This New Year's celebration was different for the four of us friends. For the past three years, our New year's celebration is a grand affair, something that we look forward to right after Christmas. For the past three years, Steve, our best friend, the scion of an empire (he hates it when I call him that) would throw the biggest New YEar's bash and invite all of his friends, relatives, contacts, clients and of course, us to usher in the new year in the biggest way possible.
But this year, there wasn't any bash, no big ball, no free flow of champagne, no sweet door gifts ($300 spa vouchers anybody?), no dance floor, no fine Italian food, no nothing.
Back in November 2012, Steve shared with us about his desire to do away with a New Year's Ball as he is famously associated with.
"I'm too old to throw a party," he said.
"You're 25," Melanie rolled her eyes.
"Fine, the real reason I don't want to have a party this year is because I..."
"Please do not say it is because you don't want to waste money. Your bank account is inexhaustible," Star butted in halfway.
"It's not that. I just...I just feel empty? I don't know. When I turned 21, I thought it was a great idea, almost mandatory. Son of tycoon throws a party, you know. But I just feel like this year onwards, and the years coming ahead, no more party. I just want to spend it with my closest friends, something intimate, meaningful," Steve shared.
I could hear hundreds of people from the gliteratti sighing at that very moment.
"Does that mean that the supposed three million dollar budget used for the ball could be used on us instead?" I joked.
"Of course if you want it, I will give it to you!" Steve smiled earnestly.
I looked at his face. He actually meant that.
"I'm just kidding," I replied softly. Damn it.
That was two months ago and yesterday, the four of us went to The Fullerton for a small get together; his ex boyfriend (who is now a good friend) and a few others of Steve's closest friends organized. Because there wasn't a ball this year, we three (and hundreds of members from the gliteratti) had no plans so were were cordially invited by Steve and boy did we have fun.
When we arrived, one of Steve's male friends opened the door and Star squealed. It was Dan The Man (read the blog post of the same name to refresh you memory), Star's new regional manager and imaginary fuck buddy. Apparently Dan is Steve's old university buddy back in London; Steve took Architecture, Dan, MBA.
I have to give it to Star. This Dan guy is really, really good looking even I can't stop staring at him for the first two minutes after our initial handshake. And yes, he smells of Bulgari Men, as famously described by Star.
"What if he's gay?" Melanie teased.
"Don't fuck with me like that. Not on the last day of 2012. I can't handle that shit. And just because he is friends with a gay man doesn't mean his is gay too you stupid tranny!" Star growled behind Dan's back.
"Possessive bitch," Melanie flicked her hair.
There were a couple of other people whom we didn't know but didn't take long to warm up to (by the fourth glass to be exact). There is a certain sense of joy indescribable when you spend time with your closest friend at such a momentous time of the year. There were plenty of food (great italian from one of Steve's restaurants) and his father had given him six bottles of champagne and Ben (Steve's ex) was such an excellent host, we couldn't ask for more.
We played Snap like children, huddled together (all ten of us) at the balcony to witness the fireworks when the clock struck twelve, drank some more and played some more games.
The highlight of the night was when we played Taboo and Melanie had to describe "Ghosts" and said, "People are afraid of this thing...What is it?"
"Lesbians?" Ben guessed loudly.
The whole room shook with laughter and Star spilled champagne on her top and that is when you know that things are really getting fun. Oh, and yes, Star made out with Dan at the end of the night on a couch in the living room of the hotel suite and Melanie threw a pillow at them and screamed, "Score!"
A ball of a time, without three million dollars.
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Monday, December 10, 2012
Shampoo Boy
Having a friend who is also a hairdresser means that you get to save a great deal of money on hair cutting. Trust and a sense of sensitivity also play a part; you don't want to anger your best friend and have him or her fuck up your hair and making you look like a calefare from The Flintstones. I must also add that Melanie gives the best head massages and stop it, I meant my real head that's connected to my neck.
Sometimes when I have a headache or my head is throbbing because I couldn't sleep the night before, I would just pop by Melanie's salon for a wash and blow. I don't even need an immediate haircut. I just need her magic fingers to massage my head and everything would go away. Sometimes without any self-restraint going on, I would burp in the middle of the head massage because she massages a certain nerve.
"Shut up! You disgusting pig. I'm just giving you head and it's only starting to froth a little, I have not even started the blowing yet and you've already started burping," Melanie would teasingly scold.
Oh come on, her job presented itself with puns after puns.
"People are staring," I would always reply.
The only thing I dislike about going to have my frequent (sometimes free) head massage and haircut at Melanie's salon is that she likes to set me up with her regular customers who happen to be in the salon at the same time. I find that weirdly distracting and let's face it, highly embarrassing.
Here, you have your best friend foaming up your hair with shampoo and you're having a time of your life, for that little ten minutes and then suddenly she pulls your hair and goes, "Harry, that's the dude I was telling you about. He just broke up with his boyfriend, shall I hook you both up?"
Most of the times I would yell and scream, "Fuck, that hurts!" and sometimes, when my threshold for pain is a lot higher for that day, I would just roll my eyes and say, "Since he is such a catch, why don't you have him instead? And massage my hair properly bitch thanks."
And god knows how long these random dudes actually spend inside a salon, primping and texturing and layering and colouring and treatment and then actual haircut and then another wash and blow and by the time they make the payment, I would have finished two Bollywood movies back to back.
But Melanie being Melanie, she would work her way through to get me to stay in her salon, sometimes for an entire shift. She's lucky I am a writer in profession and I work from home because honestly, nobody has time for that kind of shit. And out of respect, as I would always tell her, please stop trying to matchmake me with her frequent customers.
Melanie wouldn't have any of it. Yesterday during one of those random hair massages that I went for in her salon, she did it again. This time it was the new shampoo boy.
"Harry, meet Neil. He is our new shampoo boy and he is studying psychology part time," Melanie smiled sheepishly, like she is the one being matched made.
"Hello," I politely said to Neil. The boy just nodded his head, his face red.
Welcome to the world of Melanie Matchmaking.
"Neil, you can shampoo Harry's hair first," Melanie said winking (I know, like a fucking pimp).
"No, it's okay I much prefer Melanie to shampoo my hair...right Melanie?" I said, smiling through gritted teeth.
"I'm...b"
"The shop is empty, don't give me that bullcrap, I am not letting a random dude shampoo my hair just because it amuses you to see me getting uncomfortably hooked up with random shampoo dudes Mel! You shampoo my hair right this instant or I am never coming back!" I whispered harshly at Melanie.
Melanie rolled her eyes and said, "At this rate, you will never get laid."
"I will get laid, when you're trying to wash the shampoo of my hair later," I replied curtly.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Dan The Man
Of late, Star has been wearing rather conservative clothes. Normally, you can find Star only in short dresses, tight skirts, slits and bottom hugging pants, sometimes underwear optional. But for the last five meet ups, she is always seen sporting a loose silk tunic and regular pencil skirt; a normal office attire for a HR manager but absolutely mild for Star. Star, bless her soul, has stopped wearing anything that shows her tits and that is worrying to me.
