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Friday, April 30, 2004

RED: Buying porn 

I did something very unlike my jolly dolly self today - I bought porn from an illegal DVD shop. Now though this seems understated and boring you must understand that I usually act like quite a good girl. I'm the matching-skirts-and-handbag/gin-and-tonic/aspiring-air-kissing-wannabe-fashion-writer kind of girl, not the kind of girl that will hustle and bustle with ugly middle-aged men over illegal porn. It was quite a terrifying new experience for me.

Anyway, I trooped along to the pirated VCD shop (well, 'shop' is a bit generous, it's more a makeshift stall in the middle of a road, which in the daytime is used as a smelly market) in my brand new starchy miniskirt and pink sandals. I tried as nonchalantly and casually as I could to nose my way between the sleazy men to the corner of the stall where the more sordid VCD's were. I like glamour, dear readers, and this was quite a low point. There is something triumphant about traipsing into a snazzy sex shop, painted bright purple on the outside, to purchase vibrating objects and naughty looking contraptions (they make them quite attractive these days); but elbowing your way around gross men in shorts around a flimsy, wooden stall is quite a different story. It was so dodge and dim that there wasn't even enough light to see what languages these discs were in. I think I ended up walking away with something Korean, in my haste to grab whatever looked most um, attractive.

Plenty of blood rushed to my face and imaginary bright neon lights lit up on my head, denouncing me as a most immodest Chinese girl. Don't get me wrong: when used properly, porn can be great for swizzling up notches on any libido. Indulge your fantasies! and discover new things to make you gasp in ecstacy!* but buying it in trick corners like this doesn't give you that heady, healthy feeling of expressing your sexuality. It makes you feel a bit like a criminal or a freak with a secret sex addiction, so potent that it can't be kept at bay without being satiated with illegal visuals. You wouldn't quite get that thrill/ick-factor if you'd bought it on legit copy.

Thing is, I don't even know what prompted this rash act. I usually find porn too hilarious to really be a turn on (thus, redundant) and I have already had offers from kind friends to lend me whatever they could dredge up from their own vast collections. And yet, I still felt compelled to drop a few social notches to mingle with the truly salacious. It was something I had to do before turning 30 (among other things, like read 'War and Peace', cook a proper meal, and visit Hokkaido). Or perhaps I really am (subconsciously) just so horny that desperate times called for desperate measures.

*dolly disclaimer: this does not mean I condone crazy-daisy sick acts of necrophilia, rape or anything that hurts anything living in anyway.


Thursday, April 29, 2004

BLACK & WHITE: Kylie's new album 

Kylie's new album is everything that fabulous pop should be. In fact, it's so full of fizzy candy-coloured pop you feel like you're swimming in a giant glass of cream soda (in a gold thong bikini of course) or wrapped inside the melty bit of a lemon sherbet. Body Language is pure, unfiltered, unadulterated pop - if it were food, it would be a mass of sugar, something you couldn't stop eating like a giant bag of dolly mixtures or neon-coloured sticks of rock candy.

Kylie is the most delicious person under 5 foot - with her pert little bum poised on a pert little 4"11' stature, her own collection of frilly knickers and songs crammed full of delightful cheeky nonsense, she, (and Sophie Ellis Bextor) and many many mojitos are the only ingredients for a successful party. No more of that angst-ridden, tormented-soul rubbish of today's pseudo rock bands - we want smiley, happy people and songs about flowers. Kylie is one of the few pop princesses left who isn't afraid to keep pouring cheesy-kitschy-crazy sugary pop tunes onto the dancefloor, without all the emotional baggage. And she can reach top 10 charts without having to change her hair colour/add piercings to her face/dress like a whore/do stupid collaborations with ugly bling-bling rappers (tick as appropriate for all other wannabe pop divas).

Credit must be given to a someone who names her songs 'Chocolate', 'Spinning around' or 'Coocachoo', and whose videos are so full of geometric shapes and swirly colours that it makes you want to sing into a dusty red feather duster and dance naked in your living room (with the windows open). Kylie makes everybody feel sexy, even fat, balding, middle-aged gay men (yes, I've seen them swooning away to her tunes in gay bars, bless em!) After all, pop is never really going to go out of fashion, so we might as well keep on revelling in it like 14 year olds. I shall expect to see you all soon on dancefloors, clad head-to-toe in glitter, swigging shocking pink daiquiris and dancing like you're the sexiest thing in the world. FEVER!

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

RED: Losing your cherry 

So, virgnity. Is it the 'in thing' now (pardon the rather crude pun) or not? Or the question rather, is what's the big deal, if it is at all?

