That House Party With The Four

I’ve had memorable house parties over the years and I know enough to tell you that you need two elements to take it from being your regular card flipping, wine chilling, gossip mongering gathering, to one that is well worthy of the halls of infamy.

You need alcohol and me.

It’ll also be great to have women around, because when we throw a party, it’s always skewed towards a carnal circus of intemperance. And this is a straight up toast to salacity, because it will climax to a corporeal skin parade.

This was hatched on an impetus when T said she had some modeling friends who were interested to have a house party. This also came at a great time when we still had the luxury of a vacant apartment to host our little carnivals of decadence.

The props were simple and we had been experienced enough to know what was essential and what constituted as a surplus. We had two bottles, one each of vodka and whiskey, about a 6 pack of beer and enough non alcoholic beverages to incite diabetes. We had a deck of playing cards, we had Twister, and we were going to have to party.

Naturally if this was a regular party night, I would have scorned the collection of alcohol, but this wasn’t and I was going to orchestrate the proceedings so my sobriety was pivotal. Additionally, one other factor ascertained the sufficiency of our alcohol; these girls were young.

And when I say young, I mean ‘just old enough to legally kiss a tequila bottle’ young. Three of them were 18 and one of them was 17. And in tragic irony, despite being the youngest, they were also the tallest. I made a mental note, “all games shouldn’t require standing”.

Like all young girls thrown into the company of 4 male strangers, it took them a fair bit of time before they warmed up to us. This was an interlude of petty banter and a prolonged supper, where I had to impatiently sit through before I could commence any ice breaker.

At the slightest chance, I quickly introduced a card game which was easy to play, fairly interactive and paramount to any fore-mentioned positive traits, required a lot of drinking. I don’t care if you a fun game to play, because games are only fun when people get to drink.

By the second round, the girls had lost a fair bit of the initial inhibitions. They were more proactive, responded to jokes beyond a smile and less cautious with the drinks. Everyone was a spot, all except one, the queen bitch of sulk and wet blankets.

This was one girl who was such a spoil spot, that if the world ended on Christmas or if Santa died, you can be sure she caused it. She was such a sulk if you actually put her in a fairytale for a day, she will turn it into a Tim Burton movie. It came to a point where we really wondered if she was sent to destroy the joy brought to the world by alcohol.

Sulk was under-aged and religiously stuck to the legal pillar that it was inappropriate for her to drink. We obviously didn’t see the need for the moral card because we were pretty sure none of us was an undercover cop and no one was going to kick down the door for a spot check.

She on the other hand, believed in the suicide bomber manifesto that if she was not having fun, no one should, because not only was she not drinking, but she was encouraging her girlfriends not to also. And it went from self restraint from doubling my vodka dosage, to self restraint from punching her face in.

And for the next hour or so, we had to put up with her repertoire of bullshit, which included,

“Why must drink leh? Drinking very fun meh?” to “I don’t want to drink, so what?” to “I don’t feel like drinking ley, cannot meh?”

The consensus was mutual amongst us. Reznor pulled me to the side to graphically explain to me how he would slap her. Totti was reiterating to me, the need to get her drunk. T was frowning almost in apology for dragging in a wet blanket and LB, half convinced the night was going to nose dive if we allowed her to live.

Yes, under normal circumstances, you would expect her to be met with a swinging elbow, followed by an uppercut then a headbutt. And it was not that I was lenient in my wrath, but we all knew the intricacies that tied this whole party together. If we punched her, the party would end, and I might bruise a knuckle, so we gave that a miss.

The great thing was that she stopped cock-blocking and sulking soon after we commenced on Twister, so much so that she even agreed to participate in a circus spectacle of mangled bodies. And this was one legitimate game where I could simultaneously be inches away from LB’s crotch and one of the girl’s ass, while still being clothed. You have to love Twister.

Then beyond hint or precognitive anticipation from the guys, I decided to escalate the whole party from whatever juvenile risqué Twister offered, into Playboy mansion worthy blog material. I don’t remember if it was the vibe I was getting off the girls or if it was the vodka rush to the head while bending over from stretching on the mat, but I just knew we had to play a new game.

And it was a stripping game.

It was built on two simple fundamentals; lewd insanity and lingerie. And it was a simple concept that would be played out on the premise of pairing up identical cards, then swapping clothes and a harsh penalty for the losing couple.

