Sometime during the second or third episode of How I Met Your Mother, those left in the recliners look up and hear the banging of a bed. Nobody reacts. Somebody was getting some this night and it was the ginger. Good for him. In my mind, though, I fell from strength. I had several thoughts: fuck him. Whore. I deserve some fun. Fuck this. I was angry. I hated this. But, soon it passed. Weakness, gone.
People began to pass out, then wake up, change the episode, and fall back asleep. The thumping stopped and soon the feminist came down, sullen look on her face. Walking slowly. She slides on to the couch with a young looking, large guy, who takes her into his arms. She begins to babble.
“I’m not angry,” she went on. The poor soul held her tighter, her legs still twitching.
Whispers. More whispers. Then…
“I’m not possessive, but I’m a little angry,”
“That’s because you’re territorial,” I said, rolling my head back. It felt heavy.
“I’m not territorial,” she spat.
“Yes, you are, its natural,” I started to laugh. Bless the dark arts I wasn’t the poor boy next to her, holding a freshly fucked body pining for the bed she just came from.
I heard a scoff as my eyes closed and then silence except for the television and its laugh track. She mumbles more. I, in fits of waking up between dreams, look to the lowly midnight couple.
When I awoke in the morning, the morning with a sun and sky and light that is, I looked down upon the sweet cuddle lovers. His shirt off. Her face alight with the smug satisfaction of male attention. I was still drunk enough to laugh again, then just lay there doing my damnedest not to get up.
On the way home, my sister driving due to my hangover, she mentioned that the chubby and the feminist were fuck buddies of the ginger. It made all sense now. Why they vanished on a whim, together. Why the ginger had one after the other. Smart man, to bring fuck buddies to a New Year’s Eve party. And it made the poor boy’s snuggle time with the whore feminist all that more pathetic. She’d fucked him before. She came down, knowing who was next, and in her drunken connection with her emotions, threw herself on the willing chump. Horrid.
It put a small fire in me. Something got a little steelier after witnessing such blatant acts of disrespect by a woman. Not something idealized. Something attached by rivets and made armor. After the full recovery the next day, my pack of smokes not yet finished, I thought on the feelings and smiled. I felt superior, vastly superior. I felt as if a soldier of the wars between the sexes. I landed my blows, I laughed in the face of female logic and refused, in the end, to placate the whims of their cunts.
It was a good New Year’s.