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Wednesday, June 30, 2004

BLACK: Comments II 

It seems I am ruffling a few feathers with my apparent juvenile and terribly inexperienced tendencies. I think it quite funny that readers get agitated by what I have to say and yet persist on reading. If nothing else, the perceived agitation provides good fodder for writing - whichever way round, t'is fun to antagonise, no? Like I've said before (and will repeat for the sake of those who thought themselves too good/clever/elevated to read/understand the first time round - read carefully now:), you are not being forced to linger and scan - if it irritates/offends/causes aggravated twisting of knickers any of sort, there is nothing holding you back from moving swiftly along to something that better suits your delicate and very intellectual tastes. This is just a wee blog: yes, so I'm not as experienced as the world, but then I've never purported to emulate or dispense the experienced wisdom of Chaucer, Elizabethan poetry or Andrew Marvell re: love and lust. You shan't find that here, my worldy ones, so if you do intend to get antsy and het up with my every childish word, then kindly shuffle along to the nearest bookstore which stocks the great works of Anais Nin.

Now, I'm not averse to (constructive) criticism; I do believe in fact, that some of the best critism is scathing, though beautifully written, critism. Repeated rantings of how juvenile and inexperienced I am however, does not quite reverberate as anything truly useful or insightful. Quite like teenagers proclaiming how much they 'hated' a movie because 'it sucks it sucks it sucks, man.' If you have nothing but grandiose statements of the high and mighty to patronise me with, the least you could do is write it well and eloquently, if only to show how very learned you are to be able to impart such wise and discerning thoughts. Oh, I don't know, use conjunctions or something: three letter sentences/exclamations and the quoting of entire paragraphs sans any engaging comments thereafter will make anyone sound as inexperienced and juvenile as my good self.

In any case, this shall be the last of bothering to reply to persistent and easily agitated readers. While it can be fun, it can also be tiresome repeating what I consider to be common sense i.e. re: this blog/writing: no obligation to read/love/delight in it or me: take it or leave it eh? (or have the decency to criticize intelligently).
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Sunday, June 27, 2004

PINK: The simple way 

Pardon the long absence: I've had food poisoning. Beware my dear readers of the nasty stuff that is dished up in The Star's canteen - it could be the death of you.

But I am back on top form and would like to start with a hats off to Jez and her tract on kissing which you can get here. The most erotic and the most fun part of getting physical for the first time is 'the first kiss': the slight hesistancy, the unexpectedness and the final full on pash, followed by first touches that lead onward, onward.

And so: Lips on necks, tongues on nipples, lips and tongues circling areas swelled with anticipation and pleasure, the licking, kissing, sucking and playing silent tongue twisters around the body with your mouth. And of course, the occasional breathy kiss, lips to lips, as you pause between the fucking and the panting bodily contact of all over to remind yourself of how desperately arousing it is just to be with this one person.

A gentle reminder to the boys that foreplay should not be understated! Oh my dear men, exercise those tongues for the mouth can be as thrill-inducing as your other manly bits, if not more so. And should you treat your princess with the most delicate yet energised of mouth action, she will probably be more inclined to repay the favour with her own lips in near future (if not, then send her over to me for lessons in the art of enjoying kissing, blow jobs and similar things performed by the dexterity of the mouth).

For what can be more fun than using your lips in power play of pleasure and the most intimate of exchanges. I have read that in some cultures, way back when, prostitutes would not kiss their clients because it was too intimate. Odd, considering the number of other compromising positions and things she would probably have done instead; or perhaps not quite so strange when you consider how powerful lip action can really be between two highly energised, aroused, loved-up beings (usually heightned if both parties do actually feel a modicum of interest toward the other, rather than just feigning interest for the afterward action.) Just to be poetic (and temper the rude bits a little), I shall end with two quotations from Robert Browning: "What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?" and from Judy Garland: 'Twas not my lips you kissed, But my soul". Yes, I love to kiss, my dear readers, but only if there is just enough of the soul in the lip locking. None of that common drunken snogging, kissing must have its own standards.
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Monday, June 21, 2004

YELLOW: Attention Seeker 

I confess, I love attention. A bit like the poor desperate sods on Big Brother all clamouring for the moment of glory, I too love it when I have the exclusive attention of everyone around me. ME, ME, ME!

