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Monday, May 31, 2004

PINK: Girls  

Now that I've cracked the angry bone back in place (heel boy, heel), I shall temper the last entry by going back to intellectualising on frivolity. So then... to pick up on a point made earlier, I am becoming increasingly aroused by images of naked women. Most naked men, with the exception of the boy or people I fancy and want to take to bed, rarely arouse any exciting thoughts in my head. I think perhaps, it may just be because the average guy in pornography does not have his head shown, is ugly/unshaven/has unwashed hair or carries no expression on his face. They hardly seem to be enjoying themselves, really. Bless em, the poor bored things. Even if the women are pretending to look like they're enjoying it, at least it's somewhat arousing?

Or perhaps I do just find women more arousing. I don't usually fancy them enough to want a relationship, or even sex - videos of the anonymous porn chicks usually satiate a particularly randy evening, alone with a packet of AA batteries. Hmmm, so where does that place me? It probably means that the average (ignorant) man on the street out there will now think me a closet lesbian or bisexual, at least. Also, it will probably get the boy quite excited to hear this - we may be one step closer to the threesome thing. (hah!)

Which brings me to the larger question of sexuality and labels: straight/gay/lesbian/bisexual/transexual. And what about the in betweens? The Kinsey (?) scale places people on a continuum between levels 0 to 6 where 0 means you're exclusively heterosexual and 6, exclusively homosexual. I like to believe very few of us are purely 0 or 6. Most of us, whether we'd admit it or not, are probably part of the whole string of sexual preferences in between. Queer theorists have since come up with the idea that preferences (sexual or other) exist on a fluid basis which are always susceptible to change. Right on! Keep the desire flowing.

The very frigid skeptics sighed and exclaimed. Can't they just make up their minds? Ooh but isn't it just so very dull to be stuck so rigidly (ooh pardon the pun) in a sexual rut? Any sexual rut, as it were, including sexual preferences. Nothing is more boring than meeting a guy who has decidedly staunch, frigid sense of delusional masculinity which dictates that he can only like women.

Jonathan Dollimore, one of my uni tutors and one of the most influential queer theorists around for example, lived a high flying, very out-and-out gay life but is now happily married to a woman and has kids. A close guy friend who's in a very seemingly 'normal' straight relationship with a girl, has no qualms about checking out another man's arse or having long, excited discussions about his very fit male roommate's topless torso. It was hard to place where he really was at first (oooh gay? straight? bi?), but after a while, it didn't matter anymore. It just became incredibly sexy listening to someone dip in and out of different sexual melting pots. At the end of the day, my dear lovable readers, it's about pleasure, and desire, and having a fantastic time in bed - does it really matter if you stray a little from the sexual dictatorship you've formed in your head. Ooh go on, shift the peg you've placed on the Kinsey scale, you know you want to.

So, sexuality fluidity (not EVER to be confused with sexual fluids, god forbid. You never know about people who haven't quite got their heads about the nuances in English) should be marketed a bit more - get a few more people out of their self created closets. As long as no innocent children, animals or unconsenting persons are involved and hurt in any way, let your desire rip wildly out of your pink lacy g-strings. For now, I shall hold on fast to good sex with the boy, but bookmark that "porno chicks" link on the side, anyway.

BLACK: Karaoke lounges and GROs 

The boy and I got into a conversation about karoake lounges and the girls that come along as part of the package (a common and primitive trend practised frequently in these parts). I believe they're called Guest Relations Officers which sounds more fancy schmancy than my Journalist Grade I title ever could. Right on par with satellite reproduction engineers for photocopy boys, and sanitation managers for toilet cleaners.

The conversation got increasingly agitated, mostly on my part. The boy, like most hot-blooded males thought it all jolly and dandy. I, the nazi-feminist-when-it-suits, find it all highly irritating. I'm not even talking about the extra sex and what-goes-on behind the karaoke screens; I'm talking about having women around just to pour drinks and ask you how your day went. Are you that incapable, dear men?

Yes, yes, we all know they are paid well, freedom of choice etc etc But nevermind the nuts and bolts. We're talking more than the cash here. To cite a well-versed, overcooked question among feminist circles, is it not just slightly demeaning to the image of women? Not just the women all dolled up and fawning about karoake lounges, but say, the rest of us? Does the fact that you are about as highly regarded within that karaoke room as the bowl of peanuts, the bottle of brandy and um, the tacky beer-stained sofa not quite resonate in your pretty little head?

It smacks slightly of free-for-all-ism: after all, the girl is as up for grabs as, well, the peanuts in the crystal bowl and the ice in the ice-bucket, and everyone gets a go at having their egos buttered or their faces stroked. It's not even unabashedly out-and-out prostitution. At the pouring-drinks and small-talk stage, it's even more ridiculous than that for all it is, is frantically fanning an ego and making a fat, balding middle-aged CEO feel even more arrogant about himself than he already is.

All you wise and worldly men out there, please enlighten me on what the fascination is. For are you really that incapable of holding a decent conversation with each other without having a-random-girl prance around you in spurious circles? Are you really living such a sad little lonely life that you need vapid extras to 'keep you company'? And here's a stunner: Does it never occur to you that she looks enthralled at your every word because she's being paid lots of money to feign interest? Now, there's a surprise. Alas, so much for 21st century man - or are you all really as simple as we think you can be and so very, very easily amused? Do please enlighten me for I fail to understand.

The boy turned the question on me and asked what I would do if it were the other way around and a man starting talking to me. I say I'd tell the guy to buzz off and kindly move his flat behind to another seat, a reaction the boy thought 'defensive'. Rather, it's because I think I'm quite capable of entertaining myself without the superflous vacuous company, thank you good sir. And also because I know he doesn't quite give a rat's arse about what I have to say at all; any conversation kicker is more likely to be inspired by dollars-per-hour than out of any modicum of interest towards me. Get lost m'boy. You obviously cannot have anything interesting to say if you are being paid to talk to me. Me, I like proper conversations (no matter how frivolous or serious) with proper people who aren't being nice, or pretending to be nice, just because I bought some Johnny Walker.

