The Almost-Threesome in High School, Part 2

Somehow, the three of us – the Metabolic Miracle, the Gorgeous Goth and I – ended up going out on a Friday night. This never happened, or happened since, that we went out together in this combination.

We went to a Chinese restaurant somewhere in northeast Scarborough, one of those dime-a-dozen restaurants in a dime-a-dozen commercial strip. I can’t even picture the seating arrangement or topic of conversation. I was probably doing that talk-fast-and-loud-before-awkward-silence-settles-in thing that I did back then.

After dinner, we climbed into her white Suzuki Sidekick with black soft-top and drove to Bluffer’s Park, which back then was an innocuous, picturesque public park before turning into a haven for punk high school kids drinking around bonfires –

(Which was us, which we started: we burned everything in that park, from picnic benches to lifeguard stands. When we ran out of fuel, we would steal sacks of firewood – and cases of pop – from nearby gas stations, just grabbing shit and booking it to our car parked around the corner. I once grabbed four jugs of windshield washer fluid for no reason other than I didn’t want to be empty-handed. A few years later, the real thugs took over the park, selling drugs and playing loud music in the parking lot like the showboating idiots that they are. The cops came, shut everything down, and that was the end of the good times.)

We sat on the rocks along the shore and talked. We were there for a few hours, until the sun completely set and I could no longer make out their faces just a few feet away from mine. One of them, probably the Gorgeous Goth, brought up casual sex.

“Would you have casual sex with a friend?”

“Uh, no, sex should be with someone special,” I said.

That’s what came out of my fucking goddamn stupid mouth. Granted, at that point I was a virgin so that opinion still stands: you should at least fuck someone special the first time, right? Then after that, who gives a shit. But the first time –try to make it count, man. (Unless you’re like in your 20’s. Then get a hooker before you develop a complex. But then don’t go and develop a hooker-complex.)

“Yeah, but it’s just sex. Don’t you think that friends can just have sex, casually, secretly?” She kept stressing casual and secret. I was absolutely fucking terrified. I kept fidgeting, kept munching on the Chinese leftovers that we brought from the restaurant.

“What if it was two friends?” asked Metabolic Miracle. “What if it was two girls, casually, secretly – what do you think about that?”

“That’s the same thing.” My mouth was now saying things without running them through my brain first. It was adamant on getting out of this night, sex-free.

“But twooooo girls? That’s not something you’d do?”

“I don’t know, maybe in a few years.” Whatever that meant. Then I probably said some shit like, I want to focus on my art.

I knew what I was asking, but I was so scared that I played it dumb, played it off like they were asking hypotheticals about characters on a TV show. No, I don’t think Jerry should sleep with Elaine and Kramer because they’re just friends. They dug at my wall and I stood firm, winning nothing but standing firm. At one point they looked at each other, one shrugged and the other sighed, and the conversation was over, and we were quiet until she dropped me off at home.

(Shit, that wasn’t an almost-threesome at fucking all.)


Months later, we were at my friend’s house across the street from mine. Gorgeous Goth was having a fight with her long-term, on-and-off boyfriend who treated her like shit. We smoked on the front patio. She sat, sad-angry, in a white plastic lawn chair with her legs crossed, wearing a white button-up with a black lacy camisole underneath. She was voluptuous, more developed than most, and her breasts would always squish upwards creating that upper, top-level cleavage at the collarbone.

“Why don’t you come over?” I asked. “I’m right there.” It was mere months after the Bluffer’s Park debacle, but I was centuries older, bolder.

“No,” she said. “I can’t, I have to go back inside after this cigarette.”

“No you don’t. He’s a dick, you don’t have to take that shit.” I was standing over her with my body angled towards the direction of my house to show assertiveness. “My parents aren’t home.”

“Well, what would you do to me?” she asked, seductively. It was known within the few guys that slept with her that she was kinky. Horny. More sexually advanced than any of us. She did things like give blowjobs.

“I would kiss you on the mouth and then I would nibble your ear. Then do stuff to your neck, I guess.” I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

“Oooh. What else.” She tilted her head and looked up at me, took a drag of her cigarette. How does she know how to be this sexy? Where did she learn this shit?

“Then I would take your shirt off. Lick your boobs, all up and down.” What?


“Then I would grab your ass and make circular motions with my hands. Alright, let’s just go.”

She thought for a moment. She looked at the ground in front of her, smirking and probably thinking, I can fuck Alex and stick it to my boyfriend at the same time, this is a good idea.

In the half-second before she stood up, I said, “We can’t do this, let’s go back inside,” and walked into the house. I anticipated her move. I watched her body, waited to see tension in her legs her hips, and when she was about to thrust herself out of the chair, I shut down the entire operation. I just wanted the yes, you see. I just wanted the win, the validation that we could’ve had sex. It was just as good as actually going through with it, but without all of the anxiety.

