She is the only person in the world who has the allure to make me forgo England’s World Cup opening match.
I was never a fan of them snobbish Englishmen anyway; heck I always thought Britain was the 51st state of the U.S.A. The truth is I had half of my paycheck on Paraguay kicking those pasty English asses and that Chelsea-like soccer investment turned the World Cup into my holy grail to clear a 500 bucks debt I owed my buddy for a Zara jacket that I never should have bought.
I had great vested financial interest to watch that match, but they say all the beautiful things in life always wonderfully spring up unexpectedly.
“Hey, do you want to hang out this weekend?”
“Sure”
“I’ll pick you up at 8?”
“Sounds great”
“See you then”
That was the brief precursor to the greatest 2 hour I had ever spent with a lady in the past 2 months ever since I came home for college break.
Everything fell so snuggly in place that night it was good enough to make me believe there was a God and He was drunk enough to send me an army of guardian angel pimps just to make sure things turn out great.
I knew the night was going well, starting with my tight-assed boss giving me the go ahead to get off work early which left me with plenty of time for a facial & brow waxing session, gym, body exfoliation, hair styling, clothes pressing, shoe shining, car wash and a new iPod play list compilation that matches her musical fancy- I secretly made a mental note some time back that she was a Daft Punk fan and everything that goes along those edgy electronica acid jazz sound of house. Much love to Steve Jobs for his Apple iPOD Car Kit that pimped my ride. It gives me better self confidence when I have enough time to prepare myself to look and feel good before an important date, at least then I know if my personality sucked big hairy balls- I would still have the superficial eye candies to hopefully last me for the rest of the night.
For all you hard-core punk-thrash metal real Men rockers out there with balls of solid steel and machismo of death who thinks I am a faggot who puts a pussy on the pedestal; May I ask what was the one extra effort that you have ever taken to make your woman feel special during a date? Oh, you washed you balls, bought an extra pack of strawberry-flavored dick caps in case she is allergic to raspberry and wore a solid color t-shirt that says “Unleash the Dragon” with an arrow pointing towards your cock.
How thoughtful indeed.
Lesson Numero Uno in becoming a Man: It is the details that make a gentleman. It is the details that separate an adolescent from a Man. Pretty much in the same sense that when you wear a tie, you make sure to have it dimpled.
Knowing me personally directly translates to having the knowledge that I am almost never on time. It is the one part of me who always put things to the last minute before getting them done because I think life is more exciting that way; a larger part due to my convoluted ego knowing that things would not turn out right if I am not present as supposedly. I am just that conceited and annoying.
On that night, not only was I not late- I was 30 minutes earlier than I was supposed to pick her up. The Meridian Greenwich Time equivalent of that rare occurrence of cosmic proportions would be the Halley comet flying across earth only to dip behind the moon during a solar eclipse rendering everyone who has waited for 76 years and has never spoken a single vulgar word during that period of time to say “FUCKERNATHAN TIUNIAMAGECHAUFAHAI HAMKAHFOOKUAI LEILOUTAUMOUKUKUCIAO LEIAHMAPEIKAUTIUTOUHAILAT” simultaneously, across the globe- be them Chinese or Malays, Asians or Latinos, Americans or Confederate Slaves, I mean Africans.
It was an unprecedented epical event that could pass as one of the early signs for Apocalypse, the birth of the Anti Christ and Jesus riding a Harley over the rainbow to save the world from homosexuals and baby killers.
I circled her neighborhood for like 500 times, rehearsed, replayed for 5000 times on my head what was to be my first words to her in ages, checked my hair, my pores, underarm sweat spots, nose hair, eye shit, breath mints, teeth, shirt, shoes, pants, car cleanliness, the pungency of my Kenzo perfume which I had taken extra care to not be over zealous when spraying as I remembered that she had a sinus problem; before it was finally 7:55pm and it was time for me to call in and check on her.
It was worth all the extra effort in the world to bask in the moment when she walked out the door and warmly opened herself for an embrace. I have not seen her for at least 5 years. I wanted to hold her longer with a real hug but this is not America and she ain’t American. Nonetheless, it was a good hug. When it comes to hugging friends, I really do not like those split second reserved contacts, whoops-let’s-not-get-too-close-or-else-I’ll-get-pregnant sorry excuse for a hug that is the product of Asians lack of acceptance for the sincerity of loving platonic physical contacts. I had to draw my line but did give her a full sincere embrace and she felt great in my arms. I can only hope the feeling was mutual. Or else I am quitting my gym.
