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Thursday, September 30, 2004

BLACK: Obstacles 

A few silly things often get in the way of having sex. Quite tragic at the time, perhaps, but still funny.

In Neighbours today, a girl goes through a huge debacle just to get the pill (from a very nosey neighbourhood doctor) so she can have sex with her boyfriend. When she's finally about to get down and dirty, her father calls to say that her mother has just collapsed. You must love the improbability of these storylines. Only in Neighbours!

Or, it's terribly cold the night you consider donning your flimsy sexy gear for a bit of duvet ruffling, and all you want to do is sit in unattractive layers of fleece. Or, eating large bowls of pasta before you decide you want to have sex, at which point you realise the expansion of carbohydrates in your stomach has made your gut stick out to China. All very unsexy and undesirable, both for yourself and other(s).

It's much easier to be a flower. Let the bees do the pollination and sex bits.

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Wednesday, September 29, 2004

WHITE: Forgetful 

I love that the boy is so forgetful. It's so frustrating and endearing at the same time that it's almost adorable.

For example: He rang back from work today. I said, "Was going to make you sandwiches but the roast beef's gone all funny" (These are things you start talking about when you start becoming Martha).

"Ok. Don't worry about it. We'll get something here," he said, before asking me to find some papers for him to bring with me when I met him for lunch. Followed promptly by, "So, are you going to make lunch?"

Also, his astonishment at being told that he's just repeated one of his facts from his (very large) bank of trivia for the second, third, fourth time never fails to amuse. It's so darling.

(I do think though, that forgetfulness is very in. It helps, for example, for when you want to block out annoying and/or irritating incidents or people, something I (as a very petty sort of woman) am never quite capable of doing. Also, it gives the air of nonchalance and of having the luxury of having people remember things for you. Only silly common people mess about remembering dates and people's names and things.)

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Red: (A very belated) Thanks 

I've been very rude, I know. The lovely boys, Dave, Darloboy, Honeytom and the legendary TV Smith have all given me mentions and/or the metaphorical thumbs-up on their blogs and I haven't even bothered with a squeak of thanks. My apologies, and big hearty thanks. Mostly, I do live in a rather self-absorbed selfish little world, you see, not that that's an excuse.

It means rather a lot that this wee web space has been noted by these noble folks - in the world of blogging and other writing things, I admire them a great deal. For example: The few times I've met Dave, he's been talking about something intelligent which I can never understand. Anyone with an understanding of technology and gadgets like his is to be very well worshipped by word-processor-only ignoramuses such as myself. Mostly I just sit there and eat the chocolates on his dining room table as he talks to the boy about the latest in technological developments.

Now Darloboy, Honeytom and I go a long way back as arch enemies. As I edited one university newspaper, these two hovered about in an office across the corridor, editing the other paper(only our slightly over-competitive though excellent university would have two newspapers). It was exciting of course to have people to hate, it made us try a bit harder. Having said that, the little c**ts who edited the paper before me had left me with debt, no writers and i-macs that kept stalling. The other paper, surely, had a good laugh at my expense for whatever we did produce in those few measly months. They also went on to win lots and lots of national student media awards; Darloboy himself got away with Guardian's best student columnist award. So, you see, it means a lot that they've given me a wee mention.

And well, TV Smith needs no introduction as the most famous blogger and sparkliest journalist in Malaysia. He's a celebrity, my darlings. Like hello, journalistic red carpet and everything.

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Tuesday, September 28, 2004

RED: Shouty porn 

Oh dear, I've just realised that my entries of late have become a bit Martha Stewart.

Back to the usual then.

The boy has been magnanimous enough to share his porn with me (I can't be sure if he's shared all of it with me, but some is good enough - you know how territorial boys can get about their porn.) I hope this doesn't mean he loses face in front of his mates who read this; I understand porn and porn-sharing remains within quite a closely guarded boys-only club. Anyway, I'll be sitting around the apartment quite a lot of the time, and there is only so much housework you can do before getting bored and frisky - I'd need a filler, you know, between working hours when the boy is stuck in his fancy schmancy office.