"What is up with you and silk tunics? Your office implemented a ban on tit show or what?" Steve asked just now over dinner.
"What is wrong with me wearing a silk tunic?" Star stared incredulously at Steve.
"I don't know, I am surprised you even own something remotely mmm, conservative in your wardrobe!" Steve laughed.
"Is it wrong if I suddenly want to wear something decent and modest once in a while?!" Star gasped.
"Stop being dramatic, it doesn't suit you. Come on, out with it, who is the new hottie in the office?" Melanie asked flatly, obvious to the reason behind this new change in Star.
"Fine, his name is Dan and he is literally sex on a stick. Oh my god I can lick him until he is dry to the bones. He is our new regional manager and he is single and he smells of Bulgari Men 24/7 and he is so fuckable. He speaks fluent French unlike that pretentious cunt Lisa and whenever he goes "Fou, fou, fou, fou" at one of our French bosses I always imagine him saying, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me". And he stays at the condo opposite my block!" Star squealed like a schoolgirl.
"How the hell do you know where he stays and whether he is single or not?" I asked, mildly disgusted and afraid at Star's almost stalkish persona.
"Hello, I am the HR manager, I was the one who interviewed him and read his CV and his background. I am not a stalker if that's what you're thinking. I asked him whether he is ready to commit into this job because he will need to travel. He says no, he is not married and I asked him if he has a girlfriend and he said doesn't have a girlfriend, so there's your answer," Star smiled.
"I am sure asking whether someone has a girlfriend is NOT a proper interview question," Steve muttered.
"And he could be lying about the girlfriend status," I shrugged my shoulders.
"I go home with him every other day because we stay near each other. It has been two weeks, no sign of any girlfriend whatsoever. No calls, no nothing. He goes straight after work everyday and goes to play squash with the boys in my office every weekend," Star said.
"He must be a boring person. People who play squash are very boring," Melanie said.
"He is not! He is funny and he is very interesting, though he is a bit shy," Star replied defensively.
"So why the cover up? Shouldn't you be showing the goods?" Steve asked.
"Ah, the way to getting a man's attention is not only by showing your tits. It is the act of concealing and making them imagine that is far more sexy and foolproof. Why do you think I choose to cover up but only with silk tunics? Because when I sit down and it's freezing in the office, my nipples will get hard and it will show. And then I will purposely go to his office to talk about a new place to go eat and I swear to god, he will stare at my tits nine out of ten times," Star smiled coyly.
"Wow...that it too much information," I said, repulsed.
"And just when I thought you wore something decent because you've changed and decided to be the office tramp, you have to prove me wrong...so very wrong," Melanie said.
"Oh please, don't try to be all decent with me now, I know you filthy pigs just want to know when I will get the chance to sleep with him," Star smiled.
"That's true actually, keep me updated," Steve excitedly said.
I punched Steve on his right arm. Man, the lengths Star would go to get laid. I heard she got the silk tunics from Marks and Spencers, and knowing Star, she would rather lick the back of the shoe than be found shopping for clothes at Marks and Spencers. Well, even I am curious as to how fuckable this Dan dude really is.
"What is up with you and silk tunics? Your office implemented a ban on tit show or what?" Steve asked just now over dinner.
"What is wrong with me wearing a silk tunic?" Star stared incredulously at Steve.
"I don't know, I am surprised you even own something remotely mmm, conservative in your wardrobe!" Steve laughed.
"Is it wrong if I suddenly want to wear something decent and modest once in a while?!" Star gasped.
"Stop being dramatic, it doesn't suit you. Come on, out with it, who is the new hottie in the office?" Melanie asked flatly, obvious to the reason behind this new change in Star.
"Fine, his name is Dan and he is literally sex on a stick. Oh my god I can lick him until he is dry to the bones. He is our new regional manager and he is single and he smells of Bulgari Men 24/7 and he is so fuckable. He speaks fluent French unlike that pretentious cunt Lisa and whenever he goes "Fou, fou, fou, fou" at one of our French bosses I always imagine him saying, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me". And he stays at the condo opposite my block!" Star squealed like a schoolgirl.
"How the hell do you know where he stays and whether he is single or not?" I asked, mildly disgusted and afraid at Star's almost stalkish persona.
"Hello, I am the HR manager, I was the one who interviewed him and read his CV and his background. I am not a stalker if that's what you're thinking. I asked him whether he is ready to commit into this job because he will need to travel. He says no, he is not married and I asked him if he has a girlfriend and he said doesn't have a girlfriend, so there's your answer," Star smiled.
"I am sure asking whether someone has a girlfriend is NOT a proper interview question," Steve muttered.
"And he could be lying about the girlfriend status," I shrugged my shoulders.
"I go home with him every other day because we stay near each other. It has been two weeks, no sign of any girlfriend whatsoever. No calls, no nothing. He goes straight after work everyday and goes to play squash with the boys in my office every weekend," Star said.
"He must be a boring person. People who play squash are very boring," Melanie said.
"He is not! He is funny and he is very interesting, though he is a bit shy," Star replied defensively.
"So why the cover up? Shouldn't you be showing the goods?" Steve asked.
"Ah, the way to getting a man's attention is not only by showing your tits. It is the act of concealing and making them imagine that is far more sexy and foolproof. Why do you think I choose to cover up but only with silk tunics? Because when I sit down and it's freezing in the office, my nipples will get hard and it will show. And then I will purposely go to his office to talk about a new place to go eat and I swear to god, he will stare at my tits nine out of ten times," Star smiled coyly.
"Wow...that it too much information," I said, repulsed.
"And just when I thought you wore something decent because you've changed and decided to be the office tramp, you have to prove me wrong...so very wrong," Melanie said.
"Oh please, don't try to be all decent with me now, I know you filthy pigs just want to know when I will get the chance to sleep with him," Star smiled.
"That's true actually, keep me updated," Steve excitedly said.
I punched Steve on his right arm. Man, the lengths Star would go to get laid. I heard she got the silk tunics from Marks and Spencers, and knowing Star, she would rather lick the back of the shoe than be found shopping for clothes at Marks and Spencers. Well, even I am curious as to how fuckable this Dan dude really is.
Labels And Slangs
I am the last person you should ask for to rectify a certain slang, code name, abbreviation and more often than not, a stereotypical and damaging label. I was the last boy in school to know what is the real meaning of MILF. I was already seventeen. A shame much more deeper than being caught naked in the boys changing room listening to Samantha Mumba on loudspeaker.
The boys kept talking about it for a good portion of my secondary school life and I thought they were just making fun of people with a lisp who cannot pronounce milk properly. I was seventeen when my curiosity got the better of me and I typed out the word "MILF" on google. I will never forget that day. A week after that I would also find out the meaning of DILF and GILF (let's not even go there).
So naturally in conversations, you would mostly find me asking, "Wait, what does that mean?" And yesterday was no exception. The usual four (Steve, Melanie, Star and I) were out for lunch and listening to Melanie's seemingly endless stories about her customers. Apparently you tend to share a lot more problems with your hairdresser than your own spouse, or psychiatrist for that matter, judging from the loopy confessions and conversations that Melanie's customers share with her while getting their hair done.
