Turkey, or How To Convince Everyone You’re A Bad Person By Coercively Trying To Initiate A Threesome Nobody's Into

This week, we are pleased to introduce to you Ariane, our guest blogger. Here she is, pictured with shrimp in a jar:

This year I decided not to go to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving because as of 10 months ago I come from a broken home, so I was in Oakland facing a family-free holiday when my friend invited me to a dinner in San Francisco. 

“The host is supposed to be a good cook,” she said.

“Sold,” I said, and when the day rolled around we cooked up some cranberry sauce and made our way to the Mission. When we walked into the host’s house I introduced myself to everyone and promptly forgot all their names (the next day I would learn a long-haired man was Gordon). At first it’s just my friend and I and five or so men; the host, I realize, is the bearded one, and behind his ample facial hair are two little eyes with the sparkle of entitlement. In a way it makes me happy as a valuable reminder that just because you talk about turkey brines and look like you play banjo in a folk ensemble doesn’t mean you’re a sensitive, lovely guy. For quite some time there is nothing specific he does that makes me dislike him beyond the fact that he’s ignoring my friend just like he’s been ignoring her since their date a month ago. The night goes on. We all get drunker. Some other women show up. We dance. We talk. Midnight comes and goes. He has stopped ignoring my friend and they not-so-subtly excuse themselves to make out somewhere. They come back. The trains have stopped running. I am tired and drunk and I’m waiting for this girl named Jenny to want to go home because she has told us we can sleep on her couch. My friend calls me over and asks if it’s okay if she spends the night at Brine-Beard’s house. “Sure,” I say. I go into the hallway and I’m writing a text message in which I describe Brine-Beard as AWFUL, all caps. I hear him come into the hallway and say, “Oh, there you are.”

“Here I am,” I say. I keep writing.

He comes over and grabs me by the hair and I duck his kiss and maneuver to the other side of the hall.

“No no no no no,” I say.

He says, “I know you love her. I love her, too.  I know you want to be with her — all it’s gonna take is for you to stay here tonight.”

I say, “Well I think you’re a piece of shit, so I’m not gonna do that.”

He says we've had a misunderstanding. He tells me I must have wanted it because it’s pretty late and I’m still at his house. I tell him it's actually because the train stops running at midnight.

“Oh, well I thought you were free to leave at any time.”

“Nope, I have nowhere to go, so I’m gonna go back into your living room, but you can go fuck yourself.”

I go into the living room, I tell my friend this asshole just tried to initiate a threesome and we need to leave, and I sit on the couch to wait for her. He sits next to me and says, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Nope, it’s fucked up to wait until everyone is drunk to try to talk a stranger into having a threesome with you. I think you’re a dick.”

So this Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for feminism because it is slowly eliminating fuckheads like Brine-Beard.

-  Ariane