The Almost-Threesome in High School, Part 1

I switched high schools in eleventh grade (see how American – or at least un-Canadian – I’m trying to be, with this “eleventh grade” shit instead of “grade 11”?). My freshman and sophomore years (see?) were spent at a predominantly white-and-black-people school, peppered with Chinese FOBs who I had even less in common with.

So I fell in with the Eastern Europeans, the Greeks and Macedonians, who always squabbled about politics that I didn’t know anything about. (“Macedonia doesn’t even have a country, ha ha ha!”) It was fine until it wasn’t, until everyone started to indulge more and more into their respective cultures. By the time we were 16, I was hitting weekend dances at Pape and Danforth – Toronto’s Greektown – in the basement of a Greek Orthadox church, the only Asian in a sea of Ginos and Ginas.

Time to move on.

I switched schools; actually I switched entire school boards from Public to Catholic. There was a Catholic high school a walk away from my house that my sister was already attending heavily populated with Filipinos. Not exactly my heritage, but a step closer.

I had a few friends at that school already, mostly girls that I grew up on the same block with. Some of them were childhood neighborhood enemies, those people you build grudges against simply for living on your street but attending a different school (they grew up going to Catholic schools, I grew up a heathen). We quickly became friends. “Hey, remember when I was playing baseball against my garage door and the ball hit your window and your dad yelled at us?” Shit like that.

So as it happened, all of my friends were female. Or, I was inducted into the Female Circle at my high school. A group of six girls (with two rotating in and out, depending on if they had boyfriends at the time), and me, the new guy. I was too close to the trees to see the forest – ie: it all felt normal to me because that’s all I knew – but I found out later that the guys in my school absolutely despised me for this, for so easily penetrating the popular girl group. I didn’t really do anything; I was just extremely lucky that I stumbled onto a bunch of really nice girls, more than half of whom I grew up with, and they were nice enough to want to show me around.

And then I was just extremely lucky that they all stuck around because I’m funny and awesome as fucking fuck.

I think the guys were saying that I was gay. I really don’t think so, because high schoolers are savage as fuck, and no one “thinks” they heard a rumor: you’ll blatantly hear it a million times a day and have faggot viciously written on your locker with a black Sharpie. High schoolers aren’t about subtlety. Anyway, within the first few months, I was dating one of the girls so that squashed any rumors.

So I knew more than half of the girls before I switched schools. But the ones I didn’t know, holy shit, they were stunning. Jaw-dropping at 16-years old, when I’d literally seen maybe only a thousand girls in my entire life and spoken to less than a hundred, including cashiers and relatives. I wasn’t used to beauty, and I wasn’t used to being friends with them.

(Looking back at these formative years, there’s so much foreshadowing as to the kind of man that I would become. Shit, I was really lucky to get over some things early on, mainly being platonic friends with attractive girls without needing to fuck them, and ignoring the buzz of the guys around us.)

There was a tall, tanned and athletic girl who was always cheerful, always beaming this megawatt smile. She had some sort of metabolic disease that was supposed to make her tired and fat, but instead her body overcompensated and she was energetic and thin. She was the first person I ever saw to blot excess oil off of food (French fries) with a napkin. It was bizarre, but even back then I was attracted to self-control and discipline.

On the other end was a short, goth-like girl, with fair skin and dark eyes and lipstick. She hardly spoke. She hardly smiled. She wore the men’s version of our Catholic school uniform –loose white shirt and saggy pants – while the other girls hiked up their kilts and unbuttoned their shirts to the bra. But when she did smile, when she did wear a kilt and show off her bra, holy motherfucking shit, she was fucking sexy. She exuded adult sexiness. I couldn’t take it, so I didn’t talk to her for the first few months, even though she would give me rides since she was the only one in our girl-group-plus-me with a car.

Anyway, so we almost had a threesome.

The Nurse.

Ten years ago.

We met at a lounge on the east side of Yonge Street, which is to say, on another fucking planet. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was going through a sickness that caused her weight to plummet down into the double-digits. I just saw a slim, pretty girl with bangs and an absurd waist-to-hip ratio, wearing black pants that were so loose that they hung off of her sharp hips. She kept pulling them up before they sank right back down and I found it adorable, like, “Aww, pretty girl doesn’t know how to purchase proper-sized clothing!”

Miraculously, I remained sober that night because I was nursing a 24-hour hangover. If I were typically drunk, nothing would’ve happened, and I wouldn’t have landed a girl like her. I would’ve approached her with something like, “Hey, lucky girl, wanna hizzat the skizass with the A-Man tonight?” and she wouldn’t have had any of it. So because I had a rare, uncharacteristic off-night, she came into my life, and hung around for nearly two years.

We emailed back and forth, and she was impressed that I used the right form of “complementary” in a sentence. She was equally unimpressed when she discovered that I thought “sparingly” meant “liberally” and when she corrected my incorrect definition with, “No, that means liberally,” I stood there, thought for a moment, and then said, “What the fuck is liberally? That’s really a word?”