"I'm telling you guys, relationship nowadays, be it straight ones or gay ones are all filled and plagues with the same problems. I have this customer, this cute British expat who is a total rice queen, always comes in with one problem or the other and all involving his various boyfriends. i lost count as to how many infidelity stories he has shared with me over these past few months," Melanie shared.
"Wait, what does the mean?" I asked, naturally.
"What?" Melanie asked back.
"Rice..something," I muttered.
"Oh rice queen! That's a term used to describe a Caucasian man who likes and goes after Asian boys. You mean you don't know?" Melanie laughed.
"If I knew, I wouldn't ask," I rolled my eyes.
"It's a gay slang and I'm surprised Steve and you never talk about this," Melanie said, looking at Steve who in turn dropped his jaws dramatically.
"Steve and I talk about other things that does not necessarily revolve around Caucasian men who lusts after Asian men. But why "Rice Queen", since we're at it," I asked.
"Because the staple food of most Asians is rice. And any self respecting gay man is a queen," Melanie shrugged.
"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet?" I asked again.
Steve snorted and broke out in a soft giggle.
"What?" Melanie shook her head.
"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet? Does that still make the white dude a "Rice Queen"? As if being homosexual itself and its many degrading and alienating tags and slangs is not enough, now it needs to get racial too?" I said.
There was an awkward silence at the lunch table.
"Relax, I am just asking. You didn't invent the slang so why the awkward silence?" I laughed.
"Rice queen has got a nice ring to it I must say. Imagine if it's something else. Like "Kway Teow Princess" or "Bee Hoon Duchess", how?" Star suddenly quipped.
I am thankful for friends like STar. And Bee Hoon Duchess is so going to be my new Skype nickname.
The boys kept talking about it for a good portion of my secondary school life and I thought they were just making fun of people with a lisp who cannot pronounce milk properly. I was seventeen when my curiosity got the better of me and I typed out the word "MILF" on google. I will never forget that day. A week after that I would also find out the meaning of DILF and GILF (let's not even go there).
So naturally in conversations, you would mostly find me asking, "Wait, what does that mean?" And yesterday was no exception. The usual four (Steve, Melanie, Star and I) were out for lunch and listening to Melanie's seemingly endless stories about her customers. Apparently you tend to share a lot more problems with your hairdresser than your own spouse, or psychiatrist for that matter, judging from the loopy confessions and conversations that Melanie's customers share with her while getting their hair done.
"I'm telling you guys, relationship nowadays, be it straight ones or gay ones are all filled and plagues with the same problems. I have this customer, this cute British expat who is a total rice queen, always comes in with one problem or the other and all involving his various boyfriends. i lost count as to how many infidelity stories he has shared with me over these past few months," Melanie shared.
"Wait, what does the mean?" I asked, naturally.
"What?" Melanie asked back.
"Rice..something," I muttered.
"Oh rice queen! That's a term used to describe a Caucasian man who likes and goes after Asian boys. You mean you don't know?" Melanie laughed.
"If I knew, I wouldn't ask," I rolled my eyes.
"It's a gay slang and I'm surprised Steve and you never talk about this," Melanie said, looking at Steve who in turn dropped his jaws dramatically.
"Steve and I talk about other things that does not necessarily revolve around Caucasian men who lusts after Asian men. But why "Rice Queen", since we're at it," I asked.
"Because the staple food of most Asians is rice. And any self respecting gay man is a queen," Melanie shrugged.
"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet?" I asked again.
Steve snorted and broke out in a soft giggle.
"What?" Melanie shook her head.
"What if the Asian dude is on a no carb diet? Does that still make the white dude a "Rice Queen"? As if being homosexual itself and its many degrading and alienating tags and slangs is not enough, now it needs to get racial too?" I said.
There was an awkward silence at the lunch table.
"Relax, I am just asking. You didn't invent the slang so why the awkward silence?" I laughed.
"Rice queen has got a nice ring to it I must say. Imagine if it's something else. Like "Kway Teow Princess" or "Bee Hoon Duchess", how?" Star suddenly quipped.
I am thankful for friends like STar. And Bee Hoon Duchess is so going to be my new Skype nickname.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Bungalow Dreams
The day has finally arrived. Tomorrow onwards, my house is going to be in shambles and rebuilt again with a quarter of my mum's life savings all in over a month. My mum is going to Aunt Sally's place, Harold will be putting up at his best friend's (Sean, his cocksucking buddy as I would always tease him) extra guest bedroom and yes, I have decided to stay over at Steve's nearly vacant bungalow. I actually told my mum that I intend to take out the thrash every morning into the porch and pretend that I am the new owner of the gigantic bungalow.
"Rich people don't take out the thrash every morning. That's why they have maids. Forget it, you can never be a rich person. You're too middle class in soul Harry," was my mum's reply.
Shit, I hate it when she's right.
So the entire morning I was busy packing my entire wardrobe into eight different duffel bags and luggages. But that was only three quarters of the entire wardrobe. So I had to unpack everything and re-pack the clothes that I would probably want to hear. Harold walked past by my room this morning and stopped in his tracks.
"What the hell is this? You're only going to stay over Steve's place for a month, you're not migrating for good," Harold said.
"Well unlike you I have to bring a lot more clothes than you probably would because I change my clothes everyday, cause you know... I bathe," I replied sarcastically.
He kicked the pile of clothes at the door and scurried off.
"Asshole!" I shouted from inside the room.
I was the last person to leave the house because I had to be home when the packers come to pack our cutleries and plates and stuff. The rest of the household items are going to be packed and donated to an orphanage that my mum used to volunteer at a couple of years ago. Yes, you read that right. Everything currently in my house is going to be given away as charity. The newly renovated house would be furnished with everything new; new beds, wardrobes, sofa, dining table, sound system, lamps etc. My mum takes the adage "charity starts at home" rather literally.
She is also not present when the packers are doing their job simply because she is a mild hoarder and I am not going to pull away a hysterical woman away from her collection of fridge magnets. I don't have the time for that. Or the strength.
Everything ended at around six in the afternoon just now and as I locked the door, I felt a sense of excitement and nervousness. Excited to see what my new house would turn out to be and nervous, because it is going to be one month with Steve, just the two of us (five, if you count the maids) in a big bungalow. I hope I don't get lost in there on the first night trying to navigate my way back to my room.
When I arrived at Steven's place this evening, he was amused that I unloaded eight bags out of the maxi cab.
"Hello Miss Kardashian," he laughed as he opened his gate (see? rich people open their own gates!) to welcome me in.
We took all of my bags into my room upstairs that he has graciously allowed me to bunk in for a month and the room...is nothing short of amazing. I just can't bring myself to describe it.
"Oh don't worry. There is Wifi in the house, I'll give you the password later. And if you feel like eating anything, anything, just tell Bibik okay? She is a fantastic cook. (I wanted to ask which Bibik but I have a month to figure that one out) Yeah so everything that is in the house, is on the house. Oh and I need you downstairs after you've unpacked everything. I've downloaded the latest season of Modern Family. let's watch it together alright? And oh, remember to close the windows at night when you sleep?"
