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Tuesday, November 30, 2004

WHITE: Blow jobs 

The first time Dolly met X (this is not a generic alphabet, as in algebraic formulas; her name really does start with X, the coy minx, which is unusual but also somehow delicously x-rated, if you knew her!) they bonded instantly over an excitable, hearty discussion about blow jobs and have since developed a firm, fast friendship.

Dolly is a great fan of oral pleasures, you see, and feels a bit bad for girls who are averse to it and, she thinks, missing out on something splendidly fun. In an interview with Harper's Bazaar, author of The Bride Stripped Bare, Nikki Gemmell spoke about how she detested giving blowjobs which Dolly found most distressing! It is something Dolly finds all incredibly titillating, and powerful for what might be done with the tip of one's tongue. She adores the soft, subtlety of blowjobs that lurk under something that also always feels just that little bit cheeky, naughty.

It is also fabulously intimate; sometimes much more, she believes, than just the convenient meeting of genitals and discovery-channel type thrusting. Blowjobs and handjobs give that extra touch of teasing, a gentle fondling that crescendo wildly in its measured speeds. It is indulgently slow, deliberate, but also a keen though contained excitement of finding particular spots that will incite groans and shudders, and shock with unexpected flicks and licks in the right places. It's the delicate, sublime touching of smooth bits, rounded bits, folds in skin; and having them touch you back close at the specially alert sense receptacles found at tips of your fingers and the insides, outsides, corners of your mouth.

It feels as if by giving pleasure with your lips and tongue, your oral cavities are also being entirely filled with desire. Giving blow jobs - when given in its full enjoyment- should fill you with a sort of reverse-seduction; where in fact, it is you (your mouth, rather) that becomes, almost literally, filled with pleasure while giving it... For feeling the dizzying peaks of an orgasm in your mouth, as parts shudder on their own against the roof of your mouth, is just as intoxicating as having one yourself.

However, blow jobs are not blow jobs without eye contact - in cheeky fleeting moments, or held for long strong addicted minutes. Dolly finds it just that extra little bit seductive to be watched - while you're being pleasured of course, but more excitingly, while you're giving the pleasure. The fun and thrill of giving goes up ten-fold knowing that the swirls of your tongue and full swell of your mouth are being seen at the same time as the pleasure is being felt. Engaging two senses are better than one anyway, no? Thank goodness for the special ability to multitask!

Dolly doesn't usually get excited by her own blog entries but she's got herself into a real tizzy this time, and is now off to find the boy (and what a lucky boy he is, she thinks to herself!)

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Monday, November 29, 2004

Green: Feather boa 

Dolly seems to be unabashedly using this blog as a bulletin board now. She was just wondering if any of you out there might know where she can get a green feather boa in KL? (no where too out of the way though, as navigationally-challenged Dolly knows only Bukit Bintang, Jalan Tun Rajak and Jalan Sultan Ismail).

It is of vital importance you see, as Dolly has been invited to a fancy dress party and she is going as a 1920s flapper - she already has a long cigarette holder, sparkly headpiece and a darling dress that has the added bonus of making her tits look like huge. Ironically, it is typical that the one time Dolly finds a dress that magically endows the bust line, its purpose is actually for a 20s' look, which should be a flatchested one; so Dolly's heaving bosom will be a bit of an anachronism. Nevermind. On the night, she'll insist that everyone call her Marjorie or Winifred - or something equally old and dainty - and insist that all the boys in the room do the charleston with her.

Any pointers on the whereabouts of feathers should be much appreciated, and may also earn you an invitation to the grandest party of the year! x x x

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Sunday, November 28, 2004


Dolly has just discovered how to do pictures! (she's a bit slow with technology you see), and thought that she would start with a picture of her blog's namesake. It should make you all want to rush out to a sweet shop to buy bagfuls of sugar.
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Saturday, November 27, 2004

RED: Porn 

Dolly likes a bit of porn, and though she has blogged about this quite a lot, she thought she would write about it again.

She refuses to pay for it though, and takes the cheap option of downloading it off things like edonkey or hassling her friends for their dodge RM14 VCDs from SS2 (which have consequently screwed (pardon the pun) the CD-RW on her laptop. Anyway, downloading random videos, picked only by the obscure titles given to them, usually mean that you end up with a file full of clips that are rather more hilarious than at all sensual.

Dolly, on a particularly frisky morning/afternoon/evening, will trawl through her porn collection (let's be honest now though, it's not really that extensive) only to find herself more amused than turned on.

Of late she has noticed, more than anything, the awful, overly-sentimental instrumental music that plays in the background of far too many porn movies. Surely porn is tacky enough on its own without needing the additional tinkle of synthesised keyboards. Dolly cannot understand why the directors of porn movies would think that elevator music would be tantalising or arousing? Or, for that matter, the pseudo-Victorian flowered and/or pink satin bedsheets that cushion the behinds of thrusting, groaning bottoms (though perhaps it is a budget thing, and the production company has to make do with a cheap motel for filming). If flowered linen doesn't conjure disturbing images of one's spinster aunt, it certainly recalls something more akin to a badly planned tea party than an erotic milieu.

So Dolly has a good giggle, shuts down her laptop, and resorts to her own imagination, sans musique.