Our first date was in late-August and Blue Rodeo was playing at the Molson Amphitheatre. She was from a small town that listened to bands like Blue Rodeo growing up, and I somehow discovered them during my high school years when it was dangerously uncool to like anything but R&B and rap. We sat on the grass and sang along to Five Days In May and Hasn’t Hit Me Yet. Kris Kristofferson made a surprise appearance. When Whistler shows up with a goddamn harmonica, the date becomes instantly, officially magical, you know.

We left early and hit a Guns N’ Roses cover band singing on an open-air stage. We drank Pabst on plastic lawn furniture and laughed at the sort of people that came out to see them alone. She dropped me off at home, and I walked right to Pauper’s Pub where my friends were drinking. “I’m going to marry this girl, or come very fucking close to it.”

So it started with her loose pants, then her snappy emails, then her small-town musical tastes, and then her ample bookshelf.

Then, two months later, I lay on her bed and told her that I was in love, and I fought it all the way, because it’s never a good place for me to be, and I knew what would happen, that the act of professing love would itself become the peak. But I saw her every day and it was never fucking enough. What else could I do? What else could it have been?

She volunteered, and I had no idea for quite some time. She just didn’t care to tell me. I wasn’t a part of this part of her.

“How come you’re always busy on Wednesdays?” I asked. “What are you doing?”
“Oh. I make sandwiches,” she’d reply, without averting her eyes from the TV.
“You make what? Sandwiches? What the hell for?”
“Hmm?” She wasn’t interested in talking.
“Why are you making sandwiches?”
“Oh, you know…” she said.
“For whoever needs them.”
“Because they’re hungry, stupid.”
“Is that what you do every Sunday morning, too?”
“No, I sit in a converted school bus and homeless people come on and we dress their wounds and give them medicine.”
“Because they’re hurt and sick. Shut up.”

And I’d stop digging, because she’d be too involved in a rerun of My So-Called Life to respond any longer, and I’d sit there with my mouth open, thinking, Who am I dating, fucking Batman?

So it wasn’t that she volunteered that was important; that sort of thing doesn’t do anything for me (and I’m not against it – I’d rather people do it than not – it’s just a personal call, all surface, and I lack the interest to find out why).

It’s that she didn’t tell me, didn’t care to tell me, and didn’t care if I shared that. She didn’t mind having separate lives, and not in a secretive way but in a sort of, “You have your life, I have my life, and we have our life together. No need to go and mix them all up.” It was the most psychotic thing I’d ever experienced in a woman, because women don’t tend to think like that. The norm is for them to absorb their relationship expectations from television dramas and not from anything remotely rational or realistic or what they’ve decided for themselves to believe. Hence, she was fucking crazy, compared to the average woman, and it completely worked for me and she became at once a breath of fresh air and a sigh of relief.

We also loved the same things, but more importantly, we hated the same people.

Once I was in one of my moods, the frequent existential crisis I’d hit every few months, and I shouted, “What am I doing here?! I need to go and farm mushrooms! Research moray eels! I need to get the fuck out of here! I’m crawling out of my skin! I should be out there! What am I doing in here!”

As I hyperventilated, she responded, calm and lucid, “Yeah, you should do that. If that’s what you need, then go, really. I’ll be here.”

She understood me so well that she knew that it wasn’t an attack on her, that it in fact had nothing at all to do with her, that sometimes I just needed to go. And she took it all in, held it all back, and articulated the most selfless words ever spoken to me, and gave me the one fucking thing I’ve ever wanted from a woman, which is also the one fucking thing you’re never allowed to ask for.

And she meant it, I could see that she clearly meant it, and hearing something like that, being around someone who could say that, it brought me out of the crisis and into clarity, and made me think, “Fuck the mushrooms and the moray eels, I’m not going to get more complete than this.”

18 months later:

“Why are you breaking up with me?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“So you can’t even give me closure.”
“The only closure I can give you is that you’ll get over me quicker than I’ll get over you, and I’ll still be confused by the time you’re sleeping happily with your next guy, dreaming about him while having forgotten about me,” I said.


Fuck Logic, I’ll Take The Pain

There’s this phase that people enter after they’ve been hurt, or while they’re in recovery: Super Logical Common Sense Mode!!!

Infuriated for putting themselves into such a painful, miserable existence in the first place, they no longer trust their emotions because their emotions have betrayed them. They now dismiss everything emotional.

Dreams, fantasies, faith – anything whimsical or ethereal, they throw out of their minds and build a wall to prevent them from reentering.

They turn to logic and reason and rationality. Things that can be weighed and measured. They only want the truth. They don’t want coy, they don’t want cute. They despise secrets –white lies and inside jokes included – because they go against their newfound quest for transparency. They become Vulcans (or whatever Spock is).