A (gay) friend was telling me about a mutual acquaintance the other day. Two sentences into the conversation and he proclaimed "She's still a virgin by the way" in a tone which I couldn't quite discern as being approving or not. In response to my large puzzled frown, he quickly added "oh but it's a good thing these days... isn't it?" I had another friend at university who was appalled (appalled, I tell you!) that her 20 year old sister was still a virgin. Now, in a country which has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in Europe and far too many ugly knocked-up seventeen year olds, I think keeping your cherry is something to be trumped.

In any case, the virgin thing is all a big fallacy these days seeing as everyone still keeps to the in-out/ hymen-breaking thing as an indication of whether you're still chase and 'in tact'. I know of plenty of con-artist virgins out there who are sucking, blowing, fingering and doing far dirtier things that I (or other lost cherries) have ever dreamed of doing. Anyway what with the proliferation of sex shops and delightful looking dildos that no longer resemble frighteningly large, veiny penises, the whole keeping-your-hymen-intact-before-the-big-night thing seems less and less likely. Chastity indeed. Lust is about a lot more than copulation.

Having been the sort of hopeless, pink-frocked romantic that I am, I did the old-fashioned oh-so-unfashionable thing of waiting it out for the right boy... and rightly so: it was exquisite when it happened. When I think back to the clumsy, fumbling, skinny, incompetent boys of past, am well relieved I didn't hand over any slices of cherry pie to them; I have high expectations, my dears, and I would have been sorely disappointed and resentful at them for the rest of my life.

On the other hand, if you do just want to get-it-over-with in the backseat of a car/against the backwall of MacDonalds during his cigarette break/ on the couch in-between reruns of The Simpsons, then what the heck, just get banging already. What I'm trying to say (rather uneloquently today for I am feeling incoherent) is that I don't understand the hoo-hah about virginity, it's just sex (or not, as may be the case, haha) and I don't see what the big deal is either way. Keep it, whore it about, buy a scented pink dildo - just as long as you're having fun baby. Just don't forget the AA batteries and lube.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

GREEN: Estee Lauder 

It was tragic news all over the world today as beauty queen Estee Lauder died. Having lived to a ripe old age of 97, her promises of eternal youth did somewhat rub off.

But it isn't just about the death of a cosmetic legend. With her goes that extra special touch that went into all her products and into the building of a beauty empire. She believed truly and deeply in beauty and is quoted as having said, "There are no ugly women - only women who don't care or who don't believe they are attractive." Every biography of her talks at length about how much cared about the products and the lengths she went to to give her customers personal attention. This was not just a beauty conglomerate. Estee Lauder herself as much the product as her miraculous skin creams.

Estee Lauder is not the name you see splashed tackily over fashion shows, as the makeup sponsor and Estee Lauder do not start trends. Being oh-so-fashionable would be rather beneath them, for they are about a eternal beauty and an eternal youth. Away with fickle fancies, my dear. Though the grand lady herself has gone, hers is a name that shall remain on every beautiful woman's face.

PINK: Lesbian porn 

To continue the vein of stories about strange sexual exploits and other related things, Blondie (from previous entry, Wed April 7) and I used to spend a great proportion of teatimes and coffee breaks attempting to formulate theories about why men are so very fascinated with lesbian porn. We were taking a module on Dissident cultures and sexual transgression at the time (headed by the very enigmatic queer theorist Jonathan Dollimore), so our heads were full of theories and we were ready to intellectualise everything from vanilla sex to gay porn.

As for lesbian porn, here's what we came up with: It appears that in most straight porn, the male figure is usually faceless. He is just a body that thrusts, fucks and gets juicy blow-jobs by girls who can be seen in their entirety; their faces, in particular, are always shown. could be anyone and because he has no distinct head or face, the (male) viewer can project himself into the scene, assuming the subjectivity of the male figure and thus receive the imagined pleasure that is being delivered by the woman through the images.

Now, because the viewing man only assumes the subjectivity of the male figure, the flow of pleasure goes in only one direction. However, with lesbian porn, the man can project himself into the position of either or both of the women, and thus receive double the pleasure, as it were. Now then, you think, surely gay porn would work in the same way then, and yet straight men are repulsed by it. We concluded that the crucial point in this is that the pleasure which the viewer seeks to 'receive' is one that is being given by a woman presumably what straight men are turned on by and what reassures him of his masculinity. It is, for him, like watching and receiving double the pleasure from two woman all at once. Sort of runs along the same lines as fantasies of threesomes, perhaps.

I ran this theory by the boy, who then said that he thought lesbian porn was so appealling only because seeing women getting and feeling pleasured was a turn on and seeing two of them pleasuring each other at once was twice the fun. Now that is a much simpler explanation but appears to be a bit too unselfish a point of view for most of the bigoted men I've met (aren't I lucky to have a boy who cares so much about me and my orgasms. I do love you darling). And if that was the case, then why is there hardly any straight porn which shows men pleasuring women?

