Sociologists sometimes fail at being social

I make friends easily, wherever I go. I’m not trying to gloat, it’s just something I do. I’m like the pickup artist of friends, ish. So naturally, I looked forward to the meat and potatoes part of the cruise.

And while I did enjoy meat and potatoes that night at formal dinner, double fisting more free booze (a screwdriver and a whiskey sour), wearing my father’s shirt big enough to fit two of me, noticing the Navy girl looks quite attractive in a little black dress… right, sorry, ADD going bad places. Point is, the dinner was the most eventful part of the night, and dinner is just two hours of us sitting on our asses getting fat.

So, I did what any self-respecting man of legal age would do, I went to the casino. Now, normally I don’t gamble. Something about my grandfather’s addiction ruining my father’s childhood, yada yada. Basically, I just don’t like losing money. But I was bored, and Joey is cute, err, fun to talk to. Joey was at the craps table, mingling with boisterous drunks and sullen addicts, learning the ropes. For lack of better options, I hovered, listening, watching. The big chip man, hording easily a thousand, throwing down 50 at a time, scowled at me. But one of the younger noisier drunks had compassion, patiently explaining the intricate complexities in a way his BAC shouldn't have allowed, while Joey’s bets got bolder. I picked up 20 in chips, and put 5 on the pass line. A well-endowed woman threw the dice. My 5 doubled. I was in.

An hour later, Joey crashed for the night, having taken 10 dollars and alchemied into 100. I had turned 20 into 60, which wasn’t bad. Sure, I was tempted to stay, but with Joey gone, it was just me and the angry addict. Time to cash out.

Where’s the only other place on the entire boat where a self-respecting man of legal age would be? That’s right, in my bed fucking a hot chick. I, however, was where no self-respecting man would be, a place naturally full of sleazeballs, the only other people awake. I was back in the nightclub.

To be honest, I still feel awkward dancing with straight people. I’ve never danced well, but grinding is easy, especially with drunk guys. You expect me to grind with a girl? I’d love to, really, but my superpowers aren’t limitless. I tried to dance, but quickly retreated. I opted to sit on the sidelines and watch, but I was not alone. Jen was there, in her stunning black dress, watching them too. Watching me. I tried to engage her in conversation, but she just nursed her beer quietly. I couldn't tell if she was in her own world or taking in everything. It was more than disconcerting, though not nearly as jarring as her sudden revival at the sounds of Mexican music. Instant change, she was the life of the party, voluntarily doing amateur salsa with every man within reach. I was content to simply keep watching, but a wiggling voice in my head told me to join in. That voice I’m usually better off ignoring, because I know better. But this was vacation, and I decided to start a dangerous precedent of saying yes. In this case, yes meant highly self-conscious rhythmic shuffling for half a song with a tipsy member of the armed forces, but yes would get progressively worse. In the meantime, we both withdrew to our silent observation posts.

I couldn’t see anyone else I knew, with the exception of the fake tattoo artist, if you can call someone who airbrushes a stencil an artist. She was an attractive girl from Russia, natural blonde in her early 20’s. Her accent was enchanting, thick enough to be sexy but not too thick to be incomprehensible, and she was well spoken. I bought an overpriced spider on my forearm from her, which people in three cities unanimously thought was ugly. Mainly I got it just so I could chat up the extremely attractive man getting a styled cross on his formidable shoulder. He was straight, of course, but his innocent Tennessee accent and her sultry Russian accent...

Our conversational ménage a trois back then was interrupted by the arrival of a generic looking drunk idiot, plainly trying to pick her up. Without skipping a beat, her accent and lack of understanding of english increased dramatically until he wandered off. I had thought he’d given up and moved on, but I overestimated him. He returned, showing up at the nightclub and harassing her on the dance floor. A member of the crew politely shoved him off, but she still looked unhappy. I caught her eyes, and flashed her a sympathetic smile. She recognized me, or my thoughts, and smiled back. I felt empowered to go and strike up another conversation. Yes, I learned, she’s frequently accosted by sleazy drunk guys. But she could I was different, or thought so anyhow. I had never made a move towards her, and she repaid my genuine attitude with a dance. I’m sure I still looked like a tool, but now I was a tool dancing with the hottest girl in the bar. Gratifying.

And don’t feel bad for the drunk idiot. He was busy getting double teamed by the two drunk cougars from last night’s karaoke. In all likelihood, none of these people had seen sobriety since we cast off the mooring lines.

