Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Unbearable Light-ness of Love
You know how some things never change?
Just to hear from him, like old friends do at sporadic intervals, still sends you that nice, fuzzy tingles.
You hang on to the words of that casual remark he made about you...
I’d be flattered if I wasn’t married.
As you both reminisce a little, not too much or too far down that old track.
The bulb in your being instantly lights up a thousand watts.
It will continue to light you for at least the rest of tonight, and maybe tomorrow.
You will sleep on this nice private thought tonight.
You continue to stay friendly and platonic, made peace that your joint past is history.
Despite so, you feel love.
Love of that unconditional sort.
Love for your old lover.
Love that never did left your heart, though your lives are becoming more disconnected from each other, drifting in different directions with the passage of time.
Love that left you with bitter sweet memories but strangely puts a quiet smile on your face.
At least we had fun.
You know how some things never change?
Just to hear from him, like old friends do at sporadic intervals, still sends you that nice, fuzzy tingles.
You hang on to the words of that casual remark he made about you...
I’d be flattered if I wasn’t married.
As you both reminisce a little, not too much or too far down that old track.
The bulb in your being instantly lights up a thousand watts.
It will continue to light you for at least the rest of tonight, and maybe tomorrow.
You will sleep on this nice private thought tonight.
You continue to stay friendly and platonic, made peace that your joint past is history.
Despite so, you feel love.
Love of that unconditional sort.
Love for your old lover.
Love that never did left your heart, though your lives are becoming more disconnected from each other, drifting in different directions with the passage of time.
Love that left you with bitter sweet memories but strangely puts a quiet smile on your face.
At least we had fun.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Soulmate
A number of months ago (I reckon it was July), I had a long chat on the msn with Destiny. Destiny is a girl whom I have met a year ago at the club when I was back home doing my socialising round. I introduced her to my friend Soci (whom I got to know through his father who happens to be one of Old Boy’s best friend) and the rest is history.
One night, Destiny and I began chatting on msn for a good four hours. She is a talented fashion design student graduate who had moved to a fashion desert like Sad Town to be with Soci. We bantered about our love for fashion creation and exchanged ideas on what she could do here to continue her art and make some money on the side.
We got on better as we warmed up with time and we started talking about boys and love. She knew about my past with the Old Boy who she had met during outings with Soci’s family. She has also come to know DL from living in Sad Town since they are always invited the joint social gatherings and birthday parties of the people we hang out with here.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked.
“Of course, I do.”
Destiny then asked me whom I felt was more compatible with- DL or the Old Boy.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“DL and I just know each other’s intention well within a social setting. We have similar views about how we would raise children. But having said all that, we have been together for a long time for us to have this certain mutual understanding of each other’s moves. We were fire and water to start with and it had taken years for us to get here... but it must have been some form of love or another for us to tolerate each other and want to make it work, I guess. After all, we are so different....”
“What about the Old Boy?” she asked.
“ Well, we met under a different context, through the blog. We used to write lyrical emails and began chatting online. But it was strange how we always guessed the other person’s personality or train of thought right. We had some form of chemistry and guess we were similar, being polygamous. So there was something spontaneous about our communications and we held the bandits’ honour together. He was my best friend for a long time and I felt I could confide in him. Despite so, our interaction was always light-hearted and fun at the beginning until feelings got serious, or perhaps the sex or jealousy ruined it...”
“Hmm, then the Old Boy must be your soulmate, although you would end up with DL who loves you.”
That reminded me of what a clairvoyant said the week before- about me griefing the loss of a soulmate. But then, sometimes you won’t end up with a soulmate for a good reason and you would end up with the man who loves you more...
A number of months ago (I reckon it was July), I had a long chat on the msn with Destiny. Destiny is a girl whom I have met a year ago at the club when I was back home doing my socialising round. I introduced her to my friend Soci (whom I got to know through his father who happens to be one of Old Boy’s best friend) and the rest is history.
One night, Destiny and I began chatting on msn for a good four hours. She is a talented fashion design student graduate who had moved to a fashion desert like Sad Town to be with Soci. We bantered about our love for fashion creation and exchanged ideas on what she could do here to continue her art and make some money on the side.
We got on better as we warmed up with time and we started talking about boys and love. She knew about my past with the Old Boy who she had met during outings with Soci’s family. She has also come to know DL from living in Sad Town since they are always invited the joint social gatherings and birthday parties of the people we hang out with here.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked.
“Of course, I do.”
Destiny then asked me whom I felt was more compatible with- DL or the Old Boy.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“DL and I just know each other’s intention well within a social setting. We have similar views about how we would raise children. But having said all that, we have been together for a long time for us to have this certain mutual understanding of each other’s moves. We were fire and water to start with and it had taken years for us to get here... but it must have been some form of love or another for us to tolerate each other and want to make it work, I guess. After all, we are so different....”
“What about the Old Boy?” she asked.
“ Well, we met under a different context, through the blog. We used to write lyrical emails and began chatting online. But it was strange how we always guessed the other person’s personality or train of thought right. We had some form of chemistry and guess we were similar, being polygamous. So there was something spontaneous about our communications and we held the bandits’ honour together. He was my best friend for a long time and I felt I could confide in him. Despite so, our interaction was always light-hearted and fun at the beginning until feelings got serious, or perhaps the sex or jealousy ruined it...”
“Hmm, then the Old Boy must be your soulmate, although you would end up with DL who loves you.”
That reminded me of what a clairvoyant said the week before- about me griefing the loss of a soulmate. But then, sometimes you won’t end up with a soulmate for a good reason and you would end up with the man who loves you more...