Unfortunately dear readers, not all of us can be this discerning, least of all frequenters of karaoke bars who get excited by cognac at an offer-price and "oooh, girls!" (squeak/giggle). Now let's not be too conclusive about the poor male population: I don't mean this of all men and I'm not always such a man-basher. I just find it a bit too ridiculous, this whole silly hostess malarky and the gormless men who gobble it up. And yet, it's everywhere. So please enlighten me before I choke on my own good perceptive sense.

In the end, the boy said I was thinking too much, yawned and promptly went off to sleep. Which says a lot, perhaps, about what men think - or don't think - of the subject anyway. In any case, I know there's not a lot I can do about it, it's like the Singaporeans trying to stop gum-chewers (hah!). But hey, anything for a good angry rant. Next up: saving the ozone.

Sunday, May 30, 2004

RED: Love stories 

Very true love stories of the century - these should make even the most anti-romantic of cynics sigh a little:

My mother's best friend, A, had been stuck in an unhappy marriage when she met T, also stuck in an unhappy marriage. Things were great between them, but they had to end the relationship because they were still in their respective marriages. So they stopped all contact, lost all contact and got on with their lives. 13 years later, each on a business trip to South Africa, they bump into each other at the airport and end up on the same flight. Now they've been happily married for well over ten years.

A friend, V, from high school told us that her mother got pregnant with her when she was only about 18. Her mother was promptly sent away from Indonesia, all the way to England to have the baby. V was born somewhere in Brighton and lived there until she was 6 with her mother. Up until the age of 8, V never knew who her father was and only called him 'uncle' when she first met him. Anyway, V's parents kept up a long distance relationship (in a time when there were no emails, webcams or cheap international phone cards) and finally got married when V was 10 years old.

Lovely, no? It should make all of you want to fall in love right away and imagine violins in the background as you kiss beneath twilight skies.

Saturday, May 29, 2004

WHITE: On doing nothing 

I have spent most of today in bed, wallowing between a duvet, a mountain of cushions and a still, idle mood. An entire Saturday spent dozing in between lazy, half-hearted attempts to read is delicious. Let the rest of the world buzz about in traffic, shopping malls and hyper weekend activity: sometimes it is delicious to be far far away from the madding crowd, accompanied only by the thundering of rain outside a tinted window and Miles Davis' Kind of Blue on the stereo (old fashioned but a favourite for indulgent days).

A day for simple things - warm longing, butterflies-in-tummy inducing thoughts of the boy, far away; the snug, downy touch of softened, well-worn bedsheets against the skin of a bare back; the feel of skin on skin, as legs brush against each other when I lie on my side (it is wonderful indeed to be naked); the smells of fresh earthy rain and that comforting nostalgia-inducing smell that everyone has in their own bedroom; lying in wait of that single trumpet note above a quiet piano; letting a phone ring and ignoring it (it could never be that important).

Anyway, this entry is too much of a strain for a decadently lazy day like today so I shall have to bid a hasty goodbye and go back to lolling between the sheets.

Friday, May 28, 2004

A mixed bag 

I have been suffering a sudden spell of neurosis today and shall only be able to write in disjointed sentences and thoughtforms herewith:

- It is every girl's right to feel vindictive and angry whenever she wants to.

- There is a guy at work who I used to think was just-another-friendly-guy, but who apparently is an outrageous flirt in secret (?!) Now I just want to whisk him away to a bedroom full of roses and white bedsheets and drink wine off him. I hear he reads this blog?...

- I've realised that despite the many late night parties and my attempts to be a social butterfly, I actually secretly enjoy nothing more than flopping around at home in slinky pyjamas, comfy cotton underwear, drinking hot tea and watching rubbish TV. It is very important to be cosy.

- There is no point in telling smokers to quit smoking, because 100% of all non-smokers die too (haha).

- Why is it that images of naked women are so much more arousing than naked men?

- This comes as quite a late response, but I note that an insightful little commentator a few posts back has pointed out (in a rather ingenious sort of way) that I'm an inspiration to ugly people. Chuckles.

Thursday, May 27, 2004


Did anyone hear about the Vaseline Man? Read all about his delightful adventures here. Hats off to anyone who decides to have a daily wank and then have the gaul to leave a gooey trail of mess behind him.

Now let's not underestimate masturbation, ladies and gents - the world, I'm certain, would be a much much better place if only people would let go their repressive little selves and have a wank or two. Well, repression and its repercussions is a whole other story which we shan't divulge in today - suffice to say that if more people were finding their own personal pleasure we would have fewer uptight office bitches, anal-retentive obsessive-compulsive cases and people with inferiority complexes trying to make it big. Also, it goes without saying that it's the best way for anyone to discover themselves, find out what works best for them and bring it all to the bedroom for extra explosive sex with an other. Masturbation with a partner - no matter how vanilla it sounds - is fabulous, darling, just fabulous. It's like having a fantasy in your head sitting right next to you.

It was noted by a friend the other day that there is always something sort of sad and pathetic hearing about a man wanking - Kevin Spacey's miserable, lonely wanking-shower scene in American Beauty rubbed every male's face into the stark sad reality of it all. Still, that hasn't deterred any of the men I know - they're all still happily chugging away. On the flipside however, female masturbation always peeks cheekily from a sexy veil of hidden and very desirable mysteries. Think, the masturbation scenes in Shanghai Baby, outrageous novel which caused uproar all over China and was an international sensation for years after; or Charlotte and the Rabbit in SATC; or the pages and pages of Cosmopolitan that trump the pleasures of self-pleasure and toys. There is a certain glamour factor about sex toys for girls - silver coloured vibrators and pretty pink packaging for enormous dildos make masturbation a fashionable, delightful thing to for the girls to indulge in, and a sexy, desirable thing for men to fantasise about.

Either way, the saying goes that 99% of men masturbate and the other 1% just lie about not doing it. I've also heard the same said of women, but despite the sexy glam images of female masturbation recently touted everywhere, I've been trying to figure out whether the percentage thing really goes for women for there too. While I'm quite sure there are many, many girls out there having a merryderry time with fingers/vibrators/cucumbers, there are also plenty of women I've met out there who are so frigid they you could make a jelly mould out of them, for no reason other than that they seem forever stuck in some old Victorian closet. You don't imagine these girls even know what vibrators do. Get with the programme dear readers. You know who you all are out there (though I'd prefer to think that none of my dear readers are stuck in the closet) - forget the shame and the taboo all the other emotional rahrahs. Areas below the belt need some TLC which will do wonders the world over in your little head too. Feel the loving!

