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?