<$BlogRSDUrl$> php hit counter

Wednesday, July 28, 2004


So, we're planning a sex education special edition at the paper. In a bit to be sort of intellectual and credible, we (myself and another girl) thought we'd deal with the more serious issues - unwanted teen pregnancy, (illegal?) teen prostitution, AIDS & sexual health, morality (because everything has to have a moral to it in Malaysia what).

Our editor got in a huff - she wants to go right back to the basics and we were missing the point of a sex ed pullout. Now, we shall have at least 4 pages to replicate the reproduction chapter of a science textbook - diagrams to show changes in girls and boys as they hit puberty, cross-section illustrations of reproductive systems, how babies are made. "Lots of diagrams! bullet points, FAQs, charts and stuff," she says waving her hands about and sitting up extra straight in her swivel chair. It's very exciting, this sex stuff. We shall be getting up close and personal with the vas deferens, fallopian tubes and the process of fertilisation; how erections happen, why women get wet and even, my editor specified, the role of the olfactory senses in our attractions to each other...With diagrams!

This shall be the pinnacle of my career, dear readers: writing properly about masturbation, copulation and wet dreams. We are 'educating the masses' you see and so shall have to be quite serious about this – don’t want any sort of sudden population explosion or minus-growth rates as a result of misinformation.

You see, the problem with sex ed is that there's far, far too much emphasis on copulation: the boy-meets-girl, in-out, sperm-meets-ova process to make babies. As it is, there are too many men out there who are far too focused on the in-out-and-come to ever make sex good and fun for the women; and too many women who are quite content to just lie back, not have fun and stay still long enough to keep the seeds in. Sex ed would not truly be education unless it taught men how to please their women, and vice versa - finding erogenous zones that aren't between the legs, how to harness the power of the tongue, talking dirty, bending a girl in half without causing bodily harm etc the proper handling and etiquette of balls and blow-jobs, for example.

Any suggestions as to how we can incorporate info re: tips on giving head (either way), foreplay and multiple orgasms in between the facts, figures and coloured diagrams, will be much appreciated. We don’t want a whole generation of girls and boys growing up with the wrong ideas about sex (just copulation) now, do we?


Friday, July 23, 2004

WHITE: Maturity 

Apparently, it is terribly immature to write, think and talk about things the way I do in this blog but not at all immature to keep reading the blog and repeatedly post the same banal comment(s) telling me to grow up.

Surely, to be truly mature (which I am not and don't ever intend to be) would be to stay above this bit of cyber drivel, rather than to lower oneself to my lowly immature standards by repeatedly posting equally unintelligent, childish comments?


Wednesday, July 21, 2004

BLUE&PINK: Mars and Venus 

Yeah, so that thing about men having sex with no emotion(s)... I've been wondering about that. Which is not to say, on the other hand, that all women get weepy and hysterical with feelings feelings feelings everytime they let someone get in their pants of course. Sometimes we just want sex-as-sex too. In fact, we all remember the first episode of Sex and the City (and quite possible every one after that)  which discussed "women who have sex like men": in other words no emotions, very Samantha Jones avant Richard/Smith. As it were, having 'sex like men' can only be equated with a pump&dump, leave-you-high&dry sort of thing. Everyone knows the media images, friends' stories, grand love narratives of emotionless fucking-machine men who leave in their trail weeping women trying to figure it all out and sort out their overly-emotional heads.

Now, I have nothing against that - all lovely and dandy for whoever's getting that extra action sans-strings. But while all the emotionless sex is good and keeps endorphin levels swimmingly high, I was wondering if the converse works: i.e. Does the sexual experience heighten according to how much emotion may be invested in the particular chick that the man is remotely interested in/likes-quite-a-bit/loves-til-death-do-us-part? In other words, while sex many not necessarily incite grand waves of emotion, might the level of emotion(s) bear any direct and proportionate effect on how much the boys are lovin' it between the sheets?

Or is it, after all is said, blown, sucked and done, still just sex, of the Men-from-mars fucking-machine variety?

Enlighten me, dear boys.