Now everytime I get stuck into porn, I tend to forget why I got bored of it the last time round. Horniness, as it were, prevails over logic. The shoutiness of it all, it must be said, starts to grate after a while and often takes away whatever pleasure there is in satiating urges. The Japanese and Koreans, in particular, seem to find some sort of peculiar delight in their girls looking and sounding like they are in acute pain. Apart from the obvious perversity of the whole pleasure-from-someone-else's-pain scene, the squealing and squeaking does just grate on the nerves after awhile. Even funnier, is Jenna Haze, whose videos are great (it's all relative, ok) but who has the awkward habit of shouting "I'm a whore! I'm such a fucking whore!" as she's giving blow jobs, two or three at a time. I do think there is a limit to how bad you can pretend to be before it just gets silly in a Ren and Stimpy kind of way. Videos like these, you see, serve the dual purpose of fulfilling horny moments and providing laughs, for the whole family!

I like being vocal, but even the most loud-mouthed, gobby-gabbed girls among us know that it's just silly to be shouting/groaning/squealing all the time. I suppose it keeps the temperatures up though, and reflects nicely enough upon the man who's plugging her: always about the dear men, no? Ho hum feminism.

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Sunday, September 26, 2004

PINK: Jessica Simpson 

I'm starting to realise that, despite laughing at poor incompetent Jessica Simpson on Newlyweds, I'm not too far off from being just like her. The dumb truth came about yesterday as I'd been helping the boy prepare dinner and just couldn't seem to get things right. Apparently it is all common sense, as you'd think when you watch Jessica Simpson floundering about in her own home, but I admit I haven't got a lot of it and it can be very painful indeed to be given simple instructions that you think you should have known already.

I did try to be very helpful with folding his laundry and matching up his socks but gave up when it came to work shirts. I cannot iron and don't fancy his wrath upon me as I burn holes into the collars.

Still, next up: cleaning the bathroom and vacuuming the living room. This domestic goddess thing is quite becoming.

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Friday, September 24, 2004

BLACK: Shiny shoes 

The sun was out today. Even the boy, who adores rain and cloudy weather drew open the curtains and declared it a beautiful day. So we went shopping. Or rather, the boy did and I learnt plenty about men's clothes. The way we shop is the reverse of most couples, as I'm usually the one hanging about while the boy agonises over which shoe to buy.

Today I learnt that apparently, the shinier your shoes, the more powerful you look (though really, all men's black shoes look the same). Also, how an impressive-looking, very spiffy pair of black shiny leather shoes is horribly uncomfortable. Lovely to know that men let their feet suffer for the sake of looking good too.

Next up: shirts, collars and cuffs. You'd think a white shirt was a white shirt was a white shirt. It's all very complicated and I can't remember a thing. It's much easier for the girls, where you just look for what's pretty, like skirts with tulle or anything with flowers.

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Thursday, September 23, 2004

RED: Cooking 

As I'll be spending plenty of time in the apartment while the boy is at work, I'm in a bid to fine tune my domestic skills and turn myself into a Stepford Wife. It's not just a return to the idyllic 50s though; it's also a matter of courtesy seeing as the boy shares the apartment with two other people. Would be terribly rude and very un-dolly-like behaviour to sit around and not contribute in some way.

So, my first attempt shall be to cook dinner for everyone and I've spent all evening scouring the BBC food website. Everything is far too fancy though, and involves horrid-tasting things like beetroot and things that are a bother to peel like butternut squash. If any of you do know any very easy though very impressive looking recipes I implore you to please, please share your food secrets with me. I would be forever grateful and it might just save me from pureeing my own fingers in the blender (after which, I shan't be able to blog anymore) or from poisoning my temporary flatmates. Think of your valuable contribution as community service to these poor unsuspecting dinner guests, if not I shall be feeding them red cabbage mash.

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BLUE...skies in Australia 

I finally ran away and am now here with the boy for a month. Mishaps occur of course, on the very first day. I forgot my gym card for international access to the gyms here (devastating!!) so poor dear mother had to courier it over for RM44. Despite promises to pay, she is quite probably, understandably irritated now. Poor thing had been hoping for a bit of peace with me gone. Then, I managed to break the boy's car boot as we were putting food shopping into it and now it won't open. He seemed cross too, though he did say very nicely that it wasn't my fault. (who else's it is I couldn't quite figure out). Also, the boy is miserable and sniffly with flu so sex is on hold for awhile. hmph.

Not the most promising start but it's lovely to be in a place where there is the boy, no haze and the most delectable anzac biscuits, sold in gigantic bags. I shall be up to plenty of japes: updates along the way. Later my lovelies, don't slog too hard at work.



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Tuesday, September 21, 2004

GREY: Pumping iron 

There’s a lovely trainer at the gym who always makes a point to come over to say hello while I’m doing time on the stepper. He offered to run me through a free personal training session (free, mind, saving me a ridiculous RM100 an hour) so off I went today all ready to pump some serious iron.

