IT ALL TRANSPIRED ON THE 3RD OF THE 12TH, 2002…

Some stories would be much more amusing if I weren’t in them. Take, for example, this text message. If only it had been received by a talented wit rather than my own ordinary self…

I WISH U COULD JAB IT UP MY ASS LIKE U JABD IT UP MY PUSSY YSTDAY I WANNA FUCK U SO BAD MY PUSSYZ ACHING I KNO U WANT ME AGAIN

Now, how would you have answered? Would you have texted back the reply ‘Very Amusing’ or gone with something slightly more interesting? I thought as much.

Of course, had you done so then you might not have got the following reply:

DONT B LIKE THAT U MOANED LIKE I WAS A GODDESS THE WAY MY TOUNGE SWIRLED ALL AROUND THE NOB OF UR MAN CHICKN 😉 U LOVED IT

Sardonic players of this game might, by this time, have raised a single eye-brow, taken a sip of their whiskey and sent back the loaded ‘Really?’ Or, maybe, thought ever so briefly about taking note of the number and giving this precocious thing a call. For me, only a touch of the former.

HELL YES WHY U BEING SHADY IS UR GF THERE? U SHOULD GET RID OF HER U NO HALF UR M8S WANT ME BUT I WANT U SO U GOTA MAKE THE DECISION

By this time ‘on to it’ readers will be wondering why I am not providing them with the number in question (sorry, fellahs, but this happened two and an half years ago and the number is not likely valid) and wouldn’t at all appreciate a ‘Highlander’ reference, such as ‘But in the end there can be only one!’ as a suggested reply…

Such readers, of course, have my highest admiration.

AND UR POINT BEING – STOP PLAYIN AROUND DO U WANT ME OR NOT IF NOT STOP GRABIN AND TOUCHIN ME WHEN U C ME GOD IM 20 I DONT NEED UR BULSHIT

Most pundits will, by now, have invoked their fantasy-states and will no longer be reading anything other than the capitalised sentence-fragments (which make up the better parts of this missive). And a good thing to; I have no idea why anyone, especially me, would think that ‘20?’ would make a good reply at this juncture.

WHY IS THAT SO SHOCKN ITHORT U SAID U LIKED MY FIRM TIGHT ASS AND MY FIRM HANDFULS HMMMM UR BING SHADY 2NGHT ANSWR MY QUESTION DO U WANT 2 FUCK ME OR NOT

The answer to this is obviously very, very, very clear and thus not suitable for genteel folk that read ‘Brainstab.’ My response, horribly predictable as it was, needs no groans of frustration or feelings of sympathy from you; being deplorably ‘English’ is bad enough. Instead, I offer this tale to you as a moral lesson, with the hope that it is not morality that you take away from it.

Now all I need is to imagine a better end to the phone call from a stranger that started ‘I’ve just got word that they’re giving me the bikini modelling contract…’

The ‘Lie’

Memories and love.

It’s a funny combination.

There is this girl I know. Know well, if you catch my drift… We’ve been close, on and off, buying into each other’s fantasy. And she has this memory, a recollection of how we met. Common friend’s place; playing some insipid boardgame, just the three of us. She and I were sitting next to each other, joking and doing that ‘thing’ where people talk without asking direct questions.

Typical Kiwi flirting…

Anyway, I throw the die, get a six and throw my hands in the air (at the unfairness of it all, you know) before bringing my hand down on hers.

Where, after a smug grin, it stays.

Let’s just say that later that night we ended up kissing… And, well, other stuff.

She tells me later that I did it deliberately. I immediately agree with her. Which leads to more of the ‘other stuff.’ Later she tells our friends the story (with me sheepishly nodding away in the background) until, within months, it becomes ‘the’ story of how ‘we got together.’

Which isn’t true. My hand landed on hers, alright, but it was natural clumsiness (with associated good consequences). But I, insecure enough to think that this was the be-all and end-all of the relationship, couldn’t let her think that.

And it was only a little lie, wasn’t it?

The problem was, weeks later, it wasn’t. More and more people became party to it. So when it became ‘the’ moment it went from minor to major.

So I did what I could to rectify the situation.

Perhaps, I rationalised, I had intended to touch her hand. Maybe it was me that was at fault here. I couldn’t admit to my gambit, so I was downplaying it. The lie wasn’t our story, the lie was not allowing the story to be true.

So the lie became truth and truth, oh so tritely, became fiction.

Isn’t it strange how it only takes a few moments to become convinced.

Love and memory, eh?