Ho Ho Mei... All things tasty.

Lord of the Flies

2009-06-22T13:45:00.001+08:00

Every boy must contend with priapism in grade school, and it's a condition we miss sorely in our middle age.

When I was a kid, I really didn't pay much attention in church. And while I pride myself in having a strong catholic faith, I must admit some deep and secretive excitement about Sunday mass because it was a great chance to check out the hot girls from the neighborhood. And if I spotted any near by, it would inspire me to be on my best behavior. I did silly things: like when it was time to kneel and pray, I'd furrow my brows extra hard on the off chance that she was looking over. If it was time to sing, I'd try really really hard to hit those high notes especially if the song was "Eagle's wings." And if it was time to take communion, I'd make it a point to pause that extra second before accepting the host from the priest. Maybe she'd recognize my devout spirit and nod in silent approval, maybe hearing choirboy voice would stoke her sinful senses, maybe seeing me accept communion would stir awkward recess playground fantasies involving me eating her forbidden fruit behind the big tree. Of course, she was't looking or listening; and she sure as hell didn't know I was sitting in the pew behind her sniffing her hair.

I remember having these retarded ideas and daydreams as early as grade 5. That would put me at, what, 10 years old? Yeah that sounds about right. Children are not innocent, this much is a universal truth. So it doesn't take much imagination to suppose we were fearless closet perverts at that prepubescent age. I don't think it makes me an infidel, but when you land a seat just behind the girl in the green sweater and she smells like fresh shampoo and bubble gum; as boys, we tend to resort our most powerful source of entertainment long before internet (and subsequently Bang Bros) was available, which - for a 10 year old- is his imagination.

You see, few girls realize this, but being a young boy is pretty stressful. Walking around with an uncontrollable erection is something that haunted us in public, especially at school. Finding ways to hide it in public was a nightmare. Sitting down, then standing up was an excise in sleight of hand (moves that - in our adult life - are discarded for the more obvious crotch adjust). In the winter, we wore very uncomfortable long underwear that chafed the ball sack and seemed to always find a way to make the tent pitch at the most unflattering angles. The extra layer made the "pocket adjust" virtually impossible, conspicuous and any curl over the hand guaranteed to draw attention. We'd have to wait until we found a seat and an overhanging table or we'd hide ourselves in the washroom to adjust, but out in the open in public, there were few solutions.

There was a standard sitting position that helped on occasion, or so we though. The standard position sitting down was the arms crossed over the stomach. This was the only way we could hide the tent or adjust so that no one would see it spike the ceiling.

I knew a kid who wore track pants every day to school, the same color too - powder blue. And while I would tell myself he probably had several pairs of the same pants, I'm quite certain they were just same pair he wore 4 days of the week. His name was chubby boy named Derek.

Derek had his arms crossed over his stomach all the time - on the bus, in class, eating carrots, and definitely in church. There are class photos of him sitting in the front row (because he was one of the shorter kids, taller kids stood in the back) with is arms crossed over his stomach with his back hunched over and a big smile on his face. Everyone thought maybe he just had bad indigestion. The rest of us knew he was just trying to contain and restrain an uncontrollable erection. And there were times when we'd get into fights and I really wanted to call him on it, but I guess there's a line of male chivalry that some of us were born with - a line we knew intuitively not to cross. Some primitive notion of 'bros before hoes' if you will. Because if any of the girls knew he was sporting a hard on from algebra straight through to gym class, Derek would be toast. Kids have roasted one another for lesser reasons.

One time, an introverted but curious boy named Matias somehow managed to wedge his head stuck in that narrow gap in the fence between the anchor pole and the fence mesh. It was an amazingly impossible site, because his head looked so big and the gap was so narrow - like fitting a square peg into a round hold or a chinese finger puzzle where it seems the only way child could have possibly slipped his head is through the gap was through some mystic tantric cellular yoga technique he must have mastered in a previous life as a Vedic witchdoctor. Whatever the case, the idiot's head was stuck and he was bent over - leaving him vulnerable to all sorts of exploitation. It was only a matter of time before one of the kids sensed this rare opportunity, and thought it'd be funny to pull his pants down while he was trapped. In doing so, he revealed his white and blue Thundercats underwear, complete with Lionel and Panthro in action poses on each cheek. Everyone saw and the little monkeys went ape shit bonkers!

First, the girls threw rocks at him cautious not to get too close in a case he managed to break free. Once certain he was helpless, they dug out wet muddy sticks from the nearest pile of dead leaves poked at the poor kid's fatty parts, a few of them aiming for the poop hole - all chanting piggy like obscenities. The 7th grade boys who were playing handball around the corner came by, and cackling manically, they took turns whipping the tennis ball at his ass. Other kids form a circle around him and threw themselves up into a hysterical barrage of name calling, all of them pointing at big sword-wielding Lionel cartoon character positioned squarely on his right buttock. "Thundercats HO!!! Mati-ASS HOOOOOO!" The mob screamed and swelled in laughter. It was Lord of the fucking Flies mayhem. Matias cried feebly at them to keep away, then he whimpered helplessly as their frenzy ensued uninhibited, unattended, and with full prejudice. By the end of lunch hour, he had holes in his undies, pants stuffed with dead leaves, one shoe found its way to the kindergarten yard, and a chewed wad of gum stuck to the back of his sweatshirt.

The teachers finally came out in riot gear to bat away the kids, and it must have took an extra ten minutes of lunch hour for the hall monitors to gather the herd back into the school. Meanwhile, the superintendent was called in to use heavy shears to cut the fence wire. Inside, all the kids rushed to the class windows, face pressed up against the glass still hooting and hollaring away while the superintendent worked his way around the boy's head careful not to injure him. Poor Matias will always be remember as the stupid boy who got his head wedged into the fence and everyone has see his ass.

And so, chubby little Derek had every reason to be stressed out about hiding his wang. If they ever found out his dirty little secret, the kids would have him hung from a tree with his blue track pants dangling from his ankles, and they would fuck him up like a Christmas Pinata.

Of Shoes & Due Diligence

2009-06-15T11:18:00.007+08:00

"Oh you see, but the problem is that I'd never wear Jimmy Choos to the club. They wouldn't last 10 mins in here." Sonia replied into my ear loudly over the Neyo flooding even louder now into the bar space. She was only half paying attention to me as the song caught her by surprise and she started doing a little semi-bop in front of me. After briefly closing her eyes and getting "jiggy wit it" she turned back to me as if awoken from a really great power nap, smiling and proud of herself. "I'm perfectly happy wearing Nine West shoes. As long as they're comfortable and besides, no one can really appreciate them in this lighting. We both looked down to her shoes again for what I think was the fifth time. I was beginning to really enjoy this.

When men compliment women on their shoes, there is a 50% chance they actually mean it. The other half of the time, they're just checking out the legs and subliminally making the women conscious of it. "Hey, I really like your heels..." another way of saying, "Hey, I'd love to lick your naked calves.. and it'd be A-OK if you kept those heels on, while I made my way to the top." Something along these lines anyway.

I complimented her on her shoes, and this gave me a launch into a discussion about heels vs platforms. And I noticed something important and new having a discussion about glossy heels versus shooting a passerby compliment.

Diving into a debate over heels, swooshes, or anything Dior brings two people closer. Once I've anchored myself to the bar and pulled her close, we need to be talking pretty intimately to exchange ideas, fighting the volume of the music. This means our heads are close proximity. When two people engaged in a conversation tip their heads forward, something magical happens.

Our faces fall into the sensitive hot zone between the lips and the collar bone. And this is the perfect excuse to release eye contact, granting full permission to visually roam her body without being rude - because, after all, it's the clothes you're checking out - even though both of us know it's grounds for a quick due diligence site visit to flavour country. So the body mapping ensues as follows:

1. Not only does it warm her up to the idea of having you in that space, but it also warms her up to the idea of being close to you, what it feels like to be safe in your arms, and let's be frank - everyone love the neck zone. It's phermone heaven.