Should anyone have anything to add or holes to pick, please send it my way and it shall be heartily discussed over tea and crumpets with Blondie. We shall compile it all into a joint PhD, and may even put on our own kissing act as a finishing presentation. Bring it on boys!

Monday, April 26, 2004


As the story goes, I was a fat child who loved fried chicken and hated any form of exercise. For 10 years, PE was the bane of my life and I was always the one they picked last for softball/netball teams.

Now, 10 years on, I have developed quite an obsession with the gym. I go religiously 3 to 4 times a week and do a long enough workout to get to me the "oh my god, I'm think I'm going to die" stage. Now I can safely say that I'm not longer 'grossly overweight', I've reached a rather lovely size 10 and all pretty clothes fit me (well, almost).

I've had the good fortune of joining one of the best gyms in town (I am spoilt and lead an excessive life, I know). Machines are obediently lined up next to each other all facing a wall filled with TV screens of various channels. Strategic, thoughtful planning even went into ensuring that each machine's view of the screens are not obsctructed by the machines in front of it. Apart from the scattering of middling-aged housewives and retired pot-bellied men, the boys are fit and the girls are beautiful there, even in mid-exercise, dripping sweat on the steppers.

Over the past 3 years, I have become hopelessly addicted to that sterilised smell of gyms, to the crispness of gym interiors and the beautiful, sleek forms of machines that transform flab to firmness. Then one day, I fell upon a strange thought. As I looked around at everyone busily running/cycling/stepping it occured to me that we were all voluntarily putting ourselves at the mercy of relentless machines just to look good. None of that running in fields, cycling on a real bike (that moves) or taking the stairs instead of the elevator - the gym bunnies of today are slaves to the treadmills. I was being reduced to spending more time with the stepper than going out there and actually looking good.

Oh but pleasure is pain, looking good doesn't come easy and gyms are the places where you go to look good now. Tis the trendy thing to be a gym member (on a rolling membership where fees are deducted from credit cards through an elaborate system aimed at never letting you get out) and to be seen at the same cafes as your gym instructor (who you know by name). Not being in one makes you look rather like an unmotivated, unsociable, couch-potatoing slob whose lame excuses of "having no time" just signal a sort of 21st century sloth. There is the glam factor of mock moaning about how painful your muscles are the-day-after a big gym session or how very tired you are from having woken up early to make it on the machines by 7am. There is something to be smug about toting your gym bag around in the backseat of your car, as you "just never know" when you might be popping into the gym. And there is that chance to gloat when someone mentions that you've been "looking really good" recently

And I've discovered that the endorphins thing is actually true - not just some big fabricated lie that teenage magazines would make up to get us to exercise (as I thought in my lazier fat days). There is that rather holistic, new-agey feeling of "true well-being" and tranquility after a long hard slog at the machines to loosen up all your muscles and cagey feelings. And it does do wonders for your sex drive! (again, not just another fallacy to get the couch potatoes moving)

You see, there really are so many reasons to join a gym - you'll look good, you'll feel good, you'll ve a vamp in bed, you have a new excuse to buy a new cute little gym bag, you can make friends with boys (or girls) with nice bums... and through all of the above you'll up your chances of being let into clubs with face/body control for you will be just so booooootiful darling! and very sexy indeed.

Oh, and there's health benefits too.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

PINK: Barbie  

Sorry for being absent of late, but sadly work has rather taken over my life. I haven't even had the chance to be pretty and glamourous recently - rolling out of bed awake is a big enough achievement for weekend working days.

But onto the frills and fancy. I should have addressed this earlier, as it's very old news, but isn't it quite distressing that Barbie and Ken have split up. It was big enough to get onto CNN. The perfect romance of the world has caught up with the cynicism of the real world, and now the most adored couple are each alone. All those bridal Barbie dolls in toy chests around the globe are really just examples of Barbie's wishful thinking, explained the vice-president of marketing at Mattel Russell Arons. Awww, all those dreams now just stuffed to the bottom of the toybox.

It has been speculated that it was because Ken didn't want to commit, Barbie was leading too hectic a lifestyle (Malibu Barbie one day, military girl the next) or even *gasp* that there was another man on the scene. Ooh adulterous barbie! Another one to add to the toychest. I think it might be because Ken-doll had no crotch and he was always wearing ugly white briefs. Like most men, he just started to get complacent and let himself go.

On another note, I had on my super pink outfit (fairy pink skirt and hot pink boob tube) the other day and was told that I was like Barbie. I think perhaps he was actually trying to be rude, but sigh! I was chuffed indeed for isn't that what every little girl aspires to be? I'm like, totally the most beautiful girl in the world!

