Boink, page 3
Choches tip according to their income and their server’s appearance (ladies) or manliness (dudes). Income level varies from Choch to Choch, depending on employment. Some work their way through school, while others live off parental allowances. Many work at stores typically found in malls, such as Hollister or American Eagle, where they will stare longingly across the way at the Virgin Records, wishing they were Justin Timberlake (who, while a “faggot,” probably gets a lot of ass). Other Choches work for their respective fathers. Choches almost never work in the food service industry, and while they will occasionally wear shirts that say “porn star,” they never are. This is due in part to the paranoia that shaving their testicles will make them a “faggot.”
* * *
Once he is upon her, the Choch will attempt to perform a mating ritual in which he rubs his clothed genitals against the female's clothed buttocks, either in or out of sync with the music.
* * *
A Choch with a decent income will tip an attractive female server well, based on the false hope that she will be so impressed with the two dollars he has given her that she will want to engage in sexual relations with him when her shift is over. He will tip a male bartender well if he thinks that it will increase the likelihood of stronger drinks, or even free drinks, should the bartender take a liking to him. The Choch rarely gets what he wants out of a generous tip, aside from the self-gratification that he has done something “sweet.”
Once a Choch has been supplied with liquor, he holds it in his left hand, leaving his right hand free to touch the posterior of any female he should pass while relocating from one area of the bar to another. He may also madly gesticulate while speaking to attract attention to himself, or repeatedly shake hands with anyone he has just met.
In any case, the Choch is now ready to pursue potential conquests. The method of pursuit varies according to what the female is doing.
If the female is dancing, it is best to approach her from behind. The Choch is a stealthy predator (unless he is truly intoxicated) and will usually use the “shuffle” method to get near her. By keeping her unaware, he prevents her from spooking and leaving. Once he is upon her, the Choch will attempt to perform a mating ritual in which he rubs his clothed genitals against the female’s clothed buttocks, either in or out of sync with the music. If the female responds hesitantly, he may try holding her firmly by the hips to prevent her escape or by offering to purchase her a drink, to prevent her from thinking clearly.
If the female is sitting at a table, the Choch will tell her she is pretty, inquire as to what her name is, and then offer to buy her a drink. If the female says no, the Choch will assume she doesn’t drink. If the female says yes, he will consider it an invite to her table where he will try to use a combination of flattery and bragging to win her favor. Common phrases heard from Choches include, “You’re the hottest girl in the whole bar,” “The only reason you don’t like sex is because you haven’t had it with me yet,” “My dad just bought me a Hummer,” and “I’m so totally wasted.”
If after three hours of hunting the Choch cannot find a suitable female at the bar to bed, he will take to the streets. Drunk or not, he will attempt to convince random women to go home with him. Looks become unimportant. The Choch will take any woman he can get at this point.
If no female will submit to his desire, he has only a few options:
1. Try the nearest street vendor. Buy a hotdog and pretend it is what he truly wanted all along.
2. Cruise the streets for a hooker that takes debit.
3. Return to his den, attempt to masturbate, pass out instead.
The next day, the Choch will claim to have been “so drunk” he “can’t even remember” what happened the night prior, though deep in what passes for his soul, he will know that he is a failure. An uninformed reader might assume that the Choch never gets what he wants, and that he is in a constant state of disappointment. This is not true. The Choch has a natural mate: the Sorostitute.
The Sorostitute is equally diligent to ensure that she is fully prepared for the evening ritual. She must inspect her fake tan for fading and streaks. She must try on several different outfits which usually consist of some combination of the following items: sequined tank or tube tops paired with short, cloth pleated skirts, tight-fitting white pants, or low-rise jeans. Once the Sorostitute has selected the clothing ensemble that will best accentuate her figure, she will then adorn herself with dangling earrings and jewelry marked with her name (this conveniently serves as a nametag for any Choch who may be too intoxicated to remember it). Sorostitutes usually wear heels too high to comfortably walk in, giving the Choch an advantage. After two to four Appletinis, the Choch can pretend to be a gentleman by helping her remain upright while in public. Before leaving her habitat, a Sorostitute will insert cash into her brassiere, though she has no real intention of using it.