Now, I’m usually a cardio and yoga girl. I adore the stepper because it’s the only machine on which anyone can look super-duper cute while sweating out enough to burn up lunch in under ten minutes. And I adore yoga even more because the positions are just so frightfully sexy. Never been one for weights: the big bulky men with their 40kilo weights and throbbing veins scare me, and the gorgeous ones with the nice bums get me all clumsy and bashful as I stand there with my unimpressive 7lb weight.

Today though, the gym instructor (not quite so lovely anymore) got me right up there with the meatheads. Amidst dumbells and bars, there was much grimacing in (mock) pain, groans of discontent and struggling to keep chunks of metal from dropping on my nicely manicured toes.

"Ah, your arms are quite weak huh?" he asked, quite in despair as I heaved up another flailing bicep curl.

I smiled politely and promptly gave up with the biceps.

Next he asked me about my diet so I made up a health-dream of a story about plenty of grilled fish and vegetables. Not entirely an untruth, for that is what I eat in between the chocolate, tiramisu and Chilli’s high and mighty pie.

Ah, well sod it, me darlings. I do love my food. In any case, I’ve been reading a book about the power of affirmations (cheesy, but really quite riveting – another topic, another day). I’ve created one in my head about being strong and healthy and am relying quite heavily on that to give me the perfectly sculpted look. Much more fashionable, much more zen than wobbling about with iron, no?


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Monday, September 20, 2004

BLACK: Evil sex 

I confess, I was scouring e-donkey the other night for some porn. This contradicts all the feminist rantings which lurk at the core of my being but has manifested as yet another nasty side to the LDR thing and horniness. The theory and angst shall come another time, when the urge to save the world takes over again.

However, this entry isn't about me and sex though, for a change. It's about a rather frightening thing I noticed while downloading naughties. I've written before about the hilarity of terrible titles on porn websites - all very funny and hard to take seriously. I hadn't however, quite expected that an e-donkey search for the keyword "sex" would throw up such an alarming number of results containing the words "being forced to..." or "rape".

I didn't go near those, of course so I don't know what they actually contained behind the gruesome titles. Perhaps it was just something to catch attention, or perhaps they really were terribly violent. Now know that a majority of these "forced" scenarois would be simulated, play-acted in an SM sort of way (porn stars seem rather capable of an astounding range of expressions and reactions). What did disturb me though, was the thought of the thousands of gormless, unthinking people out there who do think (or would like to think) it's real and are getting turned on by the very suggestion of forced sex or rape in the titles of the files. While on the one hand, porn might serve as a healthy expression of sexuality (or whatever), it's quite something else to find this expression in something like coerced, (possibly harmful?) sex.

But even that isn't the whole problem. Admittedly, it would be hard to weed out all the psychos and stop them from thinking what they do, but perhaps more worrying is the sudden mushrooming of stimulating material labelled to draw attention to, cater to and perpetuate these terrible desires and imaginings. If the idea was already there, then these sorts of stimulus can only encourage the fantasy; and it if wasn't, it may just be given the prompt to develop into something totally wrong. Yes, we've heard the spiels from feminists about the cultural and social violence that pornography does to the image of women as a whole. But surely, this more specific sort which seeks to force and harm is so much worse for its acute physical, literal and deeply embedded violence?

A dolly is truly appalled and disgusted.

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Sunday, September 19, 2004

WHITE: Going, going, gone 

I've finally left my job: the farewell came complete with a chocolate mud cake, a bad unprepared speech and a party the day after, to truly celebrate.

So. Ho ho. Onward to new things. If you know of anyone looking for an aspiring writer to erm... well... write various things, do get in touch. I make a lovely employee and never miss a deadline.


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Wednesday, September 15, 2004

WHITE: Yoga 

Yoga has beckoned rather invitingly from a dome shaped, glass-panelled room at a newly opened gym and I've become really rather addicted. That, and another pseudo yoga-taichi-pilates class which involves plenty of standing on one leg and spreading your legs far apart (!).

All inspired after a hundred downward dogs on Monday's Yoga class with the fittest instructor in the world (her body knows not what fat is), I rushed home and dusted off my very serious copy of BKS Iyengar's Light on Yoga, bought in (another) fit of inspiration awhile back and prompty forgotten about.

Now I am discouraged and scared to death. The man in the photographs is frighteningly bendy - you have never seen flexible until you have seen a man bent so far backwards his head touches the back of his heels. Or bent so far sideways that the right side of his head touches the outside of his right foot... Or being wrapped around, quite snugly, by his legs as he balances on his hands.