Friday, November 13, 2009
Hair
Last night over dinner, Daisy made a jibe about me having a predilection for men “without hair”. What she meant was that I seemed to always pick out the bald or rather, guys with shaved heads on the street as my eye candies.
Soci’s cheeky mind had instead wandered off the track and interpreted my attraction to men who like to shave themselves down south. He started teasing me.
Whoa, where did that come from, Daisy and I soon realised where the conversation was going.
“Oh don’t be shy. It’s the 21st Century, you are entitled to whatever suits you...” he continued teasing me.
“No, no, no... that’s not what I mean,” Daisy interjected.
We were all laughing.
I then commented that I honestly don’t fancy guys who are too particular or high maintenance when it comes to gardening their own hair, especially in the arm pits, legs and private departments. They tend to be people who are either gay (which is fine by me) or anal, fussy, vain, having low tolerance or are highly critical about things (especially the physical appearance), traits I cannot stand in a man. Men should be like men- that is, low maintenance, easy-going and not a whinger. And they can take dirt. Period.
Which brings me down to a few memory lanes...
*****
I heard from my principal at fashion school that the typical French woman doesn’t care about waxing or shaving. Basically, their personal grooming so much extends to allowing their fauna grow free willy in areas that I thought most females would pay particular attention to, namely the armpits and possibly the bikini area.
In Paris, I had come to share a sensual encounter with a French by the name of Aura. Some of you long-time readers may remember this character in P’s life as the half-stranger who gave her the most mind blowingly orgasmic sex she had ever had and from that day on, she strangely regained the libido she thought she had lost forever.
That night of pure lust, in his dimly-lit studio apartment, I curiously noticed that the Aura had his armpit shaved. I thought to myself that was very un-French and didn’t think very much afterwards.
While we were drunk with lust, sex and alcohol, in my naked state, I lifted my arm. In the dark, I noticed that he took a curious interest in my bare armpits. He took a double take, like he was drawn to the bareness. I felt a little self conscious and tried de-tracting his attention by climbing on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck.
******
After sex, Ted and I took to the ensuite bathroom. He wanted to freshen himself up before he took leave. His chauffer and friend was waiting in the car.
The mirror at the sink was one of those horizontal full length across the wall, like what you get in the hotels.
Ted admired his smooth tight naked six-pack body in the mirror. He had been training boxing at the gym with his personal trainer almost everyday in the week.
Ted was shaved at the armpits and around his manhood (which made the act of fellacio more hygienic for me, I reckon;)) Basically, he was bare in areas that supposedly asserted a person’s manliness.
“Am I fat?” He kept flexing slightly in front the mirror.
He could well be talking to himself.
He was absorbed in examining his own image.
Must be a converted fat man still trapped in his old fat soul or self-image.
“No baby, of course not...” was all I said.
Last night over dinner, Daisy made a jibe about me having a predilection for men “without hair”. What she meant was that I seemed to always pick out the bald or rather, guys with shaved heads on the street as my eye candies.
Soci’s cheeky mind had instead wandered off the track and interpreted my attraction to men who like to shave themselves down south. He started teasing me.
Whoa, where did that come from, Daisy and I soon realised where the conversation was going.
“Oh don’t be shy. It’s the 21st Century, you are entitled to whatever suits you...” he continued teasing me.
“No, no, no... that’s not what I mean,” Daisy interjected.
We were all laughing.
I then commented that I honestly don’t fancy guys who are too particular or high maintenance when it comes to gardening their own hair, especially in the arm pits, legs and private departments. They tend to be people who are either gay (which is fine by me) or anal, fussy, vain, having low tolerance or are highly critical about things (especially the physical appearance), traits I cannot stand in a man. Men should be like men- that is, low maintenance, easy-going and not a whinger. And they can take dirt. Period.
Which brings me down to a few memory lanes...
*****
I heard from my principal at fashion school that the typical French woman doesn’t care about waxing or shaving. Basically, their personal grooming so much extends to allowing their fauna grow free willy in areas that I thought most females would pay particular attention to, namely the armpits and possibly the bikini area.
In Paris, I had come to share a sensual encounter with a French by the name of Aura. Some of you long-time readers may remember this character in P’s life as the half-stranger who gave her the most mind blowingly orgasmic sex she had ever had and from that day on, she strangely regained the libido she thought she had lost forever.
That night of pure lust, in his dimly-lit studio apartment, I curiously noticed that the Aura had his armpit shaved. I thought to myself that was very un-French and didn’t think very much afterwards.
While we were drunk with lust, sex and alcohol, in my naked state, I lifted my arm. In the dark, I noticed that he took a curious interest in my bare armpits. He took a double take, like he was drawn to the bareness. I felt a little self conscious and tried de-tracting his attention by climbing on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck.
******
After sex, Ted and I took to the ensuite bathroom. He wanted to freshen himself up before he took leave. His chauffer and friend was waiting in the car.
The mirror at the sink was one of those horizontal full length across the wall, like what you get in the hotels.
Ted admired his smooth tight naked six-pack body in the mirror. He had been training boxing at the gym with his personal trainer almost everyday in the week.
Ted was shaved at the armpits and around his manhood (which made the act of fellacio more hygienic for me, I reckon;)) Basically, he was bare in areas that supposedly asserted a person’s manliness.
“Am I fat?” He kept flexing slightly in front the mirror.
He could well be talking to himself.
He was absorbed in examining his own image.
Must be a converted fat man still trapped in his old fat soul or self-image.
“No baby, of course not...” was all I said.