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Friday, November 26, 2004

BLACK and WHITE: Men in suits 

Oo er, Dolly's been absent because she's been working very hard in libraries doing research for a very important person (oh you wouldn't believe who she's hobnobbing with, darlings!).

Speaking of power though, Dolly had a length excitable discussion with her boy about men in suits: him arguing that a majority of women find then highly attractive and her claiming proposterously that men in suits are generic and boring. All along, she realised he was (unfortunately) right of course and is fully aware that many girls throng to a boy in a spiffy jacket - but she is opinionated and in line with her argument and free-spirit felt she had to make an anti-establishment stand. It got shouty in the middle of a sushi bar, and he had to tell her to keep her giant voice down.

You see, Dolly is probably one of the few (though she likes to think, more discerning) girls who find men in suits, as mentioned, generic and really rather boring, and she fails to understand the real appeal it has for the rest of her sex. She'll explain: she thinks a suit, powerful as it may be in a boardroom, hides the more exciting parts of a personality. Sure, suity boys can look darling, but they also look to her rather like a mass product, quite interchangeable with the next one as they wander about in homogenous masses in every CBD, in every city all over the world.

It exudes power and that desirable image of confidence, apparently, but Dolly finds it all too uniform, monotone and lacking in a free-spirited sense of individuality or creativity (selecting the coloured stripes in a tie does not count). To her, a suit speaks of being in just-another-corporation, where pressed shirts speaks more for the company than it does for oneself. There is always the question of whether they really want to be suited up, or whether they'd much rather be comfortable and be themselves in torn jeans. The dress code thing, it feels rather like a sophisticated progression from being in school - it's blank and too confined for a Dolly, who is trying to get through life without even having to buy another button up shirt, ever.

The boy also advised that one is supposed to notice the subtle differences in suits that distinguish the pretend-spiffy from the truly poweful spiffy. All about the image you project. Dolly's like, "Oh whatever!" and wonders what girls think of when they see the image of a suited man. Do their eye ker-ching with dollar signs and their hearts beat with the promise of a strong, commanding man? The boy assures her that as she gets older her tastes will change and soon she will be clamouring for the power represented by suits. Dolly's like, "Oh, whatever!" and promptly reminded him that she fell in love with him that very first day because of the fact he was slouched at the corner of a cafe, dressed in an oversized, ratty jumper and exuding a quiet, unknowing sort of power which was so much more appealling, sexier than the peacock-feather-fluffing of corporate types in suits and ties. Yes, Dolly finds that images projected out-of-suit are mostly more charismatic, genuine and comfortably alluring than being stiffly in-suit.

Anyway, the boy had just bought a tres expensive suit before this discussion and she feels a bit bad for the lambasting. So, to make up for her bout of antagonism, she's now sitting around waiting around for her tastes to mature, so that when he puts on his suit her eyes will glitter and gleam...

Like, oh, whatever!

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Wednesday, November 24, 2004

WHITE:That silly marriage thing 

One of Dolly’s readers pointed out that it’s been a bit hard finding like-minded people in the Klang Valley because all the girls he meets are commitment-crazy and after wedding bells. Bless him, they seem really rather more interested in him as potential husband than fun companion. Dolly thinks he should have tea with her instead, where all is frivolity and fun that has nothing to do with rings or white tulle.

Dolly has always been a bit amused by this marriage thing for she can’t see what the fuss is about. Now while 17th-century kings and queens of warring nations would wed for the peace of their countries and shows of goodwill or while marriages of old were set for the securing of social status and/or money for the poor dear hapless lovers and/or deals between two jovial sets of parents, it is hardly the case now.

Do explain. Dolly cannot understand why a girl should be so fussed over a piece of paper. Perhaps she fears that her man would run away and leave her for another girl – but that could happen anyway. Haha! As if either party couldn’t run off with the secretary, salsa partner or photocopy boy anyway, with or without marriage. Or perhaps she fears dying an old maid. Ah well, aren’t we all frightened of withering alone in an old home? Better than being stuck in a loveless marriage, where your soul shall die early on anyway. Or perhaps she needs what she thinks is the ultimate commitment from a man – a prettily set diamond! But well, did nobody tell them that church vows and marriage registry scribbles holds no guarantee, ever, of lifetime love? Darlings, if the boy loves you, he shall love and be with you forever, even without a band of gold; and if he falls out of love with you, then too bad! Marriage shan’t prevent that. Or perhaps, pragmatically, she just wants money. In which case, she’s just a greedy tart with no class, and shall deserve no pity when dear husband is canoodling with Playboy bunnies.

The crunch is: why don’t people (the desperate girls), just enjoy being with people they love, and for dollssake, put aside the deadline, just be fun and love them entirely! This sounds much too idealistic, even for Dolly, but really she must point out to these gormless girlies that marriage shan’t make someone love you more. If he doesn’t already, then get out! Find someone else who will. And if he does, then you’re a fool for fretting. For remember, signing yourself away to being an old married couple can only mean more beastly things to come like children and mortgages!

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Sunday, November 21, 2004

WHITE: The after-effects of Afternoon Sex 

Well, sleeping all day has meant that Dolly is now wide awake as the boy is asleep and dreaming with the angels. So much for soporific!