Of course, my opening line that I had rehearsed for 50 million times did not turn out like anything I had in mind. As a matter of fact, I threw it away entirely and went with the first thing that came by simple spontaneous sincerity. I do not like to be pretentious.
“Tonight looking is most you beautiful very aye? I mean Hi, how doing are you is?”
I am a fuckin’ dickhead.
She wore Armani White Note although her favorite was Anna Sui and I enjoyed her scent that was non-citrus fresh yet elegant. I can’t stand Anna Sui’s fragrance as I thought they smell cheap, in the way middle-aged menopausal women who put on too much cosmetics would. My personal favorite fragrances for women would be scents from the line of Issey Miyake, Givenchy and Moschino as they respectively reminds me of three outstanding women who have crossed the path of my life.
Fragrance is one of the first few things that I notice in women. The others being cleavage, cup size, titty protrusion, boob contour, etc- you know, those kind of deep, insightful, detailed stuff about women that requires a wee bit of imaginations. I like to think of myself as a very deep-throating, I mean, thinking man.
I swear to God that I was not looking at her boobs, but I just could not help but to check her out discreetly. I mean, give me a break, would you? My date was truly as hot as hell during a summer cook-out could ever be. She was not wearing anything that was revealing or sexy but yet, she simply looked irresistibly radiantly beautiful. My “Query” Eye for a Straight Guy just had to Enquire.
She was simply clad in a black jacket over her usual pastel-colored lacy top with a pair of dark colored pants and white heels. Sapphire-stoned earrings that matches her top. A little too much on the foundation which in turn made her eyes looked a little puffy. Sculpted arms. B cup-sized breasts that went very nicely with her frame, rendering size to not be a matter of importance. Nice abs. Frizzed hair, pulled back elegantly with a nice DKNY hair piece (extra points here ‘cos girls with Straight hair are *yawn* where was I again?); that head-to-toe observation took me a thousandth of a second; I used to be able to do it in half a millionth of a microsecond. And fuck, I forgot to look at her ass. Damn.
Lesson Numero Duos: Learn to take in details of a woman with just half a glimpse. It gives you the security of appearing aloof and lessens the possibility of looking like a child molester.
I thought she looked older and tired since we last met. Work stress and hard partying. She was pretty and still somewhat retains what I have known of her back in the days.
That sense of comfortable presence.
That beautiful radiance.
That unmistakable husk in her voice.
That accommodating affable attitude towards people.
That all of which made me kept a decade-long crush on her.
Yes, I have a crush on the woman whom I was on a date with, since I was 15.
And she knows about it.
One would expect the dynamics of our date to be weird and filled with hidden uncomfortable vibes that could only make things superficial and pretentious between us, however everything turned out to be most natural.
I guess it was the length of time that we have known each other. I did not have to put up a front because I have come to accept that if I ever had a chance with her, it probably would have been some time 10 years ago. So it was pretty much a platonic approach with her, although I knew I had superficial feelings for her that was pretty much warranted with someone that was as good looking as her.
We had great conversations from the get go. My heart was beating out of rhythm when we were together in the car but as I was a battle-weary war veteran of love and had an abysmal depth of first date experience- I mustered enough gusto to stay as cool as a cucumber (yes, it means- I fucked up)
Gosh, I could not help but to feel tensed. I had my eyes fixed right on the road as the last thing I wanted was to crash my brand new car on an awesome night out, and all the while she had her eyes fixed on me. I could almost feel her burning a hole into my thick face.
She was checking me out, or at least I hoped so before she blurted out those wonderful words of relief to my comfort.
“You look really different, you know”
“Really? How so?”
“You look really good now. Definitely better than previously. I like it”
It was on the slope of Jalan Maarof, Bangsar right before the Shell gas station that I felt like I have officially fallen in love. Either that or I felt like I was Derek Zoolander. I can’t remember.
