I'M ON SPEED(Y)!

Candid Confession...The symptoms are all there for everyone to see:
(I took a small amount yesterday night, so the effects lasted a few hours. But I plan to do Speed(y) everyday!)

• I feel very good and confident
• I feel alert and energetic
• Ummmm...excited
• Talked a lot
• Felt aggressive
• Felt anxious
• Took more risks than usual.

Effects on my body include:
• My heart beat faster
• I was breathing faster
• I felt less hungry
• My blood pressure definitely shot up
• The pupils in my eyes got bigger
• I moved quicker than usual
• It was hard to sleep.

I've heard frequent and long-term effects could leave me totally dependent on speed(y) and become violent for no reason. But as I said, I've just done it once, so can't say about my fate. We'll see. Anyway, would post the pictures soon...

CHIRKUT? WHO? ME?

So what do you want? A man! Bright, articulate, emotionally aware, fit and fun to be with? Worldly wise, able to fit in with your life without trying to take it over? Happy, adventurous and practical. Knows how to behave when needed, and how not to when it doesn’t matter! Happy to talk and not hide away. A thinker, but not a vacillator. I'm 28, and what do I want? A girl! Creative, confident, positive, feminine, strong in mind, adventurous too, fit and happy to have a go! Spontaneous, loves the outdoors, boats, bikes and the sea maybe too! Animals as well! But most importantly, a partner to love and cherish, and her me! To share and care, laugh and smile, walk, talk, whatever, to enjoy life with. Simple really!

Doesn't appeal? Here we go...

28 y.o male, 6' slim, tattoos, smoker, honest, fairly easy going, solvent, honest, direct, intelligent, likes pubs, meals, coversation, animals, cinema, having a laugh, sharing seeks slimmish loyal female for good times and hopefully lasting relationship.

No? OK...

Nice guy, 33 seeks seeks someone to show him that we can win sometimes! I am someone who will buy you flowers other than on Valentines day; thoughtful and funny I've realised that life isn't about what you have; rather who you share it with; how about sharing it with me?

Tall, dark haired, brown eyed, fit, caring male in very good condition seeks soulmate for autumn lust, love and laughter.

Ummmm...! Bet, you can't beat this!

Email up the creek first time around - so do please write again. 26 yo man - lives outside Delhi with books, music, art, ideas (and mad terrier) but recently missing something.. Friends say I could talk to anyone and find something in common, although it could be because I have a grasshopper mind (Having said that, I've never eaten oysters and never will). Big black eyes, dark hair, big smile, same waist size since university and I don't work out. Totally and absolutely irreverent sense of humour. Some say I have a charismatic vulnerability and a will of iron which is a useful combination sometimes!

OK, this would surely worki

Surely in Delhi there sre exciting, attractive, funny and excititng females that I have a special chemistry with. I'm 30, own hair and teeth, able to hold a conversation and I have been known to make people laugh. A real music lover of jazzy dancey stuff and I can also cook and have interests in photography, camping, theatre and exciting escapes to far away destinations... You never know do you, fun smilley people please apply..

Or this?

Wanna kick leaves in a wood? Cycle a tow path? Eat in good pub? Fly a kite? Share a bottle of wine watching the sun set? Walking alone a beach barefoot? You do? Really? Not much fun on your own though. So,... email me. Me. A well seasoned man for all the right reasons...6'1" fit, into cycling, walking, eating, drinking, live music, the occasional roll up (not drugs I hasten to add).

How about...

I am unmarried man, india, 30 yrs old male...single male...seek female for realtionship /friendship...any age welcome...any country welcome...any age/place welcome...please contact me...I am willing to relocate to another country...please, someone, say yes, pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase!

ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED

I'm continuously getting bombarded from all sides by people asking me about the real identities of some of the women mentioned on this blog. In fact, I've been humbly asked to remove a couple of posts, which I've reluctantly done. Well, there’s no need to name and shame. I do confess to taking a certain amount of creative liberty when posting stuff. Fact is frequently sadder, weirder and more sexually incompetent than fiction. At least since most of the world defines fiction as anything written by Dan Brown or Barbara Cartland. There needs to be a certain amount of anonymity for this blog to exist. So it is essential that I protect the identities of the people I write about (God knows, I don’t protect their dignities). That way, they could be anybody. They could even be you. So watch your back.

CASE CLOSED!

(From the mouths of babes we love...)

Poor Archie. I had to let him down lightly of course, which means minimal truth-telling. It’s a pity that Archie is someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with, so it’s not easy to just brush him off and permanently relocate to London or something. Also as I mentioned, he thinks I am “nice”, which is such a great burden sometimes. My concocted little break-up routine goes something like this…

“Well, you know, we’ve been getting very close recently, and I feel like I’ve opened up a lot.” At this point, I attempt my most sincere look, and throw in a slightly quivering lip.

“But you know, I mentioned this break-up I went through. It’s very hard to talk about it…but I feel you need to know this because I like you even as a friend.” Note the liberal use of the word “friend” to imply a suitably righteous tone.

“I thought I was over it, but I’m getting anxiety attacks about moving too quickly into anything else. I’m only being so frank with you because I feel that we really get along…you know what I mean? I’m sorry I hesitated about telling you this. But I think it's just not fair to force my conflicts on you.”

It was a piece of cake. When “breaking up” (read: telling a guy you want to stop sleeping with him but still remain friends) it’s always important to give a man the chance to be magnanimous and 'walk away' with dignity. The fact that you’re a scheming human piranha scripting every scene is beside the point really. In my experience, most adults know that there’s a clear line between sex and love, but it’s difficult not to take any sort of break-up (in any form) personally. So I try to minimise ill-will all round unless he’s done something disrespectful like come inside you without any protection…then I’d blacklist him and pee in his shampoo bottle.

Have You Ever...
…been hurt so bad it feels like dying.

No, really. This is what it must feel like to go. And actually, it is rather pleasant.

It’s more like a release. The final 'fuck-it'. A complete and utter surrender to a higher power outside your control. Like drowning in a river. You struggle at first. But then, people say there is a moment of euphoria as your lungs learn how to breathe water instead of spit air. You have reverted to man’s pre-evolutionary state and ironically, you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your entire sorry land-locked lifetime.

You float. Then you sink into oblivion.

And the best part of the transition is the peace. Nothing can touch it or take it from you – it is six feet below. Profound. Exquisite. Deep. It consumes you. And you are left with nothing but the metaphysical conviction that everything in this topsy-turvy world is now as it should be.

Finally, you have done something right.

You always knew it was coming. Death and taxes, as they say. The only thing you could never pinpoint was how or when. All you knew was that it would be too soon.

Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Nobody ever really wants to go. Even the most reckless maniac with a death-wish wants to live – even if it is by the skin of her teeth. She may flirt with her mortality but ultimately all she wants is to be pulled back from the brink. To live another five minutes. To scrape by.

So follow your own advice, manl. Don’t fall in love.

Because in doing so, you will have signed a warrant for your own execution. In effect, you will have planted a knife in your heart – so deeply and so cleanly you don’t even feel it going in. Except when someone twists and pulls it out.

You wait. A year flies by – the best year of your life. Nothing happens. You grow careless. You begin to make modest little plans and dream modest little dreams, you have a little celebration to congraulate yourself on defying the odds. But in reality, all you are doing is looking forward to a future that isn’t yours and committing yourself to a person that can never fully reciprocate.

You fool.

Yet, you continue to laugh in the face of your own destruction. You court it. You jeer at it. And when it doesn’t come, you begin to trust in the myth of your own invincibility. You believe your own lies.

You forget you are on borrowed time.

And you are in such a mood when the knife is casually drawn from you, so swiftly that you lose your breath and immediately start to fall. You feel like you should resist or retaliate, do what all others do and cry even, but there is no point. The deed is already done. It is your time to go, not with a bang, but with a forced smile and a whimper.

The house always wins.