2. From the shoulders looking down, you have a perfect depth of view starting from the cleavage to the tips of her toes. From here I could see very clearly the fullness of the breasts from the bra lines peaking through her full sequence dress. Keeping one hand around her waist guarantees she won't pull away too far. And a gentle squeeze gives me a brief and stealthy assessment of her real waist size. (Loose cami tops must be discounted immediately to guarantee better disclosure.) Sonia's a big boned girl, but she clearly works out and she's giving me a tight tummy as I turn her hips out to get a better view of the patent leather pink heels parading as Christian Louboutin's. In the mid-focal field, I could make out the muscle lines on her thighs, and while I'm not a big fan of big legs, hers were rather attractive and suited her fuller proportions nicely.

3. "They're very nice... lemme have a look at the heels," and with a gentle pull at the waist, Sonia doesn't resist and turns her hips slightly in, and voila - a full view of her booty. Round and delicious. I make a quick glance at the shoes as well and see a small metalic detail that acccents the stilletos nicely.

"Ooh. Nice hardware in the back." She smirks and swats my hand away turning back into the bar pretending to be indignant. I close in and speak close to her hear putting one hand across to the opposing hip. "What? I'm a big hardware on heels fan," in mock protest. She giggles.

The reality is, I really do notice shoes, and most of my team do as well. Half the time, they don't realize that they're looking at the shoe, but it's like anything shiny or sparkly - it's going to catch our eye, and it's going to draw us in. They're an even better reason to get up close and personal. With the summer circuit in full swing, it's nice to see all the leg action as we did this past weekend.

Oh yes, I'm a big fan of high heels. I know they pinch the toes, cut into the skin, and sprain the ball of your foot, but I assure you, they are worth every inch.

Water sports

2009-06-15T11:14:00.002+08:00

Prive, like most clubs, don't have toilets for men. They just allow the men to use the women's washroom if they need to yak or go for the number 2. And number 2 happens at clubs alot more often than people think, mainly for 2 reasons: 1. Clubbing comes after dinner, and most people have big meals on friday or saturday nights. You do the math. 2. Everyone gets a little nervous going out, it's a biological response. Our bodies know where doing something exciting and different so our bowels move. (It's like going to the strip club in college, I always really needed to take a dump before I went to Whiskey A-Go Go, because I was so nervous to see a hot naked women on stage - and I know alot of guys who were the same.)

Indeed, I've come to enjoy my number 2 at Prive, especially since it's, for the most part, much cleaner than clubs I've been to in the past (especially in college back in Toronto, like the Phoenix or the Joker- a time and places when and where open sewage was widely tolerated and too this very day is brought up frequently in third year Greek bathhouse architecture classes at UofT.) I also do prefer hitting the club early, so I can have some well needed chat time with my boys before they turn up the volume.

As for keeping the seat clean, I am a big subscriber to the diamond formation toilet paper treatment. I usually tear off four medium-length pieces of toilet paper, each approximately three squares, and lay them down in a diamond shape so that all the important angles on the seat are covered. What I don't understand, however, is how these seats get wet in the first place. All too often I will one of the first guys in the evening to get in one of the stalls, a women's stall. And I don't mean "drizzled" - I mean completely soaked. It's unnerving.

I like my nasty, but even after closing the door behind me, and turning around to see that kind of a mess gives me pause. One day, I gathered the nerve to ask a friend of mine. She explained that most girls just squat over the seat, some girls actually stand on the toilet and squat down (semi-mainland styles), and a only small population actually bother to clean it up. They do it sometimes together so that one girl can hold onto the other for balance.

After she told me this, my imagination went wild. Before, it was really a mystery to me and something I never gave much thought. Sometimes, I'd secretly hope that the men's washroom was full, so that I could wait in line and gaze at the talent coming in and out of the stalls. These really hot girls go in...and then they come out. They tease their hair up a bit, put on that bitch cold look on their faces for the boys looking in from the line, and that's it. What happens in between is something of beautiful myth. Maybe they have a little squirt, spray a bit of perfume, and then come out. Sometimes they go in together, and the guys - those of us waiting in line - we just assume they're in there snorting a few lines of coke followed by a brief but hot closet bi-sexual make out session. That's what they do, right?

Turns out they do that and more - they also get naked, kick themselves up into a frenzy, waterjet the walls, seats, and soda fountain each other - like it's Songkran in Samui. It's one big golden car wash in there! And it must be alot of fun, because by the time I get in there, the place is soaked in fluids.

There is also the slight possibility that a guy was in there earlier, and he was just peeing with the seat down. But I like my version better.

Four Minutes

2009-03-26T14:16:00.002+08:00

We had a flight scheduled the next morning for 5:30am to Liberia, and yet there was little resistance against where we planned to go that night. Ever since we arrived, we joked about the possible night life and the skirted around the prospect of finding something fun – business trip styles. And it wasn’t until Day 2 did one of us break down and ask what was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

“So where are we going to find some girls tonight?” Carlyle blurted, his mouth half full will juicy local steak. I didn’t know if he was talking about hookers or club life. It’s normally hard to tell with my partner, but typically on business trips, I just assume he’s referring to hookers.
“Strip club,” George replied. “There’s some great places here, get yourself a Latina girl, and unlike the U.S., you’re allowed to touch. In fact, they encourage it.”

“Really? They don’t let you touch in the States. It’s hands to your side and don’t move.”

“CIA calls Costa Rica the ‘Client Nation,’ now you know why.”

Carlyle nodded as if he understood. I didn’t think he did.
$20 a song and a dance. Private room. It was standard price, but it was also the year of the credit crunch and spending that kind of money in Central America at the same rates as San Fran seemed ethically wrong especially for someone in finance. I indicated to the girl that I wanted just one song. She was cute, short, young looking but she had soft dark skin and big eyes. She looked Philipino with a small nose and round face. I’d find out later she was 21, and she had the bone stature of a teenager but fully blossomed booty. Then again, a full booty is standard issue in these parts of the world, so I remind myself that I shouldn’t be at all surprised.

The room itself was small and remarkably clean. Management obviously made a concerted effort to maintain an image of poshness. The lazyboy chairs out in the main room however made me feel like a fat American rather than a refined gentleman. They were deep leather bucket seats shaped like TV chairs they sold on the ground floor of department stores, and were specially hinged to rock like a rocking chair or an EZ crib. We were like adult babies rocking to the rhythm of young hot mamas on stage, mesmerized by mounds and curves. Old guys sat in rocking chairs. Fat guys sat in Lazy Boys. The dancing was full disclosure. I remember a line that some comedian said a few years ago, “9 months to get out of womb and the rest of our lives trying to get back in.”

Inside, the dancing booth was a short sofa built into the wall and a small speaker filling the room with the same hip hop remix playing outside. She dived right into the dance, turning around so that her backside came right up to my shoulders, a pair of perfectly round soft cheeks hovering close, jiggling up and down, bristling against my shirt; so close I could probably guess the tensile strength the red g-string hiding in the valley. Nelly Furtado was playing, "Say it right." I kept my hands to myself politely on my lap, but she pulled them from my sides and placed them gently on her thighs as she curled lower towards my groin. My hands were cold and from my touch, I could see the goose bumps on her skin, from the shoulders all the way down to the sphere of her young booty. She let loose a shiver and inhaled sharply. I apologized. She turned to look at me over her shoulder and dismissed it with a wave and a giggle.

It took me half the song to relax and allow myself to adjust to stranger in front of me. The smell of her perfume and hair was not stereotypically strong, and she was in fact a very pretty girl; I could tell she was friendly with no airs about her. I tried to take in the full view of her body, but I couldn’t fully settle into the moment. The last time I was in a strip club was about 7 years ago, and I thought maybe I was just out of practice, but it wasn’t that. It was something else entirely.

Something inside was holding me back from an otherwise very “guy” moment. I was distracted, and I felt thoughts and worries skitter against the walls of my consciousness. My mind was filled with clutter. I felt burning vile of stress pour down my chest and into the pit of my stomach like a bad shot of tequila.