We were supposed to hit Chilli’s as she was adamant about being sloppy and wanted to whack Buffalo wings for dinner after I pretentiously told her that I was not going to care about how she was going to look at me for the night because I really felt like eating spaghetti. I mean of course, I cared but had back up plans up my sleeves. Pennes is always the safest food to order when I’m on a nice date- it is filling and not messy. More importantly, if the after-dinner plan is to hit the bar, pasta takes in alcohol like a sponge to water. Getting tipsy with your date would be nice as it removes some social inhibitions and helps settle down some nerves between both parties; but getting drunk- now a nice date is just not the right time for anyone to get There.
One of the reasons I liked our date so much was because everything did not turn out as it was planned. We were supposed to go to Chilli’s but it was packed so we ended up at La Bodega. I was supposed to be stiff as fuck but I felt really confident as soon as we sat down and she was comfortably receptive. I really wanted to pull out the chair for her but the bloody waiter was in my way. We were not supposed to have a romantic candle lit dinner with great ambiance by the fountain but it turned out to be a very nice wine and dine outing. She preferred Shiraz but did not mind Merlot which was my personal fancy.
As I recollect the night, I have come to realized that it was not so much the superficial things that matter. It was not the perfume she wore. It was not her beautiful face. It was not the red wine we had or the fancy restaurant we were at. It was not about everything turning out perfect for us to hook up later in the night.
It was the transcendental moments that truly mattered.
It was the part of me that was left behind with her. It was the part of us that we shared when we were kids. It was the fond nostalgic memories of our naivety and childish outlook of the world that bonded us together; now that we are all grown up, weary and cynical of the real world. We had learnt how to fend for ourselves and in turn lost some of the lovely childish twinkle that used to sparkle from our teenage eyes.
It was my reluctance to let go of that part of my life that rendered me spellbound with her for the rest of the night.
I met her at a Malay Language home tuition. She was the prettiest girl and I was the smartest kid in class. Our class teacher’s name was Puan Bibi and we were sitting for our PMR examinations that year.
I remember stealing glances at her during lessons from across the classroom. I remember not having the guts to talk to her. I remember always taking the seat furthest from her because I was shy. I remember having butterflies in my tummy before uttering the corniest small talk a 15 year-old kid could think of. I remember doing all my homework and paying extra attention in class, hoping she would take notice that I was intelligent. I remember all the time I would spend thinking of excuses to call her on the phone. I remember asking her close friends about her. I remember attending Interact Club functions at her school when I was a board member of rival Leo Club. I remember paying an entire month’s savings to get her a bouquet of roses for her birthday only to realize that 15 other kids had already done so and their flowers were way more expensive and looked nicer than mine. I remember growing up and forgetting about her.
Most of all, I remember drawing her comic strips to wish her good luck for the exams.
I have drawn countless comic strips to get the attention of the girls I fancy back in high school. And those cutesy little strips worked like black magic. I have drawn and redrawn the same comic strips hundreds of times- sometimes to fall in love, sometimes just to get laid, sometimes I was broke or was just too cheap and I had to get someone a present. Some times, when a certain special thing- even though it started out with the well intention of it being something special, but was overdone hundreds of times, so much so that it becomes a routine- it loses the special meaning behind it.
That was the story of the oldest trick in my book of how to get laid- Drawing comic strips. I have virtually stopped drawing anything for anyone now. I have sort of made a silent vow to not draw again for a woman that I like if I was not sincere and honest about my feelings for her.
However, the story is different with her. She was the First girl I ever drew something for. First times are always special and memorable as long as we are not talking about some drunken sexual orgy when one loses his/her virginity by the constitutions of rape.
And she admitted that she was still keeping all the comic strips that I drew for her 10 years ago up to this day. She threw away all the stuff that her ex-boyfriends gave her but thru it all- she still keeps my drawings. That meant the whole world to me. I could not find the words to describe it but to boringly mention that I was really honored when in fact my heart was touched; but for a dude to say that sorta stuff was just too gay.
Throughout the evening, I found her to be a breath of fresh air. It was indeed great to meet her again and go on a date with such a wonderfully positive character. Most of the people whom I have met lately were either too depressed, too drunk or too boring.
