Chap. 2

The break-up was brutal. As in – geriatric home fellatio-orgy brutal. I left an inexpressive Claire in the company of a few of her friends who were hanging out by the kiosk, and walked back towards the school by myself. It was the spring of 2006, but one of those really cold-ass springs which makes one wonder why springs have such a nice reputation. I removed my scarf from my bag and fastened it around my neck. I kept wishing it could transform into rope – or a seatbelt.

Mrs. Fierronave’s devilish look certainly didn’t warm my soul. She always stood besides the school’s main entrance like a gargoyle, and not like one of those gargoyles that are meant to convey water – I mean one of those gargoyles that are meant to scare the shit out of demons. Her keen, narrow eyes were always on the look for infractions in the student’s uniforms which could threaten her institution’s legendary formality. Houses, prefects, closeted headmasters; St. Adonis British High School was plagued by these limey, laughable antics. I mean – we had an inter-house badmington competition for Cruyff’s sake, and such an axiom of ridicule should be enough to get my point through. Sometimes, during assembly time, I half-expected the authorities to suggest that all men drink gin and smash their teeth in with a cricket bat, and that all women become disgusting.

“Good afternoon, Vincent,” she said.

“Hi, miss.”

“When’s the last time you’ve gotten a haircut?”

“I can’t remember, miss.”

“Cut your hair by Monday, will you?”

“No, miss – please,” I begged. “It’s only two weeks until the trip – give me until then.”

“Then cut it just a little bit.”

“Please miss, only two weeks.”

Her eyes remained motionless, and vertiginously deep within them, I could discern a slender thread of resisting humanity. Then, an abusive father or failed dream weilding a giant scissor, giving me the finger and cutting the thread.

“Have it cut by Monday,” she repeated.

“Ok, miss.”

I entered the halls of the academy, defeated, and began humming the guitar melody of a David Bowie song I’d been listening to the whole week. I evaded a clumsy platoon of young, giggling Rugbiers who looked as if they were planning to skip class and continued walking calmly towards the courtyard. I figured there’d be about ten minutes of break time left – enough to chill out before class for a bit with my friends.

I kept trying to focus on the positive things about our break-up. The graduation trip was coming up, for one, and even though part of me was certain I wouldn’t hook up with anyone; The other had completely idealized the experience of being single during a graduation trip. You see, here in Argentina, we have an admirable tradition that pretty much makes up for all the corruption, kidnappings, murders and other third world cliches that go on repeatedly every day. In the last year of high school, and about a month before classes are over, the whole senior year organizes a trip to a relatively exotic location with the sole objective of drinking themselves into forgetting it. It really is sublime, because it’s the only thing in this world that I know of, besides blowjobs, that has massive hype preceding it yet always manages to surpass the expectations.

Our upcoming haven – Porto Seguro, Brazil – was highly qualified for perverted trips of the sort, and came with glowing recommendations from the seniors of the previous year. Ever since classes started, I’d been preparing myself mentally for one of those romantic, touchy-feely kind of getaways, with all the gay little sunsets and healthy little livers – and all of the sex, hopefully – though my hopes on the latter had bled to death as the trip’s date neared. Now, however, everything had changed. I mean, in all honesty, I knew I still wouldn’t get laid – but now at least I could get really fucked up.

I got to the courtyard and found my friends in the same position as always: Scattered lazily like basking walruses around the flagpole of the Argentine colors. This had been our hangout ever since freshmen year, as it was right in the middle of the patio and functioned as a moderately effective bird’s nest; With a wide panoramic view of almost every skirt in St. Adonis.

“Hey Wing,” said Fifth as I effortlessly collapsed beside him. Fifth was pretty much my best friend. Well – I’ve got a bunch of best friends, to tell you the truth, but I guess Fifth is pretty much the best-y.


“I thought you were going out with Claire.”

“I did – we came back early.”

He nodded. “Burger King?”

“No – just past the kiosk,” I said. “I didn’t feel like driving.”

I also didn’t feel like telling people I’d just broke up. It wasn’t because of that cliched and bullshit sentiment some people have where they don’t tell other people they’ve broken up because it makes it less real – it was just pure lazyness. Having to go over the situation, and then explain why I it didn’t work out – in my head, it already sounded terrible. Besides – there’s always that caring friend who asks a million questions and wants all the details and keeps insisting why he thinks breaking up was a good/bad choice until he makes sure you’ve re-lived the pain all over again.

“Wing – did you finish the article about Mussolini?” asked Hot dog after I’d settled down. Hot dog was another one of my best friends. We used to be in a band together, but our drummer – Ceasar – quit. Drummers are such divas. So was Hot Dog, by the way – and he was also a prefect; Which didn’t mean much besides them having a striped black-and-blue tie as opposed to the regular black-and-white tie – or a black-and-blue skirt if they leaked for no good reason once a month. Still – they were convinced they were the shit – and absolutely loved their black-and-blue bullshit.

