Enter the Green Machine

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

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

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

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.

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.