We share a few things in common. She had traveled extensively to London, Paris, Spain, Australia, and China while I have seen Tokyo, Hong Kong, Taipei, China, Bangkok and USA. She has plans to go abroad to unorthodox places like Shanghai and Dubai for career-expansion purposes whereas I would like to spend 3 years each at Paris and Tokyo- 3 years after my much-delayed college graduation just to push the limits of my life horizon. She does not believe in relationships and wants to date as many people as she feels compatible with- that is pretty much me talking to the mirror there. She said she is not looking for anyone to be in her life now; something which I say all the damn time but we all know that is just denial. She always make the best out of the worst situations instead of whining about it; I took off to a land 10,000 miles away from home and lived the best two years of my life without a single dime from my parents. She is the rare type of woman who would independently do things by herself instead of constantly needing the company of others, I hitch-hiked half of America and train-hopped the other half. She would take a drive alone to the beach with a beer just to see the sunrise after a drunken night out; I would wake up, turn on The Perishers and pen down my thoughts to unwind in plain ole pencil and paper just for the sentimental value of it. She is the nicest person on earth, I am a party animal. She is an architect, I am a civil engineer. We are eccentric characters. Cats like us are born to ride the world.
I am infatuated with this woman. I really am.
Somehow our conversation turned to the topic of the significance of holding hands. We both agree that form of physical contact can be a very platonic thing and does not have to mean anything. If both people feel comfortable enough to hold each other’s hands then so be it. They do not have to be in a relationship or even think about the possibility of future commitments. It is just the natural progression of mutual adult emotional circumstances.
Did I mention that our date was cut short by my birthday celebration at Telawi St. Bistro?
That was the worst decision ever.
Fast forward to 2 spanking boards, 1 Flaming Lamboghini, coupla Vodka shots. a jug of beer, a few glasses of wine, five Sambuca shots later, as expected, no thanks to all my great friends- I got Wasted.
To my credits, I kept reminding myself that I could not let her see the true horror of my worst drunken behavior. Taking a paradigm shift, I resorted to self-induced puking. Three times. I regulated my drinking with plenty of interval periods and requested for mercy from my buddies who cooly gave in as they knew I had someone to impress on that night, not to mention they were also cheap bastards.
But I still lost my mind that night. The alcohol took over my head at the moment that it mattered most. I could not recollect the slightest thing from my greatest moment of glory on that evening.
The party pretty much ended when I routinely broke a coupla glasses during closing time and everyone proceeded to watch the World Cup match between Argentina versus Cote’ de Drogba. On the way out of the bar, as I was all thrashed and shit, so my natural drunken intuition would be to reach out to a girl friend with the biggest tits for the night as I could not walk straight and needed someone to lead me out, and nothing gives better grip than tits.
According to my friends, she had her eyes on me to make sure that I was doing okay in my amusing state of inebriety. Before I could get hold of my girl friend’s hands, she called for me, with much Affection. Okay, I added that fictional part for better illustration purpose to my story.
“Come here, Dear”
To which I drunkenly obeyed and as I walked towards her, she reached out for my hand.
We walked hand in hand for the entire stretch of Jalan Telawi.
And I could not remember anything.
The first thing that my buddy asked when I was sober was whether I recall holding her hands the night before. It was the greatest moment of my birthday.
And I could not remember anything.
If it was another woman, I would not have given a rat’s ass about holding her hands. It would be utterly stupid and immature to give a damn even if I had sex with some random chic, even more so when drunk.
But she was not just anyone random. She was Her.
If there was one thing that I could wish for, I wish I could remember how her hands felt in mine. If I was to die tomorrow and could only keep one moment of my life for an eternity, I will keep the brief moment when I had her in my hands on that night.
I wish I could tell her the many ways I feel about her now and always have been for the past 10 years.
But I will not say it.
And she will not listen.
Both of us clearly have different priorities in life. Both of us are independent, hard-driven, motivated party people and the last thing we need is each other to impede upon our stated aim of living life to the fullest notoriety. The thing that scared me most iss that she did not change at all, she is still the beautiful, sweet lady after all these years and I am sure she has a legion of boy toys to keep her busy. On the other hand, I have changed into someone who would keep himself company with a string of no-frills girls.
In spite of that, I still retain a sense of vulnerability with her. I feel inferior when pitted against her millions of admirers. Whenever she tells me about those dumb asses she dated, I could not help but to feel Goddamnit, after all these years, maybe I could be her perfect one.
But that is just silly infatuated high school teenage boy dreamy talks.
In reality, the man is too heart-broken to risk another chance of emotional attachment. He is just a self-hazard too selfish to give a damn about the stupid world.
I would not fit her and I am afraid that when she finds out, she will break my heart.
