Process of Illumination

Oh, oh. It’s happened. There’s been a break-up, and now your fellow ultimate player is no longer together with his hot girlfriend. Which means only one thing to the predators circling her chum-infested aura: the hunt is on.

You’re resisting, though. You’ve always thought she was cute. Busty, great smile, maybe she’s got some dimples you find irresistible or you have a thing for the way she moves when she’s playing disc. Because, of course, she plays. You all play. And maybe, you and him play together. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it? You’re not quite sure if you should go after her, after all, how will he feel? You’re not like, super close to him, but you’ve hung out. You kinda like the guy. And lately, since the break-up, he’s been looking a little forlorn.

You hem and haw for a while, unsure of whether to go for it or not. Meanwhile, other guys are cozying up, taking test bites to see if they can approach for the kill, but so far she’s politely resisting. It’s been too soon. But at the very next disc party the ex checks out early, heartsick from watching dudes strike at his former girl all night. And somewhere between the third Long Island and the fourth Jaeger Bomb, you say “fuck it” and approach.

Her face is flush with the new attention, her complexion rosy, her quivering smile betraying her own mix of rum and shots. As you approach, Timbaland’s "Way I Are" blares from the house speakers and you blend bodies and start to grind. It’s fun, it’s comfortable, you’ve known each other since she was a freshman and you’ve gone out in big groups before. The song is bangin’, as they say, and the flirting is fun.

And as your cheeks get closer and the Malibu bouquet of her breath whispers down your spine, you remember old John Lyly’s Eupheus: the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war. Love, in these circles, is a math equation whose range is limited by the number of available mates at any one time. There are only so many hims and hers. And with so much time spent around disc and its people, meeting others outside the scene is tough. It requires effort. So as Timbaland fades to Rihanna and you begin to make out, looking for an appropriate exit to quit the evening and find comfort in each other, you tell yourself the harsh reality of our dating scene:

It’s not your girl, it’s just your turn.

And if it wasn’t your Schwinn she’s precariously trying to balance on as you coast downhill to her place, it’d be someone else’s. You know that. The ex knows that. And somewhere in her subconscious, she knows as well. That’s why he had to leave the party, that’s why you had to act, and that’s why you’ll remember bitterly those sweet beginnings of your relationship the day you jet out of a club with your throat in knots and her arms wrapped around some buddy of yours. It’s tough. But you’ll get used to it. After all, another couple is looking like they’ve hit a rough patch, and you and she have always been close…