He just woke up and after stumbling his way to the bathroom came back out and muttered in the way that only sleepy men do, "Have you been sitting there all this time?" (For Dolly is perched in the dark, clattering away like a professional little writer). "What are you doing?"

Dolly: I'm writing in my blog

Boy: About what?

Dolly: Sex.

"What about me?," he mumbled as he plonked back to the pillows. Then, "I love you so much," proceeded by much heavy breathing of the un-sensual kind and the occasional snore.

(Dolly forgotten to add that the after-effects of Afternoon Sex (heck, any sex) also adds greatly to increased levels of feeling entirely manja. All part of the indolence, indulgence and some biological thing about the needy emotions of the female sex which can be better explained by Mars and Venus' John Gray than Dolly... Which has therefore led to the increased tendency to write frequently and gushingly about how much Dolly adores the boy. She even makes herself sick!

*loved up and cuddly, for anyone who doesn't know Malay/Manglish.)

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Saturday, November 20, 2004

YELLOW: Afternoon sex 

Best for weekends, unless you're getting it off with the photocopy boys at work at lunch break.

Dolly is not really one for morning sex, as she remains far too aware that her mouth may emanate odours more akin to a small dead furry animal, than peaches and vanilla; feels that uncomfortable squish of morning-eyes (and Dolly's are especially uneven in the morning); and is usually more interested in crawling back beneath the blankets than sprawling about in sexy poses (particularly as the boy is up and about at ridiculously early hours of the morning and Dolly likes her indolent lie-ins). Quickie morning sex can work though, for there is less pressure, and more oomph for the rest of the working day.

Anyway, afternoon sex thinks Dolly, is most fabulous. That lovely drowsy feeling that washes over you like glue after a leisurely brunch and makes you feel like going right back to bed, is worth holding off long enough to go in for say, a nice long blow job (giving or receiving). And we all know how the soporific effects of sex add deliciously to a good sleep. And so, the afternoon siesta that had been threatening to drown you since noon is twice as good after a bit of play. (Like children - you make them go out to exhaust themselves in play, then tuck them off for a nap. We've not grown much, really.)

After slumber, you awake in time for dinner, at which point you roll dosily out of bed, put some clothes back on and have long debates with the boy about whether to go for a greasy kebab or low-fat sushi. Anything goes of course, you mumble as you try to wake youself up by standing on the balcony for fresh air. The afternoon sex has meant that you remain hopelessly in love with your laziness for the rest of the day and feel happily inebriated by a sudden slowing down of time.

And then it's time for bed.

And, oh, what a lovely Saturday it's been.

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Thursday, November 18, 2004

YELLOW: A Dolly blog party 

Coming out of a deep blue funk has turned Dolly quite the other way, and now she finds herself becoming increasingly vain and silly.

Recently, she has been entertained by thoughts of a party thrown in her honour, to which all readers of Dolly blog would come, no matter how many there are (or few, as may well be the case!). She envisaged balloons, cupcakes - many of them, all with pastel coloured icing - jellies, grand china teapots, a man with a fiddle and everyone dressed very beautifully indeed with feather boas and top hats. It wouldn't be one of those horrid raucous parties full of second-hand smoke and awful dim lighting of course, but something like the mad hatter's tea party in Alice in Wonderland where everybody is bouncing about all the time around a splendid garden, talking nonsense, telling stories with no endings, playing croquet with flamingos.

When they tired, Dolly's dear guests would sit around fancy white garden-party tables (with curlicues!) babbling loudly to each other and laughing so madly that they scream and topple backwards over their chairs, their legs kicking toward the sky. (If they ever ran out of conversation, they could expound on Dolly's greatness and tell each other, or her, how very much they all adore her!) They'd eat off piles of cake that never ended and pour out cups of tea from teapots that refilled themselves. And the fiddler would play absolutely any tune you'd want him to, while your shoes would magically carry you off dancing around the tables to a jig you never even knew you knew. It would be such fun that even the garden gnomes would come alive and the fairies come out to play.

Would you all come? Oh do! R.S.V.P.

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RED: Fragment of a love story 

He said: (as Dolly was fixing up the kettle for a spot of tea) You really are so beautiful!

She said: Really?! Even when I’m scrappy?

He said: Yes! Especially when you’re scrappy.

Dolly’s heart fluttered, and the boy toddled back to his room to write his essay.


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Wednesday, November 17, 2004

BLUE: Boys! 

note: t'is a rather long entry so be prepared. Get cosy with a mug of tea, or skip to the next post.

Dolly has loved lots of boys, though when she says 'loved' it's meant more in the way of infatuation and the silly girlish crush that get us all through the tedium of every day. She's been feeling nostalgic recently for her flirty days of being a girl of 20 and thought again of these boys. Nothing in the way of relationships ever transpired between Dolly and the five boys below, for the reasons pointed out, but when she was young and flighty and very unattached this suited her quite fine, and she was more than happy to just bounce around campus throwing smiles at boys and having them smile back at her. In any case, it is always a truth that what-might-have-been is much more fun than what-was, no? for Dolly is a great dreamer. Hence:

The posh boy: He had a most spectacular name, the sort that would be engraved under a oil portrait and hung up in the hall way of a large country manor. Posh boy spoke with a slight lisp, but combined with his very posh accent, just made him all the more adorable. He also looked scatty and aloof, like all the real life Mr Darcys of the world, though in fact, he was really quite intelligent. Oh, he was so very posh indeed, but listened attentively to all that Dolly had to say, smiled his charming, public-schoolboy, very upper middle-class smile at her all the time and flirted outrageously, as would have been improper for someone who wore shirts as neatly pressed as he did. Dolly thinks though, that should anything have transpired between them, his family (though she's not met them) would have severely disapproved of their connection for she is not white, nor comes from a lineage endowed with old money, nor named something like Charlotte. Eventually he took up with a posh girl called Genevieve who Dolly particularly disliked for she was arrogant and completely rude.

