Tuesday, August 31, 2004
In a fit of idle indulgence, I decided to watch Oprah Winfrey last Sunday (a delayed episode, surely, but Astro does its best...) She was interviewing Brad Pitt. Hurrah, we all thought, what better way to spend a Sunday evening than to watch Hollywood hunk on the mother of all talk shows?
Never to have been one to idolise the Brad, nor think him anything particularly special, I started watching expecting to be enchanted and to turn into a (slightly less cynical) fan. Reservations and doubts about the dumb blond and his ability to prove himself other than... well... dumb were heartily confirmed in 15 minutes.
Yes, yes, he does look incredibly good for a 40-year-old man (I’d thought he was only about 28?! – but then time does fly away with you once you've hit and skidded past puberty hmmm). He was being interviewed after filming Troy; six months of intense training had gone into achieving a most sculpted Achilles-like body and the clips that Oprah’s clever crew had selected were most flattering to his arms and ass. Yes, yes he does rather resemble the many perfect sculptures of Greek sculptures that fill out the British museum - Jen has a lovely accessory to take around on her arm.
Then Brad opened his mouth to start talking and very quickly, the ultimate talkshow became as boring as watching paint dry. The man has no personality or charisma to match the pretty blond look and as a friend pointed out, even the Trojan horse in Troy was less wooden than him.
But bless him, he is doing remarkably well somehow at raking in the fame, fortune and silly fans. Ah, but what of us mere mortals?!
PS: Happy Merdeka! We're 47
Thursday, August 26, 2004
- Did something most unlike my usual diplomatic, courteous self and told my interviewee how very incompetent their PR person was.
- Discovered that I'm eligible to apply for a professional chartered accountancy qualification.
- Almost forgot the boy's birthday (he had to remind me through a text - how terrible of me!).
- Told my editor I'm resigning (she seemed not terribly bothered at all).
- Saw most disturbing photographs of a man having sex with a chicken (and I'm not referring to same sort of metaphorical chicken that the Chinese do).
- Tried to describe the sensation of vaginal penetration, in comparison to anal sex, to a gay friend (he's not convinced though, and remains firmly batting for the other team).
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
The phone rang. A most inarticulate sounding man on the other end – PR officers must learn phone manners if nothing else.
Man: Can I speak to your editor?
Me: She’s on leave today actually, but will be back tomorrow.
Ahhhhh how can I find out what her schedule is ah?
I can’t really tell you that – she’s normally in and out all day and we don’t know her schedule.
Ah... so how can I find out when she’s free ah?
I don’t know (repeat above)
You see ah… I arranged an interview with her and my client lah and I need to know if she is free then.
Ah... then how ah? Can I ring her handphone?
As policy, we don’t give out staff handphone numbers.
Ah ok - can you call her and tell her?
After much ding-donging and hand wringing between an incompetent PR man (henceforth known as IPRM), my editor, irate at being disturbed on her day off and me, we discover that editor had never set an interview with PR man. His ineptness of course led him to fix the appointment with his client anyway and he was now not keen to tell his client that we wouldn’t do it (clever, perhaps).
Now muggins here has to interview some-random-client tomorrow morning about accountancy.
I ring back IPRM for more details, venue, time, etc.
Me: Where are you exactly?
IPRM: Menara Sunway. L17.
Ok, level 17 (you need to repeat things to stupid people otherwise they go ahead and make mistakes on your behalf). But where is Menara Sunway?
Menara Sunway. We’re in Menara Sunway. It's a tall building. Around the Sunway area lah.
Ok, where exactly?
Menara Sunway lah. Menara Sunway.
Ad nauseum. He promised me clearer directions and more details about what I’m meant to be interviewing his client about through an email. It is now past 9pm and I’m still waiting for miracles to appear in my inbox. The interview is in 12 hours.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
I think the Boyfriend Arm Pillow (for women who miss being hugged by a man at night) is rather splendid for the insecure though. Personally, not something I'd like as I quite like being able to stretch out when I sleep and not be suffocated by giant boy paws. And as cosy as a boyfriend arm pillow sounds, it would never come with the added comforts of hearing him snore, finding his legs stretched diagonally across the bed and having pillows thrown abruptly on you in the middle of the night.