You turn to face your killer. Her features swim into view and somehow you think you have seen that face before. Your tongue moves out of its own accord and it is your voice you recognise being discharged from your throat. Congratulations, you’re a muppet on your own show. If life wasn’t ebbing away from you, you would find it terribly amusing.

“That…hurts me,” you mutter softly, resignedly, to no one in particular. It is all a bit of an anti-climax.

After all, the culprit is no evil priestess. She is your best friend, your confidante, your protector – against whom you are utterly defenceless. She comes bearing good intentions and takes you at your least aware – when you are sitting around tittering over something superficial, feeling reasonably content with life.

A moment which for her will just be another moment.

But for you, will be an eternity.

ZX IN THE CITY!

Wanda Yolanda the Honda..Sprint/Zorro/Spark/Blade/Trigger/Stitch or just Rolleys...Can't call it Sylvie, though! Think, think, think. Name is important. Lovely stuck for my Hyundai Santro, but guys, must come up with something diff for the silver Honda City.

MY FIRST TIME!

How better to get in touch with your feminine side than with neatly manicured nails and creamy feet?

After soaking for a while they'd trim your toenails, muck with your cuticles, massage your feet and legs, and other things that make you realise how decadent this really is.
Man, was it cool.
I have never had a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a hand massage, or waxing of any kind, although I let the barber mess with my top dome for a head (read scalp) massage. Also, threading under my eyes once, ten years ago. Very nasty. For no particular reason, entering a man’s salon has become as mythological for me as visiting a “massage” parlour, and I’ve never been to one of those either. For all sorts of reasons, probably connected with my upbringing at an all-boys school, and that, too, controlled by the army, I’ve been dreading my salon deflowering.
I thought about it. On the one hand, getting a manicure seemed pretty…girly. On the other hand, everyone knows that mobsters of distinction have no issues with having well-groomed nails, you got a problem with that? And there was that Bugs Bunny episode, Hair-Raising Hare, with the monster chasing him around and eventually getting a manicure. I hadn’t seen that cartoon in years…in a way, getting a “personal hand detail” was a way to reconnect with a childhood question I had never thought to ask. Plus, I always like a good sales pitch, especially when it’s in a comfortable environment.
“Ok, let’s do it.”
One thing I was sure: I didn't want to walk out smelling like a flower!
I was led into an entirely new part of the salon, a small room with pretty curtains, by the friendly nail tech. I immediately noticed a tall chair in the corner, resembling a dentist’s chair, except instead of scary arms there was a serious-looking metal basin with whirlpool jets in it.
“What’s that?” I asked excitedly.
“That’s the pedicure chair.”
“There’s massaging jets and stuff for your feet?”
“Yes!”
Very intriguing… I thought.
I was shown to a small table with a basket of nail products. The basic procedure was to soak your hands in a solution of soapy water—to soften up the cuticles. Cuticles, he explained, should be neatly trimmed back. He had a pair of sharp clippers that were used to cut off the dead flaps of skins that had accumulated, then used another rounded tool to push them back. He used two kinds of emery boards; a coarse one to shape the nails, and a finer one to buff the surface.
One surprising thing was the way he filed the nails; he worked the filing motion in such a way that the edges of the nail were rounded, almost like finishing the edges on a fine piece of furniture. The result was a very closely-fit edge that felt great. Amazing!
After the cuticles were pushed back, trimmed, and the nail surfaces were buffed, some kind of oil (scented with cherries) was applied to the nail surface and cuticles. The idea I think was to condition the surface of the nail, but I’m not sure. It smelled exactly like an almond jelly dessert I recently had at an upscale Chinese joint. This led to a discussion of interesting restaurants in the area, which is always welcome. And here was a second surprise: getting your nails worked on by a professional while chatting is really relaxing. The last time anyone cut my nails was when I was a kid. Mom would cut them, and the experience was always kind of stressful because sometimes she would cut a little too deep, or we would squirm and twist around awkwardly. This was utterly relaxing.
Totally comfortable now, I asked several followup questions:
Can you tell anything about a person by their cuticles? Not really, he said, but you see a lot of people who bite them off. Men, especially. We both agreed that this was disgusting.
Are people embarassed about their feet when they get a pedicure? Yes, all the time. But that’s why they’re getting it done, to get it taken care of in the summer. I asked why, and he said “women wear sandals in the summer.” And then I was struck by how much awareness that women must have about what’s showing and what’s not. As guys, we don’t really care or even notice these things consciously, but apparently women do. I remember once talking to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and I kept thinking that there was something different but I couldn’t figure it out. I mentioned this out loud and his wife laughed; he had just gotten an eyebrow wax to de-unibrow his forehead. Just a light fuzz was removed, but it made him look more alert; it indeed made a difference. The details do matter!
After the nails soaked in the oil, it was removed with some kind of alcoholic solution. I asked what it did, and he explained that this strips the oil from your nails so when they were painted with the polish, it would stick. I must have tensed up, because he immediately assured me that I wouldn’t be getting that done. Some men, though, like a clear nail polish. Shiny nails are more attractive, apparently. This was later corroborated by another friend whose father was a fighter pilot. Later in life, she discovered that he liked his nails to look neat, and got his own home manicure stuff to ensure they looked good all the time. Seeing her tough-as-nails dad splaying out his hands, thoughtfully painting them with clear nail polish…apparently, it was quite the mind-bender.
So the nails were done, but I was in for the third surprise: the moisturising hand massage. I was talking about something, and then the massage began. “Oh, I didn’t know I got a massage!” I exclaimed. “This is really….nice!” And indeed it was. When I relay this part of the story to female friends, they all cackle with conspiratorial glee. Men of Earth, this is one of their Great Secrets! Women go to the salon and get pampered with awesome massages and scented oils, and it rocks. I would never have guessed in a million years that this was the whole point…it just feels good! Sure you could cut and file your nails at home, but having a professional do it with grace and personal care is a total luxury. Why can’t visiting the doctor be like this? Total customer satisfaction! It’s also cool that this salon has a big basket of lollypops up front. They’re not stingy with them either, unlike some doctor’s offices I’ve been to. “I’m sorry, sir, but those lollypops are reserved for our…younger patients.” Bah.
Comrades! I would recommend having a personal hand detail. Now coming to the personal foot detail. I would find it a bit weird having a stranger fiddling with my feet as I must confess, it’s very-very ticklish down there. But how effeminate was I prepared to get? My pedicurist didn't altogether put me at ease when I discovered I was in full public view with a couple of girls sitting right in front smiling at my discomfort.
Anyway, here is how you get rubbed the right way! This is the pedicure routine: You sit in the cushioned chair on a stand that includes a foot-tub with jacuzzi jets right in front of you. After a few moments of soaking, the pedicurist begins rubbing and grooming your feet. For the next hour, he takes the lotions and scrubber foam all the way to your knee, massaging and rubbing. He dries your feet with a soft terry towel, scented with vanilla. Then he takes one side at a time and spends 10 minutes or more massaging lotion into your skin from knee to toes. That’s the part where you nearly melt into the water-jetting foot tub - I personally think they need seatbelts on the chairs. He cuts, trims, cleans and digs. All the while you sit in the overstuffed, leather, massaging chair watching Oprah. When I was at the salon, her programme was all about why women leave their men. I could have told her why. They have dirty, stinking feet. Those men could have saved their marriage if only they gotten a pedicure.

THE MIDDLEMAN!

Best viewed on an iMac 24", this picture taken at the Taj Mahal Hotel, New Delhi, on Friday the 13th, October 2006, finally puts the stamp on my accidental 'straying' into a totally new field, one that I thought I wasn't cut out for. But if that's what I'm destined for, so be it. Corporate PR, here I come...Mark the smile! Already a winner, eh!

THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE AND IT HURTS!

