10/26/2005 - 8:54 p.m. | holy water to my head

It was a weird Saturday. Not a hungover Saturday, at least, for which I am endlessly thankful, but a strange half-boring, half-not series of events.

Not long after waking, I went into work with Kyle, as� well, I�m not exactly sure why I did that, as he was just going to sit there, play Uniball, and download more �DS9� episodes. But I went anyway, wrote some stuff, tried to find the theme song to �Fastlane�(if only to compare it to Kyle� spazzed-out boop boop robot version), and invented various games with Kyle. We found this nice rubber ball under the table, got us some cardboard appendages (a mech-missile arm for me, a stupid cardboard shield for him), and then took turns whacking the ball at each other with our primitive tools � across the room, onto monitors, into the heating ducts. It was stupid, but it was also very fun, and we stayed for about two hours longer than was necessary.

If only to not help Shelly with her cooking.

We came home in time for lasagna, which we all ate around the table like grownups (Grownups drinking Boone�s Farm and using disposable dinnerware) and then got absorbed into stupid fucking �Mortal Kombat 3� for another five hours. Just keep playing that Paul Simon song with all the drums, all right? Thanks.

Apparently I was rather off in my speculation regarding Allison and Smacko from the previous evening. Unfortunately, however, this may have led to more severe disappointment and anger in the long run. On my part, I mean. See, despite the appearance of Mike the Douchebag (and his forthcoming flirtations), I guess Allison stayed over at Smacko�s. In Smacko�s bed. With Smacko. With fewer than usual articles of clothing on. So, I was all pleased as punch that they were finally getting somewhere (October is nearly over, after all), but as he was recounting it, he didn�t even notice that she might have been trying to fuck him, he was so hammered, instead telling her to shut up so he could get some sleep. YOU ARE NOT MAKING THIS EASY KEVIN! Yes, yes, so perhaps you were so drunk you couldn�t �get it up� or �move,� but hell, man! Who dumps the barrel of fish back into the lake? �She was gone before I woke up.� There�s a shock. I honestly thought things were fucked worse than before (because who likes being rejected?), but I am just constantly wrong about women, because she was back that night, doing Smacko�s dishes. Also, she apparently made his nose bleed again with a rogue lime.

Anyway, the two of them arrived at our place, and we slowly tried to decide what to do with ourselves. There was talk of parties, bars, Geo�s for karaoke, reaming, whatever, but somehow we ended up pulling out the old Pictionary box. Oh, glory. Luckily, the rules were quickly modified � no board, no teams, and soon a cock had to be the first part of every picture or you were disqualified. Girls have a tough time adapting to the cock rule, and apparently we have all encountered the most bizarre penises in the world, as they were all misshapen with huge bulbous heads or giant balls or crying Pacman faces, etc.

Perhaps as an extension of the previous evenings failed plans for a game of Truth or Dare or Spin the Bottle to get things nice and sexually charged, the cock drawing game naturally led to a late night group confessional regarding various sexual encounters. It was� weird. Maybe I say that because the brunt of the storytelling was placed on my shoulders � as I am the one most willing to divulge in painful detail. Anyway, it was sort of an interview format � with candles and lots of shitty random beer passed around. Shelly and I had purchased random bottles from County Market based on aesthetics (There is one bottle with a little skeleton perched such as me!). I forgot I hate beer.

Anyway, we drank and told tales, and I�ve come to the natural conclusion that revealing sexual details will, without exception, make you look like an awful, awful person. You look either inept or slutty or like an asshole or something. But I guess that�s good� because now we know we are all slutty inept assholes. I just� you watch sitcoms and they always talk about sex, and I was kind of looking forward to the day when we all had enough experience (and courage) to do so, and yeah� maybe I�ll never be entirely ready.

To Smacko�s credit, I am beginning to understand how he is such a force of nature. In the space of one evening, he�d taken a phrase we�d never heard of before that evening (�mouth hug� meaning oral sex, typically of the fellatio varietal) and used it with such frequency that it is now apart of our regular lexicon, such that we now all say �mouth hug� all the damn stupid time. Such is his genius.

Anyway, I�m not sure if it�s my business or not to recount the other crewmen�s stories (yes, yes, I�m so hypocritical, etc.), so I�ll let just leave them out � except to say that I seriously regret not thinking to ask Kyle and Shelly what the mysterious slapping noises are I hear from their room some late nights. I mean, not that Missy is uninteresting in bed (Those who have heard her bellows from the ground floor can attest to that). Sex with Missy is the same set of steps, always in bed, and I pretty much always know when it�s coming. And it�s not that Missy wouldn�t do those things if I asked � it�s just, well, I am sort of submissive and would never be the type to ask. Then again, she thinks the idea of masturbation is icky, so who knows how she�d respond? I just feel like, if I stay with her, I would have boring affluent liberal sex the rest of my life, top or bottom the only variety we ever use.

Additionally, I recounted (for the first and last time) a play-by-play description of my disastrous encounter with Big Boobs. Never again. Won�t write it here, won�t speak of it in full again. Not for a million dollars. It was like reliving the thing all over again. So damn embarrassing. It was the same old standard set of questions from anybody, except for a surprising few from Shelly. �So, how wet was she?� and �What were her labia like?� Still, I came out from the evening more unscathed than I could have. Wasn�t asked what I think about during sex, that whole complex process (besides the usual lists, monologues, and paranoia, there�s also the fact that I usually have to think about somebody else, which I�m told is just an awful, awful thing�), who I�ve masturbated to before, yeah� lots of bullets dodged when I think on it.

The evening sort of fizzled with all the girls passing out. Once again, it seemed like a perfect opportunity from Smacko to try and bed Allison. She was quite argumentative, which is usually a great sign of her inebriety. We were practically screaming at each other � her about how difficult it is to unbutton the button on the front of boxers, me about how she was whining about that when men are expected to unhook bras, the most complex piece of engineering in the universe, one-handed in the dark. But I digress. Like I said, she was all sleepy, and it would have taken little for him to rouse her, offer to walk her home, and if she were too tired, �Just crash at my place for the night.� He was strangely relenting in this matter, though, and it pissed me the hell off. I was yelling about it to Shelly all next day. I mean, I�m the poster boy for social anxiety disorder, always thinking people assume I have bad intentions, but asking to walk her home can at worst show you�re concerned about her safety, at best get her in bed with you. Oh, Smacko, what is going on in that banged head of yours? I had half a mind to invite her up to my room just to prove my point. No, I kid, I kid.

I had to be up early the next day, which meant talking with Kyle for another 45 minutes about advertising, and then coming up here to play Kingdom of Loathing and IM whoever was awake (or not, because a morning after message is always the damn best thing ever). What a weird day. I should have gone out with Spritz to the Marching Illini party, hit on Hillary. Then again, I would be just all blue-balled there as I am from hearing about everyone�s dick-sucking adventures, so let�s just call it even ground.