When I Die

Revenge of the Horny Pig. What is Flirting?

1. Happy Claptrap

He tells me, "Man, I love that chick. Look at her... she's a princess, or something. I'll treat her as one, man."

I tell him, "Dude, she doesn't have any ESP. You like her you go tell her."

This is so obvious even a kid would know it.

"But..." he goes.

"And also," I say," "quit that treat her like a princess crap. You know damn well you're not gonna. And I'd actually dislike you if you really, really meant that." I know he's only half kidding about the princess bit, but now that he's said it I'm gonna have some fun.

Treat her like a princess. Fuck, treat yourself like a prince first, man. Be a great guy first, then think about treating her like your equal. If you think you're gonna put her on some impossible pedestal and worship her like some goddess she'll either freak out or you'll get chained by your balls forever.

Perhaps I'm wrong, but if I ever fall in love, I'll treat my girl like I treat myself. If she expects something more, well, if I ain't getting it from me, she ain't getting it from me. Selfish? Bet your ass it is.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that treating a girl nicely is wrong, but what I think is wrong is treating her like a fucking piece of art. "I stand back and stare in awe, my pretty lady. I want to gift you the moon, pretty lady. You are my reason for being, pretty lady." Romantic hogwash.

I've always believed that every relationship--be it friendship, love, anything--is 50-50. If that ratio shifts, that relation ain't working. It needs some oilin'.

You're saying, "Why're you getting so upset about that lame comment, KC?" Well, wiseguy, cause this guy who's gonna treat the girl like a princess doesn't even know her yet. He doesn't know her name, which fucking year she's in, what she does, nothing. Okay, admitted, she is not bad to look at, and she doesn't look like she'll gnaw your neck off, but still.

Anyway, so I tell him, "Perhaps you'd want to find out the princess's name first, or something."

"Yeah," he says.

"So go ask her," I say.

He says yes, but his butt's still frozen to the wall we're sitting on.

"Come on," I go. "Ask her. What's wrong with you?"

He doesn't say anything.

Now since I'm minorly pissed off already, I get up, walk up to her, say, "Hey."

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't gnaw my neck.

"See that guy back there?" I point a thumb back at him. "He thinks if he asks you your name you'll eat him up. I don't think so. What's your name?"

"Anoushka," she says.

"I'm K____, call me KC. And that guy over there is Hari. Wave at him, will you?"

She waves at him and laughs. "He didn't really think I'd eat him up, did he?"

"I know," I say. "I mean, you're not Aishwarya Rai or anything, either." There's a moment when she's wondering how to take that, and then she laughs again.

"You're not Brad Pitt," she goes. So she has a sense of humor. Good.

For a moment I don't have a sharp enough reply. Then I do. "Hey, come on," I go.
"He's not even as tall as I am!"

"What do you mean?" she goes. "He's taller than you, surely."

"Exactly," I go. "Poor fellow. As if me being handsomer wasn't enough."

She laughs.

"I mean," I go, "even Hari over there could give him competition, no?" And now she's looking at him while she's laughing. I want to bust him even more and want to call him up to where we're standing, just so I can really embarrass him further, but I don't do it. See, and they say I'm cruel.

I tell her, "Catch ya later," and we shake on it and I walk back to mister dumbass.

"You know what that was?" I say.

He says, "What?" He's watching her walk. Watching her butt is more like it. Jackass.

I say, "That was me proving she wasn't a princess and just another person."

"What's her name, man?"

"Why don't you ask her the next time?" I go.

"Ah, come on," he says.

I tell him her name is Sagarika.

But, and this is related to stuff I talked about in another entry, I just don't get what's so fucking scary about talking to a girl you don't know. Why the sudden need to find the exact line, fidget with what to say, doubt yourself, and so on? I wonder if I'd behaved any different if, say, I fancied that girl.

Nah, I don't think so.

The point is, why try those cheesy pickup lines when a simple what's your name gets things rolling, as it obviously worked above? I don't know, exactly, but I bet I could've at the very least got her phone number if I wanted to.¹ Fuck, any guy can do it! That's my point. There's nothing to it. Why make such a big issue out of it? You want to ask her out, and we can assume she wants someone to ask her out--our assumption might be wrong, but what's wrong with trying? So go try, dammit!