"Why?" I asked suspiciously. I looked outside of the window. Trees. Nothing but trees. I swallowed my saliva. I'm a wuss. There, I said it.
"Oh you know, things might come in at night," Steve said.
"What things?!" I asked, voice slightly shaking.
"You know, bats?" he replied.
I didn't know whether he was joking or serious so I just nodded. That was forty five minutes ago. I have finished unpacking my clothes and am typing this right now on my laptop, feet resting on the faux lamb wool carpet below me. Star just messaged me:
"How's the first night at your husband's place? And don't tell me Harry, he has liked you for the longest time, everybody knows that. <3 Have fun and don't get raped! Oh do you know that Melanie told me once that the same room you're going to be staying in is haunted? Have fun!"
Fucking bitch.
"Rich people don't take out the thrash every morning. That's why they have maids. Forget it, you can never be a rich person. You're too middle class in soul Harry," was my mum's reply.
Shit, I hate it when she's right.
So the entire morning I was busy packing my entire wardrobe into eight different duffel bags and luggages. But that was only three quarters of the entire wardrobe. So I had to unpack everything and re-pack the clothes that I would probably want to hear. Harold walked past by my room this morning and stopped in his tracks.
"What the hell is this? You're only going to stay over Steve's place for a month, you're not migrating for good," Harold said.
"Well unlike you I have to bring a lot more clothes than you probably would because I change my clothes everyday, cause you know... I bathe," I replied sarcastically.
He kicked the pile of clothes at the door and scurried off.
"Asshole!" I shouted from inside the room.
I was the last person to leave the house because I had to be home when the packers come to pack our cutleries and plates and stuff. The rest of the household items are going to be packed and donated to an orphanage that my mum used to volunteer at a couple of years ago. Yes, you read that right. Everything currently in my house is going to be given away as charity. The newly renovated house would be furnished with everything new; new beds, wardrobes, sofa, dining table, sound system, lamps etc. My mum takes the adage "charity starts at home" rather literally.
She is also not present when the packers are doing their job simply because she is a mild hoarder and I am not going to pull away a hysterical woman away from her collection of fridge magnets. I don't have the time for that. Or the strength.
Everything ended at around six in the afternoon just now and as I locked the door, I felt a sense of excitement and nervousness. Excited to see what my new house would turn out to be and nervous, because it is going to be one month with Steve, just the two of us (five, if you count the maids) in a big bungalow. I hope I don't get lost in there on the first night trying to navigate my way back to my room.
When I arrived at Steven's place this evening, he was amused that I unloaded eight bags out of the maxi cab.
"Hello Miss Kardashian," he laughed as he opened his gate (see? rich people open their own gates!) to welcome me in.
We took all of my bags into my room upstairs that he has graciously allowed me to bunk in for a month and the room...is nothing short of amazing. I just can't bring myself to describe it.
"Oh don't worry. There is Wifi in the house, I'll give you the password later. And if you feel like eating anything, anything, just tell Bibik okay? She is a fantastic cook. (I wanted to ask which Bibik but I have a month to figure that one out) Yeah so everything that is in the house, is on the house. Oh and I need you downstairs after you've unpacked everything. I've downloaded the latest season of Modern Family. let's watch it together alright? And oh, remember to close the windows at night when you sleep?"
"Why?" I asked suspiciously. I looked outside of the window. Trees. Nothing but trees. I swallowed my saliva. I'm a wuss. There, I said it.
"Oh you know, things might come in at night," Steve said.
"What things?!" I asked, voice slightly shaking.
"You know, bats?" he replied.
I didn't know whether he was joking or serious so I just nodded. That was forty five minutes ago. I have finished unpacking my clothes and am typing this right now on my laptop, feet resting on the faux lamb wool carpet below me. Star just messaged me:
"How's the first night at your husband's place? And don't tell me Harry, he has liked you for the longest time, everybody knows that. <3 Have fun and don't get raped! Oh do you know that Melanie told me once that the same room you're going to be staying in is haunted? Have fun!"
Fucking bitch.
Monday, November 26, 2012
In Between My Teeth
Gone are the days when all it takes for a man to look good is if he takes a nice good shower. Men nowadays are being assaulted, sometimes against their will, with a cacophony of products, treatments and lifestyles that encompasses and caters to a man's needs from head to toe.
Oh the list is endless. Pedicures, manicures, micro dermabrasion, vitamin C injections, botox, hair transplants, facials, abs enhancing weight loss programs, hair tonics, you have your waxes and your clays and your mousses and your gels, hair sprays, eye creams, collagen shots, "natural" tannings, eyebrow reshaping, body scrubs, spas and massages, yoga, pilates, three million brands and types of facial products, masks and many, many more.
The man of today is spoilt, and let's face it, sometimes gravely pressured with the endless array of products and treatments to make them look good. Nowadays men needs to be as picky with their "beauty regime" as their opposites. The right hair products for the right kind of hair, the correct facial wash that complements your skin type, the right type of underwear; the level of vanity and the need to look good has increased tremendously over the last two decades amongst menfolk.
The latest trend has caught up and is being practiced amongst a growing number of men is manscaping. It is a form of maintenance of the furry kind for our fellow brothers who are gifted by God with more active hair follicles on their bodies. I personally have not gone for any of these manscaping thing whatsoever because I am as furry as a baseball bat, so I have no hair on my body that is unruly enough to be scraped, waxed, yanked out, shaved, trimmed or shortened.
Steve however is a big manscaping fan. And rightfully so. Born to a Peranakan mother and an Irish father, Steve has followed his father's body hair type: all over. The only part of his body that is not covered with hair is his back (thankfully) but everywhere else needs a bit of professional trimming. And I must say that he looks great, with just the right amount of hair he looks very masculine and yet, for a lack of a better word, uncluttered.
"They wax my ass too," Steve said two days ago during dinner after his monthly manscaping session.
"Wow, thanks. I needed to hear that while I am having my dinner," I said, swallowing my roasted chicken and mashed potatoes.
"I mean, I'm a gay man and I open my legs pretty often so I need my ass to look welcoming all the time," Steve added.
Melanie laughed hoarsely across the table, her original male voice making an entry and she kept banging the table.
"Do you shave down there Steve? Harry?" Star asked.
"That is a very personal question Star," I replied.
"Oh please! I tell you everything!' Star raised her voice.
"Nobody asked you to," I replied again.
"Do you shave your pubes or not?!" Star shouted. Everyone in the restaurant looked at the four of us.
"Wow, that came out from nowhere," Steve said softly, his face getting red.
"Whatever it is boys, I am here to tell you that it is of paramount importance that you boys actually trim down there. Don't you ever, ever let it weed out down there. Once I gave a blowjob to this dude who I think have NEVER shaved since he reached puberty and I am telling you, I kept stopping halfway because I kept having his pubic hair stuck in between my teeth!" Star shared.
"Wow, okay. Wow.." I muttered softly, helpless.
"But the truth of the matter is, no matter how tough and challenging self-hygiene for men is over the past few years, all of it is nothing compared to getting a Brazilian wax like we women do," Melanie gloated, proud of the fact that she is a woman now and is honoured with the opportunity to have her man mad vagina yanked out of it's hair, each and every strand.