Monday, August 23, 2004
I'm not quite sure how many of my readers will ever come back now that they've discovered my fallacious side, but well, this blog has never purported to be cross-my-heart-honest. Fiction is mostly more exciting than truth anyway and when you have spent all day writing 300-word stories about physiology quizzes and the mundane achievements of accountancy students, you need a little creative putty at the end of the day. If not for the embellishments found here, you too would be subjected to not terribly exciting stories about new engineering degrees and the Malaysian education system, and/or my whingeing about it.
So, dear discerning readers, it's up to you, your own good sense and (clever) imagination to figure out what's real. Or what you'd like to be real, anyway.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
I pointed out that were I in China back in the old days, I would be a terrible candidate for a wife and should spend days being chided by any future mother-in-law.
"Yes, your father and I would also be taken to fault for bringing up such a useless daughter!" she chuckled, setting down grilled potatoes on a plate.
The adage that the way into a man's heart is through his stomach shall never work for me, for I am more likely to kill both organs at once with my terrible cooking and careless floundering in the kitchen.
I do a mean vacuuming job though and wash dishes until they sparkle like they do on Fairy Liquid ads on TV. Perhaps that should make up for the lack of culinary skills and we could always eat out or survive on take-aways.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Take A, who writes the most spectacular prose, produces the most magnificent art, performed at the Royal Albert Hall in London at the age of 10. She's often worrying about whether people will 'think she's a freak' when in actual fact everyone is jealous of anyone else who is her friend. Even gay men are falling in love with her and have termed her the most beautiful girl they'd ever seen.
Or T, who quite possibly is the most beautiful girl in the world, even upon stumbling out of bed with a hangover or while frazzled from calculus exams. As I show friends my photo albums (for I am vain and attention seeking like that), ho ho, nevermind me and my glamourous frocks or absurd antics, "Who is that?" they all ask, pointing to the most beautiful girl in the world, "My god, she's beautiful/a fox/hot like coals". Typically of course, T mostly believes she is 2 stone overweight and is constantly on a diet of cigarettes and diet coke, only. "I think those people need their eyes checked!" she exclaims when I alert her to the fact that the whole world is in love with her.
Even the boy, bless his little cotton socks, thinks he has "a strange face".
"I always though it weird that you find me attractive" he points out, "I think my face has too much cheek." Which is all utter rubbish of course for a dolly would never love anyone who was less than perfect.
Friday, August 20, 2004
"So what are your zones?" she asked, as candid as if she were just writing another one of her HSBC educational project stories. She must be loved for her tendency to disappear for weeks, only to reemerge with questions about erogenous zones and insights to Charles Kaufmann movies.
Well, it eased the boredom of proofreading of articles about preparing for SPM English exams and provided ample entertainment for the rest of the afternoon. Conclusions hence:
While there are particular special places which excite, there is something delicious and shivery about just being touched... Anywhere, dear boys and girls, and everywhere! Nothing excites more being felt all over - tongues, mouth, hands, fingers, a unshaven chin against naked skin or a body pressed against a heaving chest turns all senses abuzz and makes goose pimples rise in the anticipation of more skin on skin in unexpected places. Random fantasies and/or erotic dreams of random men will almost always involve plenty more touching than the actual in-outs of hard banging sex and the like.
The magic of course, is in holding off from touching anything between the legs for as long as (humanly) possible, no matter how ripe for the plucking. The tension that builds up in clits and pussies is most intense from being left alone and teased everywhere else so that when a finger or tongue (or whatever else) does finally touch the magic button it is ecstacy so sublime in itself, it almost rivals an orgasm.
Unfortunately though, it seems most men don't really have that patience (and often also lack the skill) for igniting all other senses first and holding off for as long as possible from going straight between thighs.
"Sometimes," admitted the boy, "foreplay just seems to take such a looooog time."
He shall have to be trained.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
But really *gasp* what a perfectly good waste of a perfectly good body on a most undesirably puggish face.