Their speech patterns change. The conversations now have a veil of counseling-speak, like you’re sitting on a chair in the basement of church on a Wednesday night. “I appreciate that you have told me what your feelings on this matter are, but I apologize, I just don’t feel the same and if you disagree I will be more than happy to outline this matter,” would be the response to, “Hey, should I get mushrooms on the pizza, I really like mushrooms.”

I hit this phase when I was 30. There was no heartbreak attached to it. I’m not sure why I entered this phase, I just know that for the next girlfriend, I was like this. I mean, I wasn’t too bad – I’m always going to be this spontaneous, heart-on-my-sleeve, reckless risk-taker who often reveals too goddamn much rather than too little. But I was somewhere on the logical end of the spectrum.

I wanted efficiency. I wanted only tidy, rational, sensible relationships. Once, my girlfriend told me she loved me, and asked if I understood the magnitude of what she was saying, of what love meant. I told her – I dared to try to poison her mind with this shit – that love was, like, 30% of the equation and things like financial ideology and keeping the bathroom clean were more important things in a stable relationship.

So basically, to answer her question, no, I didn’t understand what love meant.

I spent a few years in this phase, and then one day I realized that my life was dull. Not boring, but dull. Gray. The blacks and whites of life were gone. The drama, the passion, the fucking fire. Logically, I was winning every single battle with people. Every argument, every fight, I would win by showing less emotion, by being more robotic.

(“Well, I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.” Ugh. That’s how robots shut down arguments. I mean, it’s true, it’s the truth, but what does it do? It’s gross.)

What do you really win, when you win in this way? I’d look at the girlfriend, panting, sweaty, defeated on the couch, on the verge of tears, and I’d think: I won being a robot. I won being more inhuman. Yay. Yaaaaay.

So I went back to how I was before: stupid. Stupid and precarious and risking it all on whims, on possibilities. I’m still logical as fuck. I’m still a virtuoso with my taxes and choosing stocks and reading balance sheets and shifting money among my 273 bank accounts.

But with people – with humankind – I went back to being open and vulnerable and defenseless. And, goddamnit, life is colourful once more.

(Well, to be fair, I’m unaffected by a lot of things because I’m a straight-up fucking masochist sometimes, reveling in pain so I can write about it later.)

What can you do, you have to go through this phase, and then emerge with a healthy balance of logic/emotions. But they’re fooling themselves if they think they’re recovered; they’re in recovery. They’re in purgatory. What’s a life without passion? Without the extremes of love and pain, of melodrama? It’s purgatory, it is literally purgatory.

They need to know that being human is about being emotional. If a girl’s crying, you don’t reason with her to stop; you let her drain, empty out, and I don’t know why it works, but it does. You don’t tell her, “Your father was murdered because he was a bad man. And black.” She knows, that’s why he was executed, the fucking asshole pedo-rapist.

Good Girl Local Girl or Teacher Whore?

When I was back in Bangkok last month, I met up with the Good Girl Local Girl. (God, this is a shitty fucking nickname – but rolls off the tongue now.)

When I first met her, I wasn’t sure of what she did for a living, more importantly, if it was illicit. If she was a working girl or not. Part of it was because up until then I was mostly a tourist in Thailand and just saw prostitutes and bar girls everywhere (now I know it’s probably only 2% of the population). A smaller part was because she’s beautiful, knew English and was on Tinder and OKCupid.

So I was messaging back and forth with her, trying to determine what she did for a living, and she always hid it. Once she said, “Why does it matter what I do? What I do is boring. It has nothing to do with me.” This degree of defensiveness usually means something, no?

She once mentioned she was in class, and something something something. I told this to my friend, “Hey, I think she’s a teacher!” which prompted him to start calling her Teacher Whore forever.

I picked her up at work once, at the Bangkok Polytechnic University. I don’t know what she did there, but she had a photo of her speaking on stage at an important-looking conference. Shortly after, she quit this job and started working at a bottled water company (they didn’t have a brand but white-labeled for other companies, and did in-store brands). Whenever I was drinking water, she would inspect the bottle to see where it was made, and scrutinize the weight of the plastic. “We’re trying to reduce the weight of our bottles to ship them cheaper,” she said.

Once, she needed my help to translate a very important document from Thai to English. It had to do with lab tests and her boss being out of town. Another time, we were out on the weekend and she received images of a water pipe bursting, and had to handle the emergency.

And then there’s the non-work-related functions she attends. There was a dance that she invited me to that I turned down (it had a retro theme and she couldn’t think of the word retro in English). She showed me photos of the night as it was happening, and she was hosting the fucking thing, on a huge outdoor stage with a microphone in hand, entertaining thousands of locals while wearing a yellow flapper dress.

Any of my questions were met with swiftly terminal answers. “Why were you on stage?” “Just because, stupid.” There was no point in digging.