I also read somewhere in some crazy feminist text that Barbie was actually all warped and created according to men's fantasies because her feet/toes were made to point in the same way that women's feet arch at the point of orgasm. How wonderful to be in that perpetual state of bliss. Now, I'm even more delighted to have been compared to the It girl of Toyland. Bring on the plastic!

Friday, April 23, 2004

RED: Spoilt brat 

Apparently, I have discovered there are boundaries that even spoilt brats cannot cross. Having donned my tiara and chucked a few princessy tantrums, I realised that I had inadvertently pissed off a lot of people recently. Now I am sulking to myself about how silly I have been, how I have actually made myself look like a bit of a fool instead of the little darling I've always rather envisaged myself (!), and well, how very "unfair it all is..."

There is no fun in being uppity unless you can get away with it, but the people I try this around are rather more thickskinned and blunt and have given me the metaphoric slap across the face for being a prima donna.

Oh pooey. Sulk.

Friday, April 16, 2004

BROWN: On the boat 

A few of us at work have come up with a new term: "to be on the boat" is to be going through a dry spell in the world of bedroom excitement, or not getting any at all. Sadly, there are quite a few of us stuck onboard, and we keep getting recruits. Shame, as they're all lovely and very shaggable. Perhaps once we've recruited enough, we could start leaving the boat in pairs and all frustrations could be dealt with internally onboard. Sort of like a dating agency, where people are only eligible to join when they're truly desperate. (And when the point of absolute despair has been reached however, and there is no hope, you start to morph into the boat yourself).

Fortunately for me, I shall be hopping off the boat very soon - I can even see the shore from where I am now as I prepare to trip out to Australia. It shan't last long, though. The boat will be circling the island and will pick me up in 4 days' time when I fly back home. Still, as they say, some is better than none. And just as well, for I have started to fantasise about pouncing on unsuspecting men at work.

GREEN: Sophie Ellis Bextor 

Recently, I rediscovered my Sophie Ellis Bextor album, Read My Lips, and have been catapulted back into sugar-coated, bejewelled Brit Pop. For days now, I have been driving along in my delicious car (which, for a change, is working smooth as double cream) blasting 'Murder on the Dancefloor' and attempting to sing along in my not-as-sexy croakings.

I have been very much in love with Sophie (first names, now, shall we?) since her debut solo album. I think it must be the shocking peacock green eyeshadow, the dancing mannequins in her 'Get over you' video, the unusual rhomboid-shaped head, and the deep, breathy, delectable way she says 'dah-nce', and 'Ahf-ter' a nice change from the usual bastardised nasal-sounding American version found in most songs. Also, surely, the decadent little pleasures found in her songs that make it a must to go out and be naughty all over the place:
"I know I know I know I know about your kind, and so and so and so and so, I'll have to play"
"I'll blow you all away, heeeeeeeeey" (which really, sounds more like "I'll blow you all the way)
"Take me home, take me home, only fair I get my way"
"You deserve a girl like me"

Sophie-on-your-stereo conjures up temptations to eat dark chocolate, dress up in a micro-mini and bright pink pumps and pretend you're doing a striptease. And not far off, beckons fantasies of threesomes in a luxurious king-sized bed, filled with white pillows.

Sophie and her kitschy-serious music recalls youthful days as I danced around on splendid high heels with artificially-coloured/ artificially flavoured electric blue alcopops in both hands, surrounded by beautiful, shirtless, hairless, sensual gay men. Sophie unleashes the flourescent, metallic colours in your head and unlocks every possible type of desire in your bits. It's about "elements of debauchery": shocking slapper-red lipstick, golden high heels on revolving dancefloor and a tube of strawberry flavoured lube.

But sod all that. I just want to be Sophie Ellis Bextor.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

BLACK: New hair 

I've just had a hair cut. Not with the dashing red-streaked stylist I interviewed (Monday 5th April entry) but someone even better.

Nevermind that though, the hair is more interesting. It's big big BIG and messy now and deliciously plied full of hair products (wonderful!). That clean flat rebonded look is so out darling! Now, with all the layers running up against each other on my head I feel schizophrenic, decadent, the ultimate glamour queen who wants to tell everyone off for having boring hair. It's like all my multiple personalities are surfacing now since the weight of the hair has been snipped off.

Suddenly, with the new hair, I'm rummaging around in my shoe cupboard looking for my outrageous pair of glass slippers, I'm wearing a ridiculously metallic blue dress with prints of giant roses, purchased for £5 in a Sarah Coggles sale, I have cravings for coca-cola in those vintage bottles, I've pulled out those skimpy g-strings again (having lapsed into a period of Bridget Jones' pants of late), I'm feeling friendly enough now to go onto Friendster and look up old pals, I even felt a slight twinge of good will towards one of our photographers today.