I drew four comic strips for her coming birthday present.
I was never a fan of them snobbish Englishmen anyway; heck I always thought Britain was the 51st state of the U.S.A. The truth is I had half of my paycheck on Paraguay kicking those pasty English asses and that Chelsea-like soccer investment turned the World Cup into my holy grail to clear a 500 bucks debt I owed my buddy for a Zara jacket that I never should have bought.
I had great vested financial interest to watch that match, but they say all the beautiful things in life always wonderfully spring up unexpectedly.
“Hey, do you want to hang out this weekend?”
“Sure”
“I’ll pick you up at 8?”
“Sounds great”
“See you then”
That was the brief precursor to the greatest 2 hour I had ever spent with a lady in the past 2 months ever since I came home for college break.
Everything fell so snuggly in place that night it was good enough to make me believe there was a God and He was drunk enough to send me an army of guardian angel pimps just to make sure things turn out great.
I knew the night was going well, starting with my tight-assed boss giving me the go ahead to get off work early which left me with plenty of time for a facial & brow waxing session, gym, body exfoliation, hair styling, clothes pressing, shoe shining, car wash and a new iPod play list compilation that matches her musical fancy- I secretly made a mental note some time back that she was a Daft Punk fan and everything that goes along those edgy electronica acid jazz sound of house. Much love to Steve Jobs for his Apple iPOD Car Kit that pimped my ride. It gives me better self confidence when I have enough time to prepare myself to look and feel good before an important date, at least then I know if my personality sucked big hairy balls- I would still have the superficial eye candies to hopefully last me for the rest of the night.
For all you hard-core punk-thrash metal real Men rockers out there with balls of solid steel and machismo of death who thinks I am a faggot who puts a pussy on the pedestal; May I ask what was the one extra effort that you have ever taken to make your woman feel special during a date? Oh, you washed you balls, bought an extra pack of strawberry-flavored dick caps in case she is allergic to raspberry and wore a solid color t-shirt that says “Unleash the Dragon” with an arrow pointing towards your cock.
How thoughtful indeed.
Lesson Numero Uno in becoming a Man: It is the details that make a gentleman. It is the details that separate an adolescent from a Man. Pretty much in the same sense that when you wear a tie, you make sure to have it dimpled.
Knowing me personally directly translates to having the knowledge that I am almost never on time. It is the one part of me who always put things to the last minute before getting them done because I think life is more exciting that way; a larger part due to my convoluted ego knowing that things would not turn out right if I am not present as supposedly. I am just that conceited and annoying.
On that night, not only was I not late- I was 30 minutes earlier than I was supposed to pick her up. The Meridian Greenwich Time equivalent of that rare occurrence of cosmic proportions would be the Halley comet flying across earth only to dip behind the moon during a solar eclipse rendering everyone who has waited for 76 years and has never spoken a single vulgar word during that period of time to say “FUCKERNATHAN TIUNIAMAGECHAUFAHAI HAMKAHFOOKUAI LEILOUTAUMOUKUKUCIAO LEIAHMAPEIKAUTIUTOUHAILAT” simultaneously, across the globe- be them Chinese or Malays, Asians or Latinos, Americans or Confederate Slaves, I mean Africans.
It was an unprecedented epical event that could pass as one of the early signs for Apocalypse, the birth of the Anti Christ and Jesus riding a Harley over the rainbow to save the world from homosexuals and baby killers.
I circled her neighborhood for like 500 times, rehearsed, replayed for 5000 times on my head what was to be my first words to her in ages, checked my hair, my pores, underarm sweat spots, nose hair, eye shit, breath mints, teeth, shirt, shoes, pants, car cleanliness, the pungency of my Kenzo perfume which I had taken extra care to not be over zealous when spraying as I remembered that she had a sinus problem; before it was finally 7:55pm and it was time for me to call in and check on her.
It was worth all the extra effort in the world to bask in the moment when she walked out the door and warmly opened herself for an embrace. I have not seen her for at least 5 years. I wanted to hold her longer with a real hug but this is not America and she ain’t American. Nonetheless, it was a good hug. When it comes to hugging friends, I really do not like those split second reserved contacts, whoops-let’s-not-get-too-close-or-else-I’ll-get-pregnant sorry excuse for a hug that is the product of Asians lack of acceptance for the sincerity of loving platonic physical contacts. I had to draw my line but did give her a full sincere embrace and she felt great in my arms. I can only hope the feeling was mutual. Or else I am quitting my gym.