I realized I was thinking about my life, all the changes that were happening, all the same time. Images of all my previous trips, the work, the numbers, the spreadsheets, the endless pitch books, my friends come and gone, family, death, swelled in my head. It looked like a mental monopoly board and me, a silver plastic board piece teetering across the squares, struggling between other players’ properties, houses and hotels towering over me. And yet it all seemed inconsequential. The deals, the travelling, the status, the shop talk, and all the small steps taken to build my mini-empire; all of it seemed to be reduced to nothing.

It was like an epiphany, but instead of elation, I felt morose.

The dancer took off her bikini top revealing two swelling teardrops, and with one hand, she pulled me in for a closer inspection, the smell of her hair rushing into my head. But I didn’t flinch, no chubby, no heightened senses, no twinge, no priapism on demand. And then suddenly, from having my head filled with everything, it evacuated and a quiet came over me, and there was nothing.

It was all nothing to me. And I felt nothing. Nothing mattered and I realised that was the problem.

I bought 4 minutes of her time, and it felt like years as my adult life flashed before my eyes. Maybe that’s because it was precisely how long it would take to describe the last 10 years at that moment. Four minutes. The second song ended and I left without saying thank you. I felt shitty and just wanted to go to sleep.

Enter the Green Machine

2009-02-27T15:19:00.006+08:00

So now for something a little different. Those of you keeping track will already know me as The Hulk that Phalimus has parachuted into several of his stories. Here is the first of my guest blogs. With thanks to Phalimus for this prime piece of web real estate.

I used to fight that nickname - Hulk - at least inside, but not anymore. In a way, I guess it's apt. Underneath the raging green exterior I seem to project, lies a sensitive soul. You're as likely to find me at a poetry recital as you are cranking out supersets at the nearest free weight stack.

Recently I was propping up the bar at Prive with Phalimus and Saks. It was your standard Prive night, full of attrition, Team Catfish hogging their end of the bar, the Dorks and Dicks crowding out the talent on the dancefloor. I wasn't looking too hard. Truth be told, I do my best work when I'm doing nothing at all. It sounds arrogant but that's how it inevitably works out. The silent, aloof thing works for me. I've tried bulldozing my way in a few times, cocktalking and gun-toting, but this tactic tends to work on those I've already made a connection with, by and large. Of the random pick-ups, the random one-nighters, the silent tactic pays better dividends.

I didn't sex anyone up on the night in question, so if you want to jizz over some erotic clit-lit then I suggest you turn away now. But yeah. There I was with the boys. Prive. 4am. Haven't so much as made eyes towards any prospective target. A girl pushes up against me at the bar. She's not hot. In fact she reminds me of the back end of a London bus. She's got a big mouth, figuratively and literally. Now, ordinarily, this is the point where I make some really cutting and probably grossly unfair remark and samurai slice them off at the pass. The Boys got man stuff to talk about, run along sugar. But this one persisted. She "borrowed" a cigarette from Phalimus' unattended pack. She gestured at me to light it. Believe me, such rash assumptions as to my willingness to play Mr. Subservient on a night out have left some pretty little things broken beat and scarred. But I played along.

She fluttered her hideously over-mascara'd eyelashes at me and said:

"Do you think men can determine what they think about a woman on the first date?"

Fuck. Is that the best you can do?

She persisted so I mumbled out some half-assed responses hoping she would go away. But she stood there, jabbering away. I really wanted her to leave. My annoyance level was rising. I'm standing sideways on, drink turned away from her. None of this cosy body language BS. I wasn't drunk enough and she was clearly teetering as if about to fall off the precipice of sobriety. She yammered on about how she hadn't dated anyone for two years. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Yeah, like I'm gonna be the sucker to break that drought, right? Shit woman. No date for two years and you want to come to the top table to dine?

Now, this is already way past the point when I usually tell the hag to fuck off. But this one held my interest for a moment longer. She was monotonous and freakish but in my 4am pre-Tsui Wah state I probably would have taken a handtug round the back of Prive. She kept throwing obtuse hints at me, prying for a number exchange. I didn't bite. I rarely do. But funnily enough, I didn't snap either - a rarity in itself.

It was obvious she was alone (or perhaps abandoned) as no friend had come to badger her during this brief-but-awkward interlude. But I couldn't help myself. A mini-Hulk moment bubbled to the surface. For the first time, I turned around to face her, looking her straight in the eye:

"Look, do you have any friends to introduce to us or not? Cos if you're here with some girlfriends, maybe we could go talk to them instead."

Her face fell and finally the moment dawned on her. I'm a blabbering round-faced dinosaur who is wasting this guy's time.

She promptly made some lame excuse about having to leave, and hightailed it out of there. Of course I'm being a dick. Yeah, praise the girl for taking a risk. She saw the guns and wanted my pistol in her holster. But a girl's gotta know when to exit with dignity. Even I know my limits, and I stay within the confines of what is achievable. If you're looking to bat in the major leagues, at least offer me a few curveballs. Say you'll wear a paper bag over your head while you suck it and then promise to disappear into the night. Then you might have my attention. Yeah, you can still feel sorry for her. But I didn't go full green on her that night so I'm gonna say she got off lightly.

A couple of beers later and we're out on the street. Saks and Phalimus bump into some old friend and I idle off to the side of the club to check my messages. There I'm accosted by Katie, who once tried to lock me in her office after hours and mount me. She's cute, but I just can't bring myself to make nasty with her: she's got that innocent twinkle that I don't want to ruin.

Y'see, as Phalimus probably told you already, I go for the bitch. The power-hungry office-dominatrix. And this girl, for all her relative business acumen, doesn't look like she could dominate her way out of a pair of warm chocolate handcuffs. I don't have many female companions I count as friends, in fact you can count them on one hand, so alienating one of the very few by pulling my usual hump and dump routine doesn't seem like a good move.

I try to break loose, but she forces me to tell her what movies I haven't seen; she then tells me that she'd like to see those too, and that the "ball is in my court". I don't reply, in fact I barely nod in acknowledgment. She grips my hand, and rests her head on her shoulder. It's 4am and out of the two badly packed kebabs on offer I think I'm leaning towards the one at Ebeneezer's. I push her head off my shoulder and leave her there, sitting alone.

She texts me almost immediately afterwards, as I clamber into a taxi. It's bawdy and it's a come-and-get-me plea. I ignore it. My crotch didn't twinge, and that's the death knell, my unassailable litmus test.

Like I said, doing nothing at all.

Turning Japanese

2009-02-27T09:21:00.006+08:00

I had a dream last night I slept with my ex. I've had this one before but last night was more vivid. We're in a modernish looking village which looks nothing like but my brain remembers as Berlin. We were my flat near the train station and there's some kind of time restraint - a train I need to catch, a flight, or something. We're doing it on a tatami mat and the room is very japanese with compartments and hidden drawers all over the place. It's around dusk, And I'm fucking her doggy style, from behind, and I'm a little concerned about meeting that deadline but not really. The sex is amazing and even though my legs are getting tired, I want to keep pumping it out. It's tantric and I'm in the zone. Meanwhile, in the living room, there's a dog
chewing on my LV sunglasses case.

We finish up and I'm packing up to go. I would later find my shades cases gnawed and battered, but I'd be relieved to find my glasses unscathed. I put them on and strut to the train station. In the next scene, I'm at the train/plane station and Saks and Hulk are with me. They're asking me if I can hang out with Hulk on the next flight to London. I'm apprehensive, but the flight is only a couple of hours and for some reason all the flight attendants in my dream look like Alessandra Ambrosia. They're all wearing blazers and only thongs, so I could see their cheeks bounce and jiggle as they stomp up and down the platform. So I'm thinking about taking this flight with Hulk. The dream ends, and I wake up with a hard-on so painful, my legs hurt. I'd rub one out, but I'm late for work.

Thank god it's Friday. Traffic is so easy these days on Hong Kong island now with more and more expats leaving and fewer Porsches on the road. I normally don't have to wait longer
than two minutes for a bus. I can't imagine going back to Canada - sitting on the 401 for hours at a time, scheduling my entire day around a bus schedule that frequents once every 22 minutes assuming it's on time and not counting the 5 minute buffer time. Don't even get me started on shoveling snow.