Having something to say is more important than guessing what people want to hear. But when the muse turns into a slave driver with her own agenda, what do you do? Leaving off the notion of fiction and identity for a bit, let's do one of those Matrix freezes and rotate the camera's point of view 180 degrees to consider the effect of audience upon performed selves.

Living in this relatively small backwater of blogdom, I am only recently becoming aware that this isn't a monologue. Not only is this a journal, it is one spotlit, with the possibility that one reading over my shoulder will tap it and ask for a point of clarification or comment.

There is an organic growth to these interconnections. The cast of characters that populate my daily reads, while still abstractions (and there's that identity thing again), are increasingly becoming personalities with distinct voices. I hear voices. They speak to me. Sometimes, literally. (Really, that pun wasn't intended).

The process of creating an entry, for me, is more akin to the process one uses for painting. Once the concept is in my head, the challenge is to craft meaning in my own manner. The words are removed and distant. Like puzzle pieces that are arranged for rhythm, cadence, and clarity.

I don't consider myself a great writer, but making clear pictures is something I strive for.

The filtering part is the last consideration. Once I've determined the topic, even if it's personal - I'm sort of committed. And like a drawing, I blur the edges and take away some of the edge, leave allusion. That's a process of distancing and abstraction. So by the end, they're arranged words spawned from meaning.

Other than that, there's been little filtering...to the surprise of my friends.

MAC OF A MAN!

One hundred times: The biiiiig iMac. Absolut Fantastic. Awesome, awesome, awesome. Man, size matters. Hands on: the 24 inches widescreen is ummmm. This is guy stuff. Hook it to the cable and it turns into a TV. Not that I watch it. Clip it to the wall, take your wireless keyboard and mouse and viola! Work from your bed. Who needs a laptop when you can have the bed to yourself? Jokes apart, this thing rocks! Talk of the wow factor. The iPod-esque remote is a thing to behold, simply because watching Gladiator lying on the bed is fun. Can't wait to get into the groove...make movies...life is so absolutely fabulous. Shall start posting stuff from my Apple now. But first, let me get a hang of it. Real men with large hands and everything else, I say, are technically challenged. But trying to change that mentality should harm nobody. The only sad part: the silver-blue Honda that I planned this week, will have to wait now for another 10 days. Sigh!
P.S. Photo courtesy: My Big Slim iMac!

ELEMENTS OF STYLE!

Uber-Undies
Jock itch is not an ailment for which you are likely to get much sympathy. Ridicule? Yes. Lots! Your sweaty, itchy groin is a prime target for jokes —but if you’ve ever suffered from The Itch, you know it’s no laughing matter. Naturally there is no suggestion here that you settle for black boxers with smiley faces. Or nightmare-inspiring underthings with not-at-all funny saying on them. But man, there are some great-looking undies out there. Try them. You’ll probably like the feeling of the air circulating in that usually claustrophobic, dark, dank world that is your groin.Yes, there are John Smedley and Zimmerli, both of which are top makers of gentlemen's undergarments, and many men swear by them. But true connoisseurs of crotch swaddling tend to dismiss Smedley as too heavy (its briefs are made of the same fabric as its polo shirts) and Zimmerli as too light. For such critically minded men, the napies of choice are Sunspel. As one enthusiast puts it with unarguably finality, "To wear anything else just wouldn't be civilized." Indeed, though that's only one reason to own them. Sunspel undertogs, which originated in Nottingham, England, in 1936 (Established in 1850 under a different name, it wasn’t until 1936 that the company chose the name Sunspel)are a favourite of the finicky haberdashers that cater to Slaone Rangers and Robertson Boulevard habitues and those certain secretive men from the Far East. The fabric draws them in first. Sunspels are made from extra-long-staple cotton, which can be spun into a yarn so fine it yields a feel that approximates silk. Then, the finishing is also first-rate: interior seams are flat; waistbands are of natural, nonbinding rubber; and there aren't loose threads sprouting from the label like crabgrass. And lest you think these fancy underpants are strictly from Oscar Wilde types, keep in mind that Sunspel is standard issue for Royal Navy and British army officers, who might not admit to a fondness for Sunspel's pleasant feel but who do like the famous fit. And now you know why the Privates weren't found scratching on screeen during the Iraqi raids. Devotees claim that the extra pleat sewn into the crotch of a Sunspel brief provides superior support. Unfortunately, that anatomical correctness won't stop your significant other from wanting to try on their silky softness for herself. You may even have to wrestle them off her. It's understandable; just be civilized.

What's the technique?
Sometimes tech-challenged alpha males have no choice, but follow savvy betas and gammy gammas. But once at the console, we know who controls!Technorati Profile

Ace of a man
He examined himself in the mirror. The face he saw was clearly his own, familiar yet disturbingly different. Altered by _ what? _ growth, development, maturity. Hardly. The words that stayed in his mind were time, age, defeat.
He looked again. His cheeks were flat, brown: lines had started appearing at the corners of his mouth and beneath his eyes. And the softness that embraced his middle was a permanent attachment, a mark of long years of indulgence and good living.
The youth had fled. Departed without notice. The signs had always been there to see, had he chosen to recognise the evidence. With youth had gone his dreams, his aspirations; and all that remained were an unknown number of years to be filled with transient pleasures, meaningless sensations, empty triumphs. A shiver wrenched his body and he left the glass gladly.
Abruptly, and _ it shocked him to recognise it _ for the first time in his life, he became truly aware of his own mortality, of the inexorable diminishment of his powers, his vigour, his sexuality, and his inevitable demise. Suddenly the future loomed up as a disaster zone that all sane men would wish to avoid; one which no man could escape.
A sick-making terror gripped him, fear, panic that was almost physical in its painful persistence. But it was not of age he was afraid. Nor of death. Instead it was the clear vision of waste, the waste of his own resources, his own time, of life itself.
How much of himself he had given away. Correction: thrown away. Deliberately at times, consciously. Depositing into an existential sumphole the best parts of his being. The richest lode had been exchanged in favour of passing rewards and pleasures. His love. His work. All gone, all. Looking back, it seemed to him that more than most men, he had killed what he loved.
The past was an icy pit and looking into it paralysed him and increased his fear. Somehow he had to work himself back into shape to survive. In the beginning, when he had first embarked tentatively, timidly, on a writing career, survival had been his primary motivation. What he produced had to feed and clothe and house him; and provide emotional nourishment as well. For many years, he had fantasised about doing better work, the best; when he was ready, he kept telling himself. An empty dream. Now it was vital that he return to that earlier and more sensible reality. In order to exist, he had to work.
He dressed _ jeans, a loose-fitting linen sports shirt, loafers but no socks. A vodka and a cigarette, allowing the liquor to support his strength. Withdrawal had been necessary, a chance to recoup, to rebuild the cerebral and emotional walls with which he defended his vital parts. But no more; he was looking forward to this night.
He poured another drink. Reality. Reality was the key to successful life. To perceive and comprehend what one’s life was about at a specific moment in time. Now. Now was what mattered. The past was gone, finished, best put aside; the future non-existent, until it too became new.
He ticked it off silently _ he was climbing the rocky path back from a dark, painful spell. It was a long, slow return and it required all the courage a man could muster, all his concentration and dedication. It was a mistake to try and do everything at once; wrong and impossible. A psychological build was necessary, an opportunity for his spirit to replenish itself, come back to its full self once more. Like an athlete coming off an injury too soon and trying to compensate, injuring some other portion of his body. The more highly trained a man was, the more talented, the more sensitive, the more susceptible he seemed to be to hurts of one sort or another. Intelligent nursing, careful planning, periods of rest. These were in order. Time to allow the tension to slack off, to enjoy…
And then?
And then he would try again.
And make it.
All the way back. He was convinced of it. No doubt at all. Not a single one.
One last look in the mirror. If his face was somewhat debauched, it was clearly the face of a man who had lived, experienced, a man who had taken part in his share of adventures, a man of interest to women. Many women…
And why not? His shoulders were broad, with muscular slope, his hips trim under the jeans. And under the white linen fabric, he bulged with promise. Provocative, yes. Obvious, perhaps. But then a little advertising never damaged anyone. That, he thought, laughing aloud, was the press agent in him coming out. He finished the last of the vodka and hurried out of the house. The party would be in full swing by now and he didn’t want to miss anything.