Of course, my opening line that I had rehearsed for 50 million times did not turn out like anything I had in mind. As a matter of fact, I threw it away entirely and went with the first thing that came by simple spontaneous sincerity. I do not like to be pretentious.
“Tonight looking is most you beautiful very aye? I mean Hi, how doing are you is?”
I am a fuckin’ dickhead.
She wore Armani White Note although her favorite was Anna Sui and I enjoyed her scent that was non-citrus fresh yet elegant. I can’t stand Anna Sui’s fragrance as I thought they smell cheap, in the way middle-aged menopausal women who put on too much cosmetics would. My personal favorite fragrances for women would be scents from the line of Issey Miyake, Givenchy and Moschino as they respectively reminds me of three outstanding women who have crossed the path of my life.
Fragrance is one of the first few things that I notice in women. The others being cleavage, cup size, titty protrusion, boob contour, etc- you know, those kind of deep, insightful, detailed stuff about women that requires a wee bit of imaginations. I like to think of myself as a very deep-throating, I mean, thinking man.
I swear to God that I was not looking at her boobs, but I just could not help but to check her out discreetly. I mean, give me a break, would you? My date was truly as hot as hell during a summer cook-out could ever be. She was not wearing anything that was revealing or sexy but yet, she simply looked irresistibly radiantly beautiful. My “Query” Eye for a Straight Guy just had to Enquire.
She was simply clad in a black jacket over her usual pastel-colored lacy top with a pair of dark colored pants and white heels. Sapphire-stoned earrings that matches her top. A little too much on the foundation which in turn made her eyes looked a little puffy. Sculpted arms. B cup-sized breasts that went very nicely with her frame, rendering size to not be a matter of importance. Nice abs. Frizzed hair, pulled back elegantly with a nice DKNY hair piece (extra points here ‘cos girls with Straight hair are *yawn* where was I again?); that head-to-toe observation took me a thousandth of a second; I used to be able to do it in half a millionth of a microsecond. And fuck, I forgot to look at her ass. Damn.
Lesson Numero Duos: Learn to take in details of a woman with just half a glimpse. It gives you the security of appearing aloof and lessens the possibility of looking like a child molester.
I thought she looked older and tired since we last met. Work stress and hard partying. She was pretty and still somewhat retains what I have known of her back in the days.
That sense of comfortable presence.
That beautiful radiance.
That unmistakable husk in her voice.
That accommodating affable attitude towards people.
That all of which made me kept a decade-long crush on her.
Yes, I have a crush on the woman whom I was on a date with, since I was 15.
And she knows about it.
One would expect the dynamics of our date to be weird and filled with hidden uncomfortable vibes that could only make things superficial and pretentious between us, however everything turned out to be most natural.
I guess it was the length of time that we have known each other. I did not have to put up a front because I have come to accept that if I ever had a chance with her, it probably would have been some time 10 years ago. So it was pretty much a platonic approach with her, although I knew I had superficial feelings for her that was pretty much warranted with someone that was as good looking as her.
We had great conversations from the get go. My heart was beating out of rhythm when we were together in the car but as I was a battle-weary war veteran of love and had an abysmal depth of first date experience- I mustered enough gusto to stay as cool as a cucumber (yes, it means- I fucked up)
Gosh, I could not help but to feel tensed. I had my eyes fixed right on the road as the last thing I wanted was to crash my brand new car on an awesome night out, and all the while she had her eyes fixed on me. I could almost feel her burning a hole into my thick face.
She was checking me out, or at least I hoped so before she blurted out those wonderful words of relief to my comfort.
“You look really different, you know”
“Really? How so?”
“You look really good now. Definitely better than previously. I like it”
It was on the slope of Jalan Maarof, Bangsar right before the Shell gas station that I felt like I have officially fallen in love. Either that or I felt like I was Derek Zoolander. I can’t remember.
We were supposed to hit Chilli’s as she was adamant about being sloppy and wanted to whack Buffalo wings for dinner after I pretentiously told her that I was not going to care about how she was going to look at me for the night because I really felt like eating spaghetti. I mean of course, I cared but had back up plans up my sleeves. Pennes is always the safest food to order when I’m on a nice date- it is filling and not messy. More importantly, if the after-dinner plan is to hit the bar, pasta takes in alcohol like a sponge to water. Getting tipsy with your date would be nice as it removes some social inhibitions and helps settle down some nerves between both parties; but getting drunk- now a nice date is just not the right time for anyone to get There.