****

3 weeks ago we had a big KTV night. The whole crew was there, but a few of us were drinking harder than the rest. Well, 3 of us were drinking harder. Thor, Hulk, and myself. Saks, Kal, Johnson were being responsible and stayed close to the sofas. The rest of us were screaming off the walls giving our best over backstreet boys crowdpleasers and, quite frankly, pretty awesome rap covers of Will.i.am "I got it from my mama."

Standard issue mixer in Hong Kong is the greentea. I picked up the taste years ago during my toxic days rolling with the small time gangsters in TST. It's now pretty mainstream. The funny thing about mixing anything with greentea - be it whisky, vodka, or in this case, cognac - is that you don't really feel wrecked before or after, and there's a reduced hangover effect in the morning. The anti-oxidant effect of the greentea keeps you from feeling the drunken 'lactic acid' lethargy we normally get with regular drinks. This doesn't mean you don't get hammered - you do, but it jumps on you very very quietly, and it makes you feel a lot stronger than you really are. So KTV never ends with just KTV. There's always an afterparty. Tonight, that after party was at Volar.

I was at the foyer bar at Volar with the girls waiting for the boys to arrive, and we were just ordering our first drinks. Fifth and Tiff were with me, and maybe they looked like mainland hookers or maybe they were just too friendly, but some dudefella in a suede black jacket made a play at them while we were at the bar. Obviously, I didn't look threatening enough. He whispered something in their ear and took Fifth by the hand, turning them away, and started introducing the girls to his buddies. Let me introduce you to my little friend. I moved in quickly and touched one of the girls on the elbow. As they turned, so too did Dudefella. He looked at me quizzically.

I really didn't have anything to say, and I was drunk as fuck from cognac and whiskey still pouring through my veins, and somehow I found his intrusion more funny than offensive, so I was smiling incongruously whilst mumbling something terse, "... mumble mumble very sorry." I tipped my head down ever so slightly. I think I was trying to keep my balance. But Dudefella gave me the strangest reaction, pulled his hands away from the girls... and then he bowed at me.

Maybe the music was too loud or maybe I was being too courteous; maybe it was the way i tilted my head or how with a touch, the girls responded to me. Maybe it was the way the girls acted dumb but friendly, because Fifth thought he was Tiff's friend, and Tiff thought he was Fifth's friend; when, in fact, he was neither. They were just being accommodating. Maybe the whole package of me and two hot tall girls who look like mainland hookers, but are in fact under dressed Australian-born Asians - made him cautious. Whatever the reason, something made him think I was Japanese. It was ridiculous and I read it. So I went along with the play.

So I bowed back.

Then he bowed back.

I started laughing, but I think mistook it for embarrassment, because he then put out his hand as a friendly gesture.

So I shook his hand.

And while shaking his hand, I bowed again. Of course, he bowed back.

And we were shaking hands, bowing at each other - mumbling apologies at each other, "Ah. verysorry. veryverysorry. Ano - verysorry. No. very very sorry."

It was fucking hilarious. It was an apologetic Japanese cockblock. What the fuck.

Finally, they left us alone, and I took the girls back to the bar, and they asked me if I knew the man. "No clue."

That had to be one of the most awkward cockblocks I've ever executed.

***

There's a house party tonight that will attract models, gangsters, and blow. It's been a long time since I've rubbed elbows with the dark side, and I'm mildly excited about the prospect of getting fucked up again. We've given ourselves a midnight deadline. If there's no clear path to getting laid by 12am, we're on the next ferry to Macao. I'm thinking of Aces rolled over Kings, punishing flush draws, and stacks and stacks of other people's dirty money. Aw yeah.

Phalimus Prime rolling out...

5:30am thoughts

2009-02-11T16:33:00.004+08:00

I wouldn’t call Mandy unattractive, but she’s certainly not a 7.8. In fact, she’s closer to 7.0. By that, I mean, I probably wouldn’t kick her out of bed. She’s not thin, but she’s not fat either. Maybe it’s because she’s 22 and still has that youthful pout about her and a general air of dominance that most young co-eds haven’t earned the right to grow into yet. They play hard to get, but they are often disarmed by mild negligence. After that, it’s easy pickings.

It is a game of patience and control coupled by a trickled reward system – an sms here, small peck on the cheek, followed by a stern comment about their poor posture or bad hair – a neg for good measure – then maybe a round of snowballs. They eventually open up, and you can find yourself an actual date. From there, we can see how the tumblers fit.

It was Saturday morning at 5:30am. Sitting in the cab crossing the harbor tunnel with her head in my lap and the rest of her stretched across the backseat, I slipped my hand between her thighs with the meat of my thumb just touching her panties and her miniskirt slightly hiked up to the hips. I didn’t stroke her though, didn’t move my fingers, letting only the car’s vibration create a small friction that would undoubtedly make her wet over the 15-minute ride.

She pretended to sleep, but she moaned just loud enough for me to hear but not enough for the cab driver to take notice. It was an invitation to explore further, but I consciously ignored it. I’d have her beg for it later and suffer regret after, rather than have me impose myself forcefully now - only to be shot down with my cock half drawn before the main event.

I felt Mandy’s hand creep up my thigh. I swept it away with my right hand without moving my left – which was still secured snug at the Y. Hush. None of that. Foreplay is where you stake your dominance, but it does not begin at the bra strap. It begins hours before, in the club, across the bar. I remembered this suddenly, and I turned to look out the window deep in thought.

Watching the harbor tunnel lights flash by in rhythm I reflected on how my team differs in each their own style. The hardest part is breaking through the barrier that makes us all strangers without baring so much that we become ordinary.

Hulk is good at this. He has a no-nonsense in his approach, penetration, and command of the game. As I explained in an earlier entry, it is in his carnal nature.

Saks is slightly different. He is ambivalent and nonchalant, often misinterpreted as controlled and cool. His dorky history as a Street Fighter 2 champion and unhealthy obsession with manga soap comic books would suggest otherwise. A manager at a respectable financial firm, his specialty is the junior office girl; the young and ambitious. They draw from his terse, even callous, tone – feel abused by his dismissive comments whilst secretly yearning for his approval.

Kal is naturally good looking and a brilliant speaker, but he grew into his looks and so he’s inexperienced. Furthermore, his new found Eurasian powers are shackled by a serious 1-year relationship. Women are drawn to his superman features and captured by his unique ability to remember small details about them. He was born the most powerful of us all, but the life of fighting crime, the cape and shield, these were the opportunity costs. In 2008, he chased the girl of his dreams and so he had not time to play. He knows this.

We often talk about what life would have been like if he had chosen our path, imagined glorious battles with phalanxes of 3-sets, 4-sets, and perfect 10s. Maggie Q, Athena, Jessica Alba, and the girl who works the door at M1NT – they would have all fallen naked before the Son of Krypton. But we respect his wishes, and we are committed to the disco wars in his absence.

Johnson, on the other hand, is the quiet and fearless one. He’s a surgeon, so his credentials put him heads and shoulders above the ‘i-wankers’ and ‘senators’ that flood Lan Kwai. Add back the fact that most doctors in Hong Kong don’t party or even have time to go out, he becomes a genuine rarity. We suspect Johnson draws his confidence from a particular physical talent. You see, Johnson has a black man’s cock. He is an Asian man with a black man’s cock. We once proposed that he change the first letter in his name to an exclamation mark - like in Africa. It would be spelled kinda like, "!ohnson."

We once shared a room in Cebu while on vacation, and he was tapping the girl he picked up from the club in the bed next to me; she was devouring him with a voracious appetite, but after their 2-hour marathon, she turned over and whimpered, ‘it feels like you’re pressing up against my chest. I can’t breathe. It feels like you’re puncturing a lung!’ The monster giggled before entering her again. I heard her take a deep breath in anticipation. I chuckled into my pillow. The man is a monster. Sometimes we introduce him as Obama’s 3rd half-brother, but few seem to appreciate the joke.

‘All the different colors of the rainbow,’ I thought to myself. Coming out of a fantastic run over Xmas holidays and CNY, I felt rejuvenated and ready to take on 2009. I had a full team at my disposal and a long laundry list of targets. Rebirth, I thought to myself.

