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.

The Hammer of Thor

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

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.