Hula Hoops, Straw-Ber-Ritas + Grindr, Oh My!
WHY YOU SHOULD CARE
Because some things can be done well drunk. But many more cannot.
By Alex Furuya
I have had a drink or possibly five. In any case, I am definitely drunk. Mumble rap is playing, and the college basement party is clearing out. I’m bored, so naturally I go on Grindr to see what fresh meat is available in this cyberdeli. I chat with a few guys, but no one is really standing out. I sigh and slip my phone into my pocket, when I hear the infamous Grindr tone.
I respond quickly, typing 200 words per minute while exchanging 10 classy nudes per minute. Minutes later, my plan is set. I look up from my phone and realize I’m the last one in this frat house shithole, except for the couple making out in the corner. They’re making sounds that would please any ASMR connoisseur. The sounds are wet, spongelike and very loud. This is definitely my cue to run.
I slip on some winter ice as I run back to my apartment. Grindr dude No. 46513, aka Ben, is already there, and I apologize for being late. I unlock the door and we head directly to my bedroom. In that moment, I am possessed by Dionysus. Well, Dionysus if he drank Fireball and Straw-Ber-Ritas instead of wine. I am prancing hedonistically around my room, feeling graceful. From Ben’s perspective, I probably look like an immature college student stumbling and writhing around.
“Hey, Aaron, what’s this?” he says, pointing to my hula hoops. What the fuck, did I lie and tell him my name is Aaron?
“These are my hoopity-hoops!” I exclaim as I grab my iridescent green-pink, 30-inch diameter hoop. “Wanna see a show?” I say, with a droopy wink.
I suppose I took off my clothes while I was hiding behind the door. Che disastro!
“What the fuck?” he replies. I quickly explain my shtick and reintroduce myself as Saké, the trashy, foulmouthed, glamorous, hula-hooping burlesque performer. He tilts his head, then simply nods and sits on my bed.
I put on Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus and exit the room. The drums drop, and I kick the door open with dramatic flair. Ben looks scared. I grab the hoop, spin it around my waist at neck-breaking speed and pivot while staring at him. He looks impressed, but I’m just getting started. I shimmy the hoop to my neck, and thread one arm through the hoop, spinning it over my head. Now I have his attention. While the hoop is above me, I drop to my knees and lie on my back. I loop the ring around my left foot and spin it. Ben stares at the glittery hoop circling above my body.
I’m pretty tired by now, but the show must go on! I grab the hoop, reset my stance and do a consecutive finale including, but not limited to, figure eights, escalators, helicopters, isolations, smears and illusions.
I hit my final pose, and he’s giving me a standing ovation. I take my bow, and realize I’m only in my underwear. Ach! I apologize for being an unreliable narrator, but I suppose I took off my clothes while I was hiding behind the door. Che disastro!
I suppose my nakedness does the trick, because Ben approaches me and lifts me up. Instinctively, my legs wrap around his waist and we stare at each other. “You’re such a cutie-pie,” he says. “What do you want me to do?” He grips me tighter.
“I want you to throw me,” I whisper into his ear.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why the hell would he say that?” And to be honest, I don’t remember. Perhaps I thought I would float softly onto my bed and he would nestle into me. Or maybe a part of me was inspired by the movies in which a couple makes sweet love after some roughhousing. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I was drunk.
Whatever my expectation was, it was wrong. Ben literally throws me. It isn’t a gentle lift — it’s a hefty toss that propels me vertical. One second I’m in his arms, the next I see the ceiling in front of my nose, then I feel the force of gravity pull me back to Earth.
I open my eyes, and there is a dull pain. Nothing seriously hurt, though — I swear to God I just broke a spring in my bed. I just lie there in my underwear, regretting my word choice. Now, I’m no scientist and I can’t explain this, but somehow the impact of the fall sobers me up instantly. I look up at him with the most What the hell did you just do? expression on my face. He has a confused look on his face, and then I realize something. He isn’t that attractive. Not his fault at all. The beer goggles wore off.
I’m also not feeling like having sex ’cause, oh, I don’t know, I have just been dropped. I roll over, and tell him I’m too drunk and tired to do anything and that I just want to cuddle. Although Ben doesn’t know how to tenderly put someone on a bed, he’s understanding and assumes the big-spoon position.
A lot has happened in five minutes, and I’ve learned a lot: Never tell someone to throw you onto a bed.