"When I first had my brazilian wax, the initial yank, everything went white," Melanie said.
"Which is the state I wish I was in right now," Steven smiled, sipping his drink.
Oh the list is endless. Pedicures, manicures, micro dermabrasion, vitamin C injections, botox, hair transplants, facials, abs enhancing weight loss programs, hair tonics, you have your waxes and your clays and your mousses and your gels, hair sprays, eye creams, collagen shots, "natural" tannings, eyebrow reshaping, body scrubs, spas and massages, yoga, pilates, three million brands and types of facial products, masks and many, many more.
The man of today is spoilt, and let's face it, sometimes gravely pressured with the endless array of products and treatments to make them look good. Nowadays men needs to be as picky with their "beauty regime" as their opposites. The right hair products for the right kind of hair, the correct facial wash that complements your skin type, the right type of underwear; the level of vanity and the need to look good has increased tremendously over the last two decades amongst menfolk.
The latest trend has caught up and is being practiced amongst a growing number of men is manscaping. It is a form of maintenance of the furry kind for our fellow brothers who are gifted by God with more active hair follicles on their bodies. I personally have not gone for any of these manscaping thing whatsoever because I am as furry as a baseball bat, so I have no hair on my body that is unruly enough to be scraped, waxed, yanked out, shaved, trimmed or shortened.
Steve however is a big manscaping fan. And rightfully so. Born to a Peranakan mother and an Irish father, Steve has followed his father's body hair type: all over. The only part of his body that is not covered with hair is his back (thankfully) but everywhere else needs a bit of professional trimming. And I must say that he looks great, with just the right amount of hair he looks very masculine and yet, for a lack of a better word, uncluttered.
"They wax my ass too," Steve said two days ago during dinner after his monthly manscaping session.
"Wow, thanks. I needed to hear that while I am having my dinner," I said, swallowing my roasted chicken and mashed potatoes.
"I mean, I'm a gay man and I open my legs pretty often so I need my ass to look welcoming all the time," Steve added.
Melanie laughed hoarsely across the table, her original male voice making an entry and she kept banging the table.
"Do you shave down there Steve? Harry?" Star asked.
"That is a very personal question Star," I replied.
"Oh please! I tell you everything!' Star raised her voice.
"Nobody asked you to," I replied again.
"Do you shave your pubes or not?!" Star shouted. Everyone in the restaurant looked at the four of us.
"Wow, that came out from nowhere," Steve said softly, his face getting red.
"Whatever it is boys, I am here to tell you that it is of paramount importance that you boys actually trim down there. Don't you ever, ever let it weed out down there. Once I gave a blowjob to this dude who I think have NEVER shaved since he reached puberty and I am telling you, I kept stopping halfway because I kept having his pubic hair stuck in between my teeth!" Star shared.
"Wow, okay. Wow.." I muttered softly, helpless.
"But the truth of the matter is, no matter how tough and challenging self-hygiene for men is over the past few years, all of it is nothing compared to getting a Brazilian wax like we women do," Melanie gloated, proud of the fact that she is a woman now and is honoured with the opportunity to have her man mad vagina yanked out of it's hair, each and every strand.
"When I first had my brazilian wax, the initial yank, everything went white," Melanie said.
"Which is the state I wish I was in right now," Steven smiled, sipping his drink.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Meet The Parents, Later.
My mum, as far as I know it, is one of the most understanding and open minded mothers I know (and trust me, I've known quite a fair bit of mothers). My mum is a big proponent of "trust" and "knowing your limits". Very, very fierce when we were growing up but the moment I turned 14, never once I felt that my self worth and privacy was being compromised or infringed by my mother. She trusted me and she made me understand my limits and in turn, I grew up to be a responsible, fairly well behaved kid and I understood the value of trust.
My limits were simple: You can do anything you want, as long as it does not bring shame to your family. I wouldn't say say that I am a good son, but I never gave her any reason to worry. And I think that is the best thing you can give your parents while growing up, don't you think so? A peace of mind is priceless and much less tedious to attain than say, good grades. Besides, tell me how Pythagoras Theorem helped you to get laid?
Alright, I am digressing into the usual territory but my point is, my mum's understanding, and open mindedness is something that I truly appreciate and it is present in my formative years from pre teen, to an adult now. Which is why I am dumbfounded when my mum flipped out at Harold when he decided to bring his girlfriend of six months back home for dinner to meet the family.
"Aren't you too young to have a girlfriend?" my mum raised her voice when Harold told her the news a couple of weeks back.
"Mum, he is 21. Stop it. In some countries, at that age he could already be a father of four," I said in his defense.
"Or if I am a mat rep and my wife is a minah, " Harold joked.
We both laughed. My mum however wasn't the very least amused.
"Where did you pick her up?" my mum asked, face stern.
"Get to know. Not pick up. She is not a piece of clothing you pick up in a departmental store," Harold corrected her.
"Oh? Defending her already? You chose a girl over your own mother?" my mum sniffed.
"Oh my god," I said, covering my face with both of my palms.
"I am the one who gave birth to you, who brought you into this world and yet you pick a girl you barely know over me?" my mum continued, not missing a beat.
"Mum, stop it! Where is this drama coming from?!" Harold said, exasperated.
"It's in there all along," I said, face still covered.
"I have not even brought the girl home and you are already reacting like this. How is any of your sons going to get married with this kind of attitude from you? And then you complain when we don't bring girls back and bemoan over and over again about how you are not lucky enough to see your sons getting married and being a grandmother," Harold said.
"That is very true. I brought two, two girls home, and yet she wasn't the very least happy," I chipped in.
"Shut up Harry! One of them is not even a real girl!" my mum chided me, fork pointing in my direction. "Is she a virgin?" my mum asked.
Harold chocked on his grape juice.
A "yes" reply would be followed by a "How do you know? You have slept with her already haven't you?" and a "no" reply would be followed by a "How do you know? You have slept with her already haven't you?" Smart woman.
"I'm not bringing her home okay? Happy?" Harold said, giving up.
"I didn't say anything. It is your decision," my mum said, a tinge of relief in her voice.
"I'm just going to elope somewhere one of these days and get married and you won't even know about it," Harold threatened.
"You wouldn't dare honey," my mum said sweetly, smiling and clearing the table away.
My limits were simple: You can do anything you want, as long as it does not bring shame to your family. I wouldn't say say that I am a good son, but I never gave her any reason to worry. And I think that is the best thing you can give your parents while growing up, don't you think so? A peace of mind is priceless and much less tedious to attain than say, good grades. Besides, tell me how Pythagoras Theorem helped you to get laid?
Alright, I am digressing into the usual territory but my point is, my mum's understanding, and open mindedness is something that I truly appreciate and it is present in my formative years from pre teen, to an adult now. Which is why I am dumbfounded when my mum flipped out at Harold when he decided to bring his girlfriend of six months back home for dinner to meet the family.
"Aren't you too young to have a girlfriend?" my mum raised her voice when Harold told her the news a couple of weeks back.
"Mum, he is 21. Stop it. In some countries, at that age he could already be a father of four," I said in his defense.