Like the Choch, the Sorostitute is not an independent creature. From pre-game to last call, the Sorostitute moves with a herd of “sisters”. A Sorostitute can take comfort in the compliments her sister will pay her, and also in the knowledge that a given sister is fatter or has smaller breasts than her. The herd’s membership is constantly shifting as Sorostitutes generally change their preferred sister at least bi-weekly. Two Sorostitutes who have decided they value each other over all others are called Best Friends Forever, often abbreviated BFF. But because Sorostitutes are fickle creatures and prone to change their minds as often as they do their outfits just before to going out to the club, the term “forever” in Sorostitute-vernacular means about fifteen days.
Sorostitute herds often arrive at the club later than Choch packs; Sorostitutes, after all, are weary from a full day of grazing at the mall and need more time to rest and recuperate. But once they are in the house, the mating game begins in earnest.
While Choches and Sorostitutes may have similar goals, the later has an expanded agenda. She is not only looking for someone with whom to engage in the ritual act of “making out”; she is also looking for someone to purchase all of the drinks for her (and perhaps for her sisters too). To aid in this pursuit, Sorostitutes have learned from reality TV the power of being a Fake Lesbian.
Fake Lesbians are not to be confused with Real Lesbians. They will only engage in kissing, light breast fondling, and gratuitous dry humping with other women in public and then only in the company of men whom they would like to manipulate. Fake Lesbians understand that their actions will make them appear edgy and sexually adventurous to men. A Fake Lesbian in Training (FLIT) will enter a single-facility restroom with a sister and giggle loudly to give the impression of erotic behavior behind closed doors, when in actuality the two will be fixing their hair and situating their breasts into a more ostensible position. A Fake Lesbian will never engage in girl-on-girl play in private, but will be prepared with stories that suggest the opposite.
After only a few cocktails or a couple shots, the Sorostitute becomes “totally wasted” and begins acting in a conspicuous and boisterous manner. She will sing along to the songs on the jukebox and demand that everyone in the bar “pour some sugar” on her. She will drop her purse and cell phone, and while she basks in the attention everyone is giving her, she will ask for another drink. This is a trick. Sorostitutes will always act more inebriated than they truly are to give the Choch the impression that they are not usually that easy.
Once the Sorostitute has sipped her fill, she will likely try to lure a partner onto the dance floor. A Sorostitute has within her arsenal a series of moves that Choches are unlikely to be able to resist, assuming that they would ever want to. These moves include, but are not limited to, the following:
1. Moving her posterior in a swaying motion, either solo or against another female.
2. Cupping her breasts with her hands.
3. Simulating masturbation or using her hands to otherwise draw attention towards her vagina.
4. Tussling her hair with her hands as though she were in the shower.
5. Bending her knees and sashaying her hips, moving as low to the floor as possible, then with one hand on the dance floor for balance and the other extended skyward, repeatedly thrusting her pelvic region into the air.
At this point, a Choch may safely use the aforementioned “shuffle” and the game will advance. As the Choch rubs his clothed genitals against the Sorostitute’s buttocks, the stimulation will cause him to become aroused. The Sorostitute’s carefully chosen, thin and tight outfit will enable her to feel his growing erection. The sexual tension builds as the Choch and Sorostitute move beyond the capture and focus on the actual mating. Their ultimate ability to actually copulate is usually determined by last call.
If one party is so drunk as to vomit or pass out, their ultimate success is unlikely but not impossible. If the Sorostitute’s sisters become jealous, they may intervene with a common practice referred to as “cockblocking.” Similarly if the Sorostitute believes that the Choch has flirted with any of her sisters (or anyone else for that matter) over the course of the evening, she may get jealous and decide to withhold the goods to punish the Choch for his disloyalty. Barring these unfortunate circumstances, odds are good that they will “fuck.”