Basically, I have no idea who she is.

So I saw her in early December. We’ve basically reverted to friends now, the statute of limitations on romance having automatically elapsed while I was away. We went to catch up over Korean BBQ at Central Chatuchak and had ice cream after. She gave me shit about being away for 6 months when I told her I was leaving for one.“Hey, when’d you get that shirt?” was met with a dry, “Six months ago.” She’s always been funny. She was happy, doing well with a new iPhone 6S and new shoes and treated hair and glittery foundation.

Then I saw her a month later, in late-December. She told me she quit her job a few days earlier. Worried, I met up with her to see what was wrong. She was wearing her work clothes and I asked her why. “This is the only outfit I have. I moved into my brother’s house after I quit my job. I don’t have any other clothes.”

What the fuck? Suddenly, she had no car, no clothes, no home and the iPhone 6S was replaced with the iPhone 4S that she had months ago. As usual, any questions about her personal life were met with terminal responses, so I didn’t bother to ask any.

My theory is way out there, but plausible: She was dating – or fucking — someone at work, an executive or some higher up with power and enough money to buy her an iPhone 6S. She was promised this and that and told her mother (who she was living with) who was elated at this fortunate news. Executive Higher Up eventually wanted something – a child? Anal sex? To urinate into her mouth? – and she turned him down so he fired her and took away her phone. She went home and told her mom and her mom told her to go back and apologize and she refused so her mom took her car and kicked her out of the house.

Then I came back from the fucking dead and brought her out for crab fried rice and Hokkaido milk and bought socks at a night market and she forgot about her problems for one night.


Well, Now Where Do I Go.

I make impulsive moves and take erratic chances in my life. The point is to set things in motion. I rarely have an end goal, just an urge to get shit underway. Not big moves, just these small, seemingly insignificant steps. Just to get my chances from 0% to 1%, that’s all. That’s all.

(Sort of the way I invest in stocks. If there’s a company I want to watch, that I want to be interested in, I buy like, $10 worth of stocks. It’s a small amount, but the point is that it’s not nothing, hence on my radar, hence I’ll pay attention.)

The difference between 0% and 1% is infinite. Zero effectively means impossible. It’s not gonna happen. One percent, well now we’re onto something. It’s either 0%: impossible; 1 – 99%: possible (and 100%: definite). Those are the only numbers that I need to know. Once you’ve passed zero – well, now we’ve entered the realm of possibility, and that’s where everything happens.

So if I have just a 1% chance with a girl, I’ll dive in, blind. I’ll follow her around the world. I’ll take a year off school at 19 years old and work in the kitchen of a shitty Italian restaurant to save up money to visit her in Hawaii a year later, based on a mere 3 days of hanging out with each other in Seoul. I’ll … well, shit, that’s the biggest example I have and it foreshadows the others, so there we go.

We didn’t make it out of that experience, Hawaii girl and I. But we didn’t fail anything, either. There was nothing to fail. The goal was to just get there, and it remains a highlight in my life. (We broke up and she suddenly appeared in Toronto, years later, and that chapter of our history was an abject failure, so much so that I despised her after, and she remains the only ex-girlfriend that I’m not in touch with.)

I landed in Honolulu, after a year since we met, and she was scared. She was scared and I was scared, but she was more scared because she thought things had to work out, that I came all the way for her so she’d better be in it to win it. All I thought was, Holy fuck, I’m in Hawaii! God, all I cared about was that I got there, that we got a fair shot. I didn’t think things would work – I didn’t even care if they did. I just wanted to push our chances from 0% to 1%. That’s it, from impossible to possible.

(In the third week she pissed me off and I broke up with her, said I’d spend my last week wandering the island, alone, happily. Of course with psychopaths, when you break up with them is when they want you the most. So that was the table-turning moment when she became affectionate and sane, and you know, it was just too little, too late. Once I get to that point of letting someone go, shit, that means I already went through some motherfucking agony and came out the other side.)

The experience was a push-comes-to-shove scenario, where I found out exactly how focused and committed I could be for a woman (back then). Also that I could walk away, merrily, after sinking my time and money and energy and my entire life at the chance, so long as I made every move that I could conceivably make. Juice that 1% chance, squeeze every drop of potential out of it until it’s a wilted husk.

(This is cryptic and stupid as shit, I know. But I’m trying to describe the forest, not the individual trees. The trees don’t matter.)

But the opposite is true, too. Things can go from 1% to 0%. Regardless of how small, how insignificant it is, if it goes from 1% – infinite chances – to 0% – straight-up impossible– well, that’s an absolute loss and the fucking world feels it. The death of infinite potential, of hopes and dreams and possibilities.

Giraffe Lashes is a Virgin

In high school, during my Filipino phase, I liked my friend’s cousin. She was a few years younger and went to a different school up north, but a simple two bus rides away – the 133 Neilson to Scarborough Town Centre, and then the 129 McCowan North bus a straight-shot north to Steeles Ave.

