Manouvring after Midnight

It seems the crew members never run out of strange stories. Believe me I've had my share and I'll post some shortly but in the meantime here's an account that washed up in a bottle off the shores of Madagascar. Surprisingly it's an account of a night at Santika. Enjoy!

- Mike


Sometimes, as a pilot, you may get a little sense of foreboding before a strike: maybe things just aren't going right today; weather's looking a bit turbulent; technician tells you he couldn't fix that problem with your rudder because he ran out of wire; wingman's been shot; lucky scarf got caught in the propeller and got shredded. Little signs, which make you toss in that extra prayer and say the lord's name with a clean mouth for oncebut not in vain for once, and tense you up for a rough day.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

Mike and I hadn't had a good night out for more than a month due to a sundry of factors, including a bout of pneumonia, a sudden attack of physical insecurity, and a call from the old country. Tonight was shaping out pretty well. We'd gotten in, scoped the sights and on my part I'd stuck to my game plan and found a girl I fancied. Mike was in full support (Editor's note: ...and looking handsome in his low rise denim carpenter pants from Guess Men's Summer Collection 2007).

Textbook.

So after dancing a little, I'd moved over to chat with her, and was assisted by her helpful friend who shoved her body towards me. It's always nice to know they care enough to throw their friends at any guy who comes by, but I don't complain, especially when the shove propelled what could be likened to a pair of torpedoes into my chest. After the usual pleasantries accompanied by the not unwelcome interludes of her rubbing herself inappropriately against me, the night continued on its pleasant way, with the occasional encouraging nudge from Mike. Interruptions by a couple of girls I knew didn't even dent my roll, as every single time I turned to chat with them without any sign of embarrassment or panic she proceeded to drape herself on me while grabbing me in a rather indiscreet fashion. At 1am, I decided to call it. My wingman gives me the thumbs up and the obligatory leery wink and elbow dig, and I escort my attractive companion out.

Textbook.

After saving her from stumbling down the steps of Santika, I discover to my belated dismay that my female friend is rather drunk. To make matters even more exciting, she's got a car. Seeing as how 'death by alcohol induced vehicular stupidity' is waaaaay behind 'death by orgy with beach volleyball team' on my 'best ways to bite it' list, I took the keys and dragged her into the back seat of the car.

I know, now here comes the nudge nudge wink wink. Sorry to disappoint. While I've had numerous encounters in the back seats of various forms of transportation, this didn't quite turn out to be one them. Between her protesting how she was not drunk and her bouts of projectile vomiting (mostly the Asahi she'd taken off you Mike, you utter bastard. Gonna kick you in the nads for that...), any amorous feelings I was having were rapidly draining away like liquidity in the United States stock market. After the regurgitation slowed to a less gruesome pace, she began getting calls from her erstwhile friend to meet up for dinner. Against my better judgement I thought what must have been the similar thoughts of countless other victims of drunk driving accidents 'She's more sober now, its only a short distance, I'm sure we'll be fine...'. (Editor's note: Did I mention my friend is looking for part time work doing after school specials playing 'Idiot Number 2'?).

The journey was uneventful. This is of course, if you consider engaging in a honking and swearing match with other road users, swerving onto the wrong side of roads, turning without indicating, and allowing your car to drift onto incoming traffic. To say I was displeased would have been like Sonny Bono saying it was just a bad snow day. I believe the word you'd be looking for to describe what I was feeling would have to be 'apoplexy'. (Editor's note: this word was too big for me to digest so I couldn't be bothered Googling my friend's Singlish. I assume in this context it refers to being upset and angry and not a pleasurable seizure enduced by orgasm).

At this point, I demand she drives back to my apartment. The last thing I really needed was for her to end up in a five car pile up and come back to haunt me as a ghost. Or knowing my luck, she'd survive and sue me for letting her drive home drunk or something. After arguing for some time she eventually sucuums to my boyish charm and agrees. When we arrive, I direct her to a parking lot, and deftly relieve her of keys, forcing her to come up with me. She complains all the way up, insisting she is sober as a judge, and I should give her keys back.

Ladies, no matter how attractive you are, I'd like to point out at this juncture that no one is attractive when they're drunk, smell vaguely of vomit, acting belligerently and whining (Editor's note: I beg to differ. I'm a stallion when I'm drunk). Especially not to a guy who has tried his best to keep his cool while being driven around on a ride of death by said female.

I kick the door to my apartment open and stash her keys in the refrigerator next to a half eaten box of Chex cereal and some gray mysterious tupperware that's been there since I moved in. In fact it might even be part of the fridge. Pointing to my bed, I take my clothes off and go have a shower, hoping to improve my mood. As I'm contemplating spending a wasted night trying to sleep and pondering what to do with a girl clearly off her face, the door to my bathroom opens, and I'm left staring at one very naked girl (Editor's note: My friend is new to nakedness and is clearly unaware there is only 'naked' and no 'very naked').

Another lesson for you here ladies: nudity always makes you more attractive. Especially if you've got a rack that will no doubt give you back problems in your later years. (Editor's note: Again I gotta differ. There is such a thing as bad naked).

My evening was definitely looking up. I cut my shower short, step out, and towel myself off, before dragging her to bed. This should have been it, case closed, and a beginning to a fanfuckingtastic weekend.

Textbook.

But before I can even say foreplay, she suddenly pushes me back, and says 'I want to go home. Could you give me my keys?'

Textbo- WHAT???

So wait, let me get this straight. We're both naked. We're pressed against each other in a way that can only be described as intimate, and I think if I wiggled a bit, we'd actually be having sex. This was all initiated by you. And now, you want to go home.

Something in my mind snapped there and then. I got up, opened the fridge, gave her the bloody keys, and ushered her out the door. Regardless of what people say, sex is not worth all the fucking around. Annoyed, awake, and aroused, I had to settle for doing my laundry. Nothing like clean socks to cheer a guy up. (Editor's note: I assume my friend is referring to literally washing clothes and not actually 'doing' the laundry).

As a wise Canadian once told me, sometimes you just gotta push them down and do them from behind like a freight train. (Editor's note: All Canadians are wise...except the french ones). And if something like that ever happens again, regardless of the romantic I am, I suspect I'll be a lot more likely to agree.
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Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man! (Editor's note: Just not in the sock I hope!)

- Yang