Thou Shalt Not Covet
You invite His Girl for lunch. Dinner or drinks would be too obvious. She’s got a boyfriend, after all. Part of you knows even lunch is sleazy. This part of you is fundamentally decent, essentially moral, basically principled. This part of you responds viscerally and forcefully to the simplicity, the symmetry, the overall rightness of the credo “Pals before gals.”
Another part of you wants to have sex with her.
His Girl is wearing a short black skirt. His Girl smells like a spring morning after a night of thunderstorms. A bright little golden sun bursts from each of His Girl’s earlobes. They are beautiful, fleshy (but not too fleshy) earlobes. Her teeth are big and white and evenly spaced; her gums, pink and healthy; her eyes, big and smiling. His Girl’s fingers are long and tapered. When she laughs _ and she laughs a lot _ I see small children running in circles in tall grass beneath a bursting a golden sun until they fall down, dizzy and gasping and delirious with joy. She is laughing now, and I am staring at her hands. I can’t get over her hands. Her fingers are so long, so soft. Those fingers could cook wondrous meals, I’m sure of it, and dry the little one’s tears and nail up bookshelves while I’m at the gym playing hoops. I see those fingers bringing me morning tea in bed, ripping through the newspaper, stroking my hair, unbuttoning my wrinkled shirt, slowly, rubbing…
“…and I finally got to move into my new office, and then the computer didn’t work. I mean, I couldn’t believe it, you know?”
His Girl is talking. But I’m not exactly listening. Move my gaze from her graceful fingers to her big, smiling eyes. They are eyes that have known pain. They are eyes that hunger for connection. They are eyes that demand truth. I tell her I love her. I tell her she should leave her boyfriend, consider being with me. I tell her we can be happy together, that sure, there will be some rough patches, but we can work through them shoulder to shoulder. I tell her the way she smells makes me think of little kids making themselves dizzy in tall grass. I describe the Sunday mornings we’ll read the paper and drink tea and make love, the Friday evenings we’ll rent a romantic thriller and watch it together while we hold hands, with the popcorn she made with her long fingers on the table in front of us. I say all of this, but I say it with my eyes, because this is, after all, just lunch. But I think she understands. His Girl holds my gaze a little longer than is necessary between just friends. When I touch her arm in a purely friendly gesture, she smiles. When we say goodbye, she kisses me on the cheek.
His Girl, I say, holds a great deal of appeal for me. That’s because His Girl is pretty. And because she wears short skirts and golden sun earrings and she smells good. And because she is wanted, cherished. And, big bonus here, because someone else is doing the heavy-lifting part of the wanting and cherishing. All you (by which I mean I) need to do is share some lunches, some coffee, maybe a movie when he’s out of town. You don’t have to share a bathroom with her. You don’t have to argue over who will do the dishes. You don’t have to cut short your France-Brazil re-run on ESPN to visit her mother. You don’t have to worry about her bad-mouthing your mother. You don’t have to worry about sex getting old. You don’t have to worry about anything getting old. She doesn’t demand anything from you. She can’t demand anything from you. She’s His Girl, not yours.
His Girl tells you things. Things she doesn’t tell him. Things like her hopes, her dreams, and what a schmuck he is, and what a manipulative ferret his mother is, and isn’t it just kind of creepy, almost unnatural, really, how close he and his mother are, and how she feels lonely sometimes, and how he doesn’t really understand her taste in literature, because he doesn’t read much besides Robert Ludlum, and how their sex life isn’t so great and sometimes she gets jealous when his old girlfriends call, but it’s not like she’s asking to know everything. I mean, she doesn’t tell him about her lunches with you, you know? (Actually, you didn’t know, but now that you do know, you like.)
His Girl is beauty and safety and the chance to indulge your wildest and the most exotic notions of romance and love. His Girl is a fragrant, charming repository of your most impossible, consequence-free fantasies. His Girl in unavailable.
We have lunch, then another lunch. She tells me he has asked her to marry him. Then she tells me they’ve been fighting a lot and she’s been having disturbing dreams about me. She doesn’t go into detail about the dreams. We have more lunches. I tell her how great she looks. She complains about him. I listen. We progress from kiss on the cheek to kisses on both cheeks. I come to believe that His Girl deserves better. I come to believe that His Girl deserves me.
I keep it light. I have learned to keep it light. I have learned that her luminous eyes and delicate scent and the way her laugh sounds like wind chimes in an alpine meadow notwithstanding, it’s important to keep it light. At least for the time being. At least while she’s engaged.
“I really enjoy our lunches,” she tells me one day. I think about this statement for the better part of a weekend. Did she stress “enjoy” or “ lunches”? Did she mean she would enjoy something more than lunch? Is it time to tell her with my mouth what I told her with my eyes a few weeks ago? Is it time to shift to nonlight mode? Yes, I decide, it is time.
I invite her for another lunch. She’s busy and says she’ll call back. But she doesn’t call. I wonder. I wonder if, in the same way that she serves as a bejewelled and well-dressed non-bathroom-sharing screen upon which I can project my most blissful fantasies, I am functioning for her merely as a well-scrubbed guy who offers maximum understanding and minimum maintenance. I wonder if to her I am nothing more than freedom and possibility, a lark, a motherless mark who always pays the tab and never gets any action. Wondering can do ugly things to a man. That evening I wonder how many other poor suckers she “enjoys lunch” with before sashaying home to Him.
Finally, she does call back. She “needs to talk.” We meet for lunch. Her ears are naked, her eyes puffy. Her blouse is wrinkled. I tell her she looks great. She laughs, then cries. I ask what’s wrong.
“Nothing much,” she says. “I called off the wedding. I’m moving out.”
Something moves in my throat. I realise that I’m thrilled. Also terrified. Picturing His Girl and me with popcorn on Friday night is easy when you only have to see her once a week and don’t have to deal with things like actual spoken words and real live sex and taking out the garbage. This is different. So what am I supposed to do?
I realise I’m still not breathing. I also realise that she’s staring at me. Can she read my thoughts? Is she disappointed in my predictability, disgusted at my cowardice, justified in her no-doubt long-held suspicion that deep down all guys, even smooth-talking, lunch-buying keep-it-light Lotharios like me, are all the same?
I breathe, I swallow. I breathe some more. This is the time for me to do something. I know this. If Friday nights are ever to be filled with popcorn and love, if my chest is ever to feel the cool caress of fingers on Sunday mornings, I need to be brave.
So I’m brave. Silently, I take her hand. Her palm is sweating. I tell her I know that His Girl and he have been together for years, and that breaking up is always tough. I know it’s complicated, and I don’t want to put pressure on her, but I’ve really grown fond of her, and I think maybe there could be a chance for the two of us if we gave each other the chance. I’d like us to give the chance. I’d like to see her more.
I say this with actual words.
“Shhhh,” she says. She says this with an actual sound.
She says she’d like to see me, too.
I suggest dinner.