And remember girls, Kegels, Kegels, Kegels for added pleasure.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

PINK: Babies 

Oh dear, I think I set the wrong tone with the last babies entry - now people think I am of violent temperate and all ready to hack innocent toddles with a machete. I said I disliked them but I also (vehemently) dislike and find irritating Mercedes Benz drivers, people with bad telephone manners, and people who say 'stuffs' when they really mean 'stuff' - it doesn't mean I grow red in the face and want to rush over to cause great bodily harm. Also, dislike doesn't quite mean hate - it means 'not like' and does not necessarily imply malice.

In fact, I'd quite like all the kiddies of the world to be cosy and safe and warm. And I still have a monthly direct debit going out to NSPCC UK every month. I'd just prefer not to have anything to do with them directly, like sing songs, listen to their stories and hold their sweaty ice-cream covered hands. Usually, I walk away, mutter my disdain or make a face at them - all very harmless and I've discovered, not very damaging as they usually tend to find someone else with more enthusiasm quite quickly.

Also, I am mostly quite courteous to children I meet for the first time. I refrain from making the googly noises or feigning screams of delight, but I am as polite (or indifferent) to them as I can be... So take heart all you doting parents and broody types, I have no bad intentions. Rather, not liking kids usually just means I won't touch them if I can help it. At most, I sit far, far away and mutter to myself, so you can be assured of staying cosy and safe and warm.

Sunday, May 23, 2004

BLACK: Funny dreams 

People often tell me that they never remember their dreams - I haven't quite decided whether that's a blessing or not. Dreamless nights must be ever so relaxing, but also dull?

Over the years, I have amassed a little sleeptime archive of dreams that have recurred so many times that the dream version of me always refers to dreams that I've had before. I have horrible teeth related dreams, for example, at least twice a week - it's become such a part of my unconscious night-time life that now, whenever I dream of teeth falling out I think to myself within the dream, "But this time it's real. It's not a dream anymore, my teeth really are falling out."

Other recurring dreams include:
-Lifts that travel horizontally and diagonnally and never stop at the floor you want it to. (Frightening sense of vertigo and a great deal of panic)
-Walking barefoot into a digsuting public toilet.
-Maths/ French/ Biology classes and realising that I'm going to be bollocked for not having done any work.
-Going back to boarding school (yeech)

The dreams are unsettling, not so much for how very strange they can be, but rather for the vividness of the experiences. I've spent many a moment trying to remember if something actually happened, if someone had actually told me something controversial or if I'd just dreamt it on a particularly turbulent night.

Last night, I had one of those dreams which are nice while it happens, but which you wake up wishing it'd never happened, even in your subconscious. It's the sort of dream where you dream about someone in deliciously romantic, sexy ways... lovely, it sounds? Except that the person in question is usually someone you'd always deemed asexual/repulsive/your all-time favourite (plutonic) buddy. The lucky man this time was one of our photographers. He sort of falls into the asexual category, though is fun to flirt with if only to seem him squirm for not quite knowing how to respond. Anyhow, in this dream we'd ended up back at his apartment, an expensive posh number with a stunning view of the city, pretty lights and all. There was no sex - there often isn't these sorts of dreams - but there are plenty of seemingly meaningful glances, flirtation and arousing touches which upon awakening send repulsive shudders down your back. Suddenly, the dream makes makes him somewhat desirable and it will make encounters awkward for at least another 2 weeks for you will spend all that time imagining what it would be like if you really did sit on his lap and let him stroke your legs.

Fortunately, I woke up just in time before anything more traumatic happened. When I dozed back into a late morning slumber, the dream was overtaken by dreams of good old-fashioned sex with the boy. Safe and cosy and nothing squeamish - just the thing which soothes a nightmarish subconscious and which makes remembering dreams really rather blissful.

Saturday, May 22, 2004

ORANGE&GREEN: Bad Fashion 

Dolly has been grumpy and tired of late, due to the terrible and rather sudden spell of hot weather. The big sexy thunderstorms suddenly upped and left us in the excruciating sunny dry. It has been taxing indeed to move, and all I can do is languish and drink big quantities of cold water from a pink plastic cup.

However, something has caught a Dolly's pervasive eye of late and it must be brought to your attention dear readers: bad fashion. I have great fashion-writing ambitions but have recently realised that it is a profession that doesn't really help anyone in any sort of meaningful way, except big-ass capitalists and designers who are already drowning in excessive wealth. However, having seen some rather dire concoctions on the street of late, I feel a career in fashion journalism would not be amiss in helping the aesthetically-challenged (or ignorant) to save themselves much self-inflicted humiliation.

For example (and these are real examples which have hurt a Dolly's poor eyes in recent weeks):
Case 1 -It is not in any way stylish or appropriate for a woman over 40 to be fitted out in a white pant-suit/jogging thing with JUICY written across her bum cheeks in bling-bling-rapper type font, and a very scrunchy visible panty line. 'Juicy' things like this may just work if worn in jest, with a slight tongue-in-cheek flick of the finger to fashion police - sadly though, I fear that this monstrosity, in all its highly pruned coordination (right down the matching handbag etc), was assembled with great deal of seriousness, with a blissfully unaware and sincere belief that she was strutting real good looking, funky stuff. (hah!)

Case 2- There is no justification for pairing dark green plaid with anything, especially not kinky strappy leather heels with metal trimmings suitable only for S&M role-playing.

Case 3- Even if the 80s may, at any time, see some sort of distorted fashion revival, it is never ok to wear flat yellow pumps with orange fishnet tights - all the more so if you happen to be Chinese as anything remotely yellow only accentuates how very orange you can look.

