From Birthright, with Kisses
Note: this is a work of fiction
Clay and I didn’t exactly “decide” we were going to make out with everyone on the Birthright trip. Neither was it an accident, of course. Entropy is a powerful drug and all, but I refuse to believe that I just happened to be born in this particular universe where this was the one cool thing destined to happen, while the other universes got alien invasions and terminators and blowed up. I like to think I’m in control of screwing up my own life.
What happened was that there was an offhand comment that quickly escalated into a game of chicken, and ended with everyone on the trip…you know.
Here’s what you don’t know:
“I wish I had a terrible secret,” I said. We had been talking about confidants, and how hot it was when people confided in you, unless they were one of those annoying over-confiders.
“Like if you made out with Kim?” Clay asked.
“Exactly. And everyone else.”
“Challenge accepted.”
There was really no way out from there but through. Neither of us was man enough to back out and so we both amped up the bravado to nitro to compensate. We were particularly cautious about suggesting compromises, to avoid sounding like cowards, and I remember phrasing things very carefully, framing suggestions as pre-agreed-upon assumptions. Actually, I just remember one particular compromise I suggested, and the disproportionate sense of pride I felt for coming up with it. I’ll never forget how disproportionate it was…
There were 46 people to cover: 35 other trip participants, 6 unsuspecting Israelis, Hal and Arielle, Irad, security Ben, and of course, Clay and myself. Oops, forgot Omar. 47.
“I call Irad,” I said, implicitly halving the number to 23.
“Fuck that, Irad’s mine,” Clay said, agreeing to the halving. I could see a bead of perspiration rolling down his forehead heave a sigh of relief and roll right back up to the source.
“Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Nah, let’s flip a coin.” Clay pulled out his pink Chanel purse and took out a pink Prada coin.
“Let’s get someone else to flip it,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but…”
“I don’t trust you either.”
“I’m flattered.” I took a little bow, taking a look at the flip side of the coin at the apogee. A one-sided coin, the cheating bastard! Tails and tails. “Who do we get to flip the coin?”
“Irad?”
“Ha!”
Irad was suspicious as soon as he saw us coming. He set his shoulders at an angle and squared his jaw, putting the square that it was before to shame.
“Irad, can you flip this coin for us?” I asked.
Irad eyed us both sternly. I pissed my pants before it was even my turn. Clay had pissed his pants earlier when the bus didn’t stop for a pee break, so he just stood there, eyes on the ground. I wrinkled my nose. Irad didn’t. It probably would have compromised his battle stance.
“I call tails,” I said.
“Fuck,” I heard Clay mutter.
After I won Irad’s kiss fair and square, we decided we’d split up the rest like we were picking teams for baseball. Then we un-decided and decided we were going to go down the list alphabetically by first name (learning people’s last names would make it too intimate). Then we changed our minds again and decided to make it a free for all. We’d sync up our rosters at the end of each day.
To avoid getting confused about my sexuality, I decided to go in alphabetical order after all. No, wait, that was a terrible idea. This was a race! Clay was going to make out with all the hot people first and I was going to be left with my one trump, Irad, who admittedly was worth even that terrible sacrifice. I decided at once that I would make out with all the hot people first and if I ended up smooching a few extra as a result of collisions with Clay, to hell with it.
This newfound resolve didn’t last long either. This was going to be a hard secret to keep, I realized. One of these days, Clay would spill the beans, and we’d be put on trial for calling people ugly by making out with them last. Or calling them hot and everyone else ugly by “saving them for last.” Why were all the hot and ugly people so stupid and judgmental?
Also, in case our tastes aligned, I wasn’t sure how I felt about maximizing my chance of getting sloppy seconds. Would Clay think I was hitting on him?
Last but not least, I’d have to get my wife to stop using the internet and ship her off to Communist South Dakota, where they only have snail mail and potato farms. Our long distance relationship would survive, as I’d have weeks to think of replies to her insightful and probing questions, but survival was for losers. The truly fit built durable edifices of their lies.
Ugh. This is why I have a rule: never leave things up to interpretation.
Alphabetical order it was. The upside was that I’d get plenty of practice before Irad. The A’s were ahead of me: Adam, Alexa, Alison, Andreas, and Arielle.
The A’s went by as uneventfully as they could, considering the task at hand. People were offended. People were flattered. People closed their eyes, puckered up, and muttered “in the name of science.” Mostly they were offended. But as they were direly in need of fresh gossip, they could hardly resist.
By the time Clay and I met up that night to tally up, the bus was practically buzzing with excitement. I could see the glances being thrown our way. The standing Guinness World record for simultaneous blushes on a bus crashed and burned.
As I read Clay’s list of conquests and looked out into the crowd, I tried to spot any perceptible changes in their faces. I was shocked to find that they did indeed have something in common. They all had tissues out and were periodically making loud deposits. Clay must have given them his cold. He was marking his territory!
No, it was more serious than that. Clay was playing to win, gambling that I might not be so keen on making out with a series of snotty snifflers. I was going to have to accelerate the timeline. As I looked at his face, I knew it to be true. Have you ever seen a more dishonest face?
It was on.
The B’s were a goddamn sausage fest. I closed my eyes, Ben after Ben, and pretended they were A’s.
The rest went by in a blur, partly because Clay’s cold had decided to participate in our challenge, and swept the board, leaving misty eyes in its wake. Apparently people were cheating on us by making out with each other. That gave Clay and me something to fume about together. Is a little respect and total oral abstinence too much to ask of people you just met?
“Unbelievable,” Clay said, and I knew exactly who he meant. Everyone.
“Unbelievable,” I seconded.
Then something weird happened. I was looking at a plot of my Kisses vs Time, and it wasn’t the right kind of hockey stick. According to the data, I was slowing down. Exponentially. I hadn’t kissed anyone in almost twenty minutes. Were we heading into a black hole? It was the only reasonable explanation that didn’t involve it being my fault.
I looked over at Clay to see if his face had any useful information written on it and found it a mirror of my own. The face of a man thinking about who to blame, and finding only black holes. What was going on? I got out my Enneagram Twister board and cast a spell. Left foot type 2 red. Aha! It was because we had never explicitly discussed whether we had to “collect” each other to win! And now it was so late in the game, it was like we were saving each other for last, which was not OK. I believe I made that clear earlier. Friends don’t save each other for last and stay friends.
I took another look at Clay to see if he was following my thought process, but he was already thinking about shawarma.
“I think the experiment has been wildly successful so far,” I said to him, and blew my nose.
“Yes, let’s not make out,” Clay said.
Touchdown in the friend zone!
PS: I’ll be sending each of you notes on technique, individually. Please reciprocate, in case there’s a next time.