More disturbingly though, is the fact that whatever (knotted) pose he's holding, you'd never seen anyone look as comfortable. The man is a human pretzel and completely, utterly at peace as he bends himself into quarters.

So much for yoga in a glass-panelled dome. I think it may be time to throw in towel, water bottle and yoga mat and just be content with running the tredmill.

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BLACK: Knickers 

The problem with lacy knickers is that sometimes, the lace mesh morph into little holes...which then become bigger holes. And you never quite realise because it just looks like part of the design.

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Monday, September 13, 2004

PINK: Sex toys 

Sex toys are marvelous-marvelous and every right thinking girl with even the slightest hint of libido should have at least one, and use it regularly. (highly recommended to the frigid too, for getting some sex drive). Fortunately, I have a boy who is not at all averse to my well-stocked bedside drawer, and really rather enjoys me using them as much as I do.

However, I understand that there are some silly-minded boys out there who find vibrators an insult to their manhood and get terribly worked-up and jealous over their girlfriends using sex toys. If you are one of those silly bigoted boys, give it up. There’s is no point in fighting it and you really cannot compare to the almighty battery-operated devices. The harsh harsh truth is that you don’t rotate, or vibrate or have beads in the middle of your penis that circulate. Let our girl have her fun. If you don’t, and she somehow secretly discovers the joys of Mr. Happy anyway, she shall be very cross with you indeed for having denied her the pleasure.

Anyway, the boy was telling me all about this egg-shaped vibrating jelly thing that is all the rage in Japan. How exciting, I thought. Another new pleasure device; remote-controlled, no less. I spent the rest of the phone conversation trying to convince him to buy me one.

He’s very practical though, and doesn’t see why I need another toy since I already have three He's been very supportive of the other three though, so I don’t see what difference another will make. Anyway, it’s a silly argument, because a girl can never have enough sex toys and a variety of sex toys is as important as a variety of black thongs, shoes and lip gloss. There is no such thing as one-size-fits-all, especially not when it comes to pleasuring the self.

Also, the boy and I are apart for most of the time. And therefore, you’d imagine, I need whatever it takes to keep my sex drive up and satisfied, otherwise I may get bored, shrivel up and never want sex again… Which would be terrible, no? He didn’t think that was convincing though, owing perhaps to my giggling and inability to sound serious enough when presenting my case.

So I turned to the last possible resort and promised I would buy him a rubber vagina if he bought me a vibrating jelly egg. He still didn’t think it good trade-off, for he doesn’t actually want a rubber vagina. Shame.

Now I’m not a demanding high-maintenance sort of girl. Never ask for diamonds, never want expensive dinners, never whine about getting flowers. All I want is a little vibrating jelly egg. I must say, the boy is being very inattentive to my needs and frightfully unreasonable!


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Sunday, September 12, 2004

BLUE&PINK: Mars and Venus in the bedroom 

I found this lying around at home, and out of a fit of boredom and/or horniness decided to read it. Now ordinarily, I scoff at sex guides - no matter how zen/newage/"bestseller" they are - and find them tacky and pretentious. I could never understand why anyone would need a book to tell them how to have sex.

John Gray though, had some pleasant surprises for me in his little volume Mars and Venus in the Bedroom (New York bestseller etc). There was none of that tacky tips and technique approach I had anticipated (I've been reading far too much Glamour and Cosmo, evidently). And any of the tips or techniques that were covered were done really rather professionally, so as not to sound tacky. It must be a skill, surely, to be able to talk about kissing nipples and giving head in a book without sounding cheesy or gawdy - the PhD after his name is not for nothing. And once you do get past the nauseating advice on the importance of loving your partner (!), monogamy and romance, there is plenty of interesting grub to grapple with in the way of the psychology and sociology behind sex.

Interestingly, one of the main points of the book argues that love and sex is just as intimately entwined for men as it is for women. In arguing against the perception that "men only want one thing" Gray claims that "a man wants love just as much as a woman, but before he can open his heart and let in his partner's love, sexual arousal is a prerequisite." On the other hand, "[a woman] doesn't feel her strong desire for sex unless her need for love is first satisfied."

So, "as a woman needs love to open up to sex, a man needs sex to open up to love."

Rather a vicious cycle no? If that really were the case, then there must surely be a lot of love and/or sex that just isn't happening out there because one side is sitting around waiting for the other side to do something, and vice versa.