A few things to consider, my darlings, before you dive into fashion hell and come out looking like shirley the clown. (Also, it saves the rest of the public from having to cast their poor delicate eyes upon what might be a frightful eyesore and a very rude shock):
1) Think before you leap into clothes racks and buy. If you think it would look stupid/disgusting/hideous on anyone else, it will probably not look any better on you.
2) 'Unique' usually just means odd, unwearable and great potential for being ridiculed behind your very juicy back. There's probably a reason why you can't find that outrageously dumb design anywhere else. (case 1)
3) A number of (what you consider to be) great looking items, may not necessarily look good when all thrown together in a moment of empassioned fashion frenzy - this can just result in a OTT colour/fabric/pattern orgy of mismatched styles that make you look like a walking remnant of some obscure rubbish modern art. (case 2)
4) Just because something is 'in', it does not mean you can get away with wearing any and everything from that 'look of the season' (case 3). Sometimes enthusiasm can be overcooked. If nothing else, it spoils it terribly for the people who do actually get the look right.

Really, unless you're Lil' Kim or Elton John, it's best not to try to make too many fashion statements all at once (for even they get it wrong). Less is more, dear readers, less is more.

Thursday, May 20, 2004

PINK: It girls 

I have decided that if I could be anyone else in the world, it would have to be one of the Hilton sisters, supersocialite It girls of New York. I'm quite sure the reason anybody hates them is really only because they are consumed by terrible, raging jealous and all just want to be them. Could anything be more fun than to be media-honeys, social queens and lavishly rich and not have to do anything to deserve the attention except send out a few scandalous sex videos and wear pink miniskirts? oh! to live in a vacuous never-never land of boys and parties, where it's ok to say stupid things because people don't expect any less of you.

As a Hilton sister, you can get away with wearing a tiara without looking stupid, turn up at a party wearing little more than lingerie and be coveted by men everywhere even if you have small breasts. On the other hand it is quite alright to be trashy and to parade around in excessive makeup, because people will snap you up and splash you all over the pages of People magazine anyway. Men and women love you so you appear in both sets of magazines - double coverage. And as the icing on the cake you never have to worry about whether scandalous media lies will ruin a shakey career because well, you don't even have one! Nothing to prove and no silly ladders to climb. You get fame and fans the world over just from having a romp in bed with your boyfriend (and oops, accidentally letting him tape it just for fun!). And everyone wants you at their parties anyway, whatever you do.

A quick look at a Paris & Nikki website will show you that their 'careerography' includes small roles in films as "Girl on beach" or "herself", countless modelling jobs and "represents Tommy Hilfiger". Oh the hard work! Apparently Paris wanted to be a vet when she was young, but now it's more fun just to tote around a little dog as a fashion accessory. And Nikki is enrolled into Parsons in New York, just to intellectualise the fashion thing a bit. But heck, even if you fail miserably in all your endeavours, it's ok because you'll inherit the Hilton dynasty. Lovely!

Yes, I think it would be great fun (and I'm not even being sarcastic).

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

PINK: Homosexuality & homophobia 

Just to follow on from the previous entry about my great love story with a gay man, here's another: I received a brilliantly touching email from a friend today about being at Cambridge City Hall, in Boston Massachussets the night before same-sex marriage applications were accepted. He's known for being dramatic but his email struck a real chord. I have argued with homophobic thugs so often and so intensely about homosexuality (ignorant homophobes, I have learnt, will never understand) that it was getting tiresome; I was losing sight and starting to give up talking to these yobs. But reading this email reminded me how very, very much it means to have people understand homosexuality, and that huge ugly gap of intolerance that remains so starkly open.

He writes: "But seeing our very own friends getting married means so much to us as well. It means we are able to marry our own loved ones someday and we can look forward to a relationship as meaningful as theirs." And that's what it's all about. Meaningful relationships and a freedom of expression. The homophobic ones, sadly, will never see that.

It makes me angry, and it so utterly disgusts me that even among the people I know, there is still such a huge, huge proportion that refuse to accept and understand homosexuality. Usually as I try to point out how stupid and wrong they are, they don't quite get it - also, they seem to think that because I am (seemingly) straight, what with a boyfriend and all, I don't have any grounds for defending homosexuality and I am talking out of my arse. As it turns out, with these sorts it's not okay to make racist comments, but it's very okay to want to kill gay men.

At a recent dinner, friends of family started airing their views on same-sex marriages (at the time, in California). I sat, jaw agape and stunned to a mute silence, as I listened to them talk about "how unnatural it all is". Marriage is about a man and a woman, said the disgusting little gnome of a man, as if he were God. I said, "What about the erm.. basic thing called human rights and freedom of expression?" He managed to turn that into a joke, roared at his own weak humour and went back to his pasta dish. I was so appalled, I couldn't bring myself to start arguing for fear that I would get so enraged I would tip the table over and put the butter knife to other uses.

As far as I'm concerned, the only people with the real problem are the people who can't accept something as basic as a person's sexual orientation or preference. Obviously, they are the ones who have such great problems with themselves and with expressing their own sexualities that they feel the need to degrade and hurl hatred at others who can. Because, quite frankly, if anyone with any sense was secure enough in their own sexuality it wouldn't bother them two hoots what other people are doing (having sex with sheep, men, women, men&women, blow up dolls, cucumbers). Whatever rocks your boat baby, so long as you're not hurting anybody.

Funnily enough, these straight(laced) homophobes with their BIG heterosexual badges think they are all the rage with their 'normality'. Pish to normality - little do they know that they are still mired somewhere in the late 1800s with their corsets, arranged marriages and copulation-for-reproduction. Usually, the ignorant little shits I have the most arguments with are all men; but a gay friend put it all right for me once when he pointed out that they "are just all in need of a big juicy cock." There goes it. Poor things, the poor straight homophobic ignorants don't quite realise that if anyone is sitting in a frigid little closet, it's them.

Monday, May 17, 2004


Honeytom gave me a mention in his blog recently. I'm terribly pleased, as I like his blog and I love Honeytom even more, so much so that I'm writing a WHOLE entry about him. You see, like he says in his blog, I had a large and rather unhealthy crush at him while at university, and there will forever remain a soft, heartshaped little spot for him right at the bottom of my right ventricle (or thereabouts).

As it so happens, I hated Honeytom with a passion when I first met him. I thought him weasly and a sneak. We were rivals in the grand little world of student media (pretentious little hacks, all of us) and everyone on our camp was brainwashed to hate the conniving, snivelling, floppy-haired wretch. Once he said hello to me as we passed on a narrow stuffy little corridor - I recall giving him an evil glare and turning off at the next possible exit.