One of the reasons I liked our date so much was because everything did not turn out as it was planned. We were supposed to go to Chilli’s but it was packed so we ended up at La Bodega. I was supposed to be stiff as fuck but I felt really confident as soon as we sat down and she was comfortably receptive. I really wanted to pull out the chair for her but the bloody waiter was in my way. We were not supposed to have a romantic candle lit dinner with great ambiance by the fountain but it turned out to be a very nice wine and dine outing. She preferred Shiraz but did not mind Merlot which was my personal fancy.
As I recollect the night, I have come to realized that it was not so much the superficial things that matter. It was not the perfume she wore. It was not her beautiful face. It was not the red wine we had or the fancy restaurant we were at. It was not about everything turning out perfect for us to hook up later in the night.
It was the transcendental moments that truly mattered.
It was the part of me that was left behind with her. It was the part of us that we shared when we were kids. It was the fond nostalgic memories of our naivety and childish outlook of the world that bonded us together; now that we are all grown up, weary and cynical of the real world. We had learnt how to fend for ourselves and in turn lost some of the lovely childish twinkle that used to sparkle from our teenage eyes.
It was my reluctance to let go of that part of my life that rendered me spellbound with her for the rest of the night.
I met her at a Malay Language home tuition. She was the prettiest girl and I was the smartest kid in class. Our class teacher’s name was Puan Bibi and we were sitting for our PMR examinations that year.
I remember stealing glances at her during lessons from across the classroom. I remember not having the guts to talk to her. I remember always taking the seat furthest from her because I was shy. I remember having butterflies in my tummy before uttering the corniest small talk a 15 year-old kid could think of. I remember doing all my homework and paying extra attention in class, hoping she would take notice that I was intelligent. I remember all the time I would spend thinking of excuses to call her on the phone. I remember asking her close friends about her. I remember attending Interact Club functions at her school when I was a board member of rival Leo Club. I remember paying an entire month’s savings to get her a bouquet of roses for her birthday only to realize that 15 other kids had already done so and their flowers were way more expensive and looked nicer than mine. I remember growing up and forgetting about her.
Most of all, I remember drawing her comic strips to wish her good luck for the exams.
I have drawn countless comic strips to get the attention of the girls I fancy back in high school. And those cutesy little strips worked like black magic. I have drawn and redrawn the same comic strips hundreds of times- sometimes to fall in love, sometimes just to get laid, sometimes I was broke or was just too cheap and I had to get someone a present. Some times, when a certain special thing- even though it started out with the well intention of it being something special, but was overdone hundreds of times, so much so that it becomes a routine- it loses the special meaning behind it.
That was the story of the oldest trick in my book of how to get laid- Drawing comic strips. I have virtually stopped drawing anything for anyone now. I have sort of made a silent vow to not draw again for a woman that I like if I was not sincere and honest about my feelings for her.
However, the story is different with her. She was the First girl I ever drew something for. First times are always special and memorable as long as we are not talking about some drunken sexual orgy when one loses his/her virginity by the constitutions of rape.
And she admitted that she was still keeping all the comic strips that I drew for her 10 years ago up to this day. She threw away all the stuff that her ex-boyfriends gave her but thru it all- she still keeps my drawings. That meant the whole world to me. I could not find the words to describe it but to boringly mention that I was really honored when in fact my heart was touched; but for a dude to say that sorta stuff was just too gay.
Throughout the evening, I found her to be a breath of fresh air. It was indeed great to meet her again and go on a date with such a wonderfully positive character. Most of the people whom I have met lately were either too depressed, too drunk or too boring.
