BACK IN THE 90s, WHEN EVERYONE STARTED PIERCING EVERYTHING, I...
BACK IN THE 90s, WHEN EVERYONE STARTED PIERCING EVERYTHING, I HAD A FRIEND NAMED BRIAN (A ROMANCE)
We worked as cooks back then, and like all cooks everywhere, we tried to fuck the waitresses. Some of us were more successful than others, but none of us as successful as Brian, who ran, perhaps fittingly, the appetizer station.
Brian treated the waitresses with a sort of casual disregard, being nice to them, then mean to them, then ignoring them altogether, in turns. It seemed to drive them mad, and they all totally dug him.
In many ways, he was the prototypical male asshole who gets all the chicks. You often hear "nice" guys complaining about them, lamenting, even, but actually all they're doing is whining. Brian didn't get chicks because he was an asshole, he got them because he was tall (the male equivalent of big tits) and very good-looking.
He could treat them whatever way he wanted.
Happy Chef was the name of the restaurant where we all worked, and in the height of Summer with a staff composed entirely of young people, it was a charged and magical place. Parties happened almost every night and we all amalgamated together in a way that was almost tribal.
One by one, Brian nailed the waitresses of Happy Chef. Well, except for a few who had squandered themselves on serious boyfriends, and he even nailed some of those. By the beginning of August, with the death knell of Summer sounding, there was but one waitress left.
Laura.
I'm surprised I remember her name since I don't remember anything else about her. I think she had brown hair and was a college student, but I'm probably just playing the odds. In those days, everyone had brown hair and was a college student.
Brian fell hard for Laura, which was a surprise to me. I always gave him shit about being a playboy, and even suggested he start wearing silk pajamas all the time like that slimeball Hugh Hefner. He just laughed at me, told me to fuck off, and kept on wearing the ragged, grungy clothes we all wore back then.
Speaking of which, the day grunge became popular, all the fashion magazines declared it dead. Remember? GRUNGE IS DEAD! they proclaimed, five minutes after it began. Every month, some fashion magazine was declaring it dead. It was pretty comical. GRUNGE IS DEAD! they hollered. DON'T YOU KNOW GRUNGE IS DEAD? PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, COME BACK TO THE MALL!
Ten years of that shit. If it wasn't for the weirdos in the Northeast, I don't think the industry would've survived.
Anyway, since I don't remember anything about Laura, I can't really say what it was that caused Brian to give up his man-whore ways and focus on her exclusively. Maybe it actually had nothing to do with her. Maybe he had sown his wild oats and was finally ready to settle down on the couch and get fat in front of the tv. Who knows?
But, man, those two took off like wild fire. They fucked everywhere. They'd go to parties, but wouldn't really be there because they'd be somewhere else, fucking. That car in the parking lot rocking gently? Brian and Laura fucking. Bathroom door still locked? Brian and Laura fucking. At work, they'd fuck in the breakroom. They'd fuck out back by the dumpster. They'd fuck in the cooler in plain view of the asparagus. They loved fucking each other, and whenever an idle moment presented itself BAM! they'd start fucking.
They became serious and turned into a couple. In the Fall, they decided to run off to Seattle together. Back then if you remember, Seattle was the epicenter of cool, ground zero of the 90s. It was where it's at.
Neither of them were musicians, so I wasn't really sure why they wanted to go there. Perhaps they thought 400 days of rain a year would be romantic. I bid them sweet adieu and moved on with my life, which, much like now, was busy going nowhere. About a year later, I got word they had married.
Well, today they're divorced. The reason—the only reason—for the divorce was a cock piercing. Yes, out there in Seattle, Brian up and pierced his cock. It got infected—really infected. So infected did it get, in fact, that a bunch of very important cock nerves were damaged and he was rendered forever flaccid.
I know all this because I ran into Brian recently at a bar and he told me all about it. "I'm gonna be honest with you, Mike," he said to me, and Jesus H. Christ was he ever. Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, none of the boner pills are any help.
The poor pathetic bastard.
These days, Brian spends his time developing a striking personality and buying dildos for when he meets that next special lady. Occasionally, he'll google TONGUE EXERCISES. Still, I'm not sure how far he can get in the world of romance with a flat dick. I'm rooting for him, but my hopes aren't high.
Back in the day, I remember actually being mad at him for sneaking off the line and leaving me to cook everything myself, just so he could go and fuck his girl. I even yelled at him, "God damn it, Brian, can't you stop fucking for one hot minute?"
Turns out the answer is a resounding yes.
— Michael Kindt, Valentine's Day, 2012
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