The best friend's boyfriend: hmm, a bit tricky. For the whole world was in love with BFB but best friend had got him round her little finger, forever to remain there. Eventually, even when they did break up, BFB sat pining for her for months so it was very difficult indeed to convince him of anyone's charm, least of all a Dolly's. He was the most decidedly moody boy in the world but he had a most endearing pout to go with it, so it was always okay for him to be in a bad mood and suffering from love-lost angst. When he was in a good mood though, he would ply Dolly with many compliments, speak colourful prose that would make her chuckle and on a particularly lucid night, renamed her Sparkly. BFB was always flirty and charming and entirely lovely to Dolly, in his rugged, unshaven sort of way for he was always a bit grubby and unkempt. Even when it became very clear that they would just be friends he would still spend lovely long days walking York's old cobbled streets with her, looking into second handshops for books on mythology and scheming silly plans like starting up a rock band and holding a movie marathon for posh porn. He did all sorts of things that seemed ridiculously romantic, though in reality they weren't at all, for he was still madly in love with Dolly's best friend.

The boy that almost was: lived downstairs from Dolly and would play Limp Bizkit absurdly loud at 3 in the morning, whenever Dolly was feeling ill. She hated him in theory, until one day during a fire drill when she was standing outside shivering in tiny pyjama shorts she saw him and thought him wonderful. As it turns out, Dolly never got to speak to almost-boy until the very last week at university when, as luck would have it, his best friend pulled her best friend in a smelly club and by proxy they started to talk. Finally at her graduation ball, the last day of the year, ever, Dolly felt brave and wrote him a nice little message on a napkin with her very expensive eyeliner, telling him he was the most beautiful boy in the world... And he was all attentive, gorgeous about it all and sent her a text message the very next morning, even though the ball had only ended at 6am... but it was all too late for he was going off to Warwick and she was staying in York for their respective MAs. A short correspondence and text message conversations ensued but Dolly spoilt it all one drunken evening when she decided to text him to say "she had really liked him, but then he had decided to fuck off to Warwick!" and she never heard from him again. Shame really, for he really did have the most perfect, angelic face, the sort that you knew belied a devilishly roguish, exciting interior that would sweep you away on adventures.

The oblivious boy: who was our production editor at the university paper and would spend many sleep-deprived hours and hours huddled up over an imac fiddling with the most minute details over the front page. He was divine and girls were mad for him although he really had absolutely no idea, for he never, ever, spoke to anyone. He had gigantic glasses, brown cardigans and a duffel coat which made being geeky suddenly very chic and desirable for under the guise of quiet seriousness, he would spin out the sexiest designs on a printed page. He was so quiet, so invisible and so very able to let the buzz of the office pass over him entirely that he was mostly forgotten by the rest of us, but oh! when you remembered he was there and caught glimpses of the side of his face as he frowned over QuarkXpress, it would send blood rushing wildly to your ears and you would blush hot red to yourself. But Dolly was writing news stories and he had no regard for the writers for they were boring, and just part of the hassle for him to turn mundane stories about the Students' Union into beautiful pages. Eventually, he resigned and Dolly took over his job and became the grumpiest, most stressed girl in town with no time for love.

The straight boy in the gay club: Honeytom had dragged Dolly to a gay club in Leeds again and as she was such a slave to him because she desired him so, she went along. He then sent her on the task of taking photos of the boys he'd been checking out for weeks and utterly fancied, and so she did, because that was the sort of silly thing that Dollies think are a good idea when out clubbing. As is the case in all clubs, people appear and vanish all night, and it was difficult to find said boys for a Kodak moment. Eventually, just as they were leaving, Honeytom finds the boys coming out of the club so off she went with her disposable camera to stutter rather unelegantly that she wanted their picture for her friend. It turned out though, that one of them - the much hotter one, hurrah! - was more straight than gay and, after generously complying to having his picture taken, snogged her in the middle of the street. (It made Honeytom cross for awhile, but I suppose he didn't really mind). We never went back there as we all left Yorkshire after that (same bloody story as with almost-boy) and Dolly was absolutely gutted for the single most desirable boy in the gay club she might have struck up with, but didn't!

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Tuesday, November 16, 2004

ORANGE: Flouncy 

Dolly has been inspired by Pride and Prejudice after watching a five-hour adaptation on DVD and now she is all romantic and want to walk in fields picking flowers and weeping over trifling matters.

So yesterday, instead of doing research in the library for her new job, Dolly went shopping and bought the most flouncy, frothy coral coloured skirt with a sash attached that ties up round the side. It was just what she needed to feel like a 21st-century Jane - pretty and girly and so romantically adorable.