Anyway, while we're leaving college--this dumbass and I--we see her while climbing down the stairs. "Hi KC," she goes.

"Hi," I say. "See?" I tell dumbass. "She didn't eat me. Now maybe you should ask her her name."

He smiles like a fuckwad.

"Well, see you later," I tell her. "This guy here's in shock. He just found out you thought he's better than Brad Pitt."

She gives him a weird stare, smiles and waves and starts climbing down ahead of us. When she's climbed two sets, I tell dumbass to call her. It's very important, I say.

So he bellows, "Sagarika! Hey, Sagarika! Hey!"

She doesn't look back, obviously.

I slap my knee, laugh like a drunk, and walk away.

I'm evil, I know. If nothing else, it'll teach him to find out his own information for himself the next time.

_________
¹I find it pretty funny how guys consider getting a girl's phone number as an achievement, as if once you get their number they're yours, or something. Guys are idiots. Present company included.

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2. The Ballad of the Masceen Shenade

Along yule tide comes this wandering pygmy, frock-a-lock flowing left and swinging right, singing a song of trees or water or something sweet or ugly in a language that is not English or French or German or Hindi or Sanskrit or any other language I don't know.

Sits himself down this sodden rock come a chock-a-lock a whaytoring feel good dominion.

"Buwdrasi," he yaps. "Come sidovirhere," he raps. "Shacka migolidonioni," he taps.

"You're not making sensoniconicola," I tell him. "Understandobola?"

"Whattafuckinotica? I dinsto makrighno! Fuckebola chompamoa bridgetichonivich!"

And hey, ho, sing a song we go, there was a time and a happy time when thank you very much a whole lotta mola mola sold a little bit of ridalmb.

Chicitomochamif, silokirola.

Sensoniconicola.

Whattafuckinotica?

Fuckmehardica?

Senso don't make no difference so he tokenly pushed his sould and we would of lost our gold and sould our sould and mould our mould.

Ebola!

Ebola!

Masceen Shendane. Mon namola soffola cindominowritoschi!¹

______________
¹Again, like last time, if you don't see anything here, you won't see anything here.

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3. The Best Days of our Life - Or, The Revenge of the Dormant Horny Pig

I blame it on the heat.

I don't have a boner, no, but not having a boner doesn't mean you ain't got one in your mind.

This is not even about flesh.

This is just about hardcore fuck.

Porno doesn't even come close.

Can I really blame my body for acting up after keeping it under lock and key for so long? All I can think of right now is finding someone and fucking, fucking, fucking. Not sex, not making love, just fucking.

And I'm thinking, Why have you not jerked off for all these years? I'm thinking, Why this bout of celibacy? What the fuck are you trying to achieve here? You don't get a gold medal for not jerking off. You don't get a million bucks if you die a virgin. Nobody cares if you die a virgin, sure, but nobody cares if you die not a virgin either. So why not go out and fuck? Why not? Why the fuck not?

And goddamn if I have an answer.

I just don't have a fucking clue.

So go and fuck. Dammit I want to fuck.

:Dude, you don't just go out and fuck, you know.

Oh, so you're waiting for Miss Right, right? Fucking idiot. There's no such thing. And who the fuck are you kidding?

:Nobody. And I'm not waiting for Miss Right, either. I'm just waiting for Miss TurnMeOn. What's wrong with that?

Waiting. That's what's wrong, you idiot. Go out and fuck.

:Yes sir. Shut up.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

:How about I jerk off and we call it quits?

No can do. You need to screw like you're meant to screw. Fuck or nothing.

:That's a tough bargain, sir.

So? I never said I was a softie.

:Fine. I'll go fuck.

That's better.

And so I try to change the channel, watch some TV, hear some rock, read something.

But I just can't fucking get rid of that fucking voice which goes:

Buddy you ain't fucking. That's not right. That wasn't the deal. You ain't a just man. You ain't no man of your word and

:Shut the fuck up, will you? Damn you're driving me mad.