We share a few things in common. She had traveled extensively to London, Paris, Spain, Australia, and China while I have seen Tokyo, Hong Kong, Taipei, China, Bangkok and USA. She has plans to go abroad to unorthodox places like Shanghai and Dubai for career-expansion purposes whereas I would like to spend 3 years each at Paris and Tokyo- 3 years after my much-delayed college graduation just to push the limits of my life horizon. She does not believe in relationships and wants to date as many people as she feels compatible with- that is pretty much me talking to the mirror there. She said she is not looking for anyone to be in her life now; something which I say all the damn time but we all know that is just denial. She always make the best out of the worst situations instead of whining about it; I took off to a land 10,000 miles away from home and lived the best two years of my life without a single dime from my parents. She is the rare type of woman who would independently do things by herself instead of constantly needing the company of others, I hitch-hiked half of America and train-hopped the other half. She would take a drive alone to the beach with a beer just to see the sunrise after a drunken night out; I would wake up, turn on The Perishers and pen down my thoughts to unwind in plain ole pencil and paper just for the sentimental value of it. She is the nicest person on earth, I am a party animal. She is an architect, I am a civil engineer. We are eccentric characters. Cats like us are born to ride the world.
I am infatuated with this woman. I really am.
Somehow our conversation turned to the topic of the significance of holding hands. We both agree that form of physical contact can be a very platonic thing and does not have to mean anything. If both people feel comfortable enough to hold each other’s hands then so be it. They do not have to be in a relationship or even think about the possibility of future commitments. It is just the natural progression of mutual adult emotional circumstances.
Did I mention that our date was cut short by my birthday celebration at Telawi St. Bistro?
That was the worst decision ever.
Fast forward to 2 spanking boards, 1 Flaming Lamboghini, coupla Vodka shots. a jug of beer, a few glasses of wine, five Sambuca shots later, as expected, no thanks to all my great friends- I got Wasted.
To my credits, I kept reminding myself that I could not let her see the true horror of my worst drunken behavior. Taking a paradigm shift, I resorted to self-induced puking. Three times. I regulated my drinking with plenty of interval periods and requested for mercy from my buddies who cooly gave in as they knew I had someone to impress on that night, not to mention they were also cheap bastards.
But I still lost my mind that night. The alcohol took over my head at the moment that it mattered most. I could not recollect the slightest thing from my greatest moment of glory on that evening.
The party pretty much ended when I routinely broke a coupla glasses during closing time and everyone proceeded to watch the World Cup match between Argentina versus Cote’ de Drogba. On the way out of the bar, as I was all thrashed and shit, so my natural drunken intuition would be to reach out to a girl friend with the biggest tits for the night as I could not walk straight and needed someone to lead me out, and nothing gives better grip than tits.
According to my friends, she had her eyes on me to make sure that I was doing okay in my amusing state of inebriety. Before I could get hold of my girl friend’s hands, she called for me, with much Affection. Okay, I added that fictional part for better illustration purpose to my story.
“Come here, Dear”
To which I drunkenly obeyed and as I walked towards her, she reached out for my hand.
We walked hand in hand for the entire stretch of Jalan Telawi.
And I could not remember anything.
The first thing that my buddy asked when I was sober was whether I recall holding her hands the night before. It was the greatest moment of my birthday.
And I could not remember anything.
If it was another woman, I would not have given a rat’s ass about holding her hands. It would be utterly stupid and immature to give a damn even if I had sex with some random chic, even more so when drunk.
But she was not just anyone random. She was Her.
If there was one thing that I could wish for, I wish I could remember how her hands felt in mine. If I was to die tomorrow and could only keep one moment of my life for an eternity, I will keep the brief moment when I had her in my hands on that night.
I wish I could tell her the many ways I feel about her now and always have been for the past 10 years.
But I will not say it.
And she will not listen.
Both of us clearly have different priorities in life. Both of us are independent, hard-driven, motivated party people and the last thing we need is each other to impede upon our stated aim of living life to the fullest notoriety. The thing that scared me most iss that she did not change at all, she is still the beautiful, sweet lady after all these years and I am sure she has a legion of boy toys to keep her busy. On the other hand, I have changed into someone who would keep himself company with a string of no-frills girls.
In spite of that, I still retain a sense of vulnerability with her. I feel inferior when pitted against her millions of admirers. Whenever she tells me about those dumb asses she dated, I could not help but to feel Goddamnit, after all these years, maybe I could be her perfect one.
But that is just silly infatuated high school teenage boy dreamy talks.
In reality, the man is too heart-broken to risk another chance of emotional attachment. He is just a self-hazard too selfish to give a damn about the stupid world.
I would not fit her and I am afraid that when she finds out, she will break my heart.
I drew four comic strips for her coming birthday present.
