Chapter 3:

Ion Popescu

HoneyBalls Writing Club: A HoneyFeed Romantic Comedy


[Author’s Note: This book is entirely serious. Please take everything seriously.]

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve joined HoneyBalls Writing Club.

I’m not sure why I’m here anymore. Ever since Christina gave birth she’s been busy fetching her son from the daycare instead of attending club, so the only girl around is Ayenne (not that I mind Ayenne — she’s hot, but ever since she overheard me saying to one of the other club members that I’d “hit that pussy so hard from behind, hell yeah baby its (sic) cummytown” she no longer makes eye contact with me and now that I think about it more carefully I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. I wonder how she’s doing.) It’s not that I despise club now or anything like that, but to be honest, all sausage and no clams makes Alex a dull boy.

In other words, I’m thinking of quitting HoneyBalls Writing Club.

“Hey, Ion? Could I have a moment?”

Ion is the president of HoneyBalls, and a very diligent man. No matter if I’m checking in here at 7am before classes start or coming in at 8pm because I’ve left something in the club room by accident, Ion is always there typing something on his laptop at the president’s desk. It’s almost like Ion does nothing but stay in the HoneyBalls club room, which makes me wonder how he deals with normal studently pastimes like eating, drinking, showering, having sex, having friends, and not to mention shitting. Does he just piss his pants and tolerate it, all for the noble purpose of writing content for HoneyBalls? Adult diapers?

“What is it, BlipXP?”

“Oh, um, I’m just giving in my two weeks’ notice for transferring clubs.”

I push a piece of paper across Ion’s desk. Surprisingly, it slides over just fine — you’d think the desk of a chronic writer would be much bumpier and greasier, but it’s actually cleaner than most of the HoneyBalls’ member’s desks I’ve seen. The most stark difference is that there aren’t any traces of dried semen on it.

“Track and Field?” Ion raises his eyebrows. “I never took you for the athletic type.”

“Oh, I’m not. I just thought that it would be good to go out of my comfort zone.”

“That’s nice,” Ion says rather unconvincingly. “Hrmmmmmmmm.”

It doesn’t look like Ion wants to approve my request. Truth be told, I should’ve known better than to try and ask the hardass President for approval, but he’s the only person in the HoneyBalls Executive Community that actually frequents the club room. The rest kind of just pop in there once in a while for seconds at a time before heading to the library across the street to read actual books. There’s also Vice-President Ana who comes sometimes, of course, but ever since she had consecutive mental breakdowns over the modmail feature I felt like approaching her would just be adding more stress onto her plate (she also makes me want to aggressively mast—

“BlipXP,” Ion suddenly says. “What can I do to keep you at HoneyBalls?”

“What?”

“What can I do to keep you at HoneyBalls?”

“No, I heard you the first time, I was just saying it as a matter of—”

“What can I do to keep you at HoneyBalls?”

“Uh… nothing? I kind of thought it through over the past week, and I’m pretty sure of my decision to transfer clubs.”

“I see.”

“...”

“It’s about Arufa, isn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“ArufaBeta. It’s about fucking ArufaBeta, isn’t it?”

“N-not exactly, it’s not just about ‘fucking’... like there are other things that I’d want to do with her besides—”

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

Jesus.

I’m used to seeing him get angry all the time ranting about “themes” and “subtext” and “prompts” and “CP” so it’s not exactly surprising — the man has an exceptionally quick fuse — but even so it’s still unnerving to see someone froth at the mouth because you accidentally revealed you might have an inkling of a sex life.

“Goddamnit, I gotta tell Oscar about this,” Ion mumbles.

“Who?”

“Look, BlipXP. You’re young. You’re impressionable. You don’t know what you’re doing. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“...Yes?”

“You know you’ll have to change your profile picture there, right?”

“Why? What’s wrong with Hanekawa?”

“It’s anime.”

“What’s wrong with anime?”

“It’s anime.”

“…I don’t get it.”

“SMH,” sighs Ion, shaking his head. “You’re clearly not ready for a sports club, freshman. Request denied.”

He pushes the form back across the table.

“You’re just gonna tell me no, just like that?”

“Yup.”

“Dude.”

“BlipXP.”

“DUDE.”

“Bye, and thank you.”

“Fuck you and your stupid club. I never liked it here anyway.”

“OK.”

“Fuck you, gypsy.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, ION POPESCU!”

Tears in my eyes, I quickly swipe up my transfer form from the table and start running to the exit of the HoneyBalls room.

How?

How could this be?

I joined writing because there were supposed to be girls… but what the fuck? There are no girls! Where are the girls in HoneyBalls?? WHERE? It’s just guys! Complaining about no Isekai prompts! Sharing CP ideas! Jerking off! eSucking each other off! I’m not gay, for fuck’s sake! I don’t care about your book! I don’t care about your writing! I want to talk to girls!

GIRLS!

GIRLS!!!!!

GIR—

“Um, are you okay?”

I hear the unmistakable pitch of a female’s voice, and looking up, she appears unmistakably female too.

TO BE CONTINUED(?)

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