While the guys were surprised that I would throw up such an idea, it surprised me more on how the girls actually keenly took to my game. There was no deliberation of modesty, no trivial clauses to slot in and even Sulk didn’t protest to it like I thought she would.

The first round we played was chaotic. I remembered one of the girls dragging me to the room, told me to take off my top before she slipped it on then removed hers. I think Reznor was one of the slowest couple in the first round and the cruel consequence of speed –or lack of – was a potent glass of vodka, vile enough even for me to frown.

By the second round, the girls no longer cared too much for me to remove my clothing first, though they generally faced away. By the third round, one of the girls had in her vigour to strip, accidentally exposed herself to me. By the fourth round, no one gave a fuck about modesty and everyone was stripping in the hall.

We had gone from casual acquaintances to dressing room buddies.

Reznor: “Best game ever! How the fuck did you think of a game like that?”
LB: “How did this whole thing even come about?”
Me: “That’s cos I’m the game-master.”

Was that all too surprising? Allow me to re-introduce myself. I am Butterfly, your vodka gulping, trash talking, Melbourne shuffling, tongue teasing, toilet bowl hugging protagonist. I am an asshole, your biggest asset at parties and a candid opportunist.

Did you expect something less of me?

Snippets Of Being Sick

Being sick is one way to let people show you that they care. I know so because I've been under the weather for the whole week and that means I've responsibly quarantined myself from pleasantries in life like women, alcohol and fried chicken. I've even had a restraining order of 10 feet from my nephew.

On hindsight, this was a great thing because I never knew so many people actually cared about me when I'm sober.

LB: "What's up tonight?"
Me: "I'm sick."
LB: "I'm sure there's nothing DBL O can't cure."
Me: [cough] "I'm sick."
LB: "Okay whatever."

True friends offer a cure and stop immediately when they know it won't work.

Girl: "Do you want me to bring you medicine and porridge?"
Me: "That's all you are bringing?!"
Girl: "Is there something else I forgot?"
Me: "Thongs and a whip."
Girl: "......."

I'm no longer funny, even when I'm sick.

Me: "I'm sick."
Girl2: "You want me to put your dick in my mouth."
Me: "That's not really going to help matters."
Girl2: "I thought it usually helps."

I know I'm truly sick when that does not turn me on the least bit.

Ange: "Still hacking away?"
Me: "Some chick brought me cough mixture."
Ange: "See lah, sick still got TLC."
Me: "I'm so not drinking it."
Ange: "Why not?"
Me: "If I'm coughing and I get cough mixture, just imagine what I'll get when I have fever."

I'm sick, but I'm still optimistic.

Girl3: "Still sick?"
Me: "Last I felt, yes."
Girl3: "No one taking care of you?"
Me: "Again, last I checked, no. Maybe no one received my distress call yet."
Girl3: "Maybe no one cares about you anymore?"
Me: "Once more, last I checked, not fucking possible."

I'm still optimistic..

Totti: "Where to tonight?"
Me: "I'm sick."
Totti: "Okay bye bye."

And I didn't realise sickness could be transmitted over the phone these days.

Girl4: "Need someone to bring you to the doctor?"
Me: "You don't even drive."

I never know if it's the company that really matters or if driving to the clinic is hard enough when I'm sick, and now I have to kill myself and the passenger in a car accident.

Girl5: "Partying tonight?"
Me: "No. Sick."
Girl5: "Oh poor baby. See, this is why you need a girlfriend."
Me: "No, this is why I need my mummy to be around."

My mum will be happy to know that I'm not out drinking.

Courtesy Words

We all know this. Women just want men to say what they are thinking of in their heads, only in a lower tone. And men, just want women to generally nag less.

The dynamics of the flirting game stretches beyond your pick up creatives, it isn’t just punctuated by kisses, and it certainly does not climax upon sex. Yes, in that kaleidoscope garage of ‘eye contact’ and ‘chemistry’, there is an integral part where your words become soldiers bent on verbally intoxication. And it becomes all about saying the right things at the right time.

I have a heart, but it’s bleached with negligence, soaked with skepticism and inured by practicality, but even I love hearing things I want to hear.