Tuesday, July 20, 2004

WHITE: On being clean 

I have to confess that I love cleaning: everything from washing a 10-person-dinner-party worth of plates to vacuuming, handwashing underwear, dusting table tops, washing bathrooms with bleach. Guests, who with all good intentions offer to do the washing up after dinner never quite understand that the soap suds and squeaky clean plates are the highlight of my evening - they spoil the fun by getting in there before me. Even better, the 'morning after' parties when entire flats are bowled over by cigarette butts and mould-cultivating beer bottles - nothing cures a hangover like some good music and a mop does.
I absolutely cannot bear for example, people sitting on my pillows (I'd really rather not have your arse where my face goes), matted hair in bathtub plugholes, traipsing around the house in shoes, refusing to change the bin bag, going straight to bed at the end of a day without a shower. I was never more appalled when, after clubbing in one of York's manky clubs, a boy I was dating jumped straight into bed without washing - enough sweat, cigarette smoke, dead dirt all over a preciosu quilt cover to make any dolly feel nauseous. Perhaps all this stems from once living out with a girl who insisted on being gross and leaving trails of her dirt around the house like a territorial pissing dog. Mostly, I was the one scurrying around wiping up toast crumbs on kitchen worktops and throwing away crisps packets stuffed between sofa cushions. The grand effort of leaving the cleaning to housemates etc never works because they know I will eventually cave into a tidying frenzy and things will become more spick and span than before.
There are few people with the same sort of odd obsession but we do find each other out and have great discussions about things like room spray and a mutual dislike for bums-on-pillows: the three that I sought out became three of my best friends. Amazing how much you bond over a mutual love for clean surfaces and emptied rubbish bins. When I move into my new (hypothetical) flat, it shall boast a most impressive array of cleaning products, in assorted shapes and sizes and I shall live only with obsessive compulsives. And when any of you come to visit, I expect you to have washed behind your ears and necks, and wipe your feet three times exactly on the doormat.


Monday, July 19, 2004

YELLOW: Booties and other things 

There are a few things I would like to own. Mostly rather hard to come by I think, but I shall be highly indebted to anyone who does chance upon any and tells me how/where I might pick one up:

- a round 19th-century hat box with a ribbon
- yellow welly boots
- handcuffs that won't cut into your wrists when under pressure
- a terracotta warrior and his horse
- my hairdresser
- a pink parasol, complete with ribbons
- a complete set of saucepans (how domesticated!)
- a first edition of The Forsyte Saga/Moll Flanders/Racine's Phedre
- penis-shaped ice-cube trays (for when the relatives come to visit)
- furry boots


Sunday, July 18, 2004

BLUE: Sad sad 

The boy has gone back home now and everything is back to feeling so very ordinary. A dolly is sad and moochy, and turned a funny shade of blue. Before he left, we watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - a movie which made even Jim Carrey look beautiful, full of longing. intimacy and that funny fear of losing it all. It tells the story of what it would mean to have your  memory of someone else entirely erased, the desperation of losing every memory shard you have ever held dear - of shared kisses under a duvet, of running (romantically) together outside in bad weather, even of the petty arguments.
Yes, the boy is five hours away again and memory shards are what will keep things warm in a world of missing until the next time. Flashbacks shall fill every mundane little moment and makes things less ordinary. And it shall make you fall in love all over again, every time.


Thursday, July 15, 2004

WHITE: Quills 

In a fit of domesticity, the boy and I have been fully emmersed in DVD watching this week. We're both on leave from work this week, you see, and there is nothing more indulgent and lazy than sprawling in front of the TV. So much for youth, when really all we want to do is be lazy.

Anyway, it turns out that my DVD collection has become quite stange over the past few months. They magically appear like mushrooms and tempt you into weird, warped movie lands when you can't even remember buying the damn thing.

Two movies stick out: In the cut, where Meg Ryan runs around naked half the movie, flashing her tits and having sex-without-any-chemistry with an ugly moustached cop. It was meant to a thriller, I think? with the artsy cinematic shots and the added bonus of Meg Ryan's bits. Quite disturbing: I'd grown up on wholesome movies like You've got mail and Sleepless in Seattle.

Second, Quills (which I know is very old but I had never got a DVD that would work properly - ah piracy). Now then, there's everything in Quills: wine, adultery, excrement, "nipples and pikestaffs", mad men killing virgins, Geoffrey Rush's arse and a severed human tongue in a glass jar. Fascinating and so utterly debauched. It makes us all seem like virginal prudes - nothing could quite champion the Marquis de Sade's excessive sexual fantasies and decadent fancies. I should quite to invite him to a dinner party though, would make for great stories.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

PINK&BLUE: The boy... 

...is in town, hurray!!! Which may mean less entries than usual over the next week. I'm off to cuddle now.


Friday, July 09, 2004

BLUE: Quiet boys 

With the exception of the boy, this dolly’s many numerous crushes on boys here and in faraway places have never met with much enthusiasm from friends or family. Flatmates at university were beginning to despair that I should never ever fancy someone "exciting".