Theoretically, that would be the route. But I never got the chance to try it out.

I first saw her at a jam. They were called jams, these afternoon dance parties held in vacant storefronts in shitty commercial plazas dotted throughout Scarborough. Now that I think of it, it takes a damn good entrepreneurial mind to come up with these, to organize the venue, DJ and coolers full of non-alcoholic beverages to sell (we weren’t so much into alcohol yet; a few of us smoked pot, some did shrooms – but it was well before the days of ecstasy and cocaine and vodka).

She was tremendously tall, like 5’10, close to my height. Dark-skinned, as Filipinos usually are, and statuesque with fat lips and these large eyelids and long eyelashes that all contributed to her giraffe-ness. Trendy, super-short hairstyle with blonde streaks.

I was shy in those days but mustered up the courage to talk to her and she plainly rejected me in a day and age where I wasn’t used to such plainful, blunt rejecting. I retreated back to the corner where my friends were breakdancing and counted the hours until it would be acceptable for me to leave.

Fast-forward four or five years: I was visiting my friend at University of Western a few cities over. We went to a party (The Ramp?) and she was there, Giraffe Lashes, dancing the way Filipinos do, that is, amazingly. The difference between the last time I saw her and now was three-fold: a) I was now accustomed to rejection; b) I had discovered alcohol; and c) I didn’t give a shit.

Because of her stark, debilitating rejection, I thought she was some fearless, spirited, too-cool-for-school girl, so I spoke to her with authoritative undertones, screaming into her ear and snatching her to the dance floor. You know, asserting dominance onto her, and shit.

Nope, Giraffe Lashes was a bashful and timid girly-girl. That rejection those years ago was possibly out of her own shyness, because she didn’t know what to do. I confirmed this when I asked her, a hundred fucking times, “Hey, remember when you rejected me?” and she answered, “Yeah, I was too shy to talk to you.”

(On the hundredth time she said, “Wow, this really bothers you, huh, you keep bringing it up.” I might’ve been the guy who found every girl who rejected me in high school years later, ran enough game to get whatever confirmation I needed to assure myself that it was a done deal, and then scrammed. It’s not a proud trait to have, but I didn’t spend that much time and effort on it, like I wasn’t fucking obsessed. It was more just a passing, weekend hobby.)

We started to date and I took a few trips up to UWO to see her. On one of these trips, while in her bed, I found out that she was a virgin. We weren’t that old but we weren’t that young – and Giraffe Lashes was beautiful, remember, and also Filipino, and those guys fuck – so I was absolutely stunned.

I could handle dating virgins, but what I couldn’t handle was that I knew she wanted to sleep with me. She wanted to lose her virginity to me (well, not to me, I suspect she just thought it was time and I’m the guy that she’s dating).

I wasn’t serious about her. I knew it wasn’t going to last, her tongue was way too short and her massage skills too terrible. I might’ve been getting over a girl or biding my time for another one. No matter, I just couldn’t do it, I didn’t want to be remembered as her first, I just wanted to be this quickie ghost ninja guy in her life.

So I broke up with her.

Weeks later, in Toronto, I ran into her friend, one of her friends that I quickly got along with. “What happened?” she asked. “You two were doing so good! You looked so good together!” I told her the truth, how I couldn’t be the virginity taker if I wasn’t serious about her. I knew it was a fling; I didn’t want to be written into her history books. Best move for everyone, nicest thing I could do.

“Oh wow,” the friend said. “Giraffe Lashes said you broke up with her because she’s a virgin and wouldn’t sleep with you.”


Hair Washes & Facials From Not-Hookers (I Guess I Could Just Say “Masseuses”)

In Ho Chi Minh, there’s a beauty salon filled with a hundred girls in full-on make-up (fair skin, bright lipstick), wearing the same uniform, something scantily-clad. I’m not sure if this is their day-to-day uniform, or if they change on a daily basis, or according to the day of the week (ie: Western Wednesdays!)

I’ve passed these types of salons for years and assumed that they were brothels. It’s standard operating procedure when you walk by: the girls in pink bikinis and their hair in pigtails will yell out, “Hey, handsome boy, massage?” and sometimes grab your arm to try to lead you in. I’ve always kept walking (seriously).

The other day, a friend was visiting from out of town. It was his last day and his flight was at 8pm. Along with our local ex-pat friend, we finished a long, leisurely brunch by 3pm and had nothing to do. I was too hungover to work anyway, so decided to kill time with them.

“Let’s get a massage,” he said. Massages in Vietnam are terrible. Three times the price of Thailand, but without the training. Also, many of them are illicit. If you’re offered a happy ending and turn it down, the girl becomes angry at the opportunity cost of having someone who came just for the massage and finishes the massage sulking, pissed, with one hand browsing Facebook. So I declined the massage, until they said, “You can get a hairwash, a facial and then get a scalp massage.” In.