The transformation is frightening. Someone said today that they think the hairdresser might have snipped off more than just my hair; and that was after he said I looked like the Single White Female and ran off in mock terror.

Nevermind, I think t'is pretty and I'm ready for havoc.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

RED: Pretty intellectual  

Allow me a few moments of bragging - I just got my MA dissertation back in the post and it was given a high distinction. Ooh ah, all very impressive sounding perhaps but I was not trying to be intellectual. I wrote 20,000 on Vogue in the 1920s because I wanted an excuse for looking at old volumes of swish knee length dresses, peacock-styled shoes and vintage advertisements for Pond's cold cream. I also wrote a paper on Sex and the City (excuse: to watch four seasons of the programme, looking out specifically for the sex bits) and on Bret Easton Elis' scandalous novel American Psycho (excuse: to see if I could put 'cunt' and 'fuck' into an academic context, and get away with it). Fortunately the gambles paid off and I squeezed distinctions for them both too (brag brag). I scored my lowest on the one paper I tried to be extremely serious about which was on transnational identities of the Malaysian Chinese (yeah yeah, exactly...).

As it turns out, frivolity is the new intellectual movement du jour.

After a year in "a community of higher learning" (so said the head of the English department's postgraduate studies as she welcomed us into the new year) I have come to the paradoxical conclusion that to be deemed intellectual is really to digress into what is all fluff. Apparently, you can be more intelligent while talking about aspiring socialites of the 20s and footwear for holidays in Biarritz than about elevated poetry or postcolonial theories.

And, well, that's all the justification I need to continue philosophising and waxing eloquent on lovely, lustful things.

Monday, April 12, 2004

WHITE: carpe diem 

I'd been deliberating over whether or not to go visit the boy, a few thousand miles away in Australia when I recalled a particularly lucid incident of a friend leaning over and eloquently shouting the words "CARPE FUCKING DIEM" into my ear. That sealed the deal, and I shall be flying out on Saturday.

Sunday, April 11, 2004

BLACK & BROWN: shooooes 

I've been a bit erratic with writing so there shall be three entries today, to make up for lost typing time.

Shoes then, have taken on epic proportions since Carrie Bradshaw/Sarah Jessica Parker made it fabulous and glam to wear ludicrously expensive footwear. But perhaps it wasn't so much that she'd started the trend, but rather that she picked up this nonsensical obsession from women the world over and made it ok to buy new shoes whenever, wherever for whatever.

We're all guilty of owning too many pairs of strappy black sandals, red stilettos, even styrofoam flip-flops with big red hawaiian prints. But there is nothing more traumatising in the world of wardrobes than pairing a fabulous outfit with ridiculous shoes. Yes, shoes make the outfit, for it will bring out or put down the rest of what you're wearing. And I've even heard there are people who 'read' personalities according to the type of shoes worm - and they're not far off really. Nothing interesting can ever be said about court-shoe women for example; while plenty can be said for anyone who has the guts (or bad taste) to walk out in eighties' style flouro orange pumps (oh no).

And shoes you unearth from your shoe closet every morning and slip on plays along with the mood you're in the rest of the day. Every fashionable dame knows that high heels will help you take over the world as you stomp and click your way across city pavements; kitten heels for being demure and girly; ethnic soles for the more bohemian, free spirited days; funky trainers for being indie, laidback, trendywendy cool; and flipflops for when you can't be bothered with any of the above or for ugly days.

Heels in particular though, work magic. It helps that they make your legs look longer/your body leaner/your whole persona more sumptuous and radiant, but requires much effort on the part of the wearer to float about with elegance and poise all day, something I usually throw off in place of flat beaded sandals (still pretty, yet comfy). The boy makes faces when I wear heels because I become taller than him (he got a bit stroppy once when his parents commented that I looked taller than him - it was so very cute and deserving of an extra kiss from my lofty position - I'm up on a pedestal indeed!). Friend told me yesterday though that there is a (Chinese?) saying that if the girl is taller, her man will be very prosperous. Fab fab, even shoes have 'his' and 'hers' benefits. I shall be sure to don my brand new stilettos next time we're out on the town.

In the meantime, was lured into buying yet another pair last night, in between dinner and the ballet. They pinch slightly at the toes and I must be very dainty while wearing them, but such is the price that must be paid for glorious footwear. I shall put off worrying about gnarled feet and clawed toes until the time comes when I am old and can no longer wear anything but loafers. Until then, onward! onward! to the shoe boutiques.

PINK: Romeo and Juliet at the ballet 

I did a posh thing yesterday – I went to an orchestral performance of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. We haven’t quite made it up high enough on the cultural ladder to have our own ballets here, so instead, a prerecorded performance of the ballet was projected onto the screen while the orchestra performed live. (For a change, I guess, the orchestra were in the limelight instead of the dancers on stage.)