The Long Good-Bye
They say breaking up is hard to do. They're wrong

The last time we broke up, we decided to quit having sex each time we ended things. Actually, she decided. What she said was "I think we would be happier if we were friends." She said it barging into my cabin while I was busy e-mailing creatives to an important client. Important issues needed to be discussed, and I am not an insensitive brute, so I put the laptop to sleep.
"What is it with you?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" she asked as cluelessly as she knew how.
"I mean, why does verything have to lead to something else?" I asked. "When we started going out, we were just seeing each other and having fun. Why do you have to measure things now in terms of where they're going?"
Because she wants more than fun, I thought. Because she doesn't want to live life in a holding pattern. Because this isn't moving anywhere, and she wants someting that moves somewhere.
Because unless she ends things, she thought, she and I will become more and more involved, and that means she won't be able to do what she wants and when she wants. Because she think she isn't in love with me, and she wants love, and even when she finds love, the what-I-want-when-I-want equation will still be hard to work out, but at least the upside will be greater then, with all the love, and...
I thought a lot in those few seconds, all the while looking at the laptop, and to my girlfriend, whose eyes were welling with tears and whose tiny hands were balled into tiny fists.
"This is about me," she said. "I'm the screwed-up one. Really, I think someone else would make you happier."
She cried then, and tenderness and guilt and connection and affection flooded through me, much of it ending up in my loins. I reached for her. With one of her tiny fists, she hit me in the chest. Tonight there would be no breakup sex.
Every woman wants out at some time. But a real woman must ask herself why. I know she has asked herself why.
Is it because, even though she's dedicated and respected professional who looks great in a miniskirt and is possessed of a voracious sexual appetite, you can't stand the brown shade of lipstick she wears any longer?
Is it because even though she's kind, giving, smart, crazy about you and perfectly willing to watch ESPN over Papa John's pizza while holding hands and reviewing your respective bosses's character flaws and how they've manifested themselves over the past few days, you have a horrible habit of sticking your tongue deep inside her mouth when you kiss, all the while moaning something that sounds like "errrrf, errrrf"? She hates that.
Is it because in her entire life, you're the only real man she has ever had even though she's an attentive and willing-to-work-hard lover, and she's feeling as if she isn't on a level playing field here?
(Those are gimmes. The correct answers, as most guys know: Yes. yes. Yes. Yes.)
To be continued...

Adios Andre!
After Zizou, it’s Agassi. Another reason to stay away from the boob tube. Federer is still out there, but tennis watching is never going to be the same again. It’s like once Zidane’s not there, who bothers for the English Premier League? In Agassi’s case, it’s a personal loss, too, considering we are both bald (so is Zizou!) and if you looked closely, there’s this uncanny resemblance. Okay, okay, I need to lose ‘some’ pounds. We share the same sign, too! He’s April 29, and me April 24. Jokes apart, what’s the Andre appeal? In one word: expressiveness. While Agassi’s hair and body have changed— he’s been getting balder, grayer, and leaner for years—his eyes still betray joy and frustration as easily as ever. They bulge out when he returns serve, light up after he wins, and go frighteningly vacant when he’s losing. Callow punk or wise veteran, in tough losses and rousing victories, Agassi has never been able to hide a thing. That’s what makes him a man. He has always been embraced by the people because for most part he has been one of us. With the younger Agassi, fans identified their own shortcomings; in the superstar champ, only the fifth man in tennis to win all four Grand Slams, they found inspiration. Most importantly, they loved him for his heart, because he cared, sometimes too much. Fittingly, the last match Agassi won in tennis in New York, had everything written in it _ brain and brawn, age and range, the fire of youth and the assuredness of age. Marcos Baghdatis countered all of that effectively, but in the end, came up short against the ageless heart. Adios Andre. Thank you for caring.

CHUFFING GREAT!

Slouching on the sofa, he lifted a chinoed buttock. Brrrrthpffflurrrrup! “More juice, boss?” he asked, without even an innocent smirk.

I feigned distaste but, actually, I couldn’t repress a grin. Farts are just intrinsically funny to blokes. I know it’s pathetic, but it’s true. OK, maybe there are a few balanced, reconstructed men out there who would decline to flick through a discarded Sunday Sport, who wouldn’t dream of putting their foot down on a deserted A-road and who would never snigger at a well-timed parp. But such men are like QPR managers _ they don’t alter the fundamental realities.

It starts early. My nephew is 8 and giggles with inexpressible rapture at every cheek-wobbler he produces. “I blowed off!” he announces happily, though not forgetting to add the magic word, sorry. His cousin, 10, looks at him with an expression of disgust that will one day wither full-grown men. And yet, they’ve both been brought up by non-exist parents who go out of their way to avoid gender stereotyping. Sonali will be a building a Meccano suspension bridge as Rahul rustles up a Play-Doh omellete in his plastic kitchen _ and he’ll be backfiring delightedly, like a New Delhi moped.

All right, it’s possible Rahul and Sonali are receiving from their parents subtle signals that suggest boys let rip and girls don’t _ but where would such a notion originate? How far back do we have to go? Maybe some all-male Neolithic hunting party were sitting round a crackling fire one night when Grog shifted slightly on his rock and launched a snorter that rattled the bleached mammoth bones.

“More goat’s blood, shamen?” he asks. His fellow slapheads clutch their hairy tummies and roll around on the ground in primal glee. Back at the home cave, a chuckling Grog relates this moment of high comedy to his women _ but she merely tuts and carries on plucking the dodo. (Incidentally, the study of linguistics shows that in every single Indo-European language there are a dozen-odd shared words that can be traced back to common prehistoric roots. They represent the fundamental concepts without which human beings can’t run a society. “Bread” is one. “Tree” another. And _ yup, you guessed it _ from Leningrad to Lisbon, from Mysore to Midlothian, the expressible consciousness of every mortal soul has the word “fart” at its centre.)

I once went out with a woman who claimed never to have farted in her life. I was stunned. What _ never? It was like saying you’d never taken a piss outside. “Nope _ never done that either,” she admitted. I fell into the habit of treating her to countless grassy lagers and molten-lava curries. Nothing. Not even in her sleep. Not so much as a deflating-Lilo hissy one. In an attempt to lead the way, I provided her with constant, reassuring examples of the art, selflessly letting fly with frequent and unerring aplomb in every room of her house. I was so determined to be around when she finally broke that I damn nearly married her.

As admirable as any sane person would find it that you can turn the TV from across the room through the controlled application of subsonic vibration, this is not a talent I would recommend showing off on a first date. Indeed, a chap’s first untrammelled fart is a crucial event in any relationship. During the early days, you lie there in post-coital cosiness, clenching your buttocks and hoping to God she’ll go to the bathroom or offer to make tea or something, so that you can let rip in private. When she finally wanders downstairs to phone her therapist, you stretch back, brace your feet against the headboard and _ ohhh, yessss _ release one that balloons the duvet like a pub-lunch pastie. But this kind of private parping can’t go on. When she starts to come round every night, you’re going to wake up one morning bobbing against the ceiling with Goodyear stencilled on your bloated stomach. You decide to test the strength of this new liaison.

So, some quiet dusk, you must submit to the impulse. There’s no point in messing about here _ you’ve got to produce a Spielberg-standard ripper with stereo-effects and orchestral stabs. Clocks should stop ticking and mirrors should darken. And when it’s all over, you must put on a winsome grin, turn towards your partner and, with a boyish shrug, say, “Umm…Oops.”

She’ll grimace at you sidelong and shake her head. “God,” she’ll say. “You are so disgusting.” Pay no attention _ she’s nuts about you.

WAY TO GO!

Busting up a relationship used to require nobility and sacrifice. If you had to share it with anybody, it was with a close friend like Jack Daniels. Breaking up was hard to do, so you did it nicely and thoughtfully. You used phrases like, “It’s not you, it’s me (when really the truth was, “it’s your best friend”), and then walked away with a clean conscience and the confidence that there were bigger and better cleavages to conquer.

The old school says: “Get over it.” However, the new school splits up like a demolition derby. The mantra is: “Put yourself first. They didn’t cut the mustard, so you cut your losses. Deal with it, fight back hard, do what you want to your ex, but spare yourself. Be bitter, be twisted, be stupid, be fickle, be cowardly, but win.”

These days, love means never having to say you’re sorry, even if you’re caught with a
hooker on your knob. Love is a verbal agreement; the paper is for the splitting up. Nobody breaks up in person anymore. Some years back, breaking up by phone was unforgivably cruel. Today, it’s the polite option.