The one day I got a bit drunk, as you do, and suddenly decided he was the most wonderful man in the world. I ran around a black-tie event in a 700 year old Medieval building announcing that I wanted his babies. So began the one year long crush. Fortunately, we became good fast friends, so the fancying thing just became a bit of a joke after awhile though he never ceased to rub it in my face that could never sleep with him even no matter how much I wanted to. Of course, chances are I would have lost interest long ago if he was straight.

For awhile, with Honeytom I lived out the blissful, unaware days of a faghag, surrounded by all the men I could want without the hangups. Honeytom would send me on little missions to take photographs on my tacky disposable Kodak camera of cute indie boys he fancied at clubs. By default of course, these very boys were all straight, so I got to snog them instead. We had own favourite club in town where anyone who was anyone would meet on Tuesdays, drink green caffeine-laden drinks (all very innocent mind, none of that ratpoison/drugs rubbish) and dance raucously to Kylie Minogue on smelly beer stained carpets. Even when I was dating another (straight) boy, I would run rapturously across a crowded club to splash Honeytom with kisses and spend most of the evening checking out his arse (that dating fiasco didn't last long). Photographs from that last year of university were all peopled with beautiful, gorgeous boys like Honeytom; I was surrounded by beautiful, gorgeous boys like Honeytom who I could fall stupidly in love with, without all the grave repurcussions/disappointments of a proper 'straight' crush. Sort of like being in love with a painting - you can't quite do anything about it but relish the feeling anyway. I could live in a deluded sort of world: nevermind these boys all bat for the other side and were as camps as a row of tents, that was all part of the attraction. Oh the (mis)adventures! The fond memories of a pink youth that wash about the insides of my ageing oldlady head.

I shall not go into another rendition of that overcooked discussion about how a gay man make a woman's best friend (though it is very much true). Suffice to say that every straight girl should have a Honeytom, if only to keep her on her desiring toes.

Sunday, May 16, 2004

BLACK&WHITE&RED: Threesomes 

There's a splendid little chapter in Candace Bushnell's novel Sex and the City, (the wonderful little tract on sex that spurred the series of course) about threesomes. In it, 7 men share their views on everything that's ever crossed any sexually inquisitive mind about the menage a trois - what's good, when, how, why, with whom, and all-the-things-that-could-go-wrong. Bottoms up (ooh er!) to Bushnell for cleverly marrying plenty of sexy tongue-in-cheek writing with insider info that Cosmo never ever has the full guts or audacity to cover. (You would think this shouldn't be difficult seeing as the number of chick lit volumes has so merrily exploded onto our shelves of late, but few of them are actually witty and funny enough to stop me from hurling the volume across a barren room.)

Anyhow then, I've been giving threesomes plenty of thought of late - the more the merrier, new jolly experiences and all that (though from what I understand from my vast range of reading material (!) threesomes are nobigdealanymore). And I fear that I would be too riddled with insecurities to ever really letgo and enjoy. Should theothergirl have nicer legs and bigger breasts I might run away screaming, or suffer a great deal of neurosis for days after.

Which has led me to question whether it would be better if theothergirl was a close friend or a complete stranger. With complete strangers, I would spend too much time trying to figure out what's in her head, whether she's pulling a sneaky behind my back and trying to steal the boy, whether she's gloating over her longerlegs/nicerbreasts... ad nauseum. And so after much deliberation (good sex needs thought), I've decided it would probably work better with a close friend, someone with whom I've shared so much with already that a threesome could only be the next logical step. Unfortunately, the only other girls I would want to do a threesome with are in other continents (the far away ones at that, not even Australia which is nearby). And bless them, they don't even know they're on my shortlist and would probably be horrified if/when I do eventually pounce on them. "There's been something I've been meaning to ask you...." etc.

I've concluded that the only way it could work is probably if all three of us involved were strangers, or not involved with each other in any way other than purely plutonic (less emotional rahrahs...). And only if it happens spontaneously: planning sex just never quite works, what with all those expectations and let downs.

Alternatively, I reckon a threesome the other way (two boys and a girl) would be good stuff too but boys usually get a bit funny or so horribly freaked out about the whole otherguy-and-sex thing (read Eve Sedgewick's stuff about that fine social/sexual line that men are so terrified of crossing over. Riveting!), that it isn't worth the grand effort of persuasion.

So, anyone up for a romp? haha

Friday, May 14, 2004

PINK: Babies 

It is the weekend, hurrah! Friday night, Saturday night and a langourous Sunday afternoon lie in wait after the bell tolls 5pm on Friday-working-day. But wait, boys and girls, my Saturday is being shattered, and the culprit is a baby. It's his one year old birthday party and his parents are making attendance mandatory. Nowadays, the only people who really do damage to my jolly good moods are critters under the age of 15. I think it perhaps apt (or ironic, depending on how you look at it) that I will be tripping to the gynaecologist earlier that same Saturday morning for another pill prescription. It must be pointed out that these trips are usually quite frightening - not for any bad news the doctor may tell me but rather that it is always unnerving to sit in a waiting room surrounded by pregnant women, their husbands and their already-walking-3yearolds running havoc around the clinic. I feel conspicuous, being the only one there to see the gynaecologist because she is desperate not to have a baby.

Friends are all getting broody and squeal in that annoying, excited way when they see a baby. "That baby is so cute" does not resonate with what little maternal instinct I may have. Usually I am of the opinion that "That baby" is not especially cute - he looks just like every other screaming diaper-clad 7monthold. Most men I meet are all appalled when they discover that I am anti-baby. Something biological must click in them - obviously I am not of 'mating/reproductive' potential - and they usually move away. Girls: faking an interest in babies is, apparently not outdated in dating circles; animal instincts persists.

I cannot stand the baby talk, the incessant and incomprehensible gurgling of words both on the part of ridiculous adults and of 4yearolds who want to tell you everything in their relatively small worlds. It's not their fault, but I find it trying, tiresome and incredibly difficult to feign any sort of interest in what an under-10 has to say to me. Having tried to force myself into answering them, I've since realised I have no gift for sustaining any sort of dialogue with a child. Now I don't even bother - their short attention spans forgive and forget easily. In effect, the only person you offend are their uptight parents.