Now I’ve never really been one for ballet, having gone only for the music – I never really saw the point in going to see something where the people on the stage don’t really say anything to each other and are there just to prance around in tights.

Oh but it was divine… and a prerecorded performance of the ballet turned out to be better than expected – we got close ups of distraught lovers’ faces and Romeo’s very well defined, tight arse: a reason to go to the ballet if every there was one. My snooty opinion of prancing ponies and feeble men in tights has been well challenged - Romeo's body was far smoother and aesthetically perfect than any of the muscle spamheads grunting over at the gym. I now know that to spend so much time on your toes must undoutedbly make for nice tight arses and super svelte streamlined bodies. And flexibility always scores points for interesting movements in bed.

Also, on a more serious note, I've discovered the real passion behind dancing about and twirling. In three hours, dancing and music was enough to slam all of my cynical romantic notions and make me fall in love with the same sickening giddy-headed feeling that I did the first time round. It reminded me all over again of the headiness of falling in love the first time, and dancing with the boy in a club the first time we were together (it was very R&J-esque though the dancing was more to house beats in a club, than to Prokofiev in a simulated Verona).

Many have laughingly told me that I take myself far too seriously when it comes to the arts, but I can't help it. I really do think that when done well, art like this speaks to the head and the heart so strongly it can make you curl over weeping. And really, what could be better for your daily dose of thrill and excitement than arousing the emotions (the more dramatic the better)?

Apart from Romeo's arse ,clad tightly in powder blue tights, that is.

GREEN: Spring and Easter 

Happy Easter! The newspaper’s Sunday supplement featured pictures from around the world of people celebrating Spring – it was all cherry blossoms, giant coloured Easter eggs and street dancing.
Here in the tropics though, it’s quite another story. We’ve had abnormally intense bouts of heat, which is overtaken within a matter of minutes in the afternoon by tremendous thunderstorms. It’s quite odd, but still, it’s delicious weather and very cosy indeed.

After four years in the north of England where rain washed about all day like the insides of a toilet bowl, it is exhilarating to be back here where the rain gushes down in sheets and thunder rips around like Zeus playing a big hearty joke on us.

As I write this, I'm sitting cosily at home, in my new Pierre Cardin knickers (yes, the ones with the bows) drinking tea, eating chocolate, and listening to Billy Holiday while the storm wrecks havoc outside. It feels delightful and indulgent, and a bit naughty thinking of everyone who's stuck outside in the rain, scrabbling for shelter.

(Thunderstorms also make for a great sexy ambience but the boy is not around so I will have to make do with Cadbury and Lipton instead).

I deplored the rainy weather of the British Isles, but it’s just so exciting here - rain is like a little adventure here. Sometimes you hear about trees being uprooted on main roads, causing huge traffic jams, or rooftops being blown off – and all the while, you’d been lounging around at home like a coddled egg.

I have to say, it makes for much more fun than daisies and eggs.


Thursday, April 08, 2004


Honeytom has just predicted that flat chests will be in again soon. I hate to inflate his ego but he has actually sort of been proven right in his fashion predictions and I am sort of (still, sadly) a bit in love with him so I'd like to believe it's true. I just hope he's talking about women & boobs there... and not men & man-boobs/buffed pecs. It better bloody well be! The flatchested have not had their time in the limelight since the 20s and 80+ years is a long enough time for not being oggled at.

RED & BLACK (and sexy): Knickers 

It must be said that the single bane of my so-happening, pretty life is a distinct flat-chestedness and lack of decolletage. I did have a friend, well-endowed with the most inviting of cleavages, who pulled a face when I complained and said "well, isn't it, uh... so much lighter?!" That's not the point. I'd rather wish men didn't actually talk to my face so often and checked out the chest instead. When I complained to my mother, the dear lady said rather brightly (bless her) that I would fill out once I got pregnant. hm.

Ah well, I take comfort in the fact that I shall not suffer the droopy boobs and backache when older, and also that underwear designers are making bras lovely enough to distract from the truth that they are actually quite heavily padded and look more like mountain peaks. Now, shop assistants in lingerie shops tut-tut away your insecurities while turning over bra cups to show you how well shaped and rounded they are. Now, you can be sexy and fashionable while enhancing the illusion of curves at the same time. Now, with an extra bit of help from my bronzer, I may have the faint silhouette of a cleavage!

Bras are the indispensable fashion item in my wardrobe that I wear because they are pretty, not because I really need that support or that anyone will catch me with my highbeams on. No more of the white or (even more disgusting) flesh coloured rags I was made to wear as the grotesque teenager I was. 8 years on, my bra drawer is bursting with colour like a sweetie bag and shopping for bras and pants is as indulgent as eating double chocolate fudge cake. Bright blues, silky turquoise, lilacs and my most recent purchase, a delightful little pink Pierre Cardin number with black ribbons and a little motif of dancing shoes in the corner. You couldn't imagine something so near your bits being so darling.