That evening, the boy suggested they go for a walk to ease the sickliness of having eaten too much for dinner, so Dolly had a chance to debut her new skirt (which she'd been wearing all day since she bought it). It was dusky and warm, with the sky just about turning over with its sleepy hues and they went walking in a part of town that they hadn't been to before. Plenty of darling little nooks presented themselves - little coffee shops and restaurants with wrought-iron fences - to which Dolly fluffed her skirt's many many ruffles, bounced around her boy like an endearing pet and exclaimed, "Oooh, let's go see it!" or "Oooh let's go have a look inside!" And she spent the rest of the good hour scampering back and forth across the road - her skirt bobbing like fairy floss and her hand in the boy's - to peer into all the shops and things. It was like being in the Parisien Arcades in the 19th century... and oh how Dolly loves to live nostagically in an imagined past.

It did occur to her later that the skirt may appear to be a bit too rah for some, who may just think it too poofy and fluffed up to be at all lovely. But pish to them! she is convinced that all the boys in the county should fall madly in love with her if they saw her in it, and be clamouring over each other to ask her to dance.

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Monday, November 15, 2004

PINK: Pride 

While Dolly and her host of beautiful gay friends sit around and pretend to be queens of the world, while she laughs raucously in delight at the blog entries one of her best friends in England, Honeytom, writes about gay men taking over the world, she has also come across an alarming lot of sudden violence against gay men (as highlighted by Honeytom himself).

Now, Dolly does not call herself a decidedly straight girl, because she thinks that sexual labels are ridiculous and stupid. Contrarily, she would never call herself bi, lesbian, queer either. At the end of the day, she reckons, it is bodily lust, no? Who cares what sex it is you're lusting after!* And so, it is of particular concern to her that there is so much hatred and violence going on out there against what seems to her to be just another sort of desire. Men loving men, girls loving girls, well hello my darlings! It's not like they're hurting anyone!

In recent years, there has been the sudden glamourisation of homosexuality - pretty blonde lesbians and lesbian sex are all the rage in porn, and programmes like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy trumps the fact that gay men are so much more gorgeously, desirably trendy, well dressed, knowing and cultured than the blokey straight boys.

So. It has seemed to a Dolly that the general crap-eating pigeon public think it's chic and tres okay to be gay, if it means you are a hot man with an even hotter boyfriend, or a couple of lipstick lesbians with big tits and outrageous dildos. Oooh, they think, how sexy it must be to dabble in being gay.

What is not okay, are the rest of the (much larger) population of gay men or lesbians who don't live that luscious metrosexual sort of life and who aren't exceptionally pretty. Then suddenly, there are words like fags or dykes, sneered with much malice; there are public bashings, and there are David Morley murders. Suddenly, same-sex sex is wrong and worthy of being ostracised. Ultimately, it's ok to be an hideously ugly straight couple, for they're still straight, but to be anything less than a TV-glamourised gay couple, oops, suddenly this gay-thing really hits home: it's real, and oh so very different to what I am, and therefore disgusting. It brings every decidedly-straight person close up to what is completely the opposite to what they are and what they desire. And what you are afraid of or what is different, is what you are often taught to hate.

Dolly does believe that so much of this homophobia does stem from an innate fear of what they know little about and also a deeply rooted insecurity about their own sexuality... For surely, if you are entirely secure in your sexuality, you wouldn't give two flying fucks for what the rest of the population was shagging! It seems that men, especially, take great pride in brandishing their heterosexuality about but sadly they are also the ones to be most pitied for their ridiculous bottling up of desires and refusal to explore the greater boundaries of their pleasure. Joke's on them after all, thinks Dolly. All would be clear if they just shut up and let a cock or two through their back doors.

*so long as no-one is hurt or forced to have things done against their will.

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Sunday, November 14, 2004

PINK: Lots of love 

The boy is busy with a very important essay so Dolly tries to stay out of his way. However, she know she is irrisistible and he can't help but to toddle out of his room to give her kisses on the cheek or demand a hug.

A few minutes ago, he asked her what movie she was watching, which was Lovely and Amazing (which isn't really, so don't bother. But Emily Mortimer is in it, and she's such a butterscotch!).

"But that's what you are!" exclaimed the boy, "Lovely and amazing!" and his eyes lit up like sparklers. Then Dolly was swept up by him because he fancied a dance so they bounced around the living room singing badly to that ticklish 70s song, 'You to me are everything' and laughing like loons.

Lovely lovely.

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Friday, November 12, 2004

YELLOW: Bright young things 

Dolly has spent all afternoon eating peaches and ice cream and watching Bright Young Things, an adaption of Evelyn Waugh's book Vile Bodies. It's delicious - hats, horse racing, and champagne and dancing! Oooh dancing! with girls called Agatha and and Nina, and boys called Ginger and Miles. Now, as she writes this, she is listening to Benny Goodman and feeling a delicious wash of of nostalgia for the 30s.

21st century? Pah!

