Bro Wars IV: A New Dope

Anne-Marie had done a fantastic job organizing her half of the party.

For what it’s worth, I’d honestly much rather have been part of her beanbag-bound gossip conference in the ballroom than the mind-numbing, bone-breaking watersports pandemonium I’d concocted. The girls were all lounging around like divas when we walked in. Tastefully sipping from seltzer cans with their fingers out on one hand and gracefully covering their mouths with the other. It was like an illustration of a roaring-20’s era socialite gathering, replete with gaudy background decor, revealing fashions, and a daintily-repressed hunger behind the eyes to let loose.

And, once an army of shirtless, freshly-toweled jocks came trailing after me into the main chamber, I witnessed two dozen mascara-fringed eyes calculating their targets. As much as guys (and especially, the guys) like to think that they’re the ones that pursue girls, it can’t be further from the truth. In fact, the more time that I’ve spent between Raisa and Anne-Marie and her besties, the more I've realized that it’s a rather one-sided game. While every single meathead selfishly hogs all of their romantic leads and erotic inquests, the girls of Northwest Elm maintain a rather cohesive network of communication.

They knew who was interested in who, and when they first went out, and even what guys were like in bed. It was a highly practical arrangement, of course. No girl wanted to step on another’s toes, else she’d incur the wrath of a ruined $50 pedicure. And let me tell you, the things I’ve heard just passively witnessing a five-minute convo among Anne-Marie’s besties made me glad she barely pretended I existed in front of them. In the enchanting atmosphere of Drake’s ballroom hall, all those lurid details come to life in my head. Between batting eyes and flexing muscles, I witness a dozen hormonal connections form out of thin air.

Suffice it to say, things were going according to plan.

Both rigidly-gendered halves of the audience follow me with a restrained eagerness as I set an empty vodka bottle (that just so happened to mysteriously materialize out of thin air) down on the floor. I make sure to position myself strategically in the middle of the room, smack dab at the core of an expensive-looking, geometrically patterned rug with the surface area of my house’s first floor. Those in the know start forming up a circle, and those not in the know whisper after their peers. As the gaggle of hot singles finally settles down, one of the latterly-unknowing comes bounding up from the periphery.

Anne-Marie does not whisper so much as command a reply to:

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Duh. It’s spin the bottle,” replies Brian, with a kind of intellectual assuredness you wouldn’t even see out of a PhD physicist in kindergarten math.

I try to subtly nod her away from the situation, but one of her eyebrows goes up in either irritation or curiosity.

“It’s just a silly party game,” I say.

“I like games. I usually win.” she replies.

I wave a hand. “It’s nothing super interesting. Just a spin of chance.”

“Sounds fun. So you wouldn’t mind if I join.”

I feel my heart fall out the bottom of my chest. The jocks murmur amongst themselves as Anne-Marie plops herself down directly across from me and next to Brian. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. My girlfriend wasn’t supposed to participate in this ridiculous game. And on second thought, neither was I. But some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.

So I clear my throat and proceed with the emceeing:

“You all know the rules. Spin the bottle, kiss who it lands on. You can back out now if you want- that is, if you’re a chicken.”

I glance at Anne-Marie, hoping that she’d back out. But she pretends not to notice me.

“Kissing bottle is so lame,” Drake complains. “Why aren’t we playing by ‘seven minutes in heaven’ rules?”

“Well,” I reply, waggling a lascivious brow, “Because this spin the bottle is a little different.”

This whole crowd of people remarkably hotter than me holds their breath as I scan each and every one of their eyes to build suspense. Brian is grinning ear to ear, Anne-Marie is staring daggers at me, and Moe just looks really uncomfortable all around. I’m sorry, guys, but this is all in the name of stopping tyranny.

“Yeah,” I say, “Because you’re going to have to kiss whoever the bottle lands on. And I mean whoever.”

The girls giggle amongst themselves, and there’s even a whoop and holler or two. The boys, on the other hand, suddenly grow incredibly quiet and tense, as if the rods up their asses suddenly firmed up and sprouted barbed icicles. But much like the worked up, dead-horny hounds they are, you couldn’t bribe them to back down if you tried. Not when the enthusiastic attention of all the girlies is at stake.

To demonstrate my principles, I break rank and approach the bottle in the middle.

Much like with the wood swords, I have exactly one shot to sell this. Except instead of hours of choreography practice for what was probably ten minutes of mostly-futzed dramatic performance, I really only have a single go to show for all the time I’d spent rehearsing part B of our plan. Anne-Marie’s presence is throwing off my projections, though—And not just because I’d sell my left kidney to kiss her in front of all these popular kids.