Compare other popular alternatives: Sly Stallone told Jennifer Flavin via Federal Express, which is, at least, absolutely guaranteed to get there overnight. Daniel Day Lewis and Phil Collins used the fax, presumably spurred on by the knowledge that if the hurt doesn’t fade, at least the ink will. The truth is that men are complete cowards in two things _ chatting up and splitting up.

Now you can do it the Nineties way. Letting her see you with other women is very good. And modern. But it’ll rub it in just that little bit further if you’ve paid for them. Rent a whore. Hookers are always the convenient choice of the thrusting careerist too busy to find real people to chat with. But remember, girls, don’t be an Elizabeth Hurley-type. If he hires a mouth, take yours elsewhere.

It’s taken several years for men to understand that good deeds mean bad news. No one respects a man who’s pussy-whipped, certainly not the pussy that’s doing the whipping. Furthermore, getting her to dump you because you’re too nice is a great move. You come out looking good and nobody is the wiser. Doing the right thing at the right time, like stopping smoking, having children and opening a joint bank account, is an excellent way to make her your ex. You could always let her spend all your money. Or, better still, be like Mike Tyson ad let her mother spend all your money.

And don’t believe any hype about how getting clean and sober would save your relationship. While climbing on the wagon might not be a lot of fun, it’s unlikely you’ll take any excess baggage with you. Even publicly proclaiming that your relationship is doing well can fall into this category and translate as: “We’re in a relationship bleeding from all orifices.”

A diamond may be forever, yet these days “forever” doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Give her a diamond for no apparent reason and once upon a time you’d have been stuck with her for life. In new-school terms, she’ll be too suspicious and humiliated to stay. A word of warning though: some years back, she would bolt and throw the rock behind her _ today’s wronged party keeps the ring. It screws you financially, but she’ll save you money in the long run by being gone, gone, gone.

The new school says that if you spot your partner’s career floating in the loo, that’s a good enough reason to flush. None of this “staying together through thick and thin” crap: that’s so outré. Now, success brings an automatic spousal upgrade. You have to commit to yourself 100 per cent if you want to make it big while you’ve still got the time. Who cares about keeping some woman? You might have known her for years, but there is always another ride waiting at the corner. Beautiful women go moist at one whiff of a successful man. So don’t feel bad when you shed that unsuccessful thing lying next to you in bed. You’re on the cutting edge of career-relationship management.

Some years ago, the world was a gentler place _ for everyone but the man who wanted to be free. Now, it’s fools who spare the feelings of the one they used to love. You’ve sacked them from your company, baby, and it feels good. Don’t be a baby, be a man. Sell out. It’s a today thing.

WHISPERING HOLLOW!

“You’ve got to go to the store for me,” she says.
It’s early morning and she has menstrual cramps.
There’s no mistaking the urgency in her voice. She is in pain, and I must feel some of her pain. This is the big red one, and it’s bearing down on her.
“Go to the store. I need Whisper Ultra,” she says from the couch, television on, but she has that thousand-yard stare that tells me this is somehow all my fault.
I can and must redeem myself by going to the store for her.
She is clearly not a planner.
I ask her if she needs anything else, and she shakes her head _ not a firm no. The rules are that I should bring her some sort of treat, a candy bar, a chocolate, something to make her feel better and show her I am thinking of her.
“I’ll be back,” I say, pulling on a jacket. I close the door behind me and smile at her through the windowpane. She doesn’t smile back.
The store is nearly empty _ the only customers are two guys arguing over whether to buy a loaf of brown bread or garlic twistys. This is a good thing. Buying sanitary towels for your woman is a potentially embarrassing thing, best done under the cover of darkness. It is why they give you that illusionary black polypack.
Satisfied that no one is watching, I make my break for the feminine-hygiene aisle. On my way, I spot the rack of condoms and recollect my first experience with drugstore embarrassment _ 16 years old, and I had to have them, even though I didn’t yet have anyone to share them with. The cashier took one look at my red face and trembling hands and went easy on me, packing the condoms in a brown paper bag with my other purchases: Chiclets, a bottle of Thum’s Up, six eggs and a snack-size bag of chips. Whisper was a whole different beast. Back then there was the dim hope that some girl would take pity on me and let me use the condoms. Now all I want is to make my woman happy, keep her from bleeding all over the bedsheets and remind her that when this is finished that I am so devoted to her _ so devoted that I buy her Whisper at all sorts of odd time. I am earning points, and when it is over, my good deed will not go unnoticed. The few times I have suggested she stock up, she crinkles her nose at me and says she thinks she has some.
To which I reply, “Do you think or do you know? Because last time I had to run out and get them, remember?”
She smiles and tells me not to worry. So we don’t buy them when we are the grocery store, where we’re supposed to heap the cart full of those embarrassing personal-hygiene, anti-this-and-that things because you have enough stuff to cover for you.
Then it happens. After days of bloating and hot flashes, cravings for pasta and coffee, it comes _ the period _ and not only is she in pain, but she is unprepared.
When I arrive at the store, I go straight to the sales personnel and tell him what I want without looking as much in his eyes. I don’t want to be the guy to make his day _ the dude who came in early morning and bought only Whisper. So I look around. My choices are limited: replacement flint for a Zippo lighter, a packet of Marlboro Reds, some double spearmint flavoured Orbit and few bottles of soda. I drop the stuff on the counter and fish around for the money. The guy at the counter puts it all in a brown paper bag and then stares at the packet of Whisper for a moment. Then he looks at me, and I can see this smile creep across his face as he runs the scanner over the packet. At this point, I have been gone for almost twenty minutes, and I am running dangerously low on the what-too-you-so-long meter, which every twenty-eight days can and will without warning turn into the where-the-hell-have-you-been, I-am-in-pain meter. He tells me how much, and I grab my change and pick up the packet. The cashier smirks as he tells me to have a good day. Part of me wants to turn around and ask him if it looks like I’m preparing for a good day. But that would only delay my stay at the store further.
When I get home, she is still on the couch. The television is blaring some infomercial. I smile and wave the bag at her as I step through the door.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
I mumble something about traffic, which she knows is bullshit but lets slide because she is focused on the bag. She gets up and grabs the bag from me, opens it and exclaims, “Soda? You bought soda?”
I shrug, preferring the simple explanation, which is none at all. She wouldn’t understand how important it was that I buy something else besides Whisper, that even now appearances matter.
But things take a turn for the worse when she plucks the packet of Whisper from the bag and stares at it.
“You bought small? What the hell am I gonna do with small?”
“You can’t use them, just for today?” I ask.
“Not unless you want them to shoot right out of me,” she snarls, waving the packet.
I make a face and hold up a hand.
She is in pain, and I have failed her. Not only did I buy soda, but I have come back with the wrong size Whisper.
“I didn’t know there was difference,” I say.
This is my second mistake. Of course, I know there is a difference, just like I know Tampax and panty liners are not the same thing as Kotex.
And she knows I know this.
“You didn’t pay attention. You were gone all that time and you come back with these?”
She shakes the packet at me. I avoid mistake three by not suggesting that perhaps she should buy her own Whisper or that maybe she should plan for these things and have supplies on hand.
“I am sorry,” I say. She skulks back to the couch, leaving me with my smoke and the packet of Whisper Small.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Go back to the store. Regular. Get the Regular. That’s all I want. They are in a blue packet.”
“Everything’s in a blue packet.”
She lets that one slide.
I grab the car keys and pull on my jacket.
“Anything else?” I ask.
She gets up and comes to me and wraps her arms around my waist. And for a moment I am her conquering hero again _ out to right my wrong and deliver.
“I love you,” she says, smiling. ‘And don’t forget to return these.”
She slips the packet of Whisper Small into my jacket pocket.

BACK TO MINE!

Is it possible to scrub away memories with a rag, a bottle of Colin and sheer upper body strength? No, but tomorrow I will try.

