“How many?” asked Tom, as the door swung open in front of us.
He stood to my right. His party hat tipped off centre, a bag of beers in one hand and a packet of banana themed snacks clutched in the other.
Ryan, who was standing in the threshold opposite spoke with a defiant and commanding optimism, his broad shoulders subtly picked out by a solitary street lamp flickering behind us.
“None. But the night is still young, boys.”
The news hit heavily. Our heads sank and our chests deflated, with Tom glumly correcting the angle of his hat and then with a sigh, removing it completely. Ryan reached down and politely took the beers from us, shooting us a reassuring smile as we entered – however his sullen face and broken eyes spoke a harsher truth.
We entered. Inside the lounge were a dozen bottles of banana beer, held in the palms of a dozen boys, vacuous smiles slathered across their faces, their eyebrows raised and their heads angled awkwardly towards the door where we were stood. The expressions of most dropped instantaneously.
All but Inigo’s. Who stood up with his arm jutting out for the mandatory handshake. As we approached he inhaled loudly.
“We have banana drinks, banana décor, banana themed music and… well bananas”, Inigo looked around proudly, his eye catching the cheap packaging of the sweets now clutched limply in Toms hands, “Banana sweets!”
Inigo looked back up at us, his eyes displaying an almost unhealthy level of enthusiasm, however it was short lived, as he turned slowly and reluctantly back to the party.
“It doesn’t look promising does it?” he muttered.
We surveyed the room, looking from face to face as it slowly became clear that no girls were going show up. Turning our party, which was themed on the world’s favorite fruit, from hilarity to just plain gay.
Our group soon dissolved into the hustle and bustle of the party, leaving me alone, sipping on a yellowy beverage and popping tiny banana sweets into my mouth, the bag now torn open and strewn across the table in disregard.
Above me hung the epic centrepiece of the occasion: a giant banana, inflated by the lungs of 10 men and tethered to the ceiling several feet from the floor. I pondered the aesthetics of this great beast for several moments, before Ryan silently arrived by my side, he too sipping his own banana drink.
We quietly watched the obese banana. Observing how it swayed grotesquely amongst the room’s stench of sweat and testosterone.
Ryan spoke between sips. “You should kick it mate”
I turned to him but he just kept his eyes on it.
”Yeah”, he spoke again, quietly this time as if he was talking to himself.
“You should kick that banana.”
10 minutes on and everyone in the room was on their feet, shattered bodies littered the corners of the rooms, where faceless drunkards clutched the base of the spines or the backs of their heads.
Others screamed uncontrollably to urge on the designated ‘Kicker’, whilst the rest hitched up their skinny jeans and psyched themselves into a frenzy along the sidelines.
I observed, as Kicker after Kicker fell valiantly, all failing to make contact, all falling mere inches beneath their illustrious target. Until eventually it was my turn to step up to the mark.
Wasting no time I ran at the banana, swinging my right leg back and flinging it with guesto skywards, my grounded leg skidded forwards, stretching my groin further than any man should endure, until the very tip of my toe licked the fat underbelly of the marvelous hanging fruit.
The banana bobbed gently and the room plunged headfirst into a momentary lapse of complete silence.
Things remained quiet for a few seconds of disbelief, until suddenly my surroundings exploded with exhilaration and furor, escalating to fever pitch within seconds.
Clammy hands grabbed my legs and torso, lifting me upwards and hurling my higher again. It was very emotional, but I remember screaming through what could well have been tears “IAM THE KING!” As I broke down beneath an achievement that to anyone else on any other night would have been entirely redundant.
But right then, in that house with my bunch of ‘Bananites’ beneath me, I was a god amongst men.
The rest of the night soon became a blur, drinks flowed and bananas were devoured, their skins tossed into the sweaty melee like shit confetti. Frequent pile-ons occurred throughout the night, reaching greater and more impressive heights. The biggest of which, I half expected its massive pressure to turn the unfortunate sole at the bottom into crude oil. From there, things got more and more out of hand, valuable items were smashed and fighting broke out until the enviable Arm Wrestle League was formed to see off the night.
Undoubtedly, it was a very gay party. But it was one of the best I’d been to and I know most of my friends there felt the same. But as remarkable as that party was, it wasn’t half as remarkable as what dawned on us the following day.
None of the above would have happened if girls had actually turned up. This isn’t because girls are boring, but because to a guy we are hardwired to think that the possibility of sex is always more important than having a good time. In the presence of girls, we all become immaculate show dogs, sitting quietly and practicing such things as clean humor, hygiene, manners and ‘listening’.
But left to our own devices, we are entirely different beings.
And this makes me curious, because with all this hoop jumping and pandering to the needs of others, do you really know your other half?
Or do you just know the person you want them to be?