“Yeah – yesterday,” I said. “I’ll e-mail it to you later.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

“Do you want me to call you in the afternoon and remind you?” he suggested.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He nodded. “I’ll call you anyway.”

“Give it a rest, you fucking prefect!” I said. “A god-damn Mussolini article isn’t gonna stop you from ruling the galaxy.”

“Yeah!” supported the Robot, just for the hell of it. “Go drink the cool-aid and fuck your brethren – god-damn cultist.”

“I bet that’s what all you prefects do when you have lunch with the headmaster every thursday,” I continued. “A high-class orgy to keep your elite sect detached from the masses.”

Hot dog nodded sarcastically. “Damn it, Wing,” he said. “You totally nailed us. We do have an orgy every thursday at lunch time – and I always spend the whole hour fucking Claire.”

I laughed out loud.

“I’m glad at least one of us is,” I said. Man – that girl was harder to penetrate than a lesbian nun. If a love potion were invented, I bet she’d be immune to it. In fact, I bet they’d develop an antidote by studying her blood and shit.

“No luck yet?” asked Figs. “Nothing, zip… nothing?” Figs was a very articulate guy.

I shook my head. “My dick is gonna stop working by the time she’s willing to have sex with it.”

“Why, because you jerk off too often?” asked Chumbo.

“No, asshole – because of old age.”

Chumbo laughed. “I know, idiot – I was kidding.”

“… Still.”

“Good one Wing,” said Hot dog.

“Fuck your tie!”

“At least I’d be fucking something.”

“Oh – come on,” I said. “Like I am the only one in this group who isn’t getting laid.”

“You’re the only one with a girlfriend who isn’t getting laid,” said the Robot.

“I’m the only one with a girlfriend – period!”

The Robot smiled cooly. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Why not?”

“There’s only one reason why men have relationships – and it’s to have sex,” said the Robot, who’s face I’m quite sure was embedded on the feminist bible under the label ‘Lucifer’.

“You aren’t getting any sex,” he continued. “You’re paying for dinner, you’re driving her places, you aren’t going out with your friends – and for what? At the end of the day, you’re not getting any pussy.”

“Fine – what about love?” I asked.

“I said men, Wing.”

I looked at him with disbelief. “Please – shut the fuck up, Robot,” I said. “What are you, a fucking tough guy now? The South American Van Damme? Chuck Norris with Mr. T’s dick?”

“Don’t fuck with him, Wing,” said Chumbo. “He’ll stone you to death with his balls.”

“Yeah – keep your distance, Wing,” said Figs. “He’ll bitch-slap you with his third cock.”

“Ok,” conceded the Robot. “You’re right – I’ll take that back.”

“And also, dude, there are millions of reasons why men have relationships other than sex,” I said. “Maybe they want children, company, or – I dunno, maybe they want to hide the fact that they’re gay or something. Isn’t that why Michael Jackson got married?”

“Maybe they’re gold diggers,” said Hot Dog. “I mean – if I ever get married, that’d be the reason.”

“You can’t be a gold digger if you’re a guy,” argued the Robot. “You can marry for money – but that doesn’t make you a gold digger.”

“Why not?” asked Chumbo.

“Because the term ‘gold digger’ has a negative connotation to it, and you know – if a chick marries a guy for money, it’s wrong; But when a guy marries a chick for money – I don’t think society considers it something to be frowned upon. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“I think you’re the one who doesn’t frown upon it.”

“Wait – he’s got a point,” said Hot dog. “Everyone hates female gold-diggers, be it guys or jealous chicks – but most men and even some women respect male gold-diggers.”

I respect them,” said the Robot. “It’s progressive.”

“So do I. In fact – I plan on it.”

Your opinion doesn’t count,” said Figs. “You’d do anything for money – you’d suck the Robot’s three dicks for money.”

“The problem is he doesn’t do sex for money,” said Chumbo. “He only does gratuitous rape.”

And necrophilia,” I said. “It takes so long for him to come, the people he rapes die before he’s done.”

“And that’s only one cock,” said Figs. “To make the three of them come, it takes the entire porn industry.”

“Guys – come on,” pleaded the Robot. “I took it back already.”

“He’s right,” said Hot Dog. “Let’s shut up before he drowns us with his semen – like Hendrix.”

The bell then rang, cutting our conversation short, and freaking me out as it always did. The guys each headed towards their respective classrooms, but before I would follow suit, I decided to take a little detour and thus headed towards the bathroom.

There was a sophomore there peeing, so I walked towards the farthest available urinal and faked that I had to pee as well. The sophomore left without cleaning his hands, the filthy bastard, so I closed my zipper and snuck into a toilet booth.

I’d eaten too much lunch, so I searched my pockets for a piece of gum whilst I stuck my other set of fingers down my throat.

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