Of A Previous Butt-Plug

I wrote the below diabetic monstrosity more than a year ago. And somehow, it's still very much relevant, the main drill that is. Today especially. Coz minge is on his way back. And I'm shamelessly on caramel drips !


It was one of those balmy nights. A night where summer decided to pay a visit. It was quite stuffy, the room that is, that you somewhat wished the presence of a desk fan. Like the one that served you good throughout the summer this year. The one that’s sitting comfortably within the alcove of your room. It might be a frivolous thing to request during the usual cool chilly nights, but night like this, it certainly is a friggin necessity.

It undoubtedly would have at least pledge half of a good night sleep. The other being a pair of earplugs which unfortunately you do not possess.

Anyway, the night is getting geriatric and you are ready to call it a day. The lights are off, the alarm fixed and the mobile silenced.

You are ready to mumble good night before he interrupted you. He, who is now lying in his own bed on the other side of the room. He, being the host of your crash-in stay tonight.

“Do you think you guys are going to last long?” he asked.

Holy fuck. You thought. What a question. Only a young kid like him can produce such inquiry. You simply have to hand it to him to yield a question of such randomness and trickiness that to casually answering it will do it no justice at all. So, you ponder for a moment.

And just as the moment passed, and you are about to begin your reply, as your mouth is actually open, forming the first words of your reply, you realized that by saying, yes, you are confident that it will, is no longer a valid answer. By saying yes, somehow, seems not right. It seems very much a naïve answer, and you are way beyond your naïve phase. Early twenties you are not.

So, you needed another round of a moment. And when that moment finally passed, you let slip of this.

“Ermmm… How shall I put it … Not too sure how long it will last nor do I think I should speculate it’s duration lor but I certainly do see a future with him. And as long as the future is visible, I see a long road ahead. End of the day, everything is a work in progress, no?”

And at that point, you lose track of how hot the night was, or how you wish you are a necromancer, summoning the dead to teletransport the fan over, because somehow, the night doesn’t seem that rugged after all. In fact, it feels moderately cooler.

Man, thinking of him seems to done it again!

The Brew

Sure, getting together takes a bloody a good intervention, divine or not. But fuck me, being together takes a hell lot more than just some dusty pink sprinkles from some deluded aging fairies. Add a year or two being together, and double fuck me, it's certainly an uphill task for Jane and her Elaine !

Some keeps the fire burning by doing smoochy stuffs. Shoving each other's arse mind with poetry. Lick the cream off each other. Or maybe go for a love cruise or sumfink.

Me and Minge, sadly well, being romantic ain't really our dang.

Reading poetry to each other is certainly out of our league. We are more likely to burst into a verse from Cracking Whitney than say, murmuring Tagore. Lick cream off each other ? Like hello ?! Like why waste it. It taste better with ice-cream than say, on some pole.

How bout love cruise, you asked. Oh yes, we did give that a shot, but what a kerfuffle it was ! Instead of ravishing each other with our longing gaze while letting the cold sea breeze enraptured us or something liddat, that minge went for a nap. Oh yes, he went for a nap. Apparently, the view overlooking Venice was boring and there's nothing to see. And Piazza San Marco is just an icky square with lotsa icky pigeons.

And don't even get me started on how he celebrated my barf-day this year. Well, to keep the story less bitchy and bitter, he wrote this on the b-day card - I suck at writing, so can I suck you instead. Fair enuff, I thought. But damn, did my cheese gets any scrapping that night ? Hell no ! He was tired after cooking the dinner and well, like all tired fags, went straight to sleep.

So, what is the basic fundamental of our relationship, eh ? Surely being romantic ain't one of them. And, jewnowhat, I'm no longer a Mariah too. Days of deluding myself that being romantic is all we need in a relationship no longer applies, just like days of looking into the mirror and admiring my perky manboobs.

On my end, I guess what kept me latching onto him was the fact that he is real. No gloss over and certainly no pretense. Just raw and urgghh... real. Telling me just like it is and nothing more. No whipped cream on top or caramel drips.

Which is a good thing, really. For every fake jennnies like me, we really do need a real jenny to spank our arse. So, yeah, I guess that's basically it. We keep brewing because the stock is real, yes, no, minge ?

So, yeah, screw you, Jane Austen, like me like the current dang bet-ah ! Now, minge, please buy lotsa backdated Heat mags back to Msia, kay ?