The thing is, Dolly has decided that she doesn't quite like the nightlife of now. Too-darkened spaces that look putrid and lonely by day, unattractive plumes of smoke sprouting from stubby yellowed fingers and squashed dancing in a cramped corner of the dancefloor to music which is either synthesised or horribly remixed by machines is ghastly. But parties in the 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, now those seemed divinely fun. Rooms with chandeliers and candlelight, fashionably darling plumes of smoke, smoked through long cigarette holders and a live clarinets! trumpets! trombones! that would play music at dizzying speeds to make you twirl giddy right round, all round, the dancefloor in your oh-so-daring knee-length dress with your new beau du jour.

Dolly stood in Zouk a few weeks back, bouncing along to music with a hundred other people, all bouncing in the same sort of deadened way to the beat of the tiny solitary man (Nick Warren, it was) way up there on the decks. When Dolly got bored of dancing to nothing in particular, she bought a drink from the bar - overpriced and doled out in a stolid, ugly glass more full of ice than drink. And she thought how frightfully boring it had all become. Now, Dolly could have gone back to a jolly bout of drinking vodka to liven the evening, but she has given up on intoxicants now. And anyway, that wasn't the point, she thought.

An evening with sparkly gold trumpets and real dancing, where you are spun madly around by your handsome beau, kick your heels up in dances that are all the fashion with boys that want to court you and drink martinis out of pretty glasses when you tire - now isn't that much more appealing than dancing the Melbourne shuffle on your own and worrying that the weasly blonde ahbeng over there might spike your drink and, oh no, not rape you, but steal all your credit cards to go to Hong Kong with!

Dolly shall have to have her own club, where there shall be champagne, and fancy dress parties with feathers and hats that sit askance on your head, and a whole brass ensemble. Alternatively, if anyone knows of a good place to dance properly (none of that mindless bopping to trance, please, it's getting old) and fancies taking Dolly out on a good old-fashioned dinner and dance date, with champagne in slender flutes, clarinets and goodnight kisses-on-the-cheek-only, she would be thrilled to accept!

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Thursday, November 11, 2004

YELLOW: Bees 

Have been watching Bright Young Things which is so full of 30s glamour it makes Dolly ashamed to be in the 21st century (more on that tomorrow when she's feeling more eloquent and less sleepy).

Anyway, fabulous line from the film: "Are you a butterfly or a bee? You wanna flit around, looking pretty, doing nothing or you wanna make honey?"

What a stupid question. Why would anyone want to be a bee? (unless it were the queen bee, and even then you're usually fat from sitting in the hive scoffing all that honey and not half as pretty as butterflies). Dolly herself is feeling much like a butterfly these days, a pink one with sparkles like the ones you find on earrings. She also likes honey and, like butterflies, would much rather just eat it, than have to make it like the poor dear bees.

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Wednesday, November 10, 2004

BLUE: Men and sex 

Dolly is feeling all yakkity today and on a roll of writing (what else is she to do when the boy is at work, the weather is like England's and she's feeling guilty from having spent too much money?)

And so, threesomes: we all know that all men's ultimate fantasy is to have two women at once. Feeling brave, Dolly asked the boy why that was so (she's been trying to figure out the psychology of it all for years now) to which he answered, "It's just nice to watch two girls. It's like having the best of both worlds."

Dolly: what do you mean?

the boy: "Well men generally aren't satisfied having sex with just one partner". To which alarm bells started to clang incredibly loudly in Dolly's head and the levels of paranoia rose sharply in her blood stream.

The boy was lovely and reassuring though, and after a bit of thought (because she's been thinking rather a lot these days what with the unemployment and free time) Dolly realised that while this dissatisfaction-with-monogamy theory thing may not completely be the case for women (goes back to some biological thing, no? about men needing to spread their seed, or some such rubbish), it does hold true that women too think plenty of idle thoughts about having sex with other random people. She suddenly felt a bit guilty for pouncing on the boy when she recalled the many times she had quietly lusted after colleagues, best friends, mutual friends, friends of friends, the maintenance man who'd come to repaint the walls.

After all, although you aren't unhappy or dissatisfied with your partner, isn't it rather impossible not to think about sex with other people? (And even if you make the concerted effort not to , the thoughts shall bubble up in dreams and be twice as arousing! See previous post). Surely too, it would be odd and possibly quite freaky if you only had (sexual) eyes for your one and only. Which isn't to say of course that you are about to rush out and sleep with the city, but thinking and fantasising does keep the active dollies, friends and boyfriends on their toes.

Yes, yes, so after all that, Dolly bows her head modestly and instead of kicking up her heels, agrees with her boy's rather flagrant statement of last night (he has a knack of saying things ridiculous and blunt enough stir Dolly into a frenzy, but which usually end up being really rather true). Being the sort of emotional, sensitive dolly that she is, Dolly is just rather glad that her boy is happily honest enough to chat to her about that sort of thing while frying a steak instead of, say, keeping up a grand pretense of holy monogamy while sleeping with the rest of the nation in secret (well, at least she hopes that's not the case!).

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WHITE: The maintenance man 

Dolly has found her new fantasy.

During her stay with the boy, a maintenance crew came round to touch up things in the apartment (how darling, no? You would never see such meticulous care in M'sia). Dolly could not help but feel tricklings of desire for the maintenance man as she opened the door to him yesterday, not because he was particularly desirable, but because he was a maintenance man, with strong arms, strong legs and stubble (this is not always the case of course, as the electricians/plumbers/car service men in M'sia are all ah-bengs, sport orange hair and look like little creeps). His name was Stuart.