The cab finally arrived at Mandy’s apartment complex. The lobby looked nice and new, and I imagined what it would have been like to go up with her in the elevator stripping her down to her heels. She got out of the cab, and she lingered by the door - her body language showing urgency and she expected me to follow. She fixed her skirt and pulled out her lip gloss. I got out briefly, gave her a kiss on the cheek goodnight, hopped back into the cab, closed the door and gave the man my address back to Central. In the side view mirror, I could make out her parted lips, mouth agape in surprise.

The cab driver turned to me in an uproar, ‘Yo, buddy. Why didn’t you go home with that girl? She was hot, man! And ready to go!’

I chuckled politely, ‘Aiya, thanks for the encouragement. But I’m not in the mood tonight. No point in raising expectations. Besides, I have tomorrow in mind.’

He nodded as though he understood, ‘Deem ar? What’s up? Too much booze tonight? Maybe you’re not trying hard enough! Next time don’t drink so much lar. It makes you slow!’

I smiled and nodded as I looked back out the window, rubbing the tip of my thumb and index fingers together, feeling the silky ooze glide in between.

The Click

2009-02-09T18:44:00.002+08:00

Corn warning: The following may come off as a bit deep and corny, but bear with me, because I do believe it is important.

It’s been awhile since my last meaningful entry. I wonder if I’m getting so caught up in living life, I simply can’t be bothered to write about it. Maybe it’s because I really don’t know what it all means; or maybe the message is so obvious, the mere thought of writing about the cliché makes me apprehensive.

Like Mr. Savant, I do secretly like sappy movies, but not without resistance. My brand of philosophy is what I would call functional. I peddle my message because I’d like to think that it’s applicable to the everyman. And as much as I like to work with metaphors and imagery, the purpose is to illustrate, define, and simplify the otherwise complex relationships between people, (and not to ponder the glossy theological or metaphysical) – that while every relationship is circumstantial, the rules of nature apply almost preternaturally across the board.

One such rule is the ‘Click.’

They say ‘Opposites attract,’ or ‘birds of a feather flock together,’ but neither adage accurately describes the importance of the ‘click.’ Some call it the ‘x-factor’ but that only describes that which fits and causes the click. Some say it is the je ne sais quoi, French for, ‘I don’t know.’ Again, this just describes the precursor. But the click itself is the significant event, not the cause. And it is magnificent in its brewing subtlety and breathless pitch often mistaken for frivolous heat or fragile infatuation. So much so, that its importance is often overlooked and overshadowed by the search for the cause of the click, that sudden search to validate and justify the click distracts us from the significance of the click itself. Make no mistake – that when it happens, the force is unbearable and the impact sounds of a sweet ‘ping’ - true and accurate. That something so sudden, so quiet, so unexpected – something so foreign can invigorate us to such a terrible state, we are at the mercy of grand gestures that contradict our ordinary lives – amazes me.

Ultimately, in the long run, I think happily married couples settle on their best imagined reason or at best, they accept that their reflection of the root cause is romantically vague (and faithfully so). I see the click in mom and dad, and I see why it perseveres over the greatest stretch of time. To replicate the cause - is pure folly. To replicate - that is God’s work, Allah’s priority, Gaia’s creation. But to seek out that which resembles the best fit in its entirety – that is our enduring challenge, our obligation and one of our deepest aspirations. It’s is not just the sum of its parts, but I’m convinced it’s also an amalgamation and arrangement of these parts that is most important. Like a key to a lock, there is no one groove, edge, or angle that shoulders the full responsibility for its burden; neither groove, edge nor angle that assumes credit for its splendor. They must be seen synonymously with the greatest depth of vision – each and every piece trained with absolute focus to comprehend its deliberate form – that which we call self, ego, I, me, the name which gives me myself. I must comprehend myself to know where I fit – with whom I fit. Only with this can I seek out and create the ‘click.’

I refuse to glaze over this event with the L-word. I refuse to accept its meager definitions. But to see it happen, this ‘click,’ to witness it; at loss for words, I must admit with a full bow from the hip, that its existence simply does not require my acceptance.

The Wench should never let herself loose.

2009-02-05T18:13:00.002+08:00

There is no reason for a woman not to work out, especially if God gave her a drop dead killer body, bones proportional, and the ivory skin of a sacrificial virgin. No reason at all. In fact, it's a crime if not an act against one's basic moral obligation. We each have a responsibility to work hard to stay healthy for ourselves for our future, and it drives me nuts to see the bitch let herself go. I will not tolerate it. However, I must admit that in this new day & age of diplomatic "I feel" politics warranting a progressive practice in influence and cooperation, we as friends and lovers have an obligation to encourage them to try their best, even in the face of stubborn inertia. The question is how? I have my dogmatic brow-beating approach, but even I admit that outright bitch-slapping doesn't always work. Moreover, is it worth the effort - when in fact, I could probably find another model who has the runner's habbit embedded already? Lower hung fruit. I will munch on this.

The Hammer of Thor

2009-01-22T13:44:00.004+08:00

Consider for a moment the possibility of dating a nymphomaniac. Consider all the implications, benefits and challenges, social impact and realizable personal milestones that come along with having a bedfellow whose biological fabric, DNA, and soul was, from birth, imbued by the heavens a mystical ancient whisper granting her the mission to do just one thing – to be one with the sex. I use the word “sex” as a proper noun here to illustrate the transcendental nature of sex to the Nympho, not as a gender, but as something more like energy, a moving torrent – like the Force. And I don’t mean Obi Wan’s pissing in the wind kind of force. Nymphos are a breed until themselves. I’m talking about the Darth Jenna Jameson shit, blow out your eardrums, suck you till your lungs collapse, please don’t touch Mr. Helmet head anymore, kind of force.

Nympho’s are evil. They are malevolently overpowered. They cannot be controlled, much less owned or tempered. And if you can’t keep up, they will leave you. They must be enslaved. They are like the holy grail of game.

Thor is a good man, and his story is that of the underdog turned army general. He moved his way up the firm the old fashioned way taking on doc and contract work nobody else wanted and ate up billable hours on overtime for free. He didn’t complain and was a quiet soldier to the firm, all the while soaking up knowledge and building influence. A few years ago, he was finally promoted to a leadership roll, became the first point of contact with the bulge-brackets, and so he could start indulging a little in softer things in life – like wine, literature, karaoke, and flaming dr. peppers. He is notoriously generous with his champagne and overly-friendly to strangers. Thor was THAT brother who drove the last girl home at the end of the night when no one else would. He was never the alpha male, but his presence inspires meaningful conversation no matter how loud the music, and he his attendance is always enough to warrant that “one more drink” for good measure. His teeth were a bit crooked but he makes up for it with one of those million dollar smiles. His intentions have always been the most altruistic of us all – consequently and unwillingly the benchmark of all our actions. Women are drawn to him because of his good heart - like an Asian Celtic Jedi. Women fear that if they venture too far into a relationship with him, they would fall under his Jedi spell.

They also fall for one more thing. In addition to a big heart, he also has a big cock.

His ex-girlfriends nicknamed it, “The Hammer.” The Hammer of Thor.

I digress.

Most men, those lucky enough to find a nymph, would keep her caged away at home. That’s the smart thing to do. This might be why we rarely see them out. This might also be why when friends tell us they’ve met one, we’re more often than not skeptical. So back in November on the eve of Johnson’s birthday, when Thor told us about his new friend, we all imagined a cougar or possibly a cute young intern who hadn’t had a boyfriend before. Truth be told, he’d been keeping quietly to himself, taking occasional trips out to Taipei, and when we finally did see him that night, he wasn’t his talkative self. He looked disheveled, a bit restless, and quite tired – like a mule who’d just stepped off a long-haul flight from the Golden Triangle. And if you count sex as a narcotic, that’s pretty-much what happened.

“How was Taipei? Heard you’ve been seeing someone,” I ventured. Johnson, Hulk, Kal-El, and I were huddled in a corner of the bar.

Thor didn’t waste much time and dove right into it.