A Quik Orgasm And The Subsequent Jizz

Ohmegod, like less than 6 hours since I've decided that there is no need to flung me lumpy arse out of KL Tower, I'm beginning to sweat for my next project. Project Let's-Decide-Ed's-Next-Move. And then, there's also that shelved Let's-Get-Ed-Back-To-Size-Cow project to consider.

For nothing is gay about doing nothing. And surely, nothing is anywhere pink when your once perky manboobs are now two gigantic saggy papayas !

Urghh. Talk about CERTIFY-ED wet blanket.

Oh No, Not Another Emo Post !

So, it's been more than 3 months since I'm back. Not exactly a long time but hey, it's more than a quarter of the year spent ! So, ain't exactly the duration of a Project Runway episode either.

Surely by now, I should've done with the whole humdrum of settling down. But damn, it's not even close. The way I see it, not even my arse are plonking herself willingly to the whole let's-make-ourselves-at-home dang.

Which shouldn't be the case. After all, this is me home for a good chunky years. Few years away and I'm a stranger in my own country ? Like hello, please lah ! Stop acting like a twat.

But this is exactly my problem. That I am a twat. Who is treating the whole me-is-back dang ever so transiently. And not making any real effort to change that. Guess I'm just missing my carefree days very very much and not willing to let them go just yet.

Days of which I can easily plan a trip to somewhere and won't cost me a cock and a whole lot of sacks. Days where I can go all kakak and care shites. And of course, days of no worries, plenty of grass stains and yes, being the good ol' maid.

Oh well, that's life innit ? Guess I need more time, that's all. To sink-in, cross that line and wrap it up.

And to bloody start a new run.

Project Ed's-Way

6 more days. And then, either he's in or he's out !

The Ghey Curse

Sigh.

Being ghey is never easy, issit ?

Not only we have to deal with pesky omg-omg-i-know-this-single-accountant-girl-so-should-i-shall-i-? enemies relatives, we are also emo-freaks ! Being menstrual is a norm occurrence for us bumboys. Just like them real girls with real labia but without discharges. But that's just a scratch on the surface.

We are also one paranoid-slash-insecure bunch. We constantly remind ourselves that we are fab, deluded or not. Or that, one more bite of that keropok lekor and you're officially a tractor.

Vanity is our religion and gym is our shrine. In fact, any ghey boy worthy of his coiffured pubes will flag his gold gym membership card for all to see. Not a member ? Mygawd, such sin. Not a member and you're a fat ghey boy ? Sorry babe, not even Satan would want you as his cuffed slave ! Gym is no longer just part of a lifestyle, lurve. It's a necessity, for pete's sake.

Like it or not, we must also constantly re-invent ourselves. In order to be marketable. And not just for the niche market. Oh, come on, let's face it.

Niche is sad. Mass is gay.

So evidently, we dig deep for those foundation, mascara, eyecurlers and what-not. To keep up. And of course, that's just a scratch too. What is a ghey boy without his nice v-necks, calvin klien undies, rock-and-republic jeans and those to-die-for manolos ?

But heck, that's not really an issue lah. We are conditioned for those dang, more or less, no ? Not really that shocking for most in the fraternity, so to speak. And me included.

But what I am SO not prepared for, are these lil gems:

So, ed, what are you ? You know, are you a girl or boy ? What's flip-flop ? ( Omg, stop rolling your eyes, beyotches ! ) Oh, how many men have you slept with, arh ? Wah, so many meh ?So, when was your first time arh ? Good or not ? Eh, why you like cock arh ? How long you know you like cock, already ? Petpet no good for you meh ?

Okay, some of you will think - Eh, what's so big deal with those ? We girls like to share info, wat ! Well, of course we do. And I won't even bat an eyelid if it's some intrusion from me bitches. But fuck me, not when it's being posted by some hometown friends. Straighter-than-pole hommies-slash-primary-slash-secondary-school-frens that I have known for 20-odd years and to whom I have recently came out to. Now, ever since that rain-on-me day, not only I'm their designated ghey-encyclopedia, apparently I'm also the resident's slut !

Men-to-men thingamajig ? Oh, we know, let's ask ed ! He ah, a lot of experience wan !

Damn, this is shitty ! Now, I am prepared to be constantly moody and critical of pisang goreng/goreng pisang. Heck, I'm even ready to attend another round of family wedding dinner. But to be straight men's consultant to anything ghey, that, my dear, am not prepared just yet. Like it's totally weird-ing me out. And a bit salah too.

Boys, like, can't we talk about Man U, cars and why Ipoh chicks are so damn fair, instead ? Just like good old days, no ?