A successful pickup or date doesn’t just end with a number exchange or goodbye kiss. No, it ends when you’re recoiled from a quivering orgasm without any phone call interruptions from your mother. And what sustains the mood towards this bilateral utopia, is positive bedroom banter.

I say positive not because it is constructive to a better future, because that is inconsequential, much like breakfast, play school and condoms. Yes, they are good for you, but you don’t really need them. It’s positive because it just makes the other party happy from hearing.

Call it a stroking of ego, white lies or candid confessions, but in any words, it does get the pants off a little bit faster – and it sustains an erection longer.

You see, courtesy isn’t just about that tap on the head before you blow your load. Courtesy is also about playing down notoriety and playing up that virginal quotient. And, if you really need to, lying is a great way to get there.

I don’t know if it’s a written rule slipped between books at the secondary home economics classes in girl’s schools, because everyone – well almost- that I’ve hooked up with always emphasize a point that they never do one night stands and yet by some strange deviation of morals and self-control, end up next to me.

Do men like to hear this? Does it annul a fraction of any ensuing moral castigation? Is this a fodder to use as an excuse for bad sex? Is this an honest compliment of charm conquering inhibitions?

This is one point in time where what women say and men hears, are the same. For instance,

She: “I have never done one night stands before.”
What she is trying to say: “I am not a slut.”
What the guy hears: “You are not a slut.”

That is what you call symmetrical harmony. As opposed to a different setting, at a jewellery shop.

She: “That is a nice wedding ring.”
What she is saying: “Let’s think of marriage.”
What he hears: “End of late nights and poker Sundays. Why can’t they stick to Louis Vuitton.”

It’s always nice to hear that you aren’t frolicking with the village bicycle because ego aside, the ‘whore’ is a novelty, but the virginal girl next door is always a fantasy. And for the man, it does tickle in the right places when you know – or think- that you were charming enough to cajole a fresh one into sack.

I don’t really know how the male scenario plays out but from past experience, I can tell you that honesty is a not a virtue when people are naked. I learn that courtesy is also about lying, for example, if a girl were to ask when was the last time you went to bed with a stranger, you never say two things,

1. Yesterday or anything within a week.
2. I don’t know, because women tend to assume the worst case scenarios.

If you say any of the above and you do not get a reaction from her, then you can safely assume the following,

1. She isn’t as virginal to the whole ONS passage as she claims to be
2. She's really not that interested in you. Or maybe that was after your pants came off.
3. It’s a ladyboy. They aren’t as myopic and if they want to sleep with you, they will fuck you even if you just got your balls sewn back on.

So why are they courtesy words? Well, it makes the other party feel good, even at your expense. And some people are just wickedly good at it. I know people who are so good at courtesy words, they can sell you a three inch cock and make it sound like Puff the magic dragon, and you sometimes wonder if you’ve been looking at the wrong dick all these years.

Naturally, courtesy words aren’t gender exclusives and these are arsenals that I keep at a breaths proximity, just in case I need to pull another card out the rabbit’s ear.

She: “So many girls to choose from , why did you pick me?”
Me: “I only go for the best.”

Obviously that isn’t always true, but she’s happy to hear, so she talks less and you sleep more. And I learnt this because I used to regurgitate wise crap and it didn’t always go well. The last time I was asked and I replied,

Me: “I thought you hit on me?”

We got into a debate and she wouldn’t let it rest even after I said I was joking. I look back and I don’t find that night funny at all. I hate giving stupid answers.

The F1 Weekend Pt 2

By Saturday, the F1 fever had already died in me. I was no longer thrilled by paddock visits, or nervous about holding an F1 steering wheel. I was instead, contented to sit at a 45 degree tilted angle on the sofa, just so my butt wouldn’t rub together.

Everyone thought it was an injury baked with hilarity and garnished with absurdity, because they could fathom the possibility of having an abrasion between the butt cheeks. And what deflated the credibility of my ludicrous injury, was the fact that I had no idea how I got it.

What I do believe was a culmination of perspiration, boxers, sand, alcohol and lots of dancing. It had to be such, because I swear I do not use sandpaper to wipe my shit.

So it was the morning routine of powdering my ass before I headed to the track. Yes, I might have contributed to the fog situation. And no, it is not fun when powder mixes with perspiration. It felt like having muah chee between your ass.