"Or if I am a mat rep and my wife is a minah, " Harold joked.
We both laughed. My mum however wasn't the very least amused.
"Where did you pick her up?" my mum asked, face stern.
"Get to know. Not pick up. She is not a piece of clothing you pick up in a departmental store," Harold corrected her.
"Oh? Defending her already? You chose a girl over your own mother?" my mum sniffed.
"Oh my god," I said, covering my face with both of my palms.
"I am the one who gave birth to you, who brought you into this world and yet you pick a girl you barely know over me?" my mum continued, not missing a beat.
"Mum, stop it! Where is this drama coming from?!" Harold said, exasperated.
"It's in there all along," I said, face still covered.
"I have not even brought the girl home and you are already reacting like this. How is any of your sons going to get married with this kind of attitude from you? And then you complain when we don't bring girls back and bemoan over and over again about how you are not lucky enough to see your sons getting married and being a grandmother," Harold said.
"That is very true. I brought two, two girls home, and yet she wasn't the very least happy," I chipped in.
"Shut up Harry! One of them is not even a real girl!" my mum chided me, fork pointing in my direction. "Is she a virgin?" my mum asked.
Harold chocked on his grape juice.
A "yes" reply would be followed by a "How do you know? You have slept with her already haven't you?" and a "no" reply would be followed by a "How do you know? You have slept with her already haven't you?" Smart woman.
"I'm not bringing her home okay? Happy?" Harold said, giving up.
"I didn't say anything. It is your decision," my mum said, a tinge of relief in her voice.
"I'm just going to elope somewhere one of these days and get married and you won't even know about it," Harold threatened.
"You wouldn't dare honey," my mum said sweetly, smiling and clearing the table away.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Two Times A Charm
FIve years ago when my parents got divorced, everyone around me was so concerned about my well-being. I found it thoroughly amusing. My parents got a divorce when I was 19 years old. By then, I don't think anybody around my age would feel any sort of emotional vulnerability or experience any kind of loss whatsoever. I understood that divorce happens for a myriad of reasons. My parents just grew out of the marriage after 20 years. That's normal right?
I had a friend, who upon hearing the news about my parent's divorce, repeatedly asked me, "Oh dear, that is terrible news. Are you okay?" Shouldn't you ask my parents instead? And why wouldn't I be okay? I have potentially two extra weddings to go to in case both of my parents decides to get married again; it's a win-win situation. Oh grow up, people fall in and out of love all the time and at any age, and as long as my parents are happy, I am happy.
As luck would have it, I received a call from my dad yesterday and guess what? My old man is getting married again at a grand age of 45 (my parents are really young by even normal standards and it would be another blog post if I ever try to explain from the very beginning).
"Do I have your permission to get married again for the second time?" my dad asked over the phone.
"Why are you asking me? Aren't you the one getting married?" I answered.
"I just want your consent that is all," he said softly, trying to mask some emotional outburst of some sort.
"You're not marrying one of those Vietnamese brides right?" I joked to lighten things up.
"Haha, no. I have known her for three years, I'll let you guys meet her one day sometime next week, when you and Harold are both free," he said.
"Should I ask along your ex-wife?" I teased again.
"Well if you must know, I have met your mum, with my future wife, two days ago," my dad confessed.
"How progressive. Did mum scratch her eyes out, or did she spit in her coffee?" I laughed.
"Your mum was pretty...nice. She even said she would love to come to the wedding, when it happens," he shared.
"You do know that she is lying right?"
"Yup," was my dad's reply, matter of factly.
"Have you told Harold about this?" I asked again.
"Yesterday. Harold's pretty cool about it. I am lucky to have two understanding and mature sons, you boys never give me any problems," he spoke again softly.
"Stop this trophy dad talk okay? You want to get married, go get married, don't go all telenovela on me aye señor?"
He laughed.
Just then my mum came out of her room. I told my dad that I will call him later and put down the receiver and stared at my mum. She is in a little black dress, hair wash and blown, pearl ear studs, red lips and fake eyelashes on. She looks like Kim Basinger, in a very desperate housewives kind of way.
"What the hell is this?" I asked.
"I am going on a date," my mum said.
"With who? And since when did you own a pair of fake eyelashes?" I asked again.
"With someone," she winked.
"Ew! Why are you suddenly going out on a date? You have never went out with a man the past five years and now this?"
"The question is, why can't I?"
"Oh. My. God. Your ex husband is getting married and so you are trying to validate your worth by finding a man! This is not going to be a race of who gets married first right? Please tell me no, or I would feel I am in some weird French comedy movie," I said.
"You're so dramatic. It is none of those things," she replied.
"It is!" I reaffirmed.
"It is not!" my mum rolled her eyes.
"It so is. Oh my god. I know you!"
As if on cue, my brother went out of his room and stopped in his tracks. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?" my mum asked.
"Like a divorcee trying to get her groove back," he joked.
My mum slammed the door on the way out.
I had a friend, who upon hearing the news about my parent's divorce, repeatedly asked me, "Oh dear, that is terrible news. Are you okay?" Shouldn't you ask my parents instead? And why wouldn't I be okay? I have potentially two extra weddings to go to in case both of my parents decides to get married again; it's a win-win situation. Oh grow up, people fall in and out of love all the time and at any age, and as long as my parents are happy, I am happy.
As luck would have it, I received a call from my dad yesterday and guess what? My old man is getting married again at a grand age of 45 (my parents are really young by even normal standards and it would be another blog post if I ever try to explain from the very beginning).
"Do I have your permission to get married again for the second time?" my dad asked over the phone.
"Why are you asking me? Aren't you the one getting married?" I answered.
"I just want your consent that is all," he said softly, trying to mask some emotional outburst of some sort.
"You're not marrying one of those Vietnamese brides right?" I joked to lighten things up.
"Haha, no. I have known her for three years, I'll let you guys meet her one day sometime next week, when you and Harold are both free," he said.
"Should I ask along your ex-wife?" I teased again.
"Well if you must know, I have met your mum, with my future wife, two days ago," my dad confessed.
"How progressive. Did mum scratch her eyes out, or did she spit in her coffee?" I laughed.
"Your mum was pretty...nice. She even said she would love to come to the wedding, when it happens," he shared.
"You do know that she is lying right?"
"Yup," was my dad's reply, matter of factly.
"Have you told Harold about this?" I asked again.
"Yesterday. Harold's pretty cool about it. I am lucky to have two understanding and mature sons, you boys never give me any problems," he spoke again softly.
"Stop this trophy dad talk okay? You want to get married, go get married, don't go all telenovela on me aye señor?"
He laughed.
Just then my mum came out of her room. I told my dad that I will call him later and put down the receiver and stared at my mum. She is in a little black dress, hair wash and blown, pearl ear studs, red lips and fake eyelashes on. She looks like Kim Basinger, in a very desperate housewives kind of way.
"What the hell is this?" I asked.
"I am going on a date," my mum said.
"With who? And since when did you own a pair of fake eyelashes?" I asked again.
"With someone," she winked.
"Ew! Why are you suddenly going out on a date? You have never went out with a man the past five years and now this?"