“Mate, I don’t even see Taipei anymore..”

“Wow, enjoying yourself?” I asked nonchalantly, digging at the bottom of my Chivas greentea.

“I touched down Friday morning, checked into the Hyatt. We left the hotel once to get some dinner. I haven’t seen daylight in 72 hours.”

“Yo, that’s sick.” Johnson was interested in details, despite having dated his girl for 6 months already.

“Nympho. Mate, I’m dating a Nympho. She’s fucking crazy,” Thor insisted.

“You’re in honeymoon period. That’s understandable,” I mused.

“No, mate – I’m telling you. I came 6 times in the first night.” We look at him quizzically.

“WTF. But you got the Hammer…” Hulk wasn’t convinced.

Thor was shaking his head, “Hammer was dry-heaving by Day 2.”

“Harsh.”

“Her appetite is insatiable. She’s fucking crazy.”

“The man is an empty shell.” Johnson shook his head.

“Happy birthday, Johnson.” Thor raised his glass.

“Happy birthday, Thor.” Johnson returned.

We all chuckled at the irony and chimed in,

“Happy birthday, Thor!”

And we all raised our glasses.

We finally met Lisa just two weeks ago. We were meeting at Racks to start off the night, and we invited Thor to join us. He brought along the vixen. And wow. First, imagine a nympho. Now imagine a half-Brazilian, half-Taiwanese nympho. Legendary. That’s right – limited edition, complete with hologram sticker. She was stunning. The rest of us were… well, we were just stunned. She was tall and slim. Big Latina eyes, killer smile, porcelain skin, and yet her curves stretched only so lightly against the skin tight black cotton-stretch dress she was wearing. She couldn’t speak a lick of English, but she was very nice. We all wanted to run over to the Thor-meister and rollout some jumping high fives, a hearty handshake, and a big pat on the back! Good job, good job. Bartend, get a bottle of your finest cognac!

From Racks, we went straight to Dragon I. The DJ room was packed to the brim, and so we stationed ourselves in the civilian room by the Long Bar. Everyone was in good spirits, and within 45 mins, 3 rounds of flaming something or other, we were buzzing hard. Some of us more than others. Hulk, Johnson, Saks – we were on cruise control; opening up a few sets on the floor but nothing special. We were in a happy drunk mode and dancing up a storm. Thor and Lisa were dancing a bit too, some moves less dance-like than others. We were happy for him, nonetheless. He was Bossman for the night.

I found myself at the bar later on in the night chatting with Lisa in my broken Mandarin. She was sweet and talkative. She had no airs about her, and she had an adorable laugh. She was becoming more and more flirtatious as the night wore on, and I was trying to distract myself by ordering more drinks while she tried to keep my attention – pretending to wave down the bartender even though he wasn’t looking, smiling at random strangers to break the conversation up. She was getting frisky and kissed me repeatedly on the cheek, and there wasn’t much room to maneuver on a Saturday night.

“You’re so lean!” She purred, felt my waist, let out a squeal and licked my face. It was becoming more crowded in the room, and so I turned my body adjacent to the bar, with one elbow leaning on the marble. Lisa turned her back to me with her neck coming closer towards my face and the cleft of her derriere pressing firmly into my crotch. I could smell the soft perfume in her hair and a faint scent that I can only guess were her pheromones gushing from every pore in her body. My hands moved to her waist quickly to push her away just a little to give some distance between her soft ass and my throbbing erection, but she was quick and took my hand and ran it over her taught midriff. I’ve been in situations like this before, when the girl of a friend is this hammered; she doesn’t mean it personal and I’m just the closest target. It’s purely circumstantial and I knew it. Even though Thor wasn’t calling it official - between brothers, the protocol is very strict.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Thor engaged in a friendly chat with a friend, but I had not doubt he could see his girl was on a rampage. I finally caught his eye, and I pointed my finger straight at him. “You, come here.” I told him I had to use the washroom, that he should hold the bar space, that it was real estate worth parking. In fact, I was going cool off and stay out of the way. For the rest of the night, the boys took turns shooing away the bar vultures who simply could not resist – spent the past 2 hours gazing from across the bar, waiting for a chance to intercept her and lull her away from the pack. Saks’ patience fell through and ordered her taken off the premise. “Thor, get her outta here. She’s done. She’s hammered.” It was the right move. I went home and rubbed one out.

The next morning, I received some text messages from Thor. I think he was feeling mildly uncomfortable having her out in public, and perhaps he needed some reassurance.

Thor: Sorry didn’t get chance 2 see you before we left. Had to take crazy girl home b4 some random dude tried to take her back home. Translation: Yo, had to bounce home to tax that ass. Please tell me I’m not doing the wrong thing parading around town with a girl who might be mistaken as a high class prostitute.

Phalimus: No worries. You did the right thing. She is a very attractive girl with an appetite for excitement. I can understand why you two would stay cooped up in a hotel normally. Translation: It’s a good thing you got her outta there. I want to eat her out and I’m so envious. I wish I was tapping that hot body 8 nights a week. I can still smell her perfume on my cuff..

Thor: Crazy girl, crazy appetite, crazy everything. Completely loses control when drunk. Happens all the time. Beginning to think I’m crazy for continuing to see her… Translation: We fuck so goooood. She lets me have it anyway I want, any time I want. However, I’m concerned about my appearance though out in public. Are you sure, it doesn’t look like I’m tapping a high class prostitute?

Phalimus: You’re addicted. And its not something everyone has a chance to experience. We are happy for you. Enjoy it. Although she may driver you up the wall later. Translation: You coke fiend. You should pour honey all over her and do lines off her beaver. We hate you, but we are happy for you. Tap that shit, badboy! Don’t take her home to see mom.

Thor: Thanks, but she’s already driving me up the wall with her craziness! Will be outta town until after CNY. Let’s catch up afterwards. Translation: Thank you for reassuring me. I’m da MAN! I’m going to spend 2 weeks just tapping. Outties yo.

Phalimus: Good to see you too, bro. Just tie her up in a cage. See you in a few weeks. Translation: You da Man! Just tie her up in a cage. Tell us all about it when you come back an empty shell, motherfucker.

Phalimus out.

Pocket Aces

2009-01-21T13:19:00.001+08:00

I have friends, like Hulk & Thor, who insist on dating girls no younger than 26 - for all the obvious reasons: more experience and less inhibition. And I don't necessarily mean this in the sexual sense. While the age doesn't necessarily guarantee self-assurance and confidence, she's less likely to be insecure - assuming she's a semi-career woman.

A while back, I had a date with a girl who was a textbook 9, in her early twenties; freshgrad and beautiful. She was born in HK, moved to the States at an early age, and came from a well to do family - albeit not an excessively rich one. She studied at UCLA, picking up a liberal arts degree and managed to find a decent job soon after gradating. She's a part-time model with a day job as a PR associate at reputable tech firm - a rare breed, insomuch that she was determined to persue a career that was not contingent on her hot body. I respect that. Her name was Susan. And I was excited about this date, but it turned out to be a huge disappointment.

In no-limit poker, pocket pair Aces have diminishing returns over time as more of the common cards are revealed - as the flop, turn, and river open up. If your best hand is still the same pair of Aces you picked up in the first place, you'd better be prepared to fold. Amateurs tend to hold onto their pairs, refusing to fold, refusing to believe that their luck could be so poor that they could lose with such a perfect hand. In fact, you're likely to get beat a two pair, trips, flush, or straight. The writing's on the wall, but they refuse to let go, and its not till until everyone opens up the cards do you finally feel regret. Perhaps the same is true of dates with hot faces.

I took Susan out to a quaint little oyster bar on Bridges street called, "The Oyster Station." While not high society, it's the kind of restaurant that makes a lasting impression and a high enough value/dollar ratio that you'd come back for more. It was after work, so she wore a tight black suit, hair tied up in a pony tail, and a color that opened up her delecate colar bone and the soft untreated porcelain skin underneath. She had a small mole on her neck - a reminder of my favorite muzzling zone. She was classically beautiful with strong cheek bones and small but pouting lips, and she never wore much makeup - her skin was flawless. Pocket Aces.