You see, I am mostly loud and attention-seeking. But I like the quiet boys, the bordering-on-geeky, sit-in-the-corner type boys, bespeckled, aloof, silent and more engrossed in their beautiful i-macs than anything in a skirt, no matter how pink or short. Quiet boys are almost always decidedly straight though (for a change, as in a reverse Midas-touch sort of way, everyone I find remotely attractive is usually gay). Quiet boys are almost always beautiful in their own unassuming way - part of the attraction is that they don't care an ounce for what they look like and yet still exude desirable vibes, just from sitting there. Quiet boys present the same sort of hard-to-get-challenge as the beautiful, arrogant, loud boys, but what is more exciting about this chase is the fact that they are so completely oblivious. While loud boys are hard to be get because they are deliberately playing catch, quiet boys don’t even know there’s a chase going on.

Quiet boys, you’d imagine, would actually be electric balls of passion and given that cutesy sensitive look, would also be kings of foreplay. You’d imagine that as they sit unperturbed in their mousey little corner, absorbed in intellectual things and unruffled by surrounding activity, the energy is slowly collecting in passionate little pockets around their aura (or groin) which will erupt given the right time, place, lighting and erm, discussion on quantum physics. Anyway, what with all the typing, fiddling with wires and rearranging of mechanical parts in a toolbox, imagine the dexterity of quiet boy fingers. Quiet boys are the male equivalent of that librarian/good school girl fantasy who you’d hope would transform mysteriously into an animal in bed; the sort that would whisk you away with him to strange foreign cities for ICT conferences (or whatever) in the day, and smutty, dirty sex accompanied by gin and a sunset, after hours. When you return home, you'd pretend like nothing had happened - the thrill is in the demureness, of course.

The only problem now: get them to notice you without having to resort to textbooks and technical manuals for chat-up lines.

Thursday, July 08, 2004


A while back, I'd been talking to friends about a boy I'd been seeing for two weeks and how things weren't clicking at all. "Oh, and I don't really like the way he smells."

"Get out. You have to get out now," exclaimed one with a particularly urgent note in her voice. She is small but mighty and every boy she passes on the street has to turn his head to look - you sort of have to listen to her when she tells you something.

Eventually, I did 'get out' though more for the not-clicking reason than the smell. It's important to note that he didn't actually smell. In fact, he smelt quite nice, there just wasn't anything in it that made me swoon and want to eat him. And you probably know, my dear readers, how very important smell can be for its evocative powers. (Takes us all right back to the olfactory days of our primitive primate past, while on all fours sniffing the backs of each other - delightful. There is more in Discovery Channel than you think).

Smell, I think, can one of the most intense elements of a physical connection - not just for the swooning but for the cosy, comfort and simultaneous sensuality that it evokes deep in your lusty entrails. For as you breathe in his smell, you breathe a special intimate part of him too. When the boy leaves, it shall be the smell he leaves on his pillow that will keep him next to me and it is sudden passing smells of him that create great pangs of missing in the middle of a shuffling, bustling crowd. And the smells I mean have nothing to do with the Calvin Klein, Joop or Armani variety. It is that individual smell that makes the Calvin Kleins/Joops/Armanis really jump out at you and smell that little bit different from anyone else wearing it; a personal smell that is delicious and wraps around you like smoke to make you giddy with fervour. Time to get back on all fours then, and sharpen the olfactory senses - get your animal instincts up on its hind legs sniffing the air for whiffs of bodily pleasure.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

PINK: Being pretty 

The boy is coming to town at the end of the week, hurrah! There shall be coddling, pashes, hands to hold again and someone to share dessert with.

I turn into the most un-feminist of girls and as always before seeing the boy, rush about in frantic frenzies doing the following: trimming eyebrows, waxing bikini lines, lathering on body scrubs, shaving legs, preening hair (that is looking increasingly like a bad mullet), coordinating my underwear drawer so everything has a matching counterpart, painting my toenails delicious colours and filing my fingernails to a most precise shape and length. All terribly unnessary and shallow really. It has been pointed out to me that the boy shall love me even with a bag over my head, but well, any excuse to pamper the self and feel desirable.

But let me point out for a moment that it's not purely an un-feminist thing to do. It shouldn't make a difference if I were going out with a girl/transvestite/transexual/monkey with a human opinion; the point (for me and probably many others out there, except the truly manky) is about making the effort to look my utmost loveliest for when I wave to the most beloved through the windows of the airport arrival hall. Having not seen him in three months, I think I should like to look more decent than not with unslightly extras removed and a shine to the overall package. Nothing disturbs more than undressing in bed for the first time in months only to realise that offending hairs are protruding deviously from under the frilliest of knickers (new and bought especially).