No matter what, I have to hit Brian. He was supposed to be directly opposite from me, so all I practiced was a 180-degree landing after three neat spins. Now with her there, there’s a five degree—or maybe 10 (I hated geometry) margin of error. And I’m so so tempted to throw our whole little scheme away for five stupid degrees. But I wouldn’t have gotten this far if it wasn’t for Brian—hell, I might not have even had my first real outing at the bowling alley with her if it wasn’t for him.

So I close my eyes and calculate the trajectory in my head. Grimacing, clenching, and sucking in air like I’m charging up an ionized cannon in my throat.

And I send the bottle whistling.

Half a hundred eyes go careening along a centripetally-hurtling trajectory. I swear I can see stars on the periphery. Though I’m sure no one here is excited to kiss me in particular, the first round of any new game is always the most exciting, and always leaves the biggest impression. As the second spin breaks into the slowing of the third descent, I start desperately hoping that the only impression I’ll leave is upon Anne-Marie’s lips.

The bottle slows.

And it crawls. Its gaping neck lulls past a couple of dolled-up scene chicks that look like they’d rather shiv me than kiss me, then past the glazed-eye glare of a bicuriously-blushing football player. Glass glints in a myriad colors under the vast canopy of chandeliers. The final descent arrives, and it’s a tight one, but-

It’s going to land on her.

I shift my butt, and do my best not to sigh. I had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it looks like there’s no choice. With a completely silent and invisible shift, one of the air pockets I’d set up ahead of time slumps flat. A colony of colons clenches in unison. And the bottle inches just a few more degrees to the right.

“Bro,” Brian says.

He made damn sure to ham up his surprise, but any reaction on his part is immediately drowned out by a stupendously suspenseful silence.

I rise from my seat. And so does Brian. Step by step, we meet by the bottle. Sure, we’d rehearsed the swordfighting, and the bottle spin. But I couldn’t bring myself to kiss the guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. It’s just that he’s not my type, and I see him as more of a brother, and I- I’m procrastinating. The kiss has to be just as painfully fresh and genuinely awkward as possible. And I suppose I’m a bit of a method actor.

I grab Brian by the collar and pull his mouth down to mine. His breath smells like garlic and cocoa puffs, and it’s hot like a sulfur pit. The look in his eyes is bovine, blank.

Fuck it, we’ve come this far.

Imitating what I saw in a lesbian flick this one time, I throw my lips at his. I narrowly avoid the tip of his nose plunging into my eye as I press in. My tongue goes under his, then around, and I make sure to pull him in as tightly as I would Anne-Marie. I try to think of her the whole time. Big beefy guys and slim athletic girls aren’t that different, right? Soon, I feel it’s time.

The deed ends with an incredibly resonant and moist pop as our mouths part.

None of the people surrounding us know what to think. And neither do I, until they make up their minds. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and promise to chug a bottle of listerine when I get back home.

Brian licks his lips, and asks:

“Cherry lip-balm?”

“Strawberry.”

Our peers riot, whooping and clapping and whistling. Sour flecks of beer go flying across the kissing-court. My finger goes up in Drake’s direction.

“You’re next.”

I can’t tell if Anne-Marie is more annoyed or impressed as she sits there, legs crossed and cheeks flushed. Moe’s dark veneer is several distinct shades paler. And he stands up, looking almost a bit sick.

“Bro,” Drake says, throwing him a betrayed look. “Are you really chickening out?”

“I-” Moe mutters, before shaking the thought off.

“Bro?”

“I can’t.”

Drake watches his second in command bound off down the nearest hall, clutching his stomach with one arm. And just as if things couldn’t get any weirder, Anne-Marie also stands.

“Yeah,” she admits, with a humbled, plain look. “I think I’m outsies. It’s a bit much for me.”

The crowd jeers. Cries of “pussy”, “bawk-bawk”, and “loser” ensure that no one else dares break the circle. There’s still an even number of people, after all, which means an even amount of pairs left—so it’s no biggie if two measly kids chickened out. Only problem being-

They were both pretty essential to my plan.

Brian and I step out to the sidelines, having been granted immediate immunity from the madness we’d set into motion. With the excitement in the air, there’s no way Drake’s going to back out now. And since Moe’s gone, there’s no point in me manipulating the remaining air pockets. It’s fine, though. No matter who Drake winds up kissing, there’s no way he’s going to recover the momentum of the evening. Me and Brian set the bar pretty high in terms of the stakes, after all.

My gut churns, and I feel the sudden weight of my actions behind every swing of those blond bangs as they move further off.

All I can do is watch Anne-Marie walk away.