When the track activities ended, it was off to Zouk for the after party. I was already drained from the day and running on borrow fuel from the 2 cans of Red Bull at the hospitality suites and the lure of Carl Cox. And I needed to ensure that the arrival of the Formula Una girls in their stretch limo went off without a hitch.

And obviously it got almost disastrous because the limo was too big to be allowed entry into the valet lanes and it needed to do a ‘3 point’ turn at the hotel carpark entrance. And let me remind you that this was a stretch limo that you could fit a table tennis table, a jet ski and maybe the whole Olympic pool in there.

It was that huge, it could fit all the 10 girls in there, but it won’t fit a whale. Not that it wasn’t big enough, but fat people really do not deserve to sit in one. They don’t even deserve to get hit by one.

So I stood there watching as it did what seemed like a 24 point turn, to a point that I started making bets with the security guy.

Me: “I say, 5 more turns.”
Guy: “No la, 2 more can already lah.”
Me: “You are one optimistic man. It’s never going to make it.”

The limo took 2 more turns. I obviously know shit about reversing.

When we finally got in, Zouk was so shit house packed that if I stuck my finger in a socket, I would electrocute everyone in the club. It was so hard to just walk anywhere, I would have sliced off my penis just so I wouldn’t have to pee for the night.

The worst thing was that our table was cramped between two other tables and the girls hardly had enough space to sit. Then there was some guy who thrashed talked one of the girls and some guy who nearly got into an argument with me, because he thought I took his table. Then somewhere in the world, 1000 people died from starvation, but I don’t give a shit because all I was concerned about was for the champagne glasses to come.

It all started civilly, with three quarter filled champagne glasses and mandatory toast, one shot vodka and three parts Red Bull and mild cheers. Then somewhere through the 2nd bottle of Dom Perignon, we started drinking off the bottles and licking vodka off our cheeks.

And between all that vile mix of champagne and vodka, I had someone’s tongue in my mouth, then I got pulled out for a smoke, which was really a talk with a moral compass.

P: “Did you just kiss her? She has a boyfriend!”
C: “I know she’s throwing herself at you, but do you have to?!”

At 2 glasses, I’m still open to any moral injection. At 5 glasses, morals are fairytales. At 10 glasses, if you had your tongue in me, I will take you home, even if you are married to my neighbour. At 20 glasses, I will still want to fuck you, but I no longer can. At 30 glasses, I am no longer useful to you. You are better off using my liver to start a campfire.

By the next day, the pain from the abrasion had gone. Except now, the abrasions had dried up and it itched like hell. Not.funny.at.all.

If there was anything that was worse than having your ass raw with abrasions, it was having it itchy. While pain is controllable, itchiness isn’t mind over body. I cannot even resist hitting the snooze button, so obviously I do not have the mental fortitude to survive a butt itch.

I was now faced with a crisis that paled the financial collapse in the US. How was I going to survive the day? Was I going to make short regular bursts to the toilet to relieve the itch? Or should I adopt the one pit stop strategy? Or should I stuff a wet towel in there? Will powder still work? Maybe if I did it discreetly? Then I solved it,

Butt-clenching.

All I needed was to clench my asses tightly together and I could negate a good part of my need to scratch. If you only knew how many butt clenches I did, you will give me an aerobic show to host, and tell Richards Simmons to fuck off. I did so many, I could feel the toning of my ass and I became so good at it, I might be able to crack a walnut with it now.

It was horrible. If God didn’t hook me up with so many women over the weekend, I would have thought he hated me.

Fatigue had finally caught up to me and I surrendered eventually. And this was right in the middle of the actual race where everyone was standing and cheering. Yet, I managed to doze off. I am truly remarkable.

The only noteworthy of the race from where I was, was this group of Ferrari supporters who had banners and flags, and they were boisterous from the get go because Massa had pole. When the pit stop ass fucked him and dropped him to the back, they shouted a lot less. And when Raikkonen crashed, they started rolling up their flags.

By the time it came to the post race party, I was at a point where I was almost capable of saying stupid things like, ‘I’m not going to party for a week’. I was tired, my ass still periodically itched, but I still wanted to drink. It was then that I realized, I am truly incorrigible.

All that, and I survived F1, with an ass problem.


*I'll post pics on Facebook