(Last week I got a haircut at a totally legit-looking Western-style salon – and paid Western price. As I was getting my hair washed after in the backroom, the girl said, “You number one hot boy” and I was just pissed that she would be so inappropriate in a normal setting. I don’t know, I get pissed at wrong-place/wrong-time incidences. Rules are made to be followed, that’s why they’re called rules and not guidelines, motherfuckers.)

They climbed into an Uber and I followed on motorbike. When we got to the place – beauty salon filled with a hundred scantily-clad girls – I balked, pre-emptively frustrated at the shitty service to come. “No, no,” said my local friend. “It’s legit.

We walked into the lobby and immediately the hundreds girls descended onto us. We were to pick the girl who would service us through the one hour body massage, and then the one hour hair wash, facial and scalp massage to follow.

The joint was actually authentic, legitimate, not a whorehouse – so what was the point of choosing a girl? On what qualities do you choose a girl? Sometimes I’m given this opportunity in Bangkok and I’d always choose the oldest, biggest woman, with the most calloused hands – just whoever looked closest to Shrek. But here they were all dainty girls with slender fingers and high-pitched voices. So I did what was natural: I chose the girl with the largest breasts.

The six of us – three guys, three girls – went upstairs and entered a door marked VIP: eight massage tables (or, beds), fashioned with TVs in the corners and a bar (none of which we used). Local friend plugged his phone into the sound system and played 90s R&B while we changed into the supplied massage clothes (also a sign of a legitimate joint).

Goddamnit, my slender-fingered, pale-faced masseuse was a goddamn virtuoso. Best massage out of the handful I’ve had in this godforsaken anti-massage country, including the pricey spas of the villas.

Nhim was 27 years old, from a city down in the Mekong Delta. She worked at this salon for a year, and before that helped her parents sell clothes in her hometown. Next year she hopes to go to school to improve her English, which was immensely impressive considering she learned solely from her clients at the salon and American movies.

After the massage, we headed downstairs into the hair-wash room: a dark, cavernous room with red sinks and outfitted with padded mats.

A few years ago, a girl I dated would treat herself by getting her hair washed. We were traveling around South Thailand and I’d go to the gym and meet her at the salon after. She’d emerge happy and refreshed, and I didn’t understand – don’t you wash your hair every night? I thought it was some weird, spoiled by-product of an affluent childhood that I would never relate to.

Nope, it feels good as fuck.

By the end of it, I was half-conscious, drooling, curled up on the red padded mat, not wanting to leave. I proposed to Nhim, asked if she wanted to get married and live in that cavernous hair-wash room of the shockingly-legit beauty salon crowded with a hundred girls wearing scantily-clad cowgirl uniforms.

She said no.

Threesomes, Part 2

One Wednesday night, there was a birthday party at Brant House, a popular bar in Toronto renown for their Friday evening happy hour. The birthday party was boring as fuck. Maybe 20 people filled the room and 17 of them were drunk. The three of us not drunk included my friend who never drinks and a girl we only sort of, kind of knew, a Korean girl who might’ve been a FOB, an immigrant, though her English was passable enough that I couldn’t be sure.

We weren’t drunk but we were buzzed, save for Guy Who Never Drinks. Somehow the topic of threesomes came up. Not in any special, knowing way – yet. Just passing the bullshit back and forth before we could leave and get pizza across the street.

“Would you ever do a threesome?” I asked Might Be FOB.

“Nah, doesn’t interest me. I don’t have bi-sexual tendencies,” said Might Be FOB.

“What’s that mean,” asked Guy Who Never Drinks. “You would do a threesome with you and two guys?” He was on top of things.

“Well,” she said.

“Whoa, she didn’t say ‘no’!” I said. “Guy Who Never Drinks, she didn’t say ‘no’! Get your coat!”

Now this is kind of stupid, that because she didn’t say ‘no’, that she hesitated for a reasonable amount of time in order to ponder the question and come up with a response, that I immediately jump on it as if she said ‘yes’.

But, you see, I didn’t simply take her non-answer as a positive. Too easy, too simple. As a single man in Toronto, you become well-versed in the cacophony of bullshit that emanates from the mouths of Toronto women. I knew how to properly scrutinize what she was actually communicating. She wouldn’t have said it herself; you have to say it for her.

“Might Be FOB, get your coat; let’s go to Guy Who Never Drinks’ condo, it’s right there.” She nodded excitedly (see?) and grabbed her coat (double see?). The three of us discreetly left and went to Guy Who Never Drinks’ condo that was conveniently steps away from Brant House. We rode the elevator and entered the condo. She said, “Can I have a drink?” He gave her a drink and she gulped it down, clearly trying to get in the mood.