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

WHITE: One night stands 

The most memorable bit of advice I've ever gotten was "that a relationship should never last more than a night" (and I never even got that from him - he made me sleep on the floor!). Unfortunately though, I'm a bit old-fashioned, stuck thigh-deep in love and all that. So far, I confess, I'm eerr.. a bit of an ONS virgin.

One night stands, particularly the most random ones collected at parties and the like, have always seemed a bit desperate, like you can't quite control the Discovery-Channel-type urges of grunting rhinos and have to just rush off with who/whatever you chanced upon that night. T'is below even this lust-driven dolly's high standards and expectations. (Forget the drunken ONS - hideous images of uncoordinated fumblings and incoherent sex are enough to put anyone off the idea of passion forever.) I should never be caught dead soliciting (no matter how subtle) random sex from someone else (no matter how much of their aura glows of sex appeal). Even less appealing, someone else soliciting me (no matter how subtle) for random sex (no matter how appealing the carrots they dangle) - unfortunately common sense gets in the way and shall always preside with neon-coloured warnings that he may just-be-desperately-high-and-dry and erm, not interested in me-as-me at all. My recent obsession with Bret Easton Ellis and his many American psychos have further served only to project terrifying scenarios involving mace, coathangers and chainsaws on my rather delicate constitution. So then, sex with strangers shall forever be relegated to a never-ever land.

On the other hand, with lovely boys (and/or girls) I know - good friends or just-in-passing (of which I can think of many): yes, that would be great fun given spontaneity and the fuel of lustful dreams the night before perhaps. Less of a chance of psychotic behaviour, perhaps, and just that extra little bit of intimacy/familiarity that could mean risking everything or nothing at all. So: hedonistic passion in the middle of the night with the beautiful male friend you've always rather desired, to be followed by the most brisk back-to-business relationship of meetings, pretentious once-a-month Sunday brunch appointments in La Bodega and the occasional text message to ask for someone else's number.


Monday, July 05, 2004

RED&BLUE: For Pete's Sake 

Let's go to Hollywood for a moment and thank the wonderful people at Sony Pictures for bringing us Spiderman and its new sequel. Not being one for comics (I was a girl of classics and the Bronte sisters), I was pleasantly surprised by the first one - Tobey Mcguire suddenly made the superhero phenomenon ring bells for me. The sequel, bigger and better than ever, enthralled so much that I went back for seconds (an event of grand significance, for a prim dolly doesn't usually like the common bustling of cinema ticket lines and sitting on grubby seats which have undoubtedly been occupied by dribbling teenagers or their ah-beng brothers).

Now really, apart from the splendid swinging stunts between skyscrapers and on the sides of trains, the lovable romance, the intrigue, the pop angst of Peter Parker and a psychologically tormented baddie with eight limbs, Spiderman 2 is most special for Tobey McGuire. TOBEY, who is all of geeky sexy, vulnerable sexy, hot sexy, red-tights sexy, mysterious sexy, sultry sexy, intelligent sexy and someone you could take home for tea with your mother (or father with great expectations, as in my case).

I asked the boy if he could be Spiderman but he thought I was being rude (!). But hey, what is a girl to do with Tobey trapezing his way through New York in tighty-witey red and blue spandex that shows off a most sumptious arse and bulges in the right places? That momentary now-you-see-it-now-you-don't glimpse of abs attained only by working out 4 hours a day, 6 days a week (he claims, in an interview)? And the pouty lips all ready to send you swinging through passions so naughty even the baddies would approve. I am right back in the pre-pubescent days of crushes on movie stars and hoping desperately that I might have his babies one day (we know babies are trouble, but Tobey's shall be angels). For now, the wallpaper of Spiderman-Tobey on my computer screen will have to do.

We shall we swooning in anticipation for the third sequel in 2 years' time...?

Saturday, July 03, 2004

WHITE: Sugar OD 

I thought I should direct a few words towards sugar, seeing as the blog itself is named after a bag of all manner of colourful sickly sweets. You see, after the bout of food poisoning and being subjected to eating all that is bland and colourless, I have now gone overboard, filling the far recesses of my mouth with everything sugary and glucose imbued. Of late my diet has consisted largely of: jelly, gummy bears (only the coloured ones; the clear ones seem to have no taste), gigantic lemon-iced biscuits, ice-cream, caramel popcorn and fried banana fritters.

Apparently though, what they tell you when you're a kid about getting sick from eating too many sweets is true. I'm finding out the hard way many years on.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?