Allow me to present some real life, over-the-shoulder, excruciatingly imported and edited on an entirely underpowered machine, demo footage of Duel Love for the Nintendo DS.
At the Tecmo party, Flynn DeMarco of GayGamer and Kotaku took me by the elbow and led me conspiratorially aside. “Look,” he said, his be-chained wrists arcing gracefully, “I know you’re a complete and total fruit bat. Florian told me; right after he asked me about my rumpus. It’s okay. As long as you stay away from our REAL twinks, we really don’t mind.” I blushed maraschino, these Gay Gamers knew me too well. “I thought you might be interested to know about this little bit of stuff I found over at Bandai Namco.”
My piggy eyes lit up. “Do go on.” TGS is famed for booth babes of negotiable affection.
“It’s called Duel Love. It’s basically yaoi Nintendogs.”
“You mean I get my very own gay puppy?!”
“No, idiot, you get to scrub some sweaty cakeboy with a rag. He doesn’t have nipples, but it’s well worth the cost of admission.” Flynn waggled his eyebrows, and then his sideburns, and then his beautiful folding fan. My moustache fluttered in the breeze.
“I never admit to anything,” I replied. After a moment’s contemplation I added, “Oh snap!”
But Flynn was right. This boy on two screens, he didn’t have nipples. And as it turns out, Duel Love is a respectable, if sweaty, addition to the teenager-tweaking lineup started by Doki Doki Majo Shinpan. The premise, as put forth over at GayGamer:
Bandai Namco’s Duel Love is the heart warming story of a young transfer student (female) who simply can’t get enough of those shirtless adolescent boys [well, what of it?]. We will watch her as she is introduced to a secret “fight club” after school battle, and help her cheer your favorite fighter on, and maybe help to sop up some sweat off his budding physique after a match. How delightfully PG and not the slightest bit provocative.
UPDATE: Now I realize this post ends abrubtly, perhaps artlessly. That Gauger, most of you are saying, it’s time to put that thing out to pasture. On a nuclear testing ground. Well, fuck you. I haven’t slept in three days, and all they feed me here is wasabe rice crackers dipped in ponzu sauce. On the good days, I find toenail clippings in the crevices of the hotel room bidet’s pipeworks. The protein feeds my brain. This post was generated entirely by toenails, and written in blood on pieces of toilet paper passed under the bathroom door to some faceless transcriber in the main room. They will not, possibly cannot, respond to my cries and ullulations, perhaps fearing the wrath of Chester. Fuck you and the lemon you rode in on, Chester. They tell me I can say “fuck” all I want after the fold.
