Imagine a typical night at Bridge, just at that right time when everyone is too drunk to feel any restraint, but sober enough to resist the urge of curling up on the dance floor in a foetal position. Imagine that you’ve had your fair share of vodka cranberries, and the wave of sweaty bodies around you makes the old familiar itch return. You want sex, and you want it bad. But then you look around and no one catches your eye. They are all in a big boring LAD LAD LAD group, or trying to suck someone else’s face off, or they’re wearing too much Jack Wills. In short, the room is full of dicks, and not in a good way. Still, the smell of Lynx and Fosters is overpowering, and you know that one of these creatures will get way luckier than he deserves. Slowly, you even stop caring which one. Just at that moment a hand brushes your shoulder. You turn, and there he is: a red-trousered lad with traces of some unlucky girl’s lipgloss still around his mouth. He smirks, looks at you with piercing hatred and disdain, and walks away. And you follow, because the night just got interesting.
My friends, good right-thinking women, try to stop me. He is the resident asshole, and ain’t no girl got time for a guy who’s going to treat her like shit. But they don’t need to worry; I am not suddenly brain dead. He’s just my passive-aggressive warfare lover.
No, you don’t need to point out how weird that sounds. We hate each other, and the sex is a complicated military strategy, aiming to break down enemy defences. His ego wants him to be the best guy I’ve ever had and trust me, I don’t mind that kind of selfishness. Sarcasm and sex are the only languages we ever communicate in, and the liberty of it is the best kind of high. Oh, he doesn’t like the bra I’m wearing? Couldn’t care less. And I can abuse his stupid stripey boxers all I like. If I don’t like his moves, there’s no gentle suggestion or guidance. Touch me how I want it, or leave. For a while I can forget that I am generally a nice person, and all my meanest instincts come out to play. My inner bitch is here tonight, so love it or leave it. I am selfish, drunk, and free, and I could do that forever.
Until he starts insulting my book collection, that is. Then he’s kicked out of my college into the cold night, goodbye, see you never. The passion of hate sex aside, literature is a line one does not cross.