Those that are beautiful and deserving of crowns, are undoubtedly gay and would therefore serve no purpose other than as accessories to my already rather splendidly attired life. Perhaps that should just be the next best alternative.
PS Excuse the shallowness. I'm sure they're all delightful, lovely people but sometimes you just want to look a pretty face.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
I'd always rather fancied these things as a sort of myth, having never really met a Super-Chinese. Spending five days with them was perhaps more fascinating than Bali and all the beaded sandals in the world could be.
On the other hand, since I spent most of the trip decked out in baggy jeans, kept away from cameras and milked every free moment I had to sunbathe (to get tanned! tanned! darker! darker!), I wonder if they in turn, thought me an odd sort of Chinese too?
Friday, August 13, 2004
2) I read in the papers today that there's this man in America who weighs 485kg (half a tonne!) and has a most loving wife who's been going all over the country appealing to doctors to help him lose weight (well, wouldn't you?)
So. Pit one against the other and it only goes to show that there really is hope for the rest of us mere mortals, hurrah! Bring on the pie!
Thursday, August 12, 2004
And so, X, Q and I got round to talking about the best positions for fingering. Apologies if you've heard it all before and think it rather stale and unexciting, but X and I figured it imperative to share what we find marvellous (and to alert the unknowing men):
1) X's secret: Lie on top of your boy (or girl, political correctness etc), your back against his chest. His right hand reaches/fingers your pussy by going round under your right thigh and up; his left hand fingers your clit from above (one above, one below, gettit?) and off you go: tease, finger and insert as you will.*
2) And mine: Get into a 69, with you kneeling on all-fours over him and facing his feet. Position yourself so that your clit is not directly above his face, but slightly further forward. While he's still lying down, get him to finger/push up against your clit from below and 'behind' - the pressure of being fingered from this position would be stronger and splendid indeed. Add on more fingers, tongues, sparkly dildos as required (which shall be left open your own creative devices).*
Among other things, X and I (poor Q had dropped from the conversation by now, as s/he hasn't been getting any for awhile) also swapped notes on the female equivalent of wet dreams. I've always had terribly erotic dreams, complete with orgasms which I can never quite figure out as real or not. Next time it happens though, and if I really do come, I shall make the concerted effort to wake up and writing it down so I don't just think it's a dream. There's something exciting about having sex in a dream for you are always with someone you wouldn't ordinarily be with (variety factor) and in a position that isn't actually possible in real life due to things like gravity and the limited range of limb movements (superwoman factor). X, on the other hand, only gets as far as kisses in her dreams... then again, she gets a lot more action in real life. I can only deduce from this that my sexy dreams are not an immediate result of being loved-up, sexed-up but a result of being pent-up, actionless while the boy is away. So, God is fair then.
Also, a fervent discussion on how we found it difficult to give and get head at the same time (were both pleased too, to have realised that we weren't the only ones who felt that way). Something about giving 100% exclusively to either being the giver of pleasure or to lying back and lapping in the good times. It must be pointed out that it can be difficult to concentrate and give a truly good, dextrous handjob with all the right variety of pressure, movement, speed when there are fingers and tongues in all my own happy spots - it distracts from getting the job done for (and I can't help but be selfish) even the slightest hint of pleasure signals the immediate desire to drop everything at hand (pun intended), be pleasured and get happy. Conversely, I'm not likely to fully enjoy the pleasure and fingers-in-right-places when the rest of my mind/head/heart is so focused on the task at hand and I'm sitting/kneeling/twisted over in an odd position for the best blowing, sucking, rubbing angle (I'm a diligent little worker I am, and give it my all).
I shall have to fine-tune that multi-tasking thing that women are supposed to be so skilful at.
*Dolly disclaimer: X and I shall not be held responsible if these suggested positions don't actually give you(r frigid selves) shuddering pleasure or elicit grand screams of orgasmic ecstasy. That's your problem, not ours: sex is subjective etc.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
"I've always fantasied about waking up to you giving me a blow job," he said. "But you never wake up before me."