I love that split second between gasping and having expectant faces turn to you to ask you what’s wrong.Just knowing that in the next few seconds you have the full undivided attention of listeners, ready to hear what you have to say, no matter how banal, stupid or riveting.

Forget inner beauty and the rest of Oprah Winfrey’s self-loving philosphies. I like the superficial coo-ing I get when I rock up to a fancy do in a beautiful new skirk... the ensuing discussion about where said skirt was bought, how it “soooo compliments” new boots. Not just that I’m a materialistic clothes whore (another entry for another day) I just like that brief spell of limelight.

Mind, none of that crass, shouty loud sort of attention seeking. Fluorescent coloured hair, multiple piercings, loud discussions about last night’s drunken escapades: none of that. The best kind of attention is the sort received subtly, so you’re not making it obvious that you’re looking for it or, when you’ve got it, that you’re rollicking around it in joyful indulgent glee. Which is why quiet things like a gasp and a skirt do the trick beautifully.

There are people who will run away if they have to cry. I’ve never quite understood that, because I think there is something oddly satisfying about having an excuse to be slightly embarrassed while having lots of sympathy lavished on you at the same time. Anyway, running away just draws more attention to you, so might as well stay put and accept the coddling.

Forgive me. I was the dumpy kid at school and never quite cool enough for the pretty "popular" group basking in the glorious attention of worshipping high-school wannabes. Humour me this little bit while I bask in the momentary sunny delusions of my own ego. I like to think, at least, that I’m being honest and modest about it. And, at least am not (yet) in Big Brother.
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Friday, June 18, 2004

BROWN: Arses 

I thought it would be apt to follow the previous entry about tits with one about arses. I'm a tits and arse sort of girl, you might say. Let me blow my horn for a moment here: Fortunately, what I lack in the upper torso, I think I do make up for with an arse. Not one of as exceedingly large proportions as J-Lo's, but one that sits nicely enough in frilly hipster French knickers and a short skirt. The boy, too fortunately has a splendid one, though he thinks it rather too big. Ours is a relationship where the 'does my bum look too big in this?' cry is more likely to come from him than me.

You see, of late, I've noticed that nothing is more disappointing than seeing somebody stunning only to have them turn around and reveal a distinct lack of behind. It's not so much that it doesn't look as nice, or make them less the attractive - the crux of the matter is the importance of having something you can grab in sudden bursts of passion. Not necessarily anything rude mind, this also works while fully clothed and strolling around Bintang Walk. I couldn't bear the thought of walking with my hand draped searchingly around a flat arse. A firm, just-enough arse is important for its added, though subtle sex appeal. Subtle because it's not something you flaunt in its fleshy entirety (unlike biceps, abs or boobs, say - perhaps I'm just playing sour grapes here. Bear with me); arses are just there, visible and luring enough to grab through khaki slacks (mmmm, the boy).

Pish to kisses and hugs as affectionate gestures. I grab arses.

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Thursday, June 17, 2004

WHITE: Weddings  

There has been much talk of wedding. Many I know are soon to deck themselves in the big white, walk down aisles, profess undying love and eat cake. Romantic no? Perhaps.

Monica's incessant, obsessive wedding-talk in Friends several seasons back has put me off weddings for ever. A friend confirmed this sentiment yesterday when he recounted a story about his colleague who spent weeks concocting elaborate lies about a engagement ring worth tends of thousands which she was to get from her fiancee. It never materialised of course, but it does illustrate the point that the elaborate wedding fuss is often a facade for showing plenty of face and flashing bling bling.

Shame really, for remember, all you die hard romantics, the true fairy tale is that you have made a forever-and-ever vow to the one you love forever-and-ever. Prioritise, if you will over the big rock, or the enormous wedding dinner that serves only as a free dinner to many freeloading distant relatives (I generalise, I know and this shan't be the case for the many out there who aren't of large, political, sensitive Chinese families.)