Anyway, fortunately for Dolly there was enough work to be done to ensure that Stuart had to return the next day. This morning, she woke up at 8am to let him in the door but was very sleepy and had to go back to bed like an idle miss. The morning was delicious though, for she spent the next two hours dreaming sordid dreams about Stuart's legs and having remarkably rough sex (this is fitting, for Dolly and the boy had just had a discussion about men, and/or women never being 100% satisfied with having just one partner - see next post).

When she finally rose from slumber (her pretty, dirty dreams shaken to reality by the sound of a vacuum in the bathroom) and walked out for a cup of tea, she was horribly aware of how unattractive she looked with a head like a nest and that unrosy smell of sleep. She had unflattering pyjamas on too - stripey pants and an old Topshop top from 6 years ago. The dream would never have come true, even if Dolly had been a single, flirty girl for she looked so frightful and is quite certain that Stuart would have thought her disgusting for having slept in until 10 while he was hard at work polishing the apartment.

He was very, very nice though and spent much time explaining what he had done to fix the copper pipes in the wall. How nice, and extremely adorable for the rough-and-tumble that he represents in every delicate spoilt little miss' fantasies. Dolly had to go out for lunch but when she returned, she found a note he'd tucked in the door before leaving. It was scrawled quite illegibly and so full of spelling mistakes, it would have made a sub-editor blush but that just made him all the more appealling. There is no fun, surely, in fantasizing about educated men?!

"This is the lady-of-leisure and rugged tradesman syndrome," pointed out a friend. Very Lady Chatterly's Lover; you see, I even have literary classics to back up my naughty thoughts.

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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

PINK: Blushing and flirting 

Firstly: re: comments: Preaching and taking the moral high ground is tres undesirable and boring, particularly here. If Dolly had wanted this blog to be about saving the world, she would have done so. But she wants to write about a spoilt, self-indulgent life and if you find that offensive, selfish, shallow and deserving of scorn then find something else to read! As she keeps reminding readers, this is a blog, not a grand proposal for submission to Amnesty/UN peace plans/Booker and Nobel prizes, so lighten up, puh-lease darlings.

Anyway... Dolly recently realized that she still has it in her to be young and flirty… so hurrah!Typically, just as she was feeling run down and frumpy the other week, she finds the young-ish boy at the computer shop in 1Utama comparing her to a thumb drive (“small and cute, like you mah!”). He plumps her ego by assuming she was still a student, asking her what she's studying and exclaiming “TIPU lah you!” (you're lying!) when she tells him her real age and says she is working. After all that though, he didn’t give even a discount on the thumb drive, though promised to take a whole RM50 (!) off a laser printer. He was adorable and very nice indeed – as readers of Dolly Mixture, you should all go say hello to him.

It must be said though that Dolly is often shamefully maladroit when it comes to flirting with strangers. Usually, she’s feeling too stunned to reply properly: flirty come-ons come mostly at inappropriate times when you are in a hurry or in a particularly minging mood. As the weird sort of feminist that she is, she also finds it awkward, difficult and mostly stupid to bat eyelashes, accidentally-on-purpose squeeze someone’s bicep or sweeten up another’s ego with sickly words of adoration. She’d much prefer rude banter, airing pretentious views on things she doesn’t know much about or even better, talking about herself, which is what she does best.

Sometimes it works and men fall desperately in love with the arrogance anyway: Dolly’s first boyfriend found her self-centredness and affected know-it-all ‘tude in French class appealing, apparently, and sought after her for almost a year. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and scares off the boys completely: a boy that Dolly fancied forever at uni admitted after two years that he’d always found her intimidating; when he’d found courage enough to flirt with scary dolly, she wasn’t interested anymore.

Dolly desired the boy entirely when she first met him in a cramped café but felt so socially inept that she spent the entire evening talking to everyone else on the table except him. Right at the end, she rushed up to him and said he must get in touch if he was ever in England which was ridiculous, and he didn’t anyway even when he was in London. Eventually, she sent a mutual friend a brash text message saying the boy was gorgeous and she just wanted to sleep with him, and hoped rather desperately that she would show it to him. Which she did, bless her and we got together enfin! 3 months later. But now, as she potters around his bedroom and watches the back of his head as he studies, it seems her lack of flirting confidence cost her a rather great waste of time and she’s wondering too how many boys she may have left in a trail for not having batted any eyelid or said something delicious.

You see, under the disguise of Confident Dolly, Attention Seeking Dolly and Arrogant Dolly, she’s really quite shy.

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Monday, November 08, 2004

BLUE: Back with the boy 

Dolly is back with the boy. Her new job is fabulous: she has no office hours and work does not start properly until after Hari Raya (so a big thumbing of her nose to the rest of you bound by the shackles of 9-to-5 and cubicles). She decided that instead of doing nothing in KL, she would do nothing in foreign climes where clear haze-free weather keeps her sinuses from swelling, where the boy is nearby and where they do divine biscuits.

She is back to a dolly paradise of sex and spending ludicrous amounts on money on a sunny summer world of consumerism (today she bought earrings for a large sum, only to realise after that they were made of cardboard). Dolly is feeling so mild she could a haiku.