Oh dear, yes, rather. Every morning would begin with the boy hounding me to get out of bed. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! You can't sleep all day etc"
After that rather large cue (no pun intended) I have tried to rise earlier, but it seems that few things can stir me from my slumber. Even the promise of sex.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
"So you trying to make me jealous now?" asked the boy pointedly and, I’m rather certain, with his eye still on Halle-on-the-telly.
Oops, he’d caught me out rather cleverly and I cringed for having left myself so open. It does seem the boy is beginning to know me better than I know myself. I got my pretty, pink-trimmed knickers in a twist trying to figure out when and how the green-eyed monster had so craftily poked its little snout into my psyche. I’d always rather valued the fact that the boy and I check out and comment the opposite sex in front of each other. Nothing to hide, full trust, Oprah-type-new-age-openness etc I was not prepared for either of us to become wary of the other while making idle comments. And after all, what of my roving eyes and Takeshi or that lovely waiter at La Bodega? Double-standards should never be tolerated, least of all those set by my irrational self. The tempestuous little green pest had to be heeled and kept down..
Anyway, I eventually came to the happy conclusion (also as way of excusing my recent erratic behaviour) that, well, it was all because I love him (which he’ll be happy to know, I hope). A smidgen of jealousy is healthy perhaps, if only to keep you on your pointed desiring, loved-up toes and to keep your interest in check. The distance too, can only exacerbate fears - no matter how illogical- of losing a boy many thousands of miles away.
All rather normal then, nothing to worry about, I assured the neurotic voices…at least until obscenities are shouted and china is hurled.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
But he doesn't rest like a normal sick person. When I ring on Friday to see how he is, he's rushing out of work on his way to university for lectures. "It's only one more day til the weekend anyway," he rationalises, through a blocked nose. When I ring again on Saturday afternoon, he's cleaning the house, ironing his clothes (it must be made known that the boy is a fastidious and compulsive ironer) and about to go food shopping for the next week.
"Why don't you just rest," I tell him, feeling like my mother.
"I am. I'm not doing anything taxing," he says.
Followed by, "I hate having a blocked nose. I can't breathe. I feel horrible. I'm so ill. I feel terrible. I hate being ill."
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Oooh! how very disgusting indeed to imagine that the little loser gnome-men out there who can’t get action on the dancefloor are all conjugating in the bathroom to watch girls. So much for what you think is a private, all-female space when really there are hordes of men watching from the other side. Admittedly, you probably wouldn’t do much other than wash your hands, wipe your hands and fluff your hair but there is still something unnerving, even humiliating about being watched when you don’t know you’re being watched, by people (short ugly men) you cannot look back at, especially in a space you’d assume to be private. Intrusive and invasive if nothing else. It makes no difference if I'm hitching up my skirt to re-adjust my g-string or just waving my hands under a hand-dryer – I would really rather be doing that without being watched like a silent cartoon (and this applies to anywhere, not just a bathroom.)
I have nothing against being checked out or looked at, but perhaps not in a place where I might be going into to be alone or to get away from leering men. After hearing this delightful little tidbit of current going-ons, I’ve spent the whole day working my arms up into a frenzy of goosebumps imagining the sorts of hideously munted, sleazy old men that would be looking on from the other side.
On the other hand, perhaps men would fall desperately in love with women across the mirror, buy the them drinks when they’re both back on the dancefloor and live happily ever after in couply bliss. This could be a new age of silent, nightclub-mediated matchmaking. In any case, now that I know about it, I just want to rush over and flash my knickers, moon the mirror and write big insulting messages to hold up to the men. ("Oi, you in the red shirt and horrible khaki pants – you’d look better if your ass wasn't so flat" etc...)
Monday, August 02, 2004
I think I've clouded up my head with too many demons and too much neurosis... it's addictive and masochistical in the true sense of the word. So I sit around and cry and feel good and cathartic after a jolly sob'n'sniffle, or I spend all day with multi-vocal conferences and heated debates washing about the insides of my head. I'd have sorted it out by nighttime, tuck myself off to a soundless sleep between white sheets (and pretty purple trim) only to wake up the next morning with a fresh new dose of neurosis. There's a new topic everyday, like the self-sustaining angst of a really bad soap opera.
Bit of a looney bin, no?