I’m not sure why I invited him to come to my place in the first place. It was one of those intemperate gestures of largesse made on the spur of the moment when I was flush with endorphins and the discoloured memories of him were still freshly manifest on my inner thighs and knees.

The invitation was intended just for some hours as he was coming to town with a mixture of friends and colleagues, for a long - and predictably big - weekend, of which I was to be a highlight.

He called earlier in the week to double-check the arrangements.

“I’ll be flying in on Thursday. And I’m coming to your house, right? You sure that’s ok?” He had even made that line sound persuasively unsure and hesitant – bless his conniving little heart – such that any retraction on my part would put him in the category of Wronged Plaintiff and me in the category of Evil Indian Giver.

“Of course it’s ok!” I said a tad shrilly, knowing that I had now officially committed myself to delivering on my impetuous promise.

My mind was racing. Is the loo sparkling clean? Did I have enough sheets, enough towels? Did I do my laundry last week – if so, where was it? Should I tell the maid to come in on Wednesday instead of Friday? Was the stuff on my shelves up to snuff – did it accurately reflect my (ahem) oh-so well-rounded but eclectic tastes in literature and music? And most importantly, is there enough stuff in the refrigerator just in case he wants to eat? Shit.

To those of you that think I was being a typical woman and making an awful fuss about nothing, I would probably have to agree.

It’s not that I have never had other people over in my house. No, I’ve had both visiting friends and family stay with us with nary a complaint. We’ve even had dinner parties where my friends were more than happy to sit around a coffee table placed in the middle of the floor - listening to Pink Floyd, eating pasta, drinking wine and doing all sorts of things.

So what then is the problem? I’ve never had a man, any man, and definitely not the man who gets me more hot and bothered than all others, at my place. I mean I don’t usually let most men stick around long enough, anyway. And if they do, what is wrong with their place – so I can come and go as I please – or failing that a hotel room? Anyway, “back to mine” has never been an option really given the consideration I live with my parents.

But having peeped in quite a few people’s cupboards in my time myself, I know that observing a person's habitat often reveals more about their character, priorities in life and predilections in the sack without one having to explicitly ask.

If you must know, I once dumped a man who arranged his CDs in alphabetical order because predictably, he was only any good as a missionary-style fuck. Another had vats of protein and creatine supplements lined up in his kitchen instead of normal olive oil, pepper, salt and garlic. He turned out not to have a single hair on his body (and I’m talking chin, hands, pubes, armpits, toes – nothing!) and loved to fuck in the mirror.

So what sort of real estate gets me wet? I like residences with big hot tubs on the roof, well-stocked kitchens, huge libraries, coffee table books, cosy shagpile carpets, lived-in colonial furniture, houseplants, quirky designer chairs, cool audiophile sound systems, contemporary art (preferably drawn by you), the list goes on but you get the idea. These don’t have to be lavish postal code 10 or 11 addresses – just homey-homes that are clean, interesting, original, tasteful, full of character and well, you.

I wondered what my house said about me. But first, let me give you a little more by way of description: I do not live in a fussy apartment. In fact, since I live with my parents means my home is more sparse and unfurnished than anything else.

Second, we do not own a painfully stylish pad straight out of the pages of Vogue Living. Even if I tried changing the setting, my mother or father would seal its fate by convincing me that my holding out for a red suede bean bag is plain silly and talk me into buying an infinitely more practical sofa instead. In the rousing shades of teakwood, no less. (I still have regrets about this and will apologise for my couch’s uninspired existence given the slightest opportunity.)

Third, my house doesn’t have a back-door entry making it impossible for the guy to jump from the third-floor balcony. I don’t intend to stay here forever, but when I do eventually move, I will have moulted and shed a skin.

Every possession I have in my home has survived the initial journey to Delhi with me and I love them all like a parent loves his idiot offspring. I have my favourite CDs and yes, a whole collection of Archies. I have books that have sustained my dad’s numerous transfers from this end of the country to that, which is several cities and towns now, my most loyal friends and my salvation when I need respite from unforgiving reality.

And that? That over there is what one calls a shoe collection. Oh yes, the force of Imelda is strong in this one.

“They don’t build shoe cupboards big enough for 70 pairs of shoes”, I pertly informed him, as he regarded a diamante-encrusted pair curiously. He had just breached the maidenhead of my apartment and was now looming threateningly like a conquering crusader exploring the 1700 square-foot spoils of territory.

“What do you eat, girl?” He had poked his head into my fridge but gave me no chance to retort or reply because he had already moved onto a different part of the room. Damn him.

“Mmmm, 60 Archies! And what do we have here… Camus…” he said, with a bemused laugh in his voice, which I immediately interpreted as mocking derision of course. It was all I could do to keep myself from unceremoniously ejecting him and suggesting that we check into the nearby hotel.

“You are too ‘man’ for this apartment,” I wailed, somewhat self-consciously. I gulped back the tension building in the back of my throat.

During his stay, we broke in different parts of my house. First of course was the bed – on which we fucked, cuddled, slept, played, filmed and chatted on. Then, the kitchen counter table – on which I perched with my legs spread-eagled next to the gas stove as he very patiently (and torturously) taught me step-by-step how to go down on a woman. The bathroom – in which we washed off sweat and semen together and where I took the first leap of faith and told him all about myself(!!!). And finally, the couch – where he laid naked on top of me until daylight, alternately kissing and stroking, whilst I read aloud in a hoarse, subdued voice what I wrote about him.

My favourite activity all weekend was to watch him lazily stretch out in bed or use my computer in my room whilse I busied myself cleaning up or getting dressed. These were Martha Stewart moments – picture-perfect pockets of comfort and normalcy – rare in a relationship like ours. And thus, all the more treasured.

Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone.

But my house has traitorously and indelibly retained the feel of him. I smell his sweat on my towels, and the trace of Issey aftershave lingers hauntingly in my spare room. He is on the empty wine glass, and most CSI-certifiably on my sheets. And I miss the unmistakable ivy-creep of masculine garments from his bag to the counter stool to the clothes rack.

Presently, I stand back, objectively surveying the damage. My house suddenly feels cavernous. An old shell that was temporarily colonised and now abandoned, threatens to crumble to dust. Thanks, but no thanks.

Today I will let it grieve. I will sleep on the outer side of the bed – and imagine the full-length of him outstretched besides me in a diagonal imbibing the sounds on the streets into our collective subconscious. I will keep his wine glass by my bed – and think about our last night together and the peculiar visitor who came to make it special. I will envy the little key-chain that somehow managed to accidentally fall into his luggage and now travels with him.

And then tomorrow - I will clean and do the laundry.

ZZ TOP!

Adieu! Zizou! You have your head and heart at the right places.

HEAVY PETTING!

There is a new accessory without which no modern woman’s life is complete. It’s not tights that are ladder-proof, or a painless depilator: it’s a new type of man.

Women, you see, no longer want men to take on responsibilities. They just want men to run errands, perform tasks set down on lists, polish handbags. They want someone to keep at home to hug and cuddle, a man who, occasionally, on their own terms, they can use and abuse, take out on display, pamper and ignore. They want men to be like food from the uncle’s shop: convenient, with easily definable labels and sell-by dates. They want men to be their pets.

Petting is the latest thing _ women, at last, have come out as the pragmatic powerbrokers they truly are. They want realistic control. They want men to do happily what they are told. They are the women who read Nancy Friday’s Women on Top not because it’s a good book, but because it gives them something to do while their pets are muff diving.

Although there are hybrids, and cross overs, the pet is a simple animal easily classified into four species. As long as the pet knows his type and his place, he will have a cherished life.

Professional Pets, for example, are the sort of laptop-sized office portable types that every high-powered woman would keep near her work station. They are bred in kennels and come in either black or grey jackets. They are the least physical of all the species, usually content to drone on about their careers, have their egos stroked periodically and make the tea. They can, however, pose the most problems. They have a tendency to work to hidden agendas, secretly despising their subservient positions yet getting off on fantasies about leather-clad female executives throwing them over the desk for a good beating.