We talked about Cali, the old restaurants, Polka-dot-door, and all the things that influenced us as children. She was an avid D&D gamer as a kid and we reminisced about late Saturday nights in someone's basement rolling for initiative and drinking beer. It was fun, in that way, and I felt myself relax into nostaligia. But as we moved into the last course of the meal, into the more deeper discussions about career and asipirations, certain insecurities that started to turn me off.

She would go on about how she had a massive project coming up in just a few months and that she was the 'project manager'; she had to host a round table and workshop for 200 people, and she was (somehow after only 6 months of work experience) the center of the decision matrix. She bragged about her busy travel schedule after CNY - London, Tokyo, Sidney.. blah blah blah. She sounded a bit like a cocky intern - the same kind of summer associate you see every recruiting season overly-profuse name-dropping at Dragon-I and Armani. Do you know who I work for? JP Morgan! We buy 50 bottles every weekend - so don't tell me you can't let me in! Blah Blah Bah.

I find her stories typically hard to believe, and this type of overeager, slip-of-the tongue social proofing comes off as boasting - not from arrogance, but from insecurity. When she talked about her friends, it was never a simple opening, "My friend John, the banker." It was always, "My friend, John, the DERIVATIVES BANKER," or "My friend from highschool, Frederick, the PUBLIC EQUITY IN-HOUSE CORPORATE COUNSEL." I mean.... what the hell IS a "derivatives banker?" I've heard of derivatives traders or quants, but never in that semantic. And who the hell says 'public equity in-house corporate counsel?.' I sort of understand the terms, and there are so many new acronyms and titles these days that they could very well exist. But the fact that she was even using them made me cringe. The titles weren't even relevant to her stories, and she'd dropped from a solid 9 to a borderline 7.6 in under an hour.

Maybe it's because she reminded me of myself - when I was 15. This was when I used to wear my dad's overcoat because the shoulders made me look bigger. My pants were too baggie, and I slicked on so much hair gel I looked an unemployed bicyclist strung out on coffee. The girls wore overly bright red lipstick that smeared into the corners, and everyone smelled like they were draping themselves in CK One. Some of the girls in our sister school wore too much perfume and about a gazillion layers of foundation. We call them "Flytraps." (That's not a mole, yo).

It was all about me me me. And writing this now, I feel like I'm regurgitating a bad scene from any given Manhattan romantic comedy released on Christmas day, but I they are stereotypes for a reason. Susan was talking so much fluff, and in turn, so was I - just to keep that ego stroked. I just didn't have the energy left to persue it past 9:30pm, and I felt I'd been chewing on cotton balls all night. Mind you, it's not her fault. She's just young and insecure. I'm sure one day, she'll grow into her own skin, but I'm not sure I have the patience to wait that long. I hadn't had sex in months, and my vision was starting to blur. But she wasn't really a bitch, neither arrogant nor too demanding - she just wasn't there yet, and maybe a little dumb.

That same night in the cab on my way home, I received a text from the Hulk who was also out on a date with Candace - the nurse with the fatty liver, bad teeth, great hair and an incredibly tight bootie. Obviously, he was not enjoying his meal either.

The text read, "What is it with these bitches who don't say, 'thank you' after you buy them a nice dinner?"

You can end up with rags even if you start the hand with pocket aces.

Phalimus Out.

Hulk vs. Pussy

2009-01-19T14:42:00.000+08:00

I hate anti-comformists. In a city that has one of the highest 3G penetration rates in the world and generally a very tech accepting population, I still come across a lot of people very resistant to the iPhone. And despite what I consider a very thorough education campaign to ease the legitimate concerns – there is still an incredible amount of skepticism or stubbornness. Having said that, it is still a very expensive piece of technology despite prices coming down by about 20%. But there is tremendous satisfaction. So I’ll just say this once: 1) the keyboard is very easy to use, because of its predictive programming. You just need to mash the word in to the keyboard with approximate accuracy. Fat fingers are fine. 2) You can personalize it with cool decals – the same thick stickers you see on cars. Gelaskins is my favorite, because the promoted artists do gorgeous and cool work, the material and adhesive of the decal is done by 3m, but they do take 2 weeks to ship because they’re made in Canada. You can find them at Windsor House in Causeway, but they’re substantially more expensive at around HK$260 a piece. 3) You can play facebook poker from your iPhone. The app is called Live Poker.

Different players, different game. I think one of the more important life lessons I’ve learnt is that everyone, while made equal, none of us are interchangeable. That goes for approach kung fu as well. Bruce had it right for the start, I think. Jeet-Kun do is in fact an illustration of how there is no set way, that each fighter must develop his or her own optimum technique based on their own physiology, temperament, and spot progress. Some are team players, and some aren’t. Even within a team, players differ in strategy. Cyclops has ranged attack but vulnerable in close quarters. Colossus, on the other hand, needs to get up close and personal - low mobility but high impact in the hand-to-hand. They compliment each other, and there is a clear synergy. And then, there are players whom you need to have around, just because they have that something about them, that special power that attracts pure action. They come alive at the tipping point of devastation, and are often perceived as both pacifying and volatile – but never at the same time. Rarely troublesome in sober environments, their status is binary – On or OFF. Blue Chip Rock solid or Chuck Norris Nuclear. Nothing in between.

In my current team, the Hulk, is one such character. A respected lawyer, he is well liked for his antics, sharp tongue, and blatant disregard for impudent AMOGs and half-baked Cockblocks. He is cultured, musically talented, and immensely knowledgeable. He finds tremendous satisfaction driving his body TO the limit – HIT the limit, and then he’ll go another 50 miles, burn down a forest, and jump naked into an arctic lake – all just to scratch an itch on his balls. He is carnal but an inborn sense of justice makes him a protective friend and an explosive catalyst for ‘Yo, this shit is going DOWN!’

Strangely, women feel safe around him because of this. And because he’s an animal, they can spot him from afar. They sniff him out from across the room, track him down, coil up in heated anticipation and pounce on him, just like them crazy ass hyenas in Lion King.

So it's not surprising, his game appears to be far more successful in the absence of his crew than attacking alongside us. And just like in the movie, we’ve discovered that the best way to make use of the Hulk is to use him like a godamn pussybomb. We have a recipe, but this is a work in progress:

Recipe for 1 Hulk Pussybomb.

Drag your Hulk to a dark corner,
Stuff him in a large container – a cage will do,
Inject him with a tray of jager bombs,
Instruct the resident DJ to turn up the volume and play Kanye’s ,“Stronger,”
Rattle the fucking cage
Lob the now enraged, drunken motherfucker it into the zone with the most pussy-per-square-inch. Period.
Wait for the first scream, and count to 15.

We did this a few months ago, just for kicks, the asshole came back with a truckload of collateral damage, he had panties coming out of his ears; and there was so much lipstick on his face, he looked like he’d been angel kissing the Brazilian volleyball team on Japanese Flag Day. “Candy, Rose, Amber, Jessica, and I think your name is Cindy – let me introduce you to my good friends; they're arms dealers by day and dildo models by night.” Team fucking player. When asked how he met them, there was some story about snapping some asshole’s neck, getting asked about his gold Roger Dubois while he was attempting a one-handed "through-the-fabric" bra-snap. Unstoppable.

My point is this: Every team needs a Hulk, whether your strategy is light recon or structured pawning. Having them around certainly entails pricing in a high risk of bar fights, but because of they have the special ability to somehow turn everything fucking upside down when you least suspect it – a complete waste of a night can just as easily turn into a brilliant one. They have a mutable role of being the brains during delecate negotiations and the brawn during heated pissing contests. But they tend to dramatically improve your chances of a Hail Mary score.

Phalimus out.

A story of terrible proportions.

2009-01-17T12:25:00.000+08:00

One day, a small group of very bad people got together and drank lots of water. When the water entered their bodies, the water became bad. The bad water coursed through their blood, then into their bowels and finally into their evil evil renal organs. Then for some terrible reason which only bad people could imagine, instead of peeing in toilets like nice people, they gathered some old dirty bottles and peed in those bottles. They corked those bottles to keep the evil freshness inside and sold it tto nice people. When nice people complained about the taste, the bad people gave them a slice of lemon, gave them a pat on the back, reassuring them that everything was okay. In fact, the bad people were seceretly laughing. At the end of the night, curled up on the ground, the nice people fell sick. This was how tequila was born.

