Last Thursday night, the crew and I had major plans. It was TBB’s birthday, and his visiting cousin’s last night on Maui. TBB and BJ hadn’t been out in awhile, Sasha was celebrating her new “between jobs” status, Kim and I badly needed a cocktail and none of us could remember the last time we’d been to Sansei in Kihei for their huge blowout late night karaoke/half-price sushi scene. So we decided to go big. We all agreed to meet at my house—the Moroccan Bayou—around nine.
Sasha was the first to arrive. As I scrounged around in my closet for something sultry yet suitable enough to adjust to a growing belly of hamachi nigiri and mango-crab salad hand rolls, Sasha filled me in on her upcoming trip to Seattle. I’ve never been there so I prodded her to tell me all the tedious details, including what it’s like to be on a train to Portland. Locomotive action is so hot.
By the time Kim showed up, I had my skirt on but was having trouble finding a top to wear. I hated my clothes. So I showed the girls my new un-accessorized breasts—bye-bye nipple torture!—while Kim gave us a sample of the songs she’d be performing later on stage.
Talk soon turned to sex—doesn’t it always?—and our past weekend’s adventures. TBB and BJ were lagging so as I applied makeup—still topless—I told the girls about my disturbing night at the MiniKISS “concert.”
That night I had my hot jazz date/friend meet me at Hapa’s, where it was packed with people anxiously awaiting the mini-KISS tribute band. It ended up being not so much a “live” performance but was instead comprised mainly of a female vocalist singing to a pre-recorded track. The crowd didn’t seem to mind—it was indubitably the consequences of novelty act appeal—and they whooped and hollered, packing the dance floor and towering above the little people on stage.
However, my date, a serious musician and music fan, was disgusted and left almost immediately. I honestly didn’t care about the music either way until that point. But when MiniKISS cost me some grade-A booty, it disturbed me. And not at all just “a little.”
Anyway, back at the Bayou, I had finally finished pulling myself together. But then TBB and his cousin came over and announced that BJ would not be joining us, and it was getting to be too late for us to feasibly get a table at the popular karaoke-sushi joint. We opted to discuss our options over TBB’s birthday cake and “rabbit poop” ice cream.
As the five of us gorged intently, Sasha brought up a puzzling situation one of her friends was experiencing. The friend had recently met somebody she found physically attractive and intellectually stimulating. Yet, when it came down to doing the deed—getting it onnnnn, sailing into port, the horizontal mambo, hopping on the good foot and doing the bad thing—the guy was severely lacking. And she determined he was completely untrainable. She just didn’t have that kind of time.
And so, the friend was in a moral dilemma, of sorts. Does she tell the guy or just end it without explaining? Will it help or hinder the dude to know the truth? Is it more karmically sound to spare his feelings, yet still release him into the world to torture more women?
“She has to tell him,” said Kim. “What does she have to lose?”
“Just blow him off,” said the cousin and I. “Maybe there’s somebody else out there for him.”
“No, that’s not what you do,” suggested TBB. “When he calls you say, ‘Don’t you ever call me again. You gave me gonorrhea.’”
We looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Then we decided to just stay in.
Samantha Campos works very hard on her column every damn day. MTW