Speaking of which, perhaps the only thing more irritating than the little critters themselves are their persistant parents who insist that you must adore their unbearable offspring as much as they do. These are the sort that make you feel guilty and abnormal if you don't want to carry their child/feed them/take them on a walk/gush wildly when they start singing over the dinner table. These are the sorts that make oneyearold birthday parties compulsory.

I don't mean to be horrid to babies and little people; I just don't like them. Apparently though, choosing to have nothing to do with babies equates to being horrible - by default we must be nice to babies and lavish all attention on them. Some people like dogs, some people don't. And so it follows that some people like babies and some people don't. (Un)fortunately, I'm of the latter, and I can't help it: I find dogs more fascinating than the average under-10.

The boy, also is not keep on children but has a much more sensible reason for never wanting babies - he points out that the world is already so overpopulated at the moment and resources are so quickly being depleted by greedy humans. It would only be selfish to introduce yet another human being in the world to sap up resources, when there are already so many unwanted children in the world needing homes, and so many people out there who aren't getting enough just to live. Noble indeed.

I'm just a meanie. I find them irritating, and for now, I'm holding on fast to my pill prescription.

Dolly Disclaimer: I know I used to be a baby too - but I maintain that it is the single most embarrassing thing in my life and I prefer not to acknowledge it.

Wednesday, May 12, 2004


Today, I spent 20 minutes of precious company time talking fervently about the elusive G-spot. I can't seem to find mine you see - a great dilemma among women the world over - so I thought I'd seek some advice. What followed was a heated, intense discussion between butterfly (we call her so because she loves them so very much that she almost is one) and myself about how to make the G-spot rupture in bursts of sublime ecstacy. I didn't understand what she was talking about, it was all very, very baffling.

But I'm a Cosmo girl! I'm supposed to have heard/read/talked about all this a hundred times over - I was suddenly feeling terribly embarassed and naive indeed. She must have thought me a right muppet, especially as I spend most of my days talking about sex, and had only just been raving about the benefits of vibrators. Being the persistent sort of wretch that I am though, I flurried out more details from her and then went away to think about it (all good sex needs some thought).

A few hours of heavy contemplation later, I realised that she'd actually been talking about the clit. What an anticlimax (pardon the pun).

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

WHITE: Vanilla Sex 

People I knew at university were a funny lot and by the time I was doing my MA, my immediate circle of friends had become even more weird and wonderful. Using the broad umbrella term of intellectual discussion as an excuse to wax eloquent about all things obscure, we spent hours over cups of tea discussing subjects that would ordinarily be deemed degenerate and disgusting. We were postgraduates and we relished the thought that we were just one tiny rung above the smelly undergraduates. We boasted intellectual thought, fascinating research and above all, a great deal of delightfully self-aware pompous pretentious behaviour.

Our place of conjugation was in the cramped kitchens of the poshest girl among us (also, the poshest person any of us had ever met - she is every 18th century heroine reincarnated several times over). It was superb - a time to indulge in intellectual brain candy that would serve no purpose other than to have us screaming uproariously in laughter and to delude ourselves into really believing we were part of some academic elite.

And so it went - as poshgirl poured us mugs of earl grey (Tetley would have been too common, by far) we would contemplate the warped realities of postmodern American life, candidly laugh off the male fear of castration and when vanilla sex stops being vanilla and becomes deviant, a discussion I reminisce about with much fondness.

Everyone agreed it was just the boring safe stuff, yawn yawn, change the subject... until one of the boys, poshboy (Oxford educated, and quite possibly the only person I know who can say cunt n a manner so posh it ceases to be at all offensive) decreed in a knowing tone that 'vanilla' was anything so long as it was repeated so many times that it ceased to be deviant.

Oh what uproar! "Does that mean then, that if I were to tie up my girlfriend in chains and fuck her with some outrageously huge dildo while having another girl suck me off and a guy fuck me from behind while watching hardcore S&M porn and videotaping the whole act it would still be vanilla if I did that every night?" asked someone with a foul mouth and an imagination too vivid for his own good.

Poshboy said yes without hesitation, so the examples got cruder, lewder and so very disgusting that it eventually veered away entirely from the main argument. We came to no conclusion other than that poshboy was having fabulously, dangerous kinky sex under the guise of being a vanilla boy.

Intellectuals indeed.

Monday, May 10, 2004

BLACK: Evil PR people 

I had a slight run in with a snooty PR lady today. I had sent her some questions, which on hindsight, I profess, were not well worded, and came out sounding like I was slating her company (which had not been my intention). She got very much on her high horse about it, which I suppose, she had every right to. I apologised when she brought it up; I rang back later (on another matter) and apologised again, admitting that the questions were out of line. Her sugary happy-clappy voice suddenly got grumpy, she "humphed" and bade a hasty goodbye.

Now I know I was wrong in the first place, but I was repentful, I did admit a wrong-doing and I made every effort to extend the olive branch. Nothing irritates a courteous dolly more than having a sincere apology shoved rudely back into her face. There are far too many precious little PR people who have deluded themselves into thinking they control the processes of the world, when really, all they have to learn is how to get along with real people.

Effectively, being a snooty cow does not make any rah-rah PR lady any more favourable and it does not bestow an aura of exclusivity around her head. It just makes her a bitch, and more than likely, less people (and less media) are going to want to talk to her or her precious company - which in effect, nullifies the whole point of her being a PR lady in the first place.

Dolly disclaimer: That's not to say that I think all PR people are evil. I know plenty of lovely ones too, who more often than not make up for the bad lot. When they're nice, they're extremely nice, and when they're evil, they're the devil in a mink coat.

Sunday, May 09, 2004

BLUE&PINK: Boy meets girl 

I am trying to avoid divulging too much about a dolly's real life, but I have been feeling particularly sentimental of late and feel the overwhelming desire to write grand long, flowing lines about love. Ah l'amour!