That said, I have formed my own perfect little wedding in my head. Hence:
- No diamonds. Take note dear readers - if you wish to marry me and if does have to involve a ring, it shall have to be bright, pink, plastic and geometric (circles are passe) of the cheap, cheerful and tacky flea market variety. Also, I have fat fingers which may pose a problem so a bit of pretty ribbon will also do nicely.

- No big wedding party/dinner. Too many complications (the colour scheme of flowers, lettering on invites, fish or chicken on menus), too many people I'd rather not have around, too many people I would like to have around but are scattered too far away in nether regions of the world, too much money that could otherwise go towards a grand holiday in far away places full of strawberries, champagne and cream. If however, a grand do is insisted upon, all are welcome to go but the bride shall go awol and spend the evening drinking sangria with her beautiful friends instead.

- If a party is to be had, it shall be full of colour in the spirit of Bollywood, complete with little bells. No sacrificing of poor, wilted flowers for table centrepieces or hazardous ill-smelling candles. No posh malarky - sit-down dinners, air-kissing and gifts of silverware to be replaced with ladles of fluorescent coloured cocktails (and paper umbrellas), raucuous dancing and gifts of food to be shared in a gluttonous fest of gorging. Only friends and family-without-the-baggage; R.O.A.R to father's-random-business-acquaintanace-and-entourage'. It shall be Dionysian in nature, achieved without monetary extravagance.

- Nothing white as it only makes for staining, thick waists and deceptive ideas of purity/chastity which we know seldom holds true in this debauched day and age.

- CAKE, though as above, none of the white rubbish. There is no point in eating something delightful and sickly unless it is formed entirely of chocolate solids.

- True love and happily-ever-after. You may kiss the bride... and then some.

The end.

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Wednesday, June 16, 2004

BLACK: Comments 

It's been so very dull of late, until I found this little snippet in my comment box - so very delightful as to merit reproduction:

"man, you're so dumb to think that bigger boobs would make you more attractive. you are a really shallow person. i feel really sorry for you. your views on life and sex are really shallow too. methinks you have a lot more growing up to do."

Splendid! The first comment that is as shallow and ranty as my own entries. Be careful, my lovelies, that you don't fall into the trap of becoming what you set out to critique with acid tongues.

Oh but I do think it wonderful when passerbys take the blog so very literally, as if it were a whole and only life... and then get riled up about it. Chuckle. T'is a weblog, remember, not the innermost chambers of my body, mind and soul. And dear readers, if it so irritates or offends, you are not obliged to stay and browse. The option to toddle off to another part of the (very big) web is always open and can be a good one.

Having said so however, I like to think that writing goes up a notch when it begins to irritate and offend. Do for a moment stop to think of the indignation that met the Brontes, the retraction of a book deal for Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho, Salman Rushdie & the fatwa. I know it is hardly apt to compare this with that, but I do rather like being an attention-seeker and swimming about oblivious in my own illusions of grandeur. Even if they are oftentimes stoopid.

But well, you can't please everyone. In the meantime, pardon the frequent appearances of my blonde roots - the giddy, vapid blondes do, after all, have more fun.
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Sunday, June 13, 2004

PINK&BROWN: Tits 

Someone has requested that I write about tits. (Worryingly, it came from a gay (male) friend who seems to be more fascinated by women's bits than men - perhaps it arises from simultaneous repulsion and disgust and he cannot contain the odd fixation.) Aptly, the request came as he was hanging out with another friend who is gifted with the most splendid pair of very real boobs. I often think of how lovely it'd be to spend a day as her and have people talk to my chest instead of my face. She's the sort of bold and brazen girl who, when she rings you up and you don't quite know who it is on the other end says "You don't know who I am? The girl with big tits!" She really is fabulous.

Anyhoos, the request came perfectly timed, for I had spent most of my morning engrossed in an article about boob jobs. What with plastic surgery, friendly looking plastic surgeons and gel-filled inserts, going under the knife looks like a synch and a really rather good deal for what you will later be well endowed with. I hear that you might lose sensation around the area though, and those are especially tingling pleasure hotspots - I shall have to have a good hard think about whether pleasure or vanity shall win the day.