Heh, no sir. Gimme some skin right fucking now!

:You goddamn monkey!

So I decide to write him out off my back and I come here to this journal and write.

It isn't helping.

It's like a fucking sneeze that just doesn't fucking come.

What the bloody fuck do I do?

<>

4. Puddle in the Smash! - Or, What the Fuck is Going On?

The rain always takes me back. I'm soaking wet, arms spread out, eyes closed, not giving a damn about anything.

About five minutes ago there was nothing; me and Nisha were walking home. And then Upstairs.com opened the faucet and lo! So much lovely rain!

My bag's lying underneath a tree, my clothes stick and sag from my body.

The smell. The lovely smell of earth. I remember watering Shukla's garden just so I could smell that lovely smell when I was about nine. Wally'd come water the garden with me, and we'd then collect snails and earthworms. We sometimes threw those earthworms on open antholes, then watch them wiggle. We called it wormdancing.

"This is beautiful, K," Nisha says.

I look at her. She's just standing with her fingers crossed behind her neck, eyes closed, face up. The rain hums.

And looking at her standing like that, my heart fills up. Not for the past, not for Amy, not even for Nisha, perhaps, but for that moment.

Her white T-shirt is clinging to her breasts, you can see the outline of her bra, but I'm only watching all that; what I'm thinking of is paper boats.

Paper boats that I never waxed like Georgie's boat in IT. Paper boats that never quite sailed as far as we wanted them to.

I'm thinking of raincoats, and a two little boys. One wears red, the other wears blue. Both have plastic water bottles hung around their necks. Both walk on a road divider, hand in hand, singing a Hindi song which they think is the ultimate hot shit. We don't know the term "hot shit" yet, but that's what you get when you're looking at the past from a vulgar prick's mind. My mind.

One of them says, "If you go too far up in the sky, do you think you will see the taps, KC?"

The other guy, this one always pretends he knows everything, says, "Yeah, sure. You'd also probably see the controls for hot and cold. And the lectricity, don't forget. Those thudderstroms." Our science textbooks tell us otherwise, but screw them, anyway.

"I wish I would see that one day," the first kid says.

The second kid throws an arm around him and says, "We will, Ghoo. Sure."

Ghoo died, as you know. Good old Guha.

"KC?" Nisha says.

And I realize that though I'm seeing those two kids in my minds eye, my real eyes are fixed upon her breasts.

"Shit," I go.

"What?" she says.

I wonder if she knows why I said shit. "Never mind," I say.

She hugs herself suddenly, and says, "It's chilly."

"Isn't that wonderful?" I ask.

She nods. "What about your cold, though?"

I don't feel it at all. But she's right. My fucking cold.

"Let's go home, then," I say. "You're right. Although I think a cold would be worth it."

She nods and picks up our bags.

We walk home, each footstep throwing little jets of water, sprinkling droplets from our wet clothes.

On the way, though, is a nice little shack where I sometimes stop to get some coconut ice-cream (it's fabulous, lemme tell you).

Anything cold's out, so we ask for some hot chocolate. It's one of my brotherhood's customs: when it rain, you drink hot chocolate.

She's leaning forward on the table we're sitting at, and her nipples make two hard dots on her T. She runs both hands through her hair and crosses her fingers behind her neck.

She catches me staring at her bosom first, at her face next, and well, lah-di-dah.

You'd think I'd do something befitting a horny motherfucker. I'd think so too, but what I do say is, "Crap, this feels like a fuckin romance novel. The next line would go: And then the tall, dark and handsome and filthy rich guy drew the pretty, well-proportioned, slightly slutty gal into his arms and they fucked like monkeys."

She laughs hard, and then shivers.

"Shit," I say, "you sure you don't want to get some dry clothes right now? I mean, my Mom's clothes should fit you. At least in theory."

"And if they don't?" she asks.

"Well," I go. "I'd offer you mine, but then I won't be able to wear those clothes again, would I?"

"Why?"