Love is not dead, my dear cynical ones. I fear it is very much alive and encroaching ever so slowly into our souls, to sap away all our energy. And knowingly, we shall let it creep its sneaky tendrils around from our ankles to the napes of our necks, until we are dizzy with vertigo and swooning like lovers from black and white movies of the 1930s.

I have been missing the boy very much of late. As the story goes, mine is one of "boy-meets-girl, boy-and-girl-fall-in-love, and boy-and-girl-are-separated-across-many-miles". Just the sort of delightful tragi-comedy we like to indulge in in sappy movies. As a result of missing him oh so very much, I have turned into a moping mess. And so, of late, I have been prone to wax eloquent about being in love, to every and anyone who will listen (most of them at work do, the darling things).

I was never a romantic though, boys and girls. I was completely, utterly decidedly a cynic (and proud of it). Love was for pansies and an utter waste of good youthful days. I "grew up" at university within a circle of gorgeous gay men who believed that relationships should never last more than a night. Yes, passing fancies and shallow crushes on boys were the extent of my loving and were very quickly done away with the minute I discovered some sort of stupid flaw in each garcon-du-jour (rather, I consciously sought for it). I spent many an evening feeling fabulously single and scoffing at couples so inseparable that people would only ever refer to them as a single entity (adamandjenny, johnandkate). None of that for me!!! Forget the sappiness and commitment rubbish, I was lavishing the attention of any and everyone.

Then came the boy, and cliched though it sounds I fell, rocketing headfirst, in love and a whole sarcastic, smarmy world was turned around. Now I find myself talking in gooey voices, I find some way of dropping his name in every conversation (you've probably noticed) and I carry his photograph around in my wallet. I've turned into the silly romantic I've always despised for their cooings and glazed doe-eyed looks.

As it turns out, the boy and I are as different as chalk and cheese but opposites, I guess, really do attract. He is as practical and down-to-earth as I am scatterbrained and dizzy; he is as much a sciencey person as I am a distracted artsy one; he’s as audacious enough to openly piss people off as I am safe and prim. I had sworn, as I was growing up, that I would end up with boys who were artistic and dreamy – in fact, the boy spends his days on oil rigs, finds the theatre a bore, has read maybe one novel in the past year and hasn’t a clue what CD is in his car stereo. On paper, he is everything I would have snobbily scoffed at in my high artsy-student days. But I am so in love with him, I am starting to forget my own name!

And apart from the distance, it’s as perfect as it’ll ever get. I feel like I'm in an Adam Sandler chick-flick movie where the audience sighs wistfully at every scene. My parents are in love with him, my friends are in love with him, even a colleague at work looked at his photo and said with a sigh, “oh! he’s so shaggable”. My best gay friend is horrified that I have managed to stay in this relationship for sooo very long. I have all the symptoms of being well and truly bitten by the love bug: We make faces at each other, and have coined silly phrases that only we know of and use. I have started using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘sparkly’, and my heart bubbles up like microwaved butter when I listen to classic love songs (even Rod Stewart and the Bee Gees). I wake up feeling miserable because he's not next to me, I spend all day with his name in my head and my last thought before I slumber is that I'm one day closer to seeing him again.

Oooh, isn't it so very disgusting. I despise myself for being such a sap, but this being in love thing is too fabulous. You must all try it some time.

Saturday, May 08, 2004


We are regressing and things of today are no longer fashionable. Only things redone, remade, rehashed from the past are groovy, baby. 70's flower power, 50's polka dots and halter tops and (god forbid) even 80's flouro leggings have found their way back into the best of catwalks and the most secret wardrobes of fashion addicts.

I hear the 20s are back right now. John Galsworthy and F. Scott Fitzgerald would be proud of us, but I dare say we probably aren't having half as much fun as they were back then. And that's the thing - life, in all its simplicity and polka dots, did look so much more fun way back when... Today, as I walked past a shop aisle filled with irons, toasters and kettles I thought mock-nostalgically of how nice it must have been to live in a time when getting a blender from your boyfriend would have had you in squeals of delight. Nevermind the Internet, text messages and computers - wouldn't it have been so much more fun receiving proper mail, getting a telegraph at breakfast and (wait for it) writing by hand? Wouldn't it have been twice as exciting being there when women started wearing pants or when shorter hemlines were cause for scandal; when mini skirts first came out or safari suits were 'it'? Getting it secondhand now, as redesigned and adapted versions for the noughties seems like copyright infringement of cultural zeitgeist.

Still, in an attempt to relive what might have been should I have been born many decades earlier, I have been replaying Frank Sinatra to death in my car - it makes me feel like I'm driving a Ford during the boom years of good wholesome American history (which had a lot more to say then than it does now). I have a retro calendar and diary, both filled with luridly coloured kitschy images of a world where women baked cookies and applied makeup while men drove Fords and went to Space (How very sexist, but hilarious all at once!). I am also delighted at the come back of Audrey Hepburn type fashion, and the pastel colours that make it ok to be a pathetically upbeat girly cookie-baker or jam maker (career? what career?).

It seems an idealised, romanticised version of the past but my trendywendy mother of the 70s confirms that it really was as great as it seems then. I think I've been born far too many years too late.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

RED: Lipstick and looking good 

A friend once rang me up and spoke at length for an hour about the "importance of looking good". It was irritating but fascinating at the same time, like that repulsion-attraction thing that overwhelms you when you pass a car crash, or see a gargoyle. So on and on she went about how single girls need to look attractive otherwise boys won't look at them, how you must make the effort to dress well and wear makeup, how it is important to portray a certain image, how you must not "let yourself go" or your boyfriend will sleep with someone else... And so it went on...

Editorial pages in Vogue of the early 1900s would extol the virtues of powdering your nose and applying rouge as often as possible, for the right man may be just around the corner, any corner. "Thank goodness for outward appearances!" they exclaimed in 1926. By 1940, as war was being waged across the world, Vogue advised its readers, "Be ready...to greet him. Now, if ever, beauty is your duty. Now, if ever, by that crystal-clear conscience: clothes that will charm him. Remember - none but the fair deserve the brave."

