ORIGIN: I'm not making a "Star Wars" reference, but just thought it was a funny play on words. This is a story about a boy who, you guessed it, was a clinger. What does stage 5 clinger mean anyway? The most extreme kind? Then he was a stage 5, given the situation.
THEN: It was the end of summer of 2007...I was still heartbroken and confused over my college ex (more on him at a later time) and one of my closest friendships was falling apart (probably not more on her, ever). My friend Jenny suggested that I take myself out of that mess and come hang out with her in Bay Ridge (Brooklyn). We went to a bar and had a grand ol' time.
Being the only 2 Asian girls in a mostly white bar made us a novelty and we got all types of guys coming up to us saying random filthy/borderline racist/funny/corny things to us. I was getting a good buzz when Cling-On approached me. Of course at this point, I had no idea he was a stage anything clinger so I let him chat me up. He was obviously "white boy wasted" and thus HILARIOUS! We went outside to sit on someone's stoop (you mean, you never did that before? Where did you grow up? Deprived child!!) to continue talking and eventually we made out. Now, I do remember he was a good kisser, but that isn't the main focus here. The main thing I remember from that night was that my mouth felt numb. At that time, I tried weed before (and maybe weed laced with substances I was not aware of until I took organic chem) but I never did any hard drugs. So my naive self just thought, "wow, he must've kissed me very hard" (yes, yes laugh at me if you want).
I later told Jenny what happened and it took maybe 5 seconds for us to both blurt out, "coke!" We concluded he probably rubbed cocaine on his gums. How did I come to this conclusion? Well my other friend Lisa used to tell me how her roommate would do lines in front of her on our school-issues laptops and then rub the remaining cocaine onto her gums. Fascinating education you can get at college, kids.
Anyway, the story of Cling-On doesn't end there. He asked me for my number before we parted ways, so I gave him my number and purposely left the last digit off. I figured he was too drunk/high to notice so I walked away thinking I was clever. Within 20 minutes, he called me. I didn't answer. He kept calling throughout the night, probably expecting a booty call, but I was not havin' it. For the next two weeks, he called me, and I kid you not, dozens of times using a different number. Every single time. I never picked up any of them and the calls finally ended after he left a voicemail which said something along the lines of: "You fucking chink bitch!" Well, that didn't provoke me to call him up and yell "You fucking cokehead bitch!" No, no. I took the less aggressive road and posted his number all over gay AOL chatrooms.
NOW: My friend Jenny said she has spotted him on a number of occasions at Chelsea and Meat Packing area clubs through the years, but that's all I ever heard of him. Lesson learned; just don't give out your number, even if it's an incomplete one. Chances are, the guy will want to sleep with you enough where he'll actually try all the numbers out until he gets to you, or he's just really good at probability. Also, say no to drugs.