving Meyer with the opportunity to close the deal. All my instincts indicated he wasn’t going to close with her, but I would. I just couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste. It would be like Kelly Slater passing up a good wave because some dude in front of him was struggling trying to catch it. Fuck it–stealing someone else’s wave isn’t immoral if they were never gonna catch it in the first place. 

         As my mind was reasoning with the moral implications of my current actions, Meyer abruptly walked between the two of us and started talking to her. He was there first, I reminded myself. I guess that granted him some kind of dibs. I immediately walked away to the other side of the dance floor, still within sight of the two. One of my buddies, Ron, found me and told me, “Dude, Meyer’s been talking to that chick all night.” While I felt guilty for stealing Meyer’s girl, I took solace in the fact that Meyer was just an acquaintance, and I was drunk and horny.

          Literally fifteen seconds later, Gothgirl aborted Meyer and left him standing there with his mouth still moving in mid-syllable. She was approaching me quickly. She greeted me with a “Hey,” and in the process had handed herself over to me. Sorry, Meyer.

         As we exited the dying club, Gothgirl told me that her brother was waiting outside for her, and she demanded I come with her. I consented easily, but I still had a conscience for taking Meyer’s girl, and I didn’t want him to see me leave with her. She understood my dilemma, and we tried to find a back door. Nothing. There was only one way to the parking lot, and that was in Meyer’s line of sight. She then suggested that I wait and follow a short time later to make it look like we weren’t going home together. I couldn’t think of a better alternative, so I went along. I was flattered she was actually strategizing to make me comfortable. She was a champ.

         Her plan worked, and when we made it through the front doors, her brother was conveniently parked right there with some strung out girl in his car, who was apparently his ex-girlfriend from two years ago, and they had run into each other at the club. The brother-sister combo had victoriously succeeded in each bringing home a sex partner.

          The brother was one of those guys you hated to watch movies with because they always recited the characters’ lines four seconds before they happened. On the way to their house, he blasted the Black Eyed Peas song “Let’s get it started.” The brother declared twice to everyone that this recording was the “real version” and the song really was “Let’s get retarded.” He played the song over and over the entire car ride. I looked over at Gothgirl as her brother was rocking out in the driver seat, and her face displayed a look of complete admiration. She looked up to this guy!

         When we arrived at their house, the brother went straight to the kitchen cabinet and brought out a previously opened bag of nacho cheese Doritos. Instead of eating any, he poured the stale chips onto the coffee table and told everyone to “dig in.” I grabbed a chip and discovered they were staler than fuck. I stopped eating, but the brother kept on munching. Gothgirl had retreated to the bathroom, hopefully not to poop.

         When Gothgirl returned, she’d changed her top to reveal her large cleavage and sat on the couch. The brother leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey, man, you gonna hit that?” I looked at him to see if he was joking, but all I saw was a greasy Doritos grin beneath his eager eyes. I said, “I dunno,” and looked away as I held in a shudder.

           The brother’s chick was already in his room warming up the bed or something because she had disappeared the moment we got in the house. The brother finally finished eating his gum Doritos and went to his room to fuck his ex.

           Gothgirl and I got started immediately. She smiled at me, grabbed a blanket from the couch, and lay on the floor next to the couch. I got on top of her and started making out with her for the first time that night. Three minutes later, her top came off. Two minutes after that, her panties came off. One minute later, the brother came bursting into the room. I assumed he was getting more food, but he casually walked right up to us! His sister’s tits were hanging out over the blanket, and as if this was business as usual, he placed a condom on her pillow and said, “Here, use this.” He winked at me and walked away with a grin on his face. His sister hadn’t even made an effort to cover up, like she didn’t care what he saw. I began to wonder if I was getting the brother’s sloppy seconds.

         I put on the condom and began fucking her missionary style. In no time, the brother walked in again! Instinctively, I stopped thrusting, dove to the ground, and shrouded the blanket over us as quick as I could. He walked over to us while we were still panting to announce that he was about to use a butt dildo on his chick. He showed us the thing—jet black and curved at the end, about the size of an enlarged gummy worm—and turned it on. As it twisted and spiraled slowly, he started laughing. “That’s awesome,” I said, trying to make him feel cool. “Yeah dude, she hates it up the butt. But I’m gonna make her hurt tonight.” He looked at the thing again for a moment and as he left said, “Alright you two, fuck away.”

         That was the last I saw of him, but it definitely wasn’t the last I heard from him. Five minutes later, as I was fucking Gothgirl doggie-style, I heard the brother’s chick screaming in agony, followed by muffled yells from the brother, and then his signature joker laugh. Loud and clear, the noises repeated over and over: scream, yell, laugh. Gothgirl ignored it, and we continued to “fuck away.”

         It was close to six when we finally finished up. We slept for a few hours until I was awakened around 8:30 by Gothgirl, who was already dressed, and the brother was waiting for her at the front door. She leaned over to tell me, “I have to be at this thing. But don’t worry, our roommate Danny can take you back.” Too tired to realize what was going on, I said, “Okay.” The sick duo took off, and I got up to take a piss.


          When I came out of the bathroom, Danny, who looked like a forty-year-old Macaulay Culkin, had already made it to the kitchen and was munching on the gum Doritos. “What’s up!” he shouted, as if we’d known each other since high school.

“What’s up, man,” I replied.

“Am I supposed to take you home?” he asked.

“Yeah, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not a problem, I’m heading that way.”

          The guy just couldn’t shut up in the car. He was pointing out his middle school like I actually gave a shit and pointed out his “favorite spot” as if I’d be returning to this incestuous corner of the planet. On and on and on. At the appropriate places, I said, “Oh yeah?” or a “no way.” After all, it was either this guy or a $75 cab ride. I appreciated the ride, so I continued to listen painfully.

          When I arrived back at the hotel, everyone was awake and getting ready to leave. Meyer lay on his back on the far bed just staring at the ceiling. The first question out of everyone’s mouth was “Did you bone?” Seeing that Meyer was in the room, I said “Nah,” and then smiled. I sneaked a look at Meyer to see his reaction. Nothing. I almost told the story because if Meyer had known of the disturbing truth behind Gothgirl’s home life, he may have felt spared. As it was, Meyer and I didn’t say a word the rest of the day. We all got ready and drove home in our two-car caravan. Meyer and I went in separate cars.

           Five years have passed since that night and Meyer has actually become one of my closest friends. We don’t even talk about that night because it really didn’t mean anything. We were acquaintances then; we’re friends now. That night is just another laugh. Although there is no cure for incest, time has a funny way of healing our meaningless grudges.


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