"The question is, why can't I?"
"Oh. My. God. Your ex husband is getting married and so you are trying to validate your worth by finding a man! This is not going to be a race of who gets married first right? Please tell me no, or I would feel I am in some weird French comedy movie," I said.
"You're so dramatic. It is none of those things," she replied.
"It is!" I reaffirmed.
"It is not!" my mum rolled her eyes.
"It so is. Oh my god. I know you!"
As if on cue, my brother went out of his room and stopped in his tracks. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?" my mum asked.
"Like a divorcee trying to get her groove back," he joked.
My mum slammed the door on the way out.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Mrs Lee And A Sofia
Stevieboy had invited us over to his place last weekend so Star, Melanie and I put on our best brunch outfits and the three of us came over for a free meal (screw shyness). Apparently Steve parents (mum actually) wanted to see us and was very excited about having guests over; a rarity considering that his parents are almost never in Singapore all year round. Steve have been regaling to his parents about the insanity that is our company and his parents are very happy apparently that Stevieboy's closest friends is made up of a transexual, a slut and a full grown man who has a compulsive disorder.
"Wait, you have three million houses around the world. But you are now staying in the penthouse at that condominium at Orchard Road right?" Melanie reconfirmed with Steve over a group chat in Skype the night before.
"No Mel, I've rented that one out. I am staying with my parents now in Bukit Timah. One of the houses there," Steve typed.
"You own a colony of houses there, which one are we talking about here love?" Star joked.
"Call me when you guys are all at Mel's place tomorrow. I'll pick you guys up from there," Steve confirmed.
So here we are, sitting down in the living room, well I really don't know what it is or how to describe it; I am basically sitting in a room that is half the size of a football field. There is a giant chandelier and the sofa we are all siting on feels like, I don't know how to describe it again; it feels expensive. Oh screw Steve. Why must some people be so rich?
"Does this entire mansion have its own postal code?" Star whispered.
"What do you think?" I whispered back.
"Hello all!" a friendly voice echoed through the room. And there she was, Mrs Lee, standing at the top of the staircase right smack in the middle of the living room. She was wearing a knee length printed dress with cap sleeves and her hair was tied in a bun, diamond stud earrings competed her look.
"That dress is a Cavalli. And isn't she supposed to be in her fifties? She doesn't look a day above 45! I want her surgeon!" Star whispered.
"If she is a bitch, oh, the things I would say later on," Melanie muttered under her breath.
"Mum this is Star (Star? What a lovely sexy name!), Harry (Is this your boyfriend Steve?), and Melanie (Oh my god. You used to be so handsome! ). Guys, meet my mum," Steve introduced.
"You haven't answered my question Steve. Is Harry your boyfriend? Are you Harry?" his mother asked holding my right arm and slightly swaying it. Star and Melanie laughed, Steven was clearly embarrassed, his red cheeks giving it away.
"No mum, he is not and stop harassing him," Steve finally said.
"Oh what a shame. Don't worry Harry he is still single and he has never brought any guys home yet. At least not that I know of. There was this one time though, about three years ago when I accidentally opened his room door and I..."
"Mum! Stop!" Steven hushed. We have the same mother apparently.
"Are you guys hungry? Let's have something to eat. And no, I can't be one of those mother who cooks for my son's friends, I don't have the time. What are domestic helpers for right? Is Italian okay?" Mrs Lee joked. We nodded our heads in unison, like dumb a-holes.
Apparently lunch is not ready yet and will only be so in about another twenty minutes so Mrs Lee invited us to sit in her walk-in wardrobe because "It is the only place I feel safe, and it smells of mandarin and cloves and all of you can sprawl on my floor. Screw formalities."
The moment we entered her walk-in wardrobe (which is another room altogether, about the size of a one room HDB flat), Star accidentally said, "Oh my god fuck me."
Mrs Lee laughed, "It's okay, I say that whenever I walk in here too."
The wardrobe was, wel, it was like a mini shopping centre. There is an entire shelf filled with shoes, easily over a hundred, and three wardrobes filled to the brim with all the clothes you can think off. there is two small shelfs filled with all her accessories and a giant closet which she describes as "Bags In Heaven". And when she opened the closet door, what greeted us was rows and rows of all the designer bags you can think off, literally from every single brand. Melanie and Star just stood there, mouths open. Star said, "You have the pink Celine tote? Mrs Lee I have been wanting to buy it for months but couldn't get it!"
"You like it? Take it then," Mrs Lee smiled, taking the bag from the closet and handing it over to Star.
"What?" Star said, eyes widened.
"I have way too many bags, you can have it. Take a couple if you want to, I have a lot and I don't think I would stop buying, much to Steve's father discontent. But screw him, I buy these with my own money. Melanie, do you like anything you see? Tell me, take two or three bags you both! I am serious," Mrs Lee continued.
"Oh my god Mrs Lee, thanks! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! You're like a mother I never had!" Star shrieked. I rolled my eyes.
Melanie was pretty calm though but you know she was screaming inside. She confidently said, "If you insist Mrs Lee, I want the Bottega Roma and the Ferragamo Sofia."
"Good choice, take, take. I don't know where to keep it anyways. I have never worn the Sofia though. So it is as good as new. Take it. Harry you want anything? Are you into women bags too?" Mrs Lee laughed.
I look at Steve and back at her and just smiled and shook my head.
"You can ransack Steve's closet though. He has came out of it so there is enough space for his designer clothes to be fitted in. Haha!"
"Mum, not funny," Steve said.
A helper went inside the room (sorry, walk in closet) and told us that lunch is ready. But I don't think, the girls are that hungry anymore.
"Wait, you have three million houses around the world. But you are now staying in the penthouse at that condominium at Orchard Road right?" Melanie reconfirmed with Steve over a group chat in Skype the night before.
"No Mel, I've rented that one out. I am staying with my parents now in Bukit Timah. One of the houses there," Steve typed.
"You own a colony of houses there, which one are we talking about here love?" Star joked.
"Call me when you guys are all at Mel's place tomorrow. I'll pick you guys up from there," Steve confirmed.
So here we are, sitting down in the living room, well I really don't know what it is or how to describe it; I am basically sitting in a room that is half the size of a football field. There is a giant chandelier and the sofa we are all siting on feels like, I don't know how to describe it again; it feels expensive. Oh screw Steve. Why must some people be so rich?
"Does this entire mansion have its own postal code?" Star whispered.
"What do you think?" I whispered back.
"Hello all!" a friendly voice echoed through the room. And there she was, Mrs Lee, standing at the top of the staircase right smack in the middle of the living room. She was wearing a knee length printed dress with cap sleeves and her hair was tied in a bun, diamond stud earrings competed her look.
"That dress is a Cavalli. And isn't she supposed to be in her fifties? She doesn't look a day above 45! I want her surgeon!" Star whispered.
"If she is a bitch, oh, the things I would say later on," Melanie muttered under her breath.
"Mum this is Star (Star? What a lovely sexy name!), Harry (Is this your boyfriend Steve?), and Melanie (Oh my god. You used to be so handsome! ). Guys, meet my mum," Steve introduced.