It's not as harsh now, but I am still more than likely to be complimented on the fact that I am "now so pretty" (implication being that I have come out of the misfortune of being ugly) rather than on any other achievement in my life. Oh, such an awful lot of pish. Yes, yes, in our fake shiny modern/postmodern world, it really is all about first impressions and outward appearances, but isn't it rather dull indeed to play along with the plasticated faces and the layers of foundation? You may look good with all the trimmings of eyeshadow and immaculate clothes, but you'd also just end up looking like every other made up mannequin. Um, dear readers, are we forgetting a little thing called Personality? Surely even the most shallow of eligible bachelors will tire of walking blow-up dolls with perfect faces if they discover the vacuousness behind the silicon exterior?

The most sought after girls I knew at university, with the longest line of boys trailing longingly behind them, were also the most unkempt. They boasted uninteresting, uncontrollable hair, went into raptures over odd looking garments bought at second-hand stores, and the only thing that touched their faces was lipbalm. But they had ceaseless energy, they had fascinating things to say about everything, and everyone wanted to be around them. Even the gayest men with the strongest of aversions to women would sumptiously declare that these girls were the most beautiful girls they had ever met. No amount of dolling up or making up would ever attract me as much attention from the opposite sex as these (rather oblivious) fair maidens.

At the same time, my first boyfriend, apparently, started fancying me when I was at my most undesirable - a time when I was living in a house with no mirrors, when I didn't have time to do laundry and had to wear mud encrusted jeans for weeks, and my funky spikey hair do was growing out into a most unruly mullet. When I first met the (present) boy, I had come from 3 months of excessive summer holiday eating; I was decidedly bulging out of the baggiest of crummiest of jeans I owned (again, unwashed). I like to think I charmed them with my unabashed confidence/witty banter/boundless energy/sparkly charisma/all of the above.

So there goes it - looks really aren't everything (and I'm not even trying to be idealistic). I guess the "I want him to love me for me" adage still holds true for a sweet old-fashioned tart like me. Despite my fluffy facade of delicious flouncy skirts and adorably packaged Stila cosmetics, I am at my most loved-up element when I wake up next to the boy in a crumpled nightie, my hair in disarray and crust in my eyes.

And as it turns out, the friend with the lipstick/nice hair/perfect outfit ensemble is still single.

BLUE: Under the weather 

Dolly has not been well of late, which accounts for the lack of entries. The sniffles have caught up with me and now I cannot feel my nose. I was chided last night for "not being bothered" to write a blog entry, but really, drinking hot mugs of lemon tea and whining is about all I can muster up the energy for.

I also have the luck of co-writing the cover story this week, and it is not happening. Fortunately, it's about lying and being dishonest, which is just what journalists like. It makes us feel at ease with ourselves. Unfortunately, I have to make it look like lying is a bad thing, which is never half as fun. It is our job, apparently, to speak to and educate the law-abiding, honest masses. Something about um... credibility and commercial value. I think I shall have to seek a new vocation - in a trashy tabloid perhaps, which doctors photographs of Kate Moss and makes up new Mr. Men & Little Miss characters that are kinky and mischievious.

Monday, May 03, 2004

WHITE & frilly: miniskirt 

I am not blessed with ultralong ultrathin legs, but mini skirts are in and I'm taking the high-legged plunge. The ones in Zara are adorable and the newest addition to my wardrobe family is a ludicrously short, frilly white number. I ventured to wear it to work today (it's a public holiday so nobody cares if you turn up slobby, dressed like a tart, or nude). The skirt got a disapproving look from a girl at a cafe, approving glances from (boy) writers in the sports section, and a tut-tut from my mother - everything needed to confirm the success of an item of clothing. And as a bonus, it's frilliness and ludicrous length (or lack of it) makes for a fabulous shake-of-the-ass that gets everyone screaming in delight.

Following its overwhelming success, I was back in Zara this evening and have bought another bright red mini, with even bigger frills. I feel like cake: all sumptious, sexy and delicious. Recently, I had a look at my mother's pictures from the 70s, when she was a 20 year-old glamour girl living the high life in London. Decked in 3 inch knee high boots, uber-short minis and huge curls, she was the definition of a 70s chick which I have since been trying to emulate. Unfortunately for me, the good genes got diluted and really rather mangled with my father's more unglamourous ones - so I will just have to make do. But at least I have Zara, and their skirts are perfectly designed for the attention-seeking narcissists like me.

Next up: high heels and plastic jewellery for the ultimate kitsch.

Sunday, May 02, 2004

WHITE: Bedsheets and sleep time 

Though I'm usually one for colours, I have discovered how very, very cosy it is to actually sleep among white. White sheets, white curtains, white walls swiftly carry you off to a cloudland, where all is soft and slumberous. Odd, lurid colours for bedding must be done away with, for really white is all that is needed for that delicious 8 hour slumber every night, or more, for the truly slothful such as myself.

Ah yes, sloth. There really is nothing nicer than an indulgent, slothful day in bed. All day. It helps to have someone else to be slothful with - and white bedsheets, in all its purity, makes for extra good sex-and-siesta sessions throughout the day. Unfortunately, the boy is an early riser. He gets out of bed at 8 and hounds me until I get out of bed, get dressed and go out to town with him. Being slothful is best left to when I have that alone-time to be lazy.

There is nothing more sinfully indulgent than dozing all day, in and out of scrambly dreams which feature any and everyone you have ever met in your lifetime. I like to think that as I sleep away the daytime/nighttime/midday hours in a whirlwind land of eclectic, colourful dreams, I am actually subconsciously collecting ideas and storing away creative energies. In my magical slumber, I have dreamt up whole orchestral symphonies, I have created demented horror stories, and I breathe underwater. It is the sort of odd behaviour and attitudes that I like to think all aspiring artists or writers (successful or not) have. It's a part of the angst ridden, eccentric circle that I would like to belong to.

I have been chided for wasting my good youthful days in bed. "You're young" shout the hyperactive anti-sleepers, "You should be out and about, not wasting such precious time asleep." Ah, but that's where they're all wrong. Sleeptime is never wasted time, for I enjoy it above all else. Every morning, as I push aside my plethora of cushions and crawl dosily out of my cushy white haven, I am already looking forward to jumping back between the covers that very night.

For now, there are only about another 7 hours to bed time. I'll see you for a night cap. Nighty night.

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