Friends - male and female alike - are horrified when I tell my grand plan to get falsies. The cry goes out "But there's nothing wrong with you!" "You're in proportion" and the best one, "Well your boyfriend hasn't said anything has he?" as if I would go under the knife for a mere man! That's besides the point anyway - I've been wanting a bigger rack for as far back as when we were comparing bra sizes at school. It doesn't matter dear readers if "I look fine/ok" - there is nothing fun in that and things won't really feel complete without a proper pair, whatever you tell me. For a change, it would be nice to properly in proportion (friends' claims that I am are all false, seeing as none of them have actually seen me naked) for I resemble an airport runway more than a woman at the moment. It should also be nice to fill out tops with low decolletages rather than vanish beneath them and to be able to indulge in lingerie without having to first check for adequate padding.(I've written an entry about boobs and bras before, but all is nullified after having read that endearing little article about fake boobs.) But the last two are just bonuses - really, I do just believe I would look and feel a whole lot better if I had some tits! (Really, I'm not being gready and asking for a lot, mind - just some will do) Pardon the shallowness, but it has really begun to take up more space than fanciful surface daydreams in my obscure little mind.

For now, the only consolation is that I shall not suffer the sagging later and that there is an eggnest that is slowly building itself up in my bank account for a trip to the plastic surgeons one day. I shall hope you will all come to visit me with lots of flowers after surgery. And ogle at my boobs.
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Thursday, June 10, 2004

BLACK&WHITE: Conversations 

I'm too tired to write in proper sentences today so shall resort to relaying a conversation I had with a male colleague over our in-house messaging system yesterday. It follows on from the last few entries on porn, my favourite subject of the day, and provided hours of entertainment over uninspiring articles and the slow ticking of afternoon hours.

Me: Are you as bored at work as I am? Here's a serious question - do you think you would ever want to be a porn star? (just fodder for my blog... hmm?!) (of course it wasn't really - just any excuse to talk about porn with boys! - DM)

X: Porn star? sounds intriguing...there's the attraction of doing all the exotic
kinky stuff. I wonder what DP is like? But it'll be a bit of a hassle having to pull
out everytime for the "facial" thing. I mean those cum shots are almost compulsory in all porn films.

Me: What's DP? (pardon the ignorance) (Oh dear, I can be silly and so very green)

X: Sorry, hope I'm not causing any offence. ummm....it's the code-term in porno movies for double penetration. A synonym is "sandwich F" ... but ahem, there's only one piece of bread.

Me: Cause offence?! Don't be silly now. re DP: I've wondered about that. Surely there are limits to how much plugging one can take? I'd fear overstretching and the like, if nothing else (ouch)

X: i've actually seen footage of two "sausages" in ONE orifice. The girl seemed to be having a whale of a time...that's something i wouldn't mind acting in! Overstretch? well, there's fisting isn't there?

Me: re: allusion to sausages - that's why I'm vegetarian! re: fisting: i've seen a photo of a guy's arm up another guy's arse all the way up to his elbow. eew. It was supposed to be an artistic photo too????!
I wonder if it does get tiring pretending to enjoy it if you don't though? surely all the yelping will start to take its toll. It does in real life sometimes so what with the added lighting, camera stress... SIGH! what is a girl to do!

X: Yuck. all the way up to the elbow? what next? the hand emerging at the mouth? jesus.
So it gets tiring yelping in real life situations? I dono, I think men just sigh and grunt.

Me: Yeah they do don't they? No loud exclamations etc. The yelping is fun but could get tiresome maintaining the same pitch and rhythm/ annoy the neighbours/ start to sound fake etc Oh well, perhaps just shouldn't think too much about it and just scream it all out eh?

X: Yeah I love authentic screams esp at the peak. screaming while creaming... The thing that bugs me about porn movies is that they focus so much on male orgasms while the female ones are so obviously faked. I have only seen ONE good one focusing on real female climaxes. G-spot stuff.

