Vultures and balls.

Yesterday, my friend Garret invited me, three other guys and a girl to celebrate one of his recent purchases – A billiards table. Now, just so you have an idea as to what kind of neighborhood I live in, buying a billiards table is tantamount to buying a brand new car and is, of course, surrounded with unnecessary and excessive excitement.

This is probably because, buying a billiards table tells everyone that:

• “Hey my house is big enough for a billiards table! Yours is not!”
• “My dad works for the customs bureau. I’m an illegitimate child and he only comes home every week to bone my loshang mother. Oh and we have lots of money!”
• “I’m a douche lol”

Anyway, I know the other guys Garret invited over but it’s the first time I saw the girl in the group. I have a total of 3 female friends–one of them became my girlfriend and the other two I have not seen for quite some time now.  I am seriously wanting in the female friends department and I can only assume that this is because once I find myself being close enough emotionally to any woman I end up trying to make passes at her and even go to the extent of promising her things I cannot possibly fulfill to get into her panties. And usually, when that happens, every small dollop of “friendship” I’ve managed to nurture with said woman goes down the proverbial drain.

Everything began quite uneventfully; everyone was having a grand time playing 9-ball while the booze flowed freely courtesy of Garrett whose fortitude when it comes throwing back beers is something I want to publicly praise. Seriously; as far as I know, this guy, being unemployed and all, drinks every fucking night but somehow manages to get himself out of bed at 6am everyday to help  “supervise” his family’s construction business. I, on the other hand, sleep like twelve hours a day (three at work) and on a good day, I would need to have a cup of coffee and a bottle of Cobra just to get me to open my eyes.

Like I said, the early part of the night was pretty uneventful–with everyone taking turns on the billiards table on a “challenge the winner” format. There were several new rivalries formed most notably, a rivalry between myself (2002 PSBA open 9-ball Champion, Anonas Leg) and my friend Ricky whom, at the end of the night, I lost 700 bucks and a cellphone to. (Ricky, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but dude, I still can’t believe I put my cellphone up as a bet. Dude, seriously, I need that phone).

While waiting for their turns on the table, everyone pretty much just sat around and threw back beers and sort of warmed up to each other. There were comments thrown by my guy friends about Rachelle (The only girl in the group) on the side along the lines of “Dude, check Rachelle out, she’s like 5’4″ at most, but I’ll totally hit that body” after a few more rounds of beer the comments degenerated into “Man, I seriously want a piece of that” and a few rounds more, it turned into “Is that Mike? why does he look like he’s teaching Garrett’s grandmother to dance?” That was that. Lustful comments aside, I would go ahead and say that up to this point, everyone was pretty much well-mannered.

It was after a few beers more that things started to look a lot like an Animal Planet special shit show–chests were beaten, antlers were locked together and the males became more and more, shall I say, competitive.

The fact that Rachelle herself was pretty much bombed didn’t exactly help the situation. Flirtatious exchanges were made and next thing I know, all my friends were circling around her like pubescent vultures, each one jockeying for position in a race for what they hoped to be a one night stand.

It’s been days after that party but not one of my friends ever admitted to having even a slight interest in Rachelle. I do know that it is true. I mean, you could tell from the look in their eyes that night, looks that say: “I am so going to have sex with this girl, it’s going to be SO rough and I will NOT wear a condom. You know? because I’m drunk and I think I’m fucking awesome. Let me get another Red Horse. After that, I’m going to fucking go for the jugular and close the deal right. fucking. here. But first, another drink.”

At that point in the night, my friend Ricky clearly had the lead. Because he fucking beat me so bad in 9-ball (out of my money no less. And my phone), He felt like this gave him some sort of divine right to teach Rachelle, who knew squat about billiards, how to play the game. This went down complete with Rachelle bent over the table and with Ricky sort of positioning himself behind her to “correct” the way she bridges the cue stick.

Perhaps, you’re asking yourself where the hell I am throughout all this. Well, my friends being vultures, I was kind of the really slow, retarded one. The one who probably decided to roll around in and eat gazelle feces because he’s resigned to the fact that the other vultures are probably going to eat every scrap of meat in a carcass, so why even bother?

I mean really, come on, I’ve always been the guy who never had a passable “game” around girls when I am with other guys. In fact, this entire scene reminded me of my early years in High School where the varsity basketball players hung out with all the hot chicks while I spent my nights speaking on the phone with these girls behind their backs trying to convince them that everyone on the varsity team were douchebags and how they deserve someone way better. Somone who knows what quadratic equations are and someone who knows that the condoms are used for birth control and not penis ornaments. Someone like me.

Besides, time and time again, I’ve written about my pathetic self-esteem–something caused by my wine cork penis and monggo testicles. Oh and don’t even get me started about how “girly” my voice sounds. So yeah, whenever I find myself in a situation where guys have to compete for a woman’s attention (i.e. Bars, clubs, “massage parlors”, and tiangges) I would most likely not even bother and capitulate to other, more confident men.

Also, I’ve got this entire “You’re not all that to begin with, so why should I even bother impressing you? Go ahead and flirt with these douchebags, see if I care. You deserve them anyway” attitude going on. But then again, this is probably just a coping mechanism of some sort that keeps my self-esteem, which is at near-fatal levels, in check.

I wish I could say there was a happier ending to this story but there isn’t one. As is the case with me everytime I get a good buzz going, I get a bad case of the munchies. So, I drove myself home, microwaved some tinola, ate, slept and woke up with bits of papaya in my hair.

No, I don’t suck. You suck.

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