Also, this throws up a whole host of other questions. Like:

Does this now mean that all those chronic womanizing bed-hoppers among men are really just poor lonely dears searching desperately for love? Or are they still just horny root-rats?

And what about women who purport to "have sex like men?" (Beautiful darling close friend X, who is having as much sassy, out-there sex as Samantha Jones, claims that no matter how much sex a woman is having with whoever, whenever, there is still always attraction on an emotional level. This doesn't necessarily mean true blue love, but also any level of liking, comfort, reassurance, even the promise or potential of being loved.)

And: perhaps the sly old trick that men have been using by saying "If you really loved me you'd have sex with me" isn't quite so far from the truth? (They're cleverer than we though, those crafty boys!)

And: would that mean that mars-mars/ venus-venus relationships are much simpler since both sides want the same thing and approach it the same way?

Etc etc etc.

Intellectualising sex really only just means I need to get laid, doesn't it?


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Saturday, September 11, 2004

Back from dinner:

Too many fries, discussions about Bond's black hipster underwear and most worryingly, the discovery that a dear dear friend is using lube as hair serum. I do love her to bits, the crazy darling.

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RED: Phone sex 

Long distance relationships are not recommended for the long dry no-sex periods that have to be endured in between visits to see each other.

It is, however, great for phone sex (though really this is something all you (un)adventurous couples should do do anyway, whether or not there are thousands of miles separating the two of you). While nothing could ever replace real tongues, lips, flesh et al, sometimes it can be incredibly titillating to be stimulated only by a voice and fantasising aloud about what you'd like to do the next time you're together.

Perversely in this case, the distance and waiting periods which separate you becomes a sort of turn-on - the combination of anticipation, imagination and no-touching (not that we have a choice here) runs your libido into complete and uncontrollable overdrive. *

Still, I wouldn't recommended the distance thing, and hope that all you very lucky (though sickening) couples living in same city/house/shoebox-flat are having plenty of desperately passionate sex - and often. On my behalf if nothing else.

*(Though, even if it isn't ordinarily that good, the lack of any contact in an LDR will make anyone with a decent nerve system so horny they start trembling out of sheer despair, so any hint of sex would be good sex.)

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Friday, September 10, 2004

WHITE: Absence 

Oh dear it’s been quite awhile hasn’t it? In between reading ridiculously trashy novels about New York Princesses (which has made me want to use the words ‘beyond’ and ‘totally’ as superlatives all the time now), sorting out resignation letters and developing a rather unhealthy obsession with yoga classes choreographed to Annie Lennox and U2, I have forgotten about this wee web space.

I have also developed rather obsessive one-sided love affairs with random people. This differs vastly from actually being in love and the boy still holds a strong monopoly over my heart and all its attached arteries, of course. However, the problematic distance does tend to drive even the most hardy dollies slightly crazy and distorts their vision over time.

So, ONE: there is this instructor at the gym – the smallest though most adorable girl with bangs who dances like she’s made out of jelly. I am completely obsessed with going to her classes and have caught myself scouring gym timetables for when and where she teaches. This is not just because her classes are good, but because she is full of that infectious energy and splendid smiles that makes you adore her. I am completely besotted and even get nervous if she speaks to me. In acute distress this week because she was away and didn't teach the usual class. If I ever do start batting for the other team, she most definitely has to be the one to initiate me into it.

TWO: Because my sparkly phone recently decided to give me the silent treatment and won't turn itself on, I've been forced to use an old one, which is no better for its sporadic behaviour. However, inside it, I rediscovered plenty of phone numbers of all the boys I'd spent a significant amount of time at uni lusting over. I've been feeling nostalgic for what-might-have-been-but-never-did.

THREE: Speaking of uni boys, I also got to speak and see Honeytom over webcam the other day (after more than a year, back in the dreary days of living in Yorkshire) so now I love him all over again, not that I ever really stopped. Quite silly really, but have written about this before, so shan't repeat.

FOUR: Boys at work, who I have even started to dream about in compromising positions. It does help you see, to have people to lust over/flirt/talk about sexual escapades in motels with at work - it makes for something to look forward to at work in between the education stories, and something to pass the time until 5pm. I shall be very sad when I have to leave them all behind in a week's time and am already feeling nostalgic for the what-might-have-been-but-never-will.

Oooh it is terrible fun to have crushes, isn't it? It keeps us on our toes and makes for spectacular conversation, of the vacuumed, chick-lit variety. (I really have been reading too much Plum Sykes).

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