When I drink, I have performance issues, so Guy Who Never Drinks gave me half of his last Cialis, and took the other half for himself. This was the first time I would take performance-enhancing drugs – well, for my cock – and it would prove to be disastrous (but maybe not as disastrous if I didn’t take them at all and was drunk, so who knows, it’s a push).

She lay down on the bed. Guy Who Never Drinks immediately – and I mean so immediately that I was impressed, never thinking him the take-charge type– disrobed her. He took the lead in a scenario where I thought I’d be the alpha, and I hold him in higher regard for it.

He entered her first. (You know, now that I think of it, he was probably trying to fuck her before I did, because it’s icky for him to be second. I give no fucks about this.) While he had sex with her, she… wait. Forget the details, that’s just gross.

We had a phenomenal time. Both Guy Who Never Drinks and I were avid fans of porn, so we didn’t need to strategize. We both knew the moves, we both knew precisely what to do. It was like watching a team of Navy SEALS take down a high-priority target, perfectly executed, in complete radio silence, and without any of their cocks touching.

There were a few regrets: we forgot to Eiffel tower (one guy enters her in doggystyle while the other guy is positioned at her head, and then they high five over her back, creating the “tower”), and I was pissed he didn’t double-penetrate her as she was on top of me. I screamed, Enter her now! Get in her! Now! Don’t just sit there, now! Now now now now now! I suspect it’s because of the previous reason, that he didn’t want our testicles to touch (give no fucks about this).

Afterwards, we left his condo and she drove me home, but not before stopping in a McDonald’s parking lot for two hours, opening up to me about her family and drama with friends, while Guy Who Never Drinks slept peacefully. As usual, I paid for the both of us.



Threesomes, Part 1

The only threesome I ever had was two-guys-one-girl. I guess that’s the worst kind of threesome for a guy to have, but only because the other alternative is two-girls-one-guy. So with a threesome, you have a 50% shot at getting the good kind, and 50% shot at getting the bad.

Wait, I suppose technically there’s the threesome that’s composed of three-guys, which would be the worst for straight men. So I only had the second worst kind, which in my mind is the second best kind. Optimism is integral in life.

(Living in Asia – Bangkok, in particular – you run into many, many guys who’ve had threesomes – even foursomes, fivesomes, sky’s the limit. Hearing all of their stories made me want to have a threesome even less. It quashed my desire to ever go down that path, simply because of the logistics.

The logistics of condoms.

Basically, if you’re about to have sex with two women and everyone’s an adult and so although you’re about to engage in some advanced sex shit, you’re all responsible grown ups and health and safety comes first. What this means is that whenever the guy has sex with one woman, he dons a condom. Then when he wants to switch to the second woman, he discards that condom and slips on a new one. Then when he wants to switch back, he again discards the current condom and gets a new one.

So the number of condoms needed in a single threesome is commensurate with the number of times you want to change vaginas. Since all of my threesome knowledge is derived from porn – hence, my threesome aspirations are tied to what I’ve seen in porn – I’d want to switch about a 231 times between the two girls.

Actually, it’d be like this (in minutes):

00:00: Undress and discover each other’s bodies

00:05: Check Instagram while they make out (girls kissing is boring)

00:10: Oral sex all around!

00:17: Intercourse with first girl

00:22: Intercourse with second girl

00:24: Intercourse with first girl

00:32: Intercourse with second girl

00:36: Intercourse with first girl

00:38: Intercourse with second girl

00:40: Decide which girl is better and just stick with her

00:42: Wait, but what if one girl’s vagina feels better, but I feel more of a connection with the other girl?

00:45: Switch girls again from whichever one I was liking to the other one

00:47: Oh, I forgot to have one girl sit on my face while the other one’s fucking me on top, and those two could make out up there if they wanted to

00:50: The girl on my face and the girl on my penis switch positions

00:53: Have sex with the prettier one of the two for awhile, just to feel some normalcy; other girl can have a smoke but she has to stick her head out the window

00:63: Probably that doggystyle thing with one girl, while she goes down on the other girl

00:67: Switch those positions up, just to keep the equilibrium

00:71: Try to orgasm on both girls’ faces simultaneously, like every single porno ever made

So how many condoms is that, like 74? 74 fucking condoms for a single threesome. Plus the time it takes to put them on. And then in some pornos, they do that thing where the women lie on top of each other so that their vaginas are stacked, and then the guy will stick his penis into one vagina, then once into the second one, then again and again, but a single time in each. That looks pretty fun, but each individual thrust of the penis would require – again, if we were all responsible adults, and we are – a new condom each.

So what are we up to now, 346 condoms? Condoms in Bangkok – the good kind, anyway – are roughly $1 each. No, that sounds pricey. Let’s say 50 cents. So that’s still $173 for 346 condoms for 71 minutes of a single threesome.

So, nah.)

Shit, that was a long-ass parenthesis.