"You haven't answered my question Steve. Is Harry your boyfriend? Are you Harry?" his mother asked holding my right arm and slightly swaying it. Star and Melanie laughed, Steven was clearly embarrassed, his red cheeks giving it away.
"No mum, he is not and stop harassing him," Steve finally said.
"Oh what a shame. Don't worry Harry he is still single and he has never brought any guys home yet. At least not that I know of. There was this one time though, about three years ago when I accidentally opened his room door and I..."
"Mum! Stop!" Steven hushed. We have the same mother apparently.
"Are you guys hungry? Let's have something to eat. And no, I can't be one of those mother who cooks for my son's friends, I don't have the time. What are domestic helpers for right? Is Italian okay?" Mrs Lee joked. We nodded our heads in unison, like dumb a-holes.
Apparently lunch is not ready yet and will only be so in about another twenty minutes so Mrs Lee invited us to sit in her walk-in wardrobe because "It is the only place I feel safe, and it smells of mandarin and cloves and all of you can sprawl on my floor. Screw formalities."
The moment we entered her walk-in wardrobe (which is another room altogether, about the size of a one room HDB flat), Star accidentally said, "Oh my god fuck me."
Mrs Lee laughed, "It's okay, I say that whenever I walk in here too."
The wardrobe was, wel, it was like a mini shopping centre. There is an entire shelf filled with shoes, easily over a hundred, and three wardrobes filled to the brim with all the clothes you can think off. there is two small shelfs filled with all her accessories and a giant closet which she describes as "Bags In Heaven". And when she opened the closet door, what greeted us was rows and rows of all the designer bags you can think off, literally from every single brand. Melanie and Star just stood there, mouths open. Star said, "You have the pink Celine tote? Mrs Lee I have been wanting to buy it for months but couldn't get it!"
"You like it? Take it then," Mrs Lee smiled, taking the bag from the closet and handing it over to Star.
"What?" Star said, eyes widened.
"I have way too many bags, you can have it. Take a couple if you want to, I have a lot and I don't think I would stop buying, much to Steve's father discontent. But screw him, I buy these with my own money. Melanie, do you like anything you see? Tell me, take two or three bags you both! I am serious," Mrs Lee continued.
"Oh my god Mrs Lee, thanks! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! You're like a mother I never had!" Star shrieked. I rolled my eyes.
Melanie was pretty calm though but you know she was screaming inside. She confidently said, "If you insist Mrs Lee, I want the Bottega Roma and the Ferragamo Sofia."
"Good choice, take, take. I don't know where to keep it anyways. I have never worn the Sofia though. So it is as good as new. Take it. Harry you want anything? Are you into women bags too?" Mrs Lee laughed.
I look at Steve and back at her and just smiled and shook my head.
"You can ransack Steve's closet though. He has came out of it so there is enough space for his designer clothes to be fitted in. Haha!"
"Mum, not funny," Steve said.
A helper went inside the room (sorry, walk in closet) and told us that lunch is ready. But I don't think, the girls are that hungry anymore.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Serial Dater
Unlike Star and myself, Melanie is needy, desperate, weak and lonesome, otherwise popularly now known as a "hopeless romantic". Melanie feels like she needs to validate her newly acquired gender by going on dates very, very often. Every Saturday night, she will be wearing the new dress she bought during one of her breaks with full on makeup, hair, shoes, the whole nine yards. And then by Sunday morning, she will video conference Star and myself on Skype, complaining about how nothing materialized from last night's rendezvous. I've known her for more than three years and she has never failed to go out on a date every Saturday night; that would approximately be 144 guys that she has gone on dates with thus far.
"I didn't know there was a market or even a demographic of men who love trannies." Star said yesterday over coffee. I told Star that if she treasures her life, she should never sprout any of that nonsense in front of Melanie.
Star doesn't date. heck, she doesn't even believe in relationships. "I don't need to date or have a boyfriend to get laid," she would always say. "I just wear my bandage dress, no bra, no panties, and I'm on fire."
"But that's not the whole point of dating and being in a relationship. We have a relationship because we need to be loved, to be taken care of, to have a sense of security", Melanie would reply.
"Eww. Then go and have a relationship with the security guard at your condo!" Star retorted. I, myself, personally don't understand the whole dating process. What? You wear nice clothes, spray some cologne, arrive on time, foot the bill, be the best version of yourself and at the end of the day, you just couldn't connect and nobody returns any phone calls or asks for a second date. And the jacket still needs to be sent for dry-cleaning. Too much of a hassle I'm telling you. And even if you do like that person, enough to ask them for a second date and subsequently officially date, there's the late night phone calls, the jealousy, meeting of his or her friends, your friends, the little tiffs, the big tiffs, more jackets to be sent for dry-cleaning; hassle, hassle, hassle. You can meet 1000 Mr Rights, and six months into it, they become Mr What The Hell.
"But that's the beauty of it. You meet all these new people every now and then, and god willing, you will find the right one", Melanie explains.
"That's 144 wrong men, Mel?" Star asks.
"I should stop hanging around with you two", Melanie says, arms in the air, giving up.
I kept quiet because suddenly I got reflective. It is true, the whole dating thing is lost on me. But I also have not been on many dates. And I also have not had the luck to be on a great date either, so I clearly am not in a position to judge anybody who understands and craves for that tingly feeling that one gets from being on dates. Oh well.
"I didn't know there was a market or even a demographic of men who love trannies." Star said yesterday over coffee. I told Star that if she treasures her life, she should never sprout any of that nonsense in front of Melanie.
Star doesn't date. heck, she doesn't even believe in relationships. "I don't need to date or have a boyfriend to get laid," she would always say. "I just wear my bandage dress, no bra, no panties, and I'm on fire."
"But that's not the whole point of dating and being in a relationship. We have a relationship because we need to be loved, to be taken care of, to have a sense of security", Melanie would reply.
"Eww. Then go and have a relationship with the security guard at your condo!" Star retorted. I, myself, personally don't understand the whole dating process. What? You wear nice clothes, spray some cologne, arrive on time, foot the bill, be the best version of yourself and at the end of the day, you just couldn't connect and nobody returns any phone calls or asks for a second date. And the jacket still needs to be sent for dry-cleaning. Too much of a hassle I'm telling you. And even if you do like that person, enough to ask them for a second date and subsequently officially date, there's the late night phone calls, the jealousy, meeting of his or her friends, your friends, the little tiffs, the big tiffs, more jackets to be sent for dry-cleaning; hassle, hassle, hassle. You can meet 1000 Mr Rights, and six months into it, they become Mr What The Hell.
"But that's the beauty of it. You meet all these new people every now and then, and god willing, you will find the right one", Melanie explains.
"That's 144 wrong men, Mel?" Star asks.
"I should stop hanging around with you two", Melanie says, arms in the air, giving up.
I kept quiet because suddenly I got reflective. It is true, the whole dating thing is lost on me. But I also have not been on many dates. And I also have not had the luck to be on a great date either, so I clearly am not in a position to judge anybody who understands and craves for that tingly feeling that one gets from being on dates. Oh well.
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