Wearing delicious underwear is like making up salacious rumours in your head all day about the people you hate. It's knowing you have a whole different outfit on under your yawningly unexciting work clothes. It's like a private surprise party under your set of clothes that only special party guests get to see. It's enough to make me forget for those few precious moments as I dance around in my undies to Kylie Minogue, that my err, curvy boobs are really more peaches than melons (or not even so). Ah.. who needs air brushing when you have bras! All illusions are possible with fashion technology.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

BLACK & WHITE: Cute blondes and Robert Mapplethorpe 

I got a lovely email from a friend, blondie, today which brought back to mind the many sex-related conversations I have had with her. We planned whole nights around Sex and the City and then sat for hours dissecting Cosmo's sex tips (verdict: all nonsense); we spent hours trying to understand why men were so fascinated with girl-on-girl porn; we tried to figure out if many everyone in the world was bisexual; we engaged everyone we knew deeply in a discussion about what was or wasn't vanilla sex.

But it wasn't just all promiscuity and lewd talk - it was all very intellectual as well. Blondie, cute little glamourous blonde with perfect hair, not a ditzy cell in her rather immaculately dressed body, decided to write a paper on Robert Mapplethorpe's photographs of naked black men. Or rather, Big Black Cocks. This involved going to the British Library in a remote, dwindly part of North England and looking up huge arty volumes of beautifully poised men and erect penises, flowers and S&M sex (which Mapplethorpe also specialised in as you may already know, though what the connection is I haven't yet figured out).

While I shifted through thickly bound texts on narrative theories (raw end of the deal indeed), blondie, the very image of sweet and lovely Alice in Wonderland herself, sat across the table engrossed in black and white photographs of fisting, fingers down penis holes and huge, huge cocks. Because I had earphones on and we all had to be very shhhh in the library among the old aged pensioners, blondie would gesture wildly and excitedly from across the huge desk to show me a particularly charming photo of a man with his arm up an arse, all the way up to his elbow. She made plenty of notes, though I'm not sure what of. We had a few giggles later thinking of the old powdery, bespeckled librarian climbing up shelves to retrieve these many books filled with everything but vanilla sex, only to hand them over to the sweetest looking girl in the entire county of Yorkshire. Ah well, it's always the most innocent looking isn't it...

Unsurprisingly though, she got a distinction for the paper and I hear she is now dating an American Psycho/ Patrick Bateman lookalike. Some girls do have it all.

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

WHITE: Wedding dresses 

I've had a run of luck recently and had the chance to interview lots of people in the fashion industry. This is but a short spell though, dear readers, and soon I will be back to the doldrums of what I usually do (shan't talk about it here as it is not very interesting). I've had a week full of glamour, peopled with characters whose jobs are to make others beautiful. It is shallow I know, but I am wallowing in it with the delight of a 6 year old girl and her dress-up box.

Today, I met some lovely quirky people who specialise in custom-made gowns and formal wear. It was a cosy, dishevelled studio where on one side plastic bags and bits of fabric spilled over each other and on the other, splendid gowns in delicious colours floated fairy like on mannequins and racks. And the masterpiece: a veritable beauty of a wedding dress. None of that meringue look, not a frill or stupid lace trimming in sight - just a classy, sleeveless cut and delicate embroidery. It would make any frumpy bride look elegant, and every cynical lover want to tie the knot.

Yes, in fact that's probably the single, biggest incentive to get married (also, the big cake) - if only we could do away with the rest of the formalities, the nosy people, the silly gold-embossed invitations and the "roses or lilies?". Ah yes, and the whole marriage thing itself.... but that's topic for another day. For now, let it just be about pretty dresses. I feel like a young girl of 6 again with my head full of fancies!


Monday, April 05, 2004

BLACK: hair 

A trip to the hair dressers is usually quite near torturous for me for I never know what I want and usually come out looking more mop-like than ever. I tire of trendy hair salons that are all starting to look the same, a la Toni & Guy and whitewashed walls; and I never know what to say to the hairdresser when she starts her small talk malarky about the trivialities of my life.

Ah, but hair help is on the way, girls and boys, complete with lovely looking hairdressers with nice arses. A trendy website scores extra points with the gullible and shallow like me. Packaging is the product these days, my lovelies. The salon itself is styled in Balinese fashion with striking orange walls and delicate wooden trimmings, and sleek, gorgeous people float about (wearing orange) in artistic distraction. You feel fashionable just being in it, in a multicoloured-streaks, funky-clothes kind of way. One of the stylists was wearing a tiny miniskirt with 'honey' written over her arse in glitter; another guy was sporting red and blue hair like a French flag gone a bit wrong. There must have been only one girl there with monochrome black hair, everyone else had eclectic splashes of vivid colour.

