I want to fuck a close friend of mine SO BAD. But he has a girlfriend. Should I wait for them to break up, or should I just try to get in there now? Their relationship sucks and he could do a lot better than her. —Hopeless Bro-mantic
He could do a lot better than her … with you, no doubt. God, how predictable. No, I’m not trying to take a shit on you; we’ve all stood in your shoes at some point. I myself have played the “hopelessly pining platonic friend” role more times than I’d like to recall. There’s only one real solution to this dilemma, though, and it doesn’t involve waiting around to play the rebound or doing any relationship sabotage. This is what you have to do: bone your love interest’s doppelganger.
This ploy works awesomely on so many levels! It blends your fantasy with a healthy dose of creepiness and a dash of unreality that if correctly executed will forever cure you of your friendlust. “But no,” you cry, “I love this person for who they are on the inside!” Shut up, bitch tits. I’ve even field-tested this method myself.
A few years ago I was under the misconception that I was in love with my good friend “Steve”. He had this girlfriend who was a total dishrag. It was completely unbelievable that he would continue to date her when he could have been with me, because I rule. The situation was also horribly awkward because I’d drunkenly confessed my love to him at a Halloween party and been utterly rejected. So it’s understandable that I was spending my Black Friday sitting at home listening to Sinead O’Connor and getting buzzed by myself on my mom’s peach Schnapps.
It’s always in this situation when your wacky girlfriend calls you at around midnight and asks you why the hell you’re not at the local tailgate party. “Cheetah, get the hell off your ass and come to the quarry,” Tylene shrieked into the phone. “Somehow everyone we gradded with got super hot!”
“Dude, I hate all those people,” I moaned unhappily, taking another pull of the schnapps.
“It doesn’t matter, everyone’s drunk as shit! And you need to forget about-”
I thought I could hear a song by Sublime starting up so I hung up immediately. I’m such a loser, I thought fuzzily. Eat a dick, Steve! I’m going to go to this stupid tailgate party and fuck a stranger. That’ll make me feel better.
I quickly threw on my sexiest TNA sweatshirt (it was a while ago, okay?) and threw the schnapps into a backpack. There’s no way I can drive, I thought as I lurched out of the dark house. The quarry was a 45 minute walk away, and the bus is for peons. I spotted my mom’s bike leaned up against the shed where it had been rusting all season. Fuck yeah, I thought as I sped creakily into the cold night, I’m going to make such an entrance!
I reached the quarry in record time, my hair blown all over my face like a crazy hag. It was every bit as redneck as only a North Van party can be. In the light of the bonfire people in various states of undress cavorted in the freezing night air; everyone was indeed “wasted as shit.”
I located Tylene and some other friends and we got down to some serious alcohol abuse. There I was, minding my own business, when Steve walked by. I was about to say something probably embarrassing, but then I did a doubletake. It wasn’t Steve! He was the exact same height, same build, same stupid Beatles haircut, same bad dress sense. But his face … something wasn’t right. It was like someone made a second Steve based on a police sketch of the original.
Tylene saw him at the same time and made a wild grab for my arm, but I was already on my way over to this strange being. “You look like someone I know, dude!” I blurted crazily. “What’s your name?”
“Jamie,” he said, sounding uncertain.
“Whatever! Have some of my schnapps, Steve.”
Forty-five minutes later I was speeding down Grand Boulevard on the handlebars of my mom’s bike, fake-Steve pedaling away behind me. I’d turned off my phone because I kept receiving text messages from Tylene saying ARE YOU BLIND and THIS IS THE WORST IDEA YOU’VE EVER HAD.
“Take me to your shag palace, my prince!” I shouted grandiosely as we pulled into a dark driveway.
“Shhh!” hissed fake-Steve. “My mom doesn’t let me have girls stay the night. We’ll have to go in here.” He stopped at a rusting RV parked in the driveway.
“Cool,” I said, a little bit perturbed. “Uh … retro. Is there a bathroom in there?”
“Yes, but you can’t flush.”
The inside the camper smelled distinctly of mold and mouse turds. Fake-Steve turned on a light and revealed what was basically a storage unit on wheels. Mounds of clothing, old toys and cardboard boxes filled the interior of the vehicle. A narrow path led through the wreckage to the driver seat at the front.
“Uh … I’ll lay out some blankets on the floor,” fake-Steve said awkwardly.
The light was dim, but it was much brighter than the bonfire at the quarry. In the tiny, smelly confinement of the camper, my buzz swiftly retreating, I could make out that he was definitely the uglier twin. My heart was filled with misgivings. I located the bathroom and gave myself a long hard stare in the tiny dirty mirror. What the hell was I doing? I’d taken this way too far. I wished that there were an etiquette manual for these situations. Ok, I decided. I’ll do ten minutes of making out. If I’m still feeling weird, I’ll bail.
Satisfied, I stepped out of the bathroom to one of the worst sights of my young life. Fake-Steve had used my absence to “prepare himself” by getting completely naked and lying spread-eagle on the floor of the camper, one hand on his dick. The condom was already on.
“Touch it!” he suggested, grinning up at me horribly.
The awful tableau was broken by the camper door being flung open. “Jamie!” screeched a woman, looming out of the darkness, “How many times have I told you not to—”
“Mom, get the fuck out!” There was no way this was about to happen to me. I leaped over fake-Steve’s prone body and scrambled up to the driver door, piles of crap crashing down all around me. I practically fell out the door, hearing fake-Steve’s mom’s scream of horror behind me as she discovered her son’s penis. My hands found the handle of the bike leaned up against the side of the camper and in less than a second I was astride my rickety steed and pedaling out into the night, tears of terror and hilarity streaking from my eyes.
Three days later, when I had recovered from my ordeal, I went over to Tylene’s to watch a movie. A few people were there, including Steve, but something weird had happened. When I looked at him, I no longer saw the person I was supposedly in love with. Instead, I saw his evil twin, lying naked on the floor of the Hoarders camper, giving himself a hand shandy. It was horrifying. I couldn’t even look real Steve in the eye. I was cured!
So what’s the moral of this story? Find someone who looks like the person you like. Go home with them. It will probably be a weird, shameful, humiliating experience that you will regret forever. It will be so twisted that you’ll associate the object of your affections with that awful experience for the rest of your life. You won’t even be able to look at them without shuddering a little on the inside. In other words, you’ll be free.
What have you got to lose, other than your dignity?
// Cheetah Powers, Columnist
// Illustration by Sarah Taylor
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