Once the lights are on, the alcohol stops flowing, and the music ends, the rest seems anticlimactic. Wherever the final step of the ritual occurs—the backseat of the Choch’s car, in a dorm room, in an apartment, or in the alleyway outside the club—the actual act of intercourse always proceeds more or less in the same fashion. Following penetration, the liquor in both parties will render them unable to truly appreciate the act and will prevent the Choch from holding out long enough for mutual satisfaction. Once the Choch has ejaculated into the condom, the night is over. But this inevitability doesn’t bother the Sorostitute too much. She secretly knows that she can only orgasm after masturbating for at least forty-five minutes, anyway. Not to mention the fact that she prides herself on her ability to convincingly fake it. In any case, the two may exchange phone numbers with the intent to contact one another for future interludes, but the likelihood of a reconnect is low.
* * *
If the Sorostitute’s sisters become jealous, they may intervene with a common practice referred to as “cockblocking. ”
* * *
It is evident that Choches and Sorostitutes are indeed genetically well suited for each other. But that does not necessarily ensure the survival of the respective species. While the two are compatible, they are not always immediately recognizable to each other and will occasionally make the mistake of attempting to mate with Human Beings, which leads to an evolutionary dead end. Additionally, Choches and Sorostitutes are inherently dissatisfied, and have a biological imperative to continually pursue anyone who is more attractive, richer, or simply different from their current mate. The lack of emotional connection involved with their physical interaction further hinders their abilities to stay with any one partner. The paradox seems to be that even when their mating ritual successfully meets their expectations, it is still a failure.
But before you write them off for extinction, don’t forget that all creatures have the ability to evolve and adapt. After all, cockroaches have survived for millions of years and there’s always next Thirsty Thursday.
Virginity, or Lack Thereof
by CHRIS
LARGE PRIVATE UNIVERSITY
OKAY, I ADMIT IT—I’M A VIRGIN. I’ve been this way for nineteen years, and you know what? I’ve finally acclimated to the status. I’m actually okay with it. It all started one sunny spring day back in March, 1987.
I was born a healthy, plump, little virgin. Fast-forward nine years to 1996—hey, look, still a virgin! Everyone around me is too! This is great. Girls have cooties and boys rule. Fast-forward another nine years—virginity still in full bloom but my hormones are raging. I’m a college freshman and all of a sudden, my virgin status is some kind of a big deal. It came up casually enough, freshman roommates getting to know each other.
“Got a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Yeah, actually she’s coming up this weekend, so you’ll be able to meet her then. Oh, it would be great if you could make yourself scarce after you meet her.”
“What for?” I asked naïvely.
He smiled. “Why? So I can fuck the shit out of her, of course.” Fuck the shit out of her. I remember those words well—they would stick with me throughout the year. He actually talked like that and was serious.
“You’ve had sex?” I inquired.
“Of course. You mean you haven’t?” He started laughing at that point. “Oh, I’m sorry man, that’s cool, dude,” he managed to choke out.
I’ve hated him ever since. I was hoping that he was an exception, one of the few guys around who had actually gotten laid. I started asking other guys in my hall as casually as I could if they had done the deed. To my surprise and disappointment, they all had or (intelligently) lied about it. Even the geekiest of geeks said he had sex once with some chick he met at a sci-fi convention. She was probably a hooker, I thought, but still couldn’t get over the fact that even he had sex.
* * *
My growing obsession with sex reached beyond my consciousness–even my dreams were becoming more and more perverse. As the days went on, sex literally consumed my mind.