I only danced with her a few songs, not wanting to overstay my welcome. But, my escapades had not gone unnoticed. When I returned to the bar, I was approached by three guys. Two I knew from previous encounters in karaoke and the casino; the short tattooed guy and the tall bald guy, always loud and always making their presence known whether through ridiculous singing or obscene bets. The third was new, but clearly just as inebriated. His midlength hair did not wholly conceal his myriad of piercings – eyebrow, nose, industrial, gauged ears, ect. My gaydar went off strong, and a slurred sentence or two assured me he wasn’t European. The first two make some snide comment about Russians in bed and wander off, but their friend stays. I’m guessing I was not only right, but he’d picked me out too. He was touchy when he talked, using stories about women or dolphins to touch me all over. I’m nonplussed, having been groped plenty of times in my life, but I hadn’t yet decided whether I wanted him or not. It was still early in the cruise, and I wasn’t desperate yet.

He wants me to drink with him, and he wants me to smoke with him, and he wants me to tell me about his favorite pussy and top 10 blowjobs. All these are signs of a closet case. Drinking puts them at ease, and gives them an excuse and justification for experimenting. Smoking pot often precedes the beginning of foreplay, and an invitation to smoke can often be an invitation for sex after. And talking about sex with women, especially the act of oral sex, is a way to introduce sexual thoughts and associated mental pictures without revealing your gay side. He also offers me a cigarette, which I take to stall for time. I don’t smoke, a fact that would be apparent to any sober observer. I cough slightly, and accidentally exhale downwards, which only leads to rising smoke stinging me in the eyes. This is the fourth cigarette of my life, and I smoke it in the time it takes him to smoke three. That’s also about the time it takes me to conclude he’s annoying and smells bad and I don’t want to have sex with him. I carefully maneuver the large speaker between me and his wandering hands and overbearing lack of personal space.

On the other side of the speaker I find Rick, back from his own brief foray into dancing and looking moody as ever. The girls still aren’t attractive enough, I guess. He seems sober too, which isn’t surprising when you think about it. Rick also has no interest in talking to this human pincushion, so we start our own side conversation as he continues talking about marvelous pussy to no one in particular. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until his friends returned from the casino to retrieve him. Feeling strangely genteel towards them, I ask the short one how his night went. He grins the lopsided smile of a stroke victim and produces two 200 dollar chips, slapping them down on the speaker with a flourish. “600 dollars!”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, waiting for the realization that doesn’t come. So I offer it. “But that’s only 400 dollars.” He looks down, confused. “Hmm, yeah. I guess I lost one.” He shrugs his shoulders, seemingly nonplussed himself, and orders a round of drinks for all of us.

A mercifully short time later, they depart, leaving me alone with Captain Kinetic, still in the same slumped state. I ask Rick what’s wrong, and he points to one of the decently attractive girls on the dance floor, currently sandwiched between two mullet-sporting schmucks. “My sister.” I offer a sympathetic grimace, then sit to talk to him for awhile, neither of us having anything better to do. I learn he’s quite a successful young businessman, relatively unaffected by the shit economy, and he’s just as attractive as he was the night before, and yet, he’s usually lonely. I ask him why. Lack of time and energy, he says. Getting old sucks, he says. Graduating college was the worst mistake of my life, he says. This confirmed all my deepest fears, but coming from him, it was oddly reassuring. He was richer and better looking than me, yet lead a far less fulfilling life.

Still, my superpowers aren’t limitless; I was rapidly crashing asleep. I had been for awhile, but I wanted to stay for his sake, for as long as his sisters antics pained him. I couldn’t. So I was honest. “I feel like leaving, but I’d feel bad for leaving you all alone,” I told him. That only made him feel worse. I slinked away.

It’s sad, but that nightclub was easily the most entertaining part of the ship. Just watching and listening. Freud would’ve cum in his pants on the spot. Meanwhile, I returned to my room with trepidation, not knowing if my father had fun of his own with Lisa that night. I knocked gently, then swiped my card and opened the door. The man was fast asleep, but the lawnmower in his mouth was going strong. He’d had anti-snoring surgery in the past, going as far as having his uvula removed, which destroyed his ability to make a ch- sound but left his malignant snore intact. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling with my eyes wide open, praying for sleep or death, whichever came sooner.

My eyes eventually wandered around the room, where I made one last discovery that night. Draped over the top of his bag was a pair of my father’s underwear. They looked strangely stylish. They looked strangely familiar. I got out of bed and walked across the room, quiet as a churchmouse. I picked up his underwear delicately – not to avoid noise, but to prevent turning his jock sweat into an aerosol – and held it as far away as I could read in the low light conditions. The tag read 2xist – the nation’s largest gay underwear brand. I rolled my eyes, tossed down his tighty whiteys, crawled back into bed, and rapidly fell asleep, rather than even consider the thought.