The hormones are settling back to a normalcy after a withdrawal of the pill. Less compulsive behaviour and depressing thinking, so she shall be back to her usual frilly nonsense of sex revelations and making derogatory comments about men tres soon.

PS Dolly is also going to start writing in the third person now, as she thinks it's more up her pretentious streak and makes for better fiction-sounding writing. Thanks to Honeytom and Darloboy for the inspiration and for making it trendy.

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Sunday, November 07, 2004

RED: On dressing up 

Over the past month, I've had the same conversation twice with two different people about whether women dress for men, for other women or, in some lovely utopian way, for themselves.

Dolly loves to play dress up with chiffons, swirly skirts, svelte tiny halter tops and tangly dangly earrings so this question threw her a bit off her latest pointy vintage-looking kitten heels. Anyway, she came to the conclusion that, in spite of what lots of people think, women dress mostly for other women knowing (consciously or not) that women are their greatest critics. To be complimented on your outfit du jour by another woman says plenty about your current choice in wardrobe, style, even personality. Only other women would be acutely aware that the colour you are wearing is the season's darling or appreciate that your dress pays homage to the recent revival of the 50s. Any man who has taste enough to understand what you're doing with your Pucci prints and pastel colours is likely to be gay, and therefore more in love with your Anya Hindmarch than with you.

Other men, I think, are ony vaguely aware that you look nice. Or you don't (simple binaries, it seems, works best for mars). After many months, I have realised that what I wear seldom has any effect on the boy. Most of what I like, he doesn't (one-sleeved tops, assymetric skirts, giant earrings) and so I wear it all the more just to irritate; and he seems to adore me most when, as mentioned in a previous entry, I look my most dishevelled. Coordinated styles and carefully picked accessories go over the boy's head like a gust of wind around a pashmina; today he even referred to my skirt as a dress. He tells me often how nice I look; on other occasions his face will crinkle into decided dislike when he doesn't like my latest earrings made out of mini tiles; but there is little of the in-between. He likes, or he doesn't like; and he shan't be able to say why. Mostly, the same with all other straight male friends and my father, the king of mars.

And so, getting compliments from other women (or beautiful gay men) is a mark that you have made it past a critical eye, one that can explain why she does or doesn't like your new floral skirt and applaud your choice of beaded sandals to go with it.

The more narcissitic among us might also choose to dress for ourselves, almost as if we know we're so fabulous already and believe that we're enhancing the way the clothes look, not the other way around. The knicker phenomenon and girly indulgence in underwear to wear beneath a boring office suit is evidence enough that we like to just look at ourselves in the mirror and admire our own assets, even if no-one else does. This also explains compulsive obsessions that individual women have with things like polka dots, the colour pink or wooden accesories which they're wearing because of some personal identity thing, or just because it suits their mood/personality/attention seeking tendencies. Nevermind if it actually looks rubbish.

So. Beauty from within? Pah! We all just want to be beautiful don't we? The next time you see me, I shall be fishing for compliments and expect them in lavish doses.

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Saturday, November 06, 2004

WHITE: Clarity 

Oooh it's been a long time...

After six months of swinging erratically between being happy dolly and sad dolly, I've finally realised that the depression is being brought on by the silly sly little contraceptive pill I take every morning. Ironic no?

sex = happy
being on the pill to remove fear of pregnancy so can have more worry-free sex = more happy
the pill = unhappy

I was moaning about this to a friend, A, and saying just how very terrified I was of getting pregnant, hence reliance on pill. To which she said, "Well you could just abstain from sex".

Like, uh, no.

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Monday, November 01, 2004

WHITE: Fiction 

As a literature student, I may perhaps have started to take the whole art-as-a-reflection-of-life thing a little too seriously. I've suddenly noticed how extremely taken I get by what I read and see, and become so very convinced that the stories are in my life. They say reading is great for opening your mind and stirring your imagination. I think it might be starting to take over as a parallel life in my head.

The other week, for example, I'd been reading about a boy who had his sore throat diagnosed as strep throat/gonorrhea and got kicked out of home by his parents. Around the same time, I got a sore throat too, and was utterly convinced I had managed to get gonorrhea. The fiction fairy that I am was antsy and paranoid about it all week, until the sore throat cured itself and went away with the gentle help of Strepsils. An episode of Aladdin on the Disney Channel once featured a wizard who told humans that cutting flowers and leaving them in vases causes them a slow and painful death; and so I have never bought flowers since. After reading Middlesex, I started to imagine that I was a haemaphrodite, that I was growing a penis and half turning into a man.

Should I read Lady's Chatterley's Lover, any more episodes of the Forsyte Saga or The Tenant of Wildfell Hall I will start to believe that the boy has run away with the scullery maid or will despise me completely one day as he walks into the living room and sees me oil painting. If I read something that glamourises rent boys, I shall begin to fantasise about being best friends with one, or being one. Any mention of any food in whatever book, movie or cartoon will send me into acute cravings for it and distress for not having it immediately. Since childhood, I've been in search of the perfect jelly, as illustrated in the kid's book 'Mr Gumpy's day out'.

I imagine this should only get worse if I resort to non-fiction, for those things really did happen.

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