I’ve advertised this blog to all of two people. A readership of strangers seems better than a readership of friends because then I can make fun of my friends and still have them. For those of you who have wandered here by accident, here’s the back story to my title.
First, you should know that Touch You Last is not sex thing, however it might sound. I googled myself to see if this site had been indexed yet (it hasn’t) and was instantly sucked into an irresistible black hole of pornography. If you’re looking for South Florida Dominatrix Mistress Poison or Erotic Buffy Fanfic, I can show you the way.
On a side note, googling myself might be the most masturbatory thing I’ve ever done.
Second most, actually.
Touch You Last is a game that my brother and I have played for at least fifteen years. The rules of play are very simple: be the guy who has touched the other guy last. If you were sitting beside me right now, and I were to poke you in the arm, I would be winning the game of Touch You Last. Sounds fun? No. I agree. What makes it interesting is when one of the players tries to go home. If you’re a true aficionado of the game, you will do damn near anything not to be touched last at the end of the day. If you have to go a whole day—or God forbid a week—being the loser, you bare a very special and very deep kind of shame.
If you have trouble picturing it, here’s an example of a well played game. It’s a year ago; I’m still living with the parents. My brother, his wife, and his kids have just finished visiting. Barry’s getting the kids’ coats on and packing up the travel toys. I sneak up and touch him last. He shrugs. He shakes his head. He rolls his eyes at Mom in a way that says uh, I think we’re a little old for this. Then he lunges past her and gets me on the shoulder. I rush the wily bastard, but he uses Mom as a shield. Then she takes his side for some reason and starts holding me at bay. I shake her off, reach over top of her and managed to nick his head, and in a smart but dirty move, I sprint upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom. He knocks and knocks, waits outside for ten minutes, but when his family gets impatient he finally goes. I wait another five minutes, unlock the door and emerge, arms raised in a V. A few minutes later as I’m booting up the computer, he springs into the room, touches me, and is out the front door before I can even stand. Halfway home, he’d turned around to come get me.
Barry is, by far, the best player of Touch You Last that I know (I know four.) He’s tenacious as hell. One time, he chased me out to my car after I’d touched him, and after I locked the doors, he sat down and stuck his legs under my tires so I couldn’t leave. He stayed there for twenty minutes and I finally gave in.
One day we’ll be too old to play, but we will anyways. We’ll be seventy, chasing each other; one of us will fall, break a hip, maybe soil himself. The other guy will feel a moment of the deepest regret, but then he’ll touch his filth-besotted brother and run like a bastard.
First, you should know that Touch You Last is not sex thing, however it might sound. I googled myself to see if this site had been indexed yet (it hasn’t) and was instantly sucked into an irresistible black hole of pornography. If you’re looking for South Florida Dominatrix Mistress Poison or Erotic Buffy Fanfic, I can show you the way.
On a side note, googling myself might be the most masturbatory thing I’ve ever done.
Second most, actually.
Touch You Last is a game that my brother and I have played for at least fifteen years. The rules of play are very simple: be the guy who has touched the other guy last. If you were sitting beside me right now, and I were to poke you in the arm, I would be winning the game of Touch You Last. Sounds fun? No. I agree. What makes it interesting is when one of the players tries to go home. If you’re a true aficionado of the game, you will do damn near anything not to be touched last at the end of the day. If you have to go a whole day—or God forbid a week—being the loser, you bare a very special and very deep kind of shame.
If you have trouble picturing it, here’s an example of a well played game. It’s a year ago; I’m still living with the parents. My brother, his wife, and his kids have just finished visiting. Barry’s getting the kids’ coats on and packing up the travel toys. I sneak up and touch him last. He shrugs. He shakes his head. He rolls his eyes at Mom in a way that says uh, I think we’re a little old for this. Then he lunges past her and gets me on the shoulder. I rush the wily bastard, but he uses Mom as a shield. Then she takes his side for some reason and starts holding me at bay. I shake her off, reach over top of her and managed to nick his head, and in a smart but dirty move, I sprint upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom. He knocks and knocks, waits outside for ten minutes, but when his family gets impatient he finally goes. I wait another five minutes, unlock the door and emerge, arms raised in a V. A few minutes later as I’m booting up the computer, he springs into the room, touches me, and is out the front door before I can even stand. Halfway home, he’d turned around to come get me.
Barry is, by far, the best player of Touch You Last that I know (I know four.) He’s tenacious as hell. One time, he chased me out to my car after I’d touched him, and after I locked the doors, he sat down and stuck his legs under my tires so I couldn’t leave. He stayed there for twenty minutes and I finally gave in.
One day we’ll be too old to play, but we will anyways. We’ll be seventy, chasing each other; one of us will fall, break a hip, maybe soil himself. The other guy will feel a moment of the deepest regret, but then he’ll touch his filth-besotted brother and run like a bastard.
Comments
You heard me.
Farting.
You come touch me last in a room that smells like zombies. I guarantee you I will win.
J