* * *
It’s not that I’m a freak show, a caveman, or even Sideshow Bob (though we happen to share the hairstyle). I’m just a normal guy, someone you might call “good-looking” or “cute,” but certainly not “handsome” or “gorgeous.” My roommate and I came from different worlds. Him: New Jersey or something. Me: a Boston suburb. He grew up playing football and drinking beer, I grew up playing Frisbee and watching movies. He grew up doing whatever and whomever he pleased, I grew up awkwardly. It’s not that I haven’t even kissed a girl before, far from it. It’s just that I was never able to coax them into going all the way. High school chicks from my town were prudes, not many guys were able to get lucky. By that time, girls didn’t have cooties anymore, but they sure as hell weren’t putting out. They were always full of excuses:
“Is that all you want from me?”
“I’m way too worried about getting pregnant.”
“I thought our love was greater than that.”
And the inevitable, “I want to wait until marriage.”
College was a whole different ballgame. I became the minority and began hating myself because of it. I started to doubt all my past actions, or lack thereof. I thought that maybe if I had egged so-and-so on a little bit more, she would have eventually opened wide. Maybe if I had gone to more parties, ended some of those longer pointless relationships, hung out with a different crowd, then I could have gotten laid. These thoughts consumed me throughout that entire year.
That weekend I met my roommate’s girlfriend. She was beautiful. I had been falling in love with every girl I met that week; they were like candy to a diabetic: delicious but terrifying. The campus was full of hot girls still dressed in summer apparel. I walked around with a perpetual boner. But I was always too shy or scared of rejection to go talk to them (this was a recurring theme). Anyway, I quickly picked up on my roommate’s signal that it was time to leave. The question was, what was I to do on a lackluster Tuesday night? As I walked down to the lobby, I resolved to spend every waking moment outside of class dedicated to losing my virginity.
My growing obsession with sex reached beyond my consciousness—even my dreams were becoming more and more perverse. As the days went on, sex literally consumed my mind. I couldn’t concentrate in class, couldn’t do my homework. I became so desperate that I quickly began to lower my standards. If any girl had made the smallest advance, I would have been all over it.
As it turned out, I was to be sexiled from my dorm room on a regular basis, and not just because he was with his girlfriend either. He was banging all sorts of attractive girls (of course, I fell in love with them all). The situations did have some perks though—there were always girls in our room, some of whom he was just friends with. Being surrounded by women casually makes it easier to get to know them and to flirt. I got to know one girl particularly well, a redhead named Catherine. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but I found her attractive enough. At first she seemed relatively smart and a lot more interesting than most of the other girls my roommate hung around. Part of me felt I could do better but, well, you know.
Unfortunately it didn’t work out. The more we talked, the more I realized that she wasn’t that interesting after all. In fact, I decided she was particularly vapid, which is probably why she was hanging around my roommate in the first place. More to the point, she didn’t want to put out. At least, not for me. She admitted that she wasn’t a virgin (no surprise there), but didn’t want to fuck the first college guy she met who was just looking for some ass. I never told her I was a virgin. I lied and told her how much she meant to me, how I loved her, how much it would mean to me. She said she wanted to wait until she felt ready, which was probably never. I kept on nagging and eventually it became clear to her that all I wanted out of her was sex. She broke it off after a tepid three months and I was eager to move on and to find someone more willing.
I decided to move further down the food chain and IQ scale. I picked one who I thought would be the most likely to give it up: her name was Laura. I always thought that name sounded particularly slutty. How wrong I was. I didn’t exactly have much experience with one-night stands or sluts in general, but apparently, they aren’t as plentiful in real life as they are in movies. Maybe I was unlucky, or she just didn’t want to have sex with me for some reason, but once again my hopes of losing my virginity were crushed. Things started off with promise: we managed to do more in one night than I’d done with Catherine in three months. But when I felt it was the right time and grabbed a condom, she shot me an icy look and shook her head no, saying “I don’t think so.” We sat in the dark for a while, listless and naked. Eventually she put on her clothes and slipped away. I still had the condom in my hand.
