And you and I

I have absolutely no experience with picking up chicks in bars. Couple that with the fact that my personality goes as flat as my ex-girlfriend's chest when talking with cute girls, I should have known it would be an interesting and trying evening.

I arrived at Jeff's (the bar's name) around 9:20 with two friends, my wingmen. Naturally at this time there was almost no one there. We situated ourselves along the wall, facing the window, thinking that we could perhaps catch a glimpse of this girl as she was walking into the bar, and possibly make a quick getaway with a string of knotted bed sheets if we spotted an effeminate Australian man making his way up the stairs to us. We sat and chatted for quite some time, making sure to keep a close eye on the street below, had a few beers, and about an hour later, I turned to find the place packed. I have no idea where these people came from. There must be a back entrance.

I looked around to see if she was there, and finally spotted her at the bar flanked by two very talkative guys. I decided I hadn't laid much claim on her, so I'd let these guys have their way with her, and if they cleared off and a seat opened up, great, if not, well it wasn't meant to be.

You see, what had happened was that I found this pic of Andrea Dworkin online when doing research for a debate on feminism over here, and my balls retreated somewhere in the upper-reaches of my chest cavity. They were nowhere to be found at this point in the evening, or rather, there was no means to appropriately relocate them; I brought my scalpel, but forgot resources for sanitation, and what good are balls if gangrene doesn't allow you to enjoy them?

So finally around 11:30, with my wingmen a little worn-out from all the bed sheet tying, I figured I would take the doughty way out and leave quietly. However, after consulting with my comrades, I figured it would be ungentlemanly of me to leave without saying something to her. The best course of action, we decided would be for me to tap her on the shoulder as we were leaving and tell her something like "sorry I didn't get a chance to talk with you this evening, but I've got to head to another party now." So I said something like that.

It was actually kind of cute, she seemed really disappointed, and said she was so sorry, but she didn't recognize me with my haircut (I forgot to mention that I buzzed my head earlier this week). She seemed, well, frantic's not really the word, but maybe really anxious not to let me leave. I said, I saw her over here, but she seemed pretty engrossed in conversation, and I didn't want to disturb her. She protested that this was only her friend who tagged along because she didn't want to go to a bar alone. Yes, I agreed, that would be pathetic. I shuffled my feet. I told her, well, this make-believe party of mine is in Japanese, so I probably wouldn't understand much of it anyway; perhaps a conversation in my native tongue would be a more productive use of my time. Plus you're a girl, I explained, and girls are invariably better company than male coworkers. I waved off my companions. The three of us--she, I, and her friend--talked for a bit, and then he said, obviously having fulfilled his mission as caretaker, he had to call it an early evening. That left an empty seat.

We talked for about 2 hours, and I completely forgot to drink, which was probably for the best. She was definitely cuter than I remembered which is to say that she was cuter than a fuzzy flesh-colored oblong sphere resting atop an amorphous blob. We didn't delve into anything too deep, mainly covering the typical "why did you come to Japan" type questions. I don't know any of the important stuff, like if she's religious (Mom), her political beliefs (Meredith, among others), or whether or not she hates minorities (Scott), so don't ask.

Around 1:30 she said she needed to head out in preparation for a semi-early morning tomorrow. She decided to walk because it was a nice evening, and I said I would accompany her, for protection. She sized me up and laughed, and I said, no seriously, I'm really Captain America in disguise; all I need is 5 minutes in a phone booth with you to prove it. It was a good joke.

When it came time to part ways, she asked if I had a cell-phone, to which I replied that, no, I didn't because I was afraid if I got one no one would call me. Don't let these good looks fool you, I told her, it has not been the most productive month-and-a-half in terms of social climbing; I am probably not one of the top-10 most popular people in Kumamoto. Well, do you have another number, she asked, and I gave her my apartment number, along with my email address, for which she also asked. Finally having completely spent the awkward clichéd parting phrases, I leaned forward and hugged her, thanking her for a wonderful evening, topping it off with a little kiss on the cheek. It was then that I felt my left testicle descend. Why not both, I asked? My one ball didn't respond. She asked who I was talking to, but I pretended not to hear her. I told that, though my sister was coming, I'd still give her a call this next week, and maybe we could do something. Then I turned and fled. Now if that's not a manly course of action, then I don't know what is. I don't what more my right testicle expects from me.

Nick, right nuts can be demanding; mine didn't speak to me for like three months once. Hang in there (or up there). It'll get off its high horse. If not, I'll kick it for you.

This is mom. First, buddy, you need to spell-check your posts. Secondly, I don't really like these dirty topics, and I was aware of your right testicle since before you were. I changed your little poopy diapers, I nursed you from my own bosom, I let you wear make-up when you were little because you didn't think you were athletic enough to be a boy.

But even though I know you better than anybody, I still don't need to hear about your undescended testicle (but don't worry, your father only has one descended testicle, and we had no trouble having children).

I love you, buddy.

Nick, Nick, Nick...fear not; Cliff also has only one descended testicle, and that's only a recent occurence, from what I hear.
You should call this chick again before I come so that I will not have to put up with your ponderings on women.
Oh, and don't worry, I'll remember to bring you some waterproof mascara, or eyeliner, depending on your current preference.

Nick, Nick, Nick...fear not; Cliff also has only one descended testicle, and that's only a recent occurence, from what I hear.
You should call this chick again before I come so that I will not have to put up with your ponderings on women.
Oh, and don't worry, I'll remember to bring you some waterproof mascara, or eyeliner, depending on your current preference.

Nick, THIS is Mom. The previous distasteful comment was posted by my son-in-law, Andrew T. I asked him to tell you to check your spelling, and he ran with it... I love you, and find out what her religious preferences are. MOM

I refuse to discuss my testicles at this point... I don't know about all this intense Mason family camraderie. I am also sure your mom would be curious to know how you know about my strange malady. And anyway... what about the people who had testicular cancer? Hmmmm...? Anyway, Nick, you have got to check this out. I'm sure you'll find it awesomely entertaining.

Alright, you Nazis, post has been modified, and spelling errors corrected.

And what's the deal with the Meredith college blogname? Mer, hasn't become a les, has she?

what on God's earth are you talking about?? College blog name? me a lesbian?? huh?

look at the mason319 comment (seems to be from you). Click on it, and it links you to Meredith College's homepage, an all-girl's school. Only lesbians go to all-girl's schools, so I just figured...

Untrue. I went to an all girls' school.

I agree. Scott obviously likes men.

Or lesbians.

Actually, definitely lesbians.