Me: "Screaming while creaming" - how hilarious! I must write that down. Yeah most guys tell me they want there to be more real female orgasms instead of just men spraying their cum everywhere - so how come all porn is still so male-orgasm centred? Surely there must be a huge market of men who just like to see 'themselves' cum. In any case, I do think watching women cum is much more arousing than a hairy grunting man!
[oh dear, am so bored with work that I've resorting to intellectualising porn. hope it's not distracting your work&writing too much]

X: Well, as we all know, sex is an extremely intellectual topic. Actually, there is this website dedicated to "real female orgasmic contractions". Turns me on big time.

Me: So that keeps you occupied on uneventful evenings? ;) it's refreshing to talk to men who do care about the female orgasm instead of just getting to the finishing line!

X: It thrills me to give pleasure...not an ego thing, really, just a turn on for me. The Hite Report was a big influence.

Me: Well that's nice to know - will bear that in mind for if/when ever and hold you to it!

The conversation ended rather brusquely and rudely then when I was whisked away to proofread pages, leaving me on the one hand, in a big stroppy huff and on the other, with a peculiar tingle you could get only from spending company money and time (how deviant!) pondering the logistics of DP's and talking to cute boys about pleasure.

Good god, I really must be bored.

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Wednesday, June 09, 2004

PS 

In a similar vein to the entry below: webcams are a lively little addition to any sort of gadgetry (techy, kinky or otherwise?). What you do with it (and someone on another end of another webcam) is up to you and your imagination. Suffice to say though, that the seeing-but-not-touching thing works to a great titillating advantage here and you direct everything as you want them (fingers, bra straps, coy glances, positions). Play up the screen persona, me darlings, and remember to smile into the camera.
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Tuesday, June 08, 2004

RED: Porn stars 

Pardon the mellow, moany entries of late. A poor dolly has been unwell and really rather uninspired but is now back on top form...

So, you wanna be a porn star?

Amongst other things in our hour-long phone conversation about sex last night (it's the least, or most, you can do when far apart and horny) the boy and I got onto the subject of whether we'd like to be porn stars. After that, satiated by quality (phone) time with the boy and quality (real) time with my pink and blue battery toys, I had a bit more of a think about the porn business, before drifting into a slumber, coloured with many dreams of going down on a blonde girl in the middle of an old school field(?).

Now then, porn stars. I've always maintained that most of the men in pornography are pot-bellied, wear the most repellent underwear and/or are grossly unattractive: the poor women in the business really are getting the raw end of the deal. Unfortunately, I am born of a rather old-fashioned camp where I find it exceedingly difficult to feign pleasure and sublime ecstacy when the man who is supposed to be making me scream in delight resembles a pot roast. Unfortunately also, most of the men I do find alluring, desirable and who I'd want to strip with my teeth are usually gay and camp as a row of tents. So much for choice.

Oh dear now, what to do? I'd quite like to get my knickers off for Seymour Butts and the like, but what if I draw the long straw and end up with the manky man? Perhaps lesbian porn is the only logical, and desirable way out for a selective, choosy porn lady. What fun - grab a couple of friends on the pretext of a picnic in the park and head for the nearest studio. I know quite a number of lovely girls in California...

Anyway, assuming we do get some lovely men (or women), it sounds like a good deal - a bloody good $16-billion worth of a deal in the Californian porn industry alone. So long as people are being treated good and right, have the rights to exercise their choice and freewill and kept safe from nasty diseases (I'm all for human rights, I am) there really couldn't be anything much more fun than being naked, having a romp, rolling about in pleasure (fake or not) all day and being paid for it. If nothing else, you'd be fine-tuning the dexterity of your tongue, gain a few tips for the bedroom that would far outdo a Kamasutra guide book and evade the cube farms of the office (I wonder if there are office politics?)

Failing that, and if all doesn't quite pan out in California, there are always digital cameras and Kazaa.
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Sunday, June 06, 2004

YELOW: Golden Oldies 

It is in my humble wee opinion that there are no good love songs today and in a fit of melancholia, sentimentality and nostalgia for an imagined past, I have redirected my music tastes du jour towards Frank Sintara, Harry Connick Junior and Chet Baker.