"Wearing them'd make me feel like I'm cross-dressing, or something."

She shakes her head. "You're a nutjob."

"Nutjob? Yeah, I like blowjobs." Oh, and there goes KC with his asshole mouth again. Somebody please find me a fuckin roll of duct tape to censor my fucking mouth.

She only rolls her eyes.

Her phone rings. She goes, "Yeah. Hi, I know. I don't know. Some time. Yeah, sure. Listen, don't... oh, okay. What? No, no. Please, yeah. Also don't let me into... what? You're breaking up. Hello? Hello? Yeah. Okay. Bye."

"That was that guy I was telling you about," she says.

"Nutjob?"

"Geez, no. This one's one of those lame ducks."

I don't know what the fuck that is, but since the steamy chocolate comes along just then, I forget asking her.

While drinking it, we look outside.

I don't know about you, but I've never ever drunk hot chocolate with anyone in anything else but silence. Strange, huh?

"You want more?" I ask when I finish.

So I go tell the guy for two more.

When I come back, she says, "Hey, come here, quick!"

She points at something. A mynah perched not more than a foot away, clutching onto a rung under the parapet to get away from the rain.

"You could've scared it off," I say. "Shouting like that."

She nods, and we look at the bird.

Now this is not the first time I'm seeing a mynah, so when the guy brings the mug again, I hand her her mug.

She says, "Isn't it cute?"

"And then the hero said, 'But you're cuter, senorita.' Stop trying to turn this into a fucking Mills-n-Boons shitfest, Nish!"

She spills the stuff she's about to drink and breaks out laughing.

"No, really though," I go. "That hero is wrong, anyway, horny bastard. That mynah's way cuter. Do you think it will marry me? I wonder where we'll keep--"

"Shut up!" she yells, and the poor bird flies away. "Shit." And then she laughs even more.

"Silly girl can't drink properly scared my girlfriend bird off and--"

"You know what you're doing, don't you?" she suddenly says, though she has to huff out a few more giggles before she gets there.

"Mourning my girlfriend Mynah who flew away?" I ask.

"You're flirting," she says.

And I freeze up.

I repeat: I freeze up.

This has to be the first time in my post-adolescent life where I'm absolutely dumbfounded. I don't know what the fuck to say, dammit!

"Don't look like you don't know it," she says.

See, I would like to tell you that I've been out of this game for so fucking long I don't even know what it's supposed to be like, but the truth is that I never was in this whole fucking game to begin with.

"I don't even know what you're talking about, Nish," I say. "Was it something I said?"

There's about five seconds of total silence.

Then she shakes her head. "Not just what you said, no. The way you're acting, K."

So I wonder if I'm acting different. Nope. "But that's how I act with everyone... fuck, that's not acting, that's how I am, dammit! With everyone! Does that mean every guy thinks I'm gay?"

She lets out a surprised chuckle.

But I don't see what's so fucking funny about it. Because that is true. That is the way I am.

There's some silence, and I place the mug on the table.

"You're freaking me out, you know," I say.

"You really don't know this stuff, huh?" she says.

"Yeah and Al Pacino was six foot nine; of course I don't know, you fucking dimwit!"

"Man I don't believe this," she says. She takes a sip from her mug. "All right. Fine. Forget it."

"What do you mean forget it? Dammit, if I'm doing something I damn well want to know I'm doing it while I'm doing it! How'd you feel like you were taking a piss without knowing it, huh? Right in your bed, even! Sleeping in your fucking bed!"

"You really have no idea?" she says after a while.

"Damn stop teasing me!"

"Okay, fine," she says.

"Fine what?"

And she tells me, explains it, and so on.

For about an hour she tells me stuff I have no idea how to go about describing.

And I don't get it.

And frankly I'm totally lost.

I don't what the fuck is going on.

What the fuck is going on?

First the stupid horny pig, and now this bullshit?

Will somebody explain it to me in 25 or 100 or 100000000000 easy steps, please?

Anybody?

Down on mah knees, beggin ya please, tell me what the fuck is goin on?

I beg ya.

Beg ya true.