I interviewed the top stylist and director of the salon today. He even bought me a coke and had enough boyish nonchalant charm to make me actually feel a bit nervous... or perhaps it was just the rather fetching hairstyle and sexy streaks of red. He is a self-proclaimed poser, and though posers are almost always ridiculous by default it seems to be almost ok when someone unabashedly plays up to the camera and strikes come-hither poses. He waxed lyrical about getting inspiration for his work from travelling, clubbing, and from colourful fish. He also added, "I love all kinds of people! Trendy people, old fashioned people..." It's fascinating, I've never met such a wonderfully happy hair stylist with such odd, interesting behaviour.

Anyway, I'm entrusting him to cut my hair this Friday - I shall come out looking like Cher or Elton John I hope.

Sunday, April 04, 2004

RED: Fantasies 

I was having a think the other day about sex fantasies and realised that more often than not my desire has been more let down than turned up. Now I'm just another cynical girl with a vibrator.

The teacher-student fantasy didn't work because mine were all too hairy and smelt of powder, and like all stereotypical academicians lived in a dusty world of smelly old books. Some of us at uni had our eye on a particularly dashing tutor. He was all charm and wit but he had these big awful jowls like a bulldog and it was offputting indeed.

The sex-on-the-boss's-deskfantasy fell through because my boss is a 40 something year old woman who I don't particularly fancy. Not that she's awful, she's just not my type. Also, her desk is far too small, oddly shaped and filled with clutter and she's only ever in the office to remind us how far behind we are on our work - hardly a turn on.

Now I know that they're just supposed to be fantasies and not actually happen in real-life but then, pretending isn't quite as fun as the real thing. And knowing that you're sort of only settling for half by role-playing puts a bit of a damper on things. You know you're not being spanked by a real teacher and you certainly don't risk being expelled from school - how unexciting. I am a terrible liar and an even worse acctress, so dressing up doesn't really work because I end up feeling a bit ridiculous and much like a fraud. Also, PVC is too sticky and sweaty, lace is too itchy, and knee-high boots get too hot.

I have never seen a fit, sexy, swooningly handsome fireman/doctor/policeman or any man in uniform that doesn't look grizzly. The stripper-fireman thing doesn't really work because you know he won't really save you from a burning fire and then revive you from your dizzy spell atop his big red firetruck.

Porn fails to illicit new desires because it is now just a big comedy with a few not-really-naughty bits (See previous entry).

No hardcore SM stuff for me because I have absolutely no pain threshold - a cracking whip does little but make me want to run away screaming. And should the boy dress up in leather, chains and a gimp mask, I should curl up and die of laughter.

Once while using handcuffs, it got so exciting we ended up making huge gashes in the wall with them. Now I wake up every morning and see these big grey streaks across the room. Also, it cut into my wrists and felt horridly uncomfortable (no fault of the boy though; rather, the cheap £2 quality of the cuffs. The least you could do is invest in good props). I think we may have to downgrade to the slightly friendlier pink furry ones next time, though the boy will probably find them too silly and fluffy.

etc etc

oh dear. What is a horny girl with no imagination to do?

Friday, April 02, 2004


I interviewed a make up artist today - svelte and sophisticated she was indeed! In she swept with the clunkiest of make-up boxes, all shiny and silver like what the professionals use... and when she opened it, oh! a veritable treasure box of lipsticks and pots and sparkly tubes and all manner of colourful things. It was all very glam for that one hour while we spoke of photo shoots with Harper's Bazaar and fashion shows, before I went back to being boring and un-madeup.

The funny thing though, is how much time women spend on their makeup, only to achieve 'the natural look'. Oh but isn't it such a waste of effort to spend so much quality time with your mirror, brushes, pots and beloved make up bag, only to end up looking well... just like yourself. Perhaps, 'the natural look' is just a nice way of saying that even the ugly people can look good - in other words, you don't need to undergo too drastic a change to still achieve an attractive (read: natural or normal ) look. Hurrah for the ugly ducklings.

Yes yes, makeup is wonderful for 'bringing out your strong features' and giving your face a lively lift advise all chi-chi rah-rah fashion magazines, but it is infinitely more fun to buy turquoise, purple, bright red eyeshadows, plaster it over your eyelids like a jackson pollock painting and make a big bright attention-seeking statement. Bright shots of colour far outdo the thousands of combinations of brown-and-cream blends (blah). Multicoloured pots of eyeshadow is the playdoh for the 20 something year old girl and must be stretched to its limits until it splats quite vividly all over one's face.

Best just leave that natural look to the ugly people.


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