The love songs of today only put themselves out to be scoffed at (unless you're a 14 year old tweenie, in which case any remotely good looking man will get your heart swooning). A boyband of 20-something year olds singing a love ballad in complicated harmonies does not elicit feelings of desire and longing: the fact that there are five voices instead of one diffuses the song and makes the feelings unreal. One cannot sound truly loved-up and passionate when there are four other voices singing the same song to the same 'baby/honey'. And that too - the generic 'baby' figure of contemporary love songs could and never would match up to the 'funny valentines' and 'Miss Jones' of songs old and lasting. To their credit, they do try to try new emotional chords in the hungry listener and perhaps Gareth Gates, Justin Timberlake and Robbie Williams will be as loved as Sinatra 50 years down the line (though I doubt it for we are forgetting them already). It does seem though, that everything now is cliched, rehashed, recycled - the love lines of the 20s and 50s don't quite resonate in 21st century romance anymore.

Love in the golden oldies bring you right back to the fundamentals of being in love, capturing moments that ring true and deep in any lover's sigh. 'The way you look tonight' captures every little glance that seizes your heart and stays frozen in a kaleidoscope of images of the one you love; 'Cheek to cheek' brings alive that headiness of being "having your heart beat so fast you can hardly speak"; 'That's all' speaks of the simplicity of being in love. "If you're wondering what I'm asking in return, you'll be glad to know that my demands are small, say it's me that you'll adore, for now and ever more, that's all." And well, we all know how giddily the world spins on its axis when a beloved speaks as simply as this.

But it's not just the lyrics - read alone, they would usually sound corny and contrived. It is the hearty crooning and the depth of a single, throaty voice that would put any 5 harmonised pop voices to shame. None of this rubbish electric guitar nonsense, electric keyboards and big ass drum sets: the simplicity of piano chords, a double bass and good old fashioned violins make any one liner sound warm, sensual and so deliciously wrapped up and in love with love itself.

The golden oldies shouldn't be relegated to dusty shelves among grandfathers' records - Michael Buble's popularity and his young though full-bodied revival of Sintra-esque croonings show how very much the passion and feelings of these songs still ring true in the ears of an audience who is listening 80-over years after the songs were first performed. As for the rest of the passing fancies - anyone still remember Boyzone?... erm?....

And I'm not even just saying all this because I'm headily in love myself. Sinatra and co. kept me in good company many a night when I was still single. If nothing else, trumpets, double bass and a sexy, mellow old voice accompanies any lazy, daisy day and keeps you snug in a cocoon of high, lovin' spirits.
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Thursday, June 03, 2004

BLACK: Far, far away 

Apologies for being amiss with writing. It has been a harrowing week, dear readers, the culmination of which was an out-and-out shouting match on the phone with the boy last night: Our first ever argument which ended up stony silences, big sighs, quite a few tears and a restless, sleepless night. It was monumental. The only thing worse than an argument, is an argument over the phone with a boy you love and can't see. I hadn't felt so 'properly' sad in a while (as opposed to the feigned empathy/sympathy/upside-down smiley of most occasions). Of course, it was over something silly and a result of irate mood swings rubbing each other up the wrong way.

The distance is starting to turn me into a crazy, incompetent dolly. Panicky thoughts and bouts of neurosis find little holes in your head to pick at and enlarge. It's rather silly, always silly but also always just enough to drive any temperate dolly to a frenzied folly. Attempts to deal with the distance usually just result in plenty of sitting around and mulling over little anxieties re: relationship at work/at the gym/in a traffic jam/on the toilet. It's as if solving the little self-created problems in you head would make up for the larger problem of being apart.

I guess the way it goes though, is that the more you love the more you have to lose, or think you do, and it is all the more real when he is far away (pardon the sudden insertion of cheesy musing: we are all entitled to cringeworthy moments of self-indulgence). I just want him here so I can touch his cheek, breathe the smell of his skin on my pillows and have our bums touch as we sleep.

For now, I guess I'll just have to make do with the goblins in my head.
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