1:00 am Real estate

2009-01-16T12:10:00.000+08:00

The importance of positioning. I am a firm believer in perpetual movement - in any event, any venue. Bars are an older crowd favorite because it typically relieves older (at heart) drinkers the secret shame of being just that - old at heart. It's either that, or they really don't feel comfortable around crazy hot young co-eds on summer vacation; that's what they tell me, and I suspect they're gay. (Having said that, I'll probably get to that point one day when I start binging on congnac and Bugles.) But for the rest of us, it's important we keep moving. Otherwise, we get stale, conversations start repeating themselves sounding like exasperated scripts from highschool, "what do you wanna do?""I dunno, what do YOU wanna do?""I dunno, wanna shoot some pool? Streetfighter?"*sigh* "Mmmk. Fine."

I don't particularly like anchoring myself to one end of the bar or on the dancefloor for too long, but I must admit that there are certain parcels of venue I consider prime real estate. It's not at all unlike picking good Koh Samui real estate; beach front, sea view, main road access, and close to the airport. In clubs, it's usually bar front, a decent dancefloor view, not too crowded, and close to the washroom or exit. At Prive, this would be the at the very end of the long bar facing the dancefloor. I notice we naturlly stay clear from the corners because they brush up against the heavy bottleneck traffic on both lengths of the bar. After 1am, unless you've already rooted yourself against the marble, you're pretty much left crowd surfing and armpit sniffing atleast until they've finished the 8th rotation of Rob Sinclair's "World. Hold on."

I actually really like the upper deck bar. It has a great view and very personal service. Unfortunately, it's just too small, and the flow is so bad, they usually assign a traffic cop (ie bouncer) just to keep the stairway clear. He even get his own flash like, "Xcuse me, sir. Keep moving please. ok la." *flash flash flash.* The front of the long bar, just as you come through the door, is actually not bad - full view of the other patrons, and quick access to the exit. The problem is that it's a trek to get to the washroom from 1am to 3am. Moreover, since it really is AT the entrance, I actually feel like I'm stuck in the lobby - just like those 2006 China Ipo cocktails - I have fight the uncomfortable urge to mingle with the other newcomers, squinting into the light every time the door opens like I'm trying to make out their name card. "Hi, my name is..."

I've only recently started visiting Billion, but I have a better impression of the club than I did my first visit a few months ago. In this case, there are two bars: an Eastern bar nestled by the entrance next to the veranda, and there's a second bar lodged in the Western Corner. The first 5 minutes of entering a club, most people do a 'look-see.' After checking their coats and bags, they do a full walk around the club pretending they're looking for someone, but really they're checking out the meat and building an initial crowd sense. It's like the first hand in poker - alot of sniffing going on. After that, 9 out of 10 kids end up BACK at the Easter bar. It's like there's a sense of closure, and they feel comfortable coming back to that bar. There's actually plenty of space througout the club, especially on the west side. But the bottleneck always builds up along the Eastern bar. I did the same thing on my first visit, and found it difficult to anchor - simply because the dancefloor traffic was rubbing up against too close to the bar traffic. If you've ever been to Beijing club, think back to the 1st floor main bar, that spot that bar space that joins the dance floor? Same thing. You can't breathe. (The second floor is a writeoff, since there's rarely any traffic; the over-the-danceloor balcony is a waste, since the right angle gives you a great view of their scalp, but you can forget about facial recognition).

At Bilion, the Western bar with the frontal exposure to the dance floor. That's a very special area and it's quickly becoming a personal favorite. Unlike the Eastern front, there's alot of space to dance, order drinks, and a full view of the dance floor. You have your choice of opening a set either by the bar or on the floor. Very accessible. There's still booth property readily available if you wanna splash, but you generally get very high value for your buck hanging around the bar. And there's less temptation to wander back to the eastern bar, because EVERYONE does the look-see. They come to you. Just like Genki-sushi (sushi on a conveyor belt). The best part? There's a secret door beside that opens up to the main corridor RIGHT beside the coat check. Score.

Captain crunch & a Billion reason not to grind

2009-01-16T09:39:00.000+08:00

Credit crunch, yo. Yoshinoya, that is. Hi protein, dense, filling, and relatively inexpensive. While it's easily 50% more expensive than your local "cha siu & you gai" rice box (bbq pork & soya sauce chicken rice), personally I feel less post-meal comatose and less nausea with the beef. There's not doubt Yoshinoya yields very high utility. My secretary gave me a coupon for $3 off a meal, but when I got to the counter, they rejected the coupon, cuz it was for in-restaurant dining only. I like to eat my food at my desk. Eating by myself in the foot court feels like a waste of time; not that it's lonely, but more because I could be surfing the web for more zhang ziyi photos while I wolf down the chow. But after lining up for 15 minutes to place my order, I wasn't in the mood to wait another 15 minutes to get a seat and forfeited the $3 coupon, that would have otherwise paid for a tram ride to central and still give me back $1 in change. Located in Wanchai, the little fast food joint was overflowing from customers bleeding in from Central - I've ran into hordes of strapped associates from Merrills twice in the past 2 weeks already. Yo, that's a 10 minute walk from Garden rd, #3. Somehow it makes sense. A toasted prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich from GREAT will run you at least $65 bucks plus drink. A $39 "Prosperity" beefset meal at Yoshi gets you a hot green tea PLUS your choice of Salmon steak or Sabah fish in teriyaki sauce. Having said that, lunching 4 times a week at the same spot is a bit much. My semiretired ex banker uncle Vincent used to gorge on $15 Cha Siu rice box (bbq pork & rice) EVERYday for lunch. Apparently, it sharpened his valuation skills and charged his market senses enough to hit day end close. I tried that diet for 3-months a few years back, and I almost went blind. And I thought that was from too much prawn.

Zhang Zi yi. I think she's a real trooper for going back to work after all the tough publicity. I really do. Back in the Edison scandal days, there was a letter published online by a Cecilia Cheung doppleganger defender her image as a badgirl, denouncing criticism that she was soiling her reputation, that the only person she had to answer to was her husband. It wasn't actually written by Cecilia, but I wish it had been. It would have been empowering, and I would have rooted for her. In the same manner, I think Ziyi has the goods and the attitude to do the same. Having said that, I had a look at mom's copy of Next magazine, and I have to say - my favorite picture is the one with "dudefella" really getting in there. You know the one I'm talking about - like a hedgehog on coke. That shot makes me laugh my head off. He reminds me of old Columbia Coffee commercials I saw on Saturday mornings - the ones with Juan Valdez nose deep in coffee beans a smile with grinning assurance - quality in every cup, yo.

A note on dance floor approaches. Opening a set on the dance floor is very difficult. Opening a set in a packed club on the dance floor is a genuine challenge. Unless you're Eurasian, you're going to have a very difficult time getting their attention, and even if you do, it'll be unlikely they hear a word you say. Even if you manage to elicit some acknowledgement of your existence, be genuinely careful what you do next. You really should not be diving in Kino if you haven't built a little bit of comfort, let alone attraction. What I'm trying to say is, unless she's looking you in the eye and gives you clear nonverbal permission to dance within her personal space, I DO NOT RECOMMEND slipping in behind her for a grind session - not without at least some communication that results in a sincere smile or laugh. And don't hover around gazing at her longer than the length of the current song unless you're making a clear effort to engage. That kind of fear stinks. But yeah, I don't care how you get it, but don't skip the permission to go straight to the grinding. It creeps them out and you make me look like an ass. No Jagerbombs for you! That is all.

Finally. Mr. Dudefella, I apologize for for not intervening when the Korean Pro was grinding you at the bar. You should know, however, we really did enjoy watching her work you out. It was like you opened up a bag of Christmas cake 10-years too late. Next flaming Moe is on me. Cheers.