Household Pets, however, are rarely beaten _ domestic abuse, after all, can lead to the neighbours calling in the SPCA. Chosen correctly, they are peerless.

Essentially, they go out and hunt (usually at the supermarket), come home and cook.
Of all pet types these are the ones who require the most care and stroking. Keepers must bed down with them otherwise they have a tendency to get neurotic, overeat and over-drink, and become hard to handle. They are often referred to as “husbands.”

Which is not to confuse them with Social Pets, who also help with entertaining. Social Pets are just that: social. These are the guys whom women get to carry their handbags or hire out to their girlfriends. Good social pets are a dying breed because they require training, and must have membership of clubs, and money. They have a sense of humour _ which is just as well because they are often driven by the mistaken belief that the women might take them to bed. Poor souls.

So what’s in all this, I hear you ask, for you men? Well, for one thing, you will be loved and adored. The better you get at your new position, the more you will be treasured. They will buy you little gifts, pamper you and take you out to mingle with other pets. And in doing so, they will have removed from your shoulders that outdated macho urge to be Top Dog. You can relax because everything is much simpler: all you have to do is apply for one of the newly formed vacancies: Professional, Household, Social or…

Bed. It’s the toughest job of all and the most important category. IT’S the one with the most applications, and rejections. Yet it has the easiest entry qualification: touch the bottom of a pint glass with your tongue, without breaking your neck, ad the position’s all yours. Everything else is a simple matter of training.

You Know You're Mindfucked When...

...with truth and context held at bay, you play together with the desperate carelessness of the damned. You are a man in your element and she is the perfect aphrodisiac. For that stolen slice of time, you allow yourselves to be as the Immortals were, masters of your universe and savouring every minute. It's now that mindfuck begins.

...she becomes a splinter embedded in the rabbit-hole of your altered consciousness. You reminisce. You daydream. You wonder. It irritates you. She has infiltrated your subconscious. It scares you. And you're glad.

The thing is, I - of all people - should know better and believe me, I smell the deja vu in this situation, as do you. You'd think that age and experience would keep me from making the same mistakes. But alas, it contends with the sheer obstinacy of the human temperament and I must be biologically hard-wired to behave in the same impulsive, foolhardy way that I have since birth.

In popular culture, the way a mindfuck ends is that it usually destroys the host. And up to that point, things are just suspended in an unpredictable tangle of red herrings and ambiguity. And so I predict it will be with this particular mindfuck. It is thrilling, stimulating, exhausting and goes against every fibre of rational thought.

Do I think it will end in disaster? Yes. Do I think I will end up hurt by all this? Yes. Do I go along with it anyway? Of course. And thus I wait patiently, alongside you, like any other obedient mindfuck victim for the plot to unfold.

The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up...

Start to breathe and fake a smile. It's all the same after a while...

GO KONG GO!

What we realise is that for Kong, the definition of beauty is not about blond hair, it's about emotion. As for Ann, she's drawn to the animal because he makes her feel something real, and that is Kong's loyalty, protection and friendship. What more could a woman ask for? The classic idea of the beast is one who tends to have very pure, strong emotions - he doesn't contain or repress his feelings. I think that for women, who wrote the original myth in the 17th and 18th centuries, the story had a primitive natural eroticism, a combination of raw power and innocence. A woman's dream of a protective monster like Kong is a sort of infantilising dream of being back with some daddy figure, of thinking yourself back to the beginnings of your own life, when your parents were huge and your father was a titan!

SIGN OF THE TIMES!

It was only after I had created this blog that I read Haley Suitt’s How To Become An Alpha Male In 18 Easy Lessons. Here, I reproduce only one of the lessons. Interesting, eh! For the rest, you could check out halleyscomment.blogspot.com
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My Alpha Boy
My son is just eight years old, but I think I've got a best-of-breed, certified, irresistible, terrific Alpha Male in the works here. My Alpha Boy has got the right stuff. My Alpha Boy knows what it takes. My Alpha Boy is everything a boy can be and it's wonderful to see. I want to mention 18 wonderful things about my Alpha Boy and wish him the best as I watch him grow into the man he'll soon become. A young man with all the best intentions. A good man. A brave man. A kind man. A man with all the virtues and vices of a real human being. Just a simple man. Just a simply great man.
1. My alpha boy is kind and loving to his mom -- you can't beat that.
2. My alpha boy takes little stuffed animals to school for the girls to take care of. He lets the girls set them in the corners of his desk, tuck them into little improvised beds and pull little Kleenex blankets up to their necks, their paws holding the edge of the blanket. The girls love this.
3. My alpha boy is zany and sometimes calls me Halley Elizabeth Suitt, or "Momlette", just to tease and annoy me.
4. My alpha boy has a friend at school that another kid was picking on. My boy went up to the mean kid and told him to leave him alone, he said, he was HIS FRIEND and said, "You got a problem with that?"
5. My alpha boy loves to sing.
6. My alpha boy loves to laugh.
7. My alpha boy loves to fart.
8. My alpha boy rides his bike at near death-defying speeds these days.
9. My alpha boy helps me dry the dishes.
10. My alpha boy continues to trick me, wearing his pants long and baggy so I won't notice he's not wearing socks. This is a fundamental independence he demands from his mother who really wants him to wear socks. He thinks socks are not cool.
11. I caught my alpha boy holding the door open at a fast food restaurant for an old man.
12. I caught my alpha boy wiping snot on his bed sheets while reading a Pokemon comic book. We call the big ones raisins.
13. I caught my alpha boy kissing his GI Joe's good night (in a rather manly way actually) and telling them to "hang in there."
14. My alpha boy is already good at fixing things in my house.
15. My alpha boy wants to drive my car.
16. My alpha boy still loves his Tonka dumptrucks, his crane, his backhoe and will not let me give any of them away to Goodwill.
17. My alpha boy is still crazy for firetrucks _ the big ones.
18. My alpha boy has taught me all the wonderful things I know, love and appreciate about men.

Testosterone is a bitch

The name says it all: X Files of Y Chromosome. My agenda is typically male (and typically alpha male) because for good reasons, the agenda of women is directed towards men who are good providers, and who are around for the period of pregnancy, and beyond. My sexual agenda is in conflict with the sexual agendas of all the women I've known, because, in general, the procreative and sexual strategies of women are in conflict with the procreative and sexual strategies of men. For men who are either very rich, or very powerful, or outstanding for other reasons, women may be willing (and often have been willing throughout history) to compromise, though they may prefer not to have to. That seeking material benefits is deeply ingrained in typically female mating strategies has conclusively been shown by David Buss in his book The Evolution of Desire, as well as in the work of other academic evolutionary psychologists. That a mating strategy of seeking material benefits and security for herself and her offspring in a lifetime relationship with a dedicated spouse is essentially based on the same paradigm (seeking material benefits) as the mating strategy of a street hooker is nevertheless violently disputed by well-reputed housewives. My sexual agenda obviously also is in conflict with the agendas of other men. It is in conflict with the agenda of other alpha males, because we potentially compete for the same resources. It is even more though in conflict with the agendas of betas and gammas, because the whole system is unfair to them. There is always the potential risk that betas and gammas band together and apply the methods of the French Revolution. Fraternity, of course, is only transitory, as kings are replaced by emperors, and the nobility by politicians, bureaucrats, and capitalists who then appropriate the unfair share.

From here to Eternity!

She fell in love with his greasy machine
She leaned over wiped his kickstart clean
She'd never seen the beast before
But she left there wanting more, more, more
But when she was walking on down the road
She heard a sound that made her heart explode
He whispered to her to get on the back
"I'll take you on a ride from here to eternity"
Hell ain't a bad place
Hell is from here to eternity

She must be having one of her crazy dreams
She'd never sat on a piece so mean
It made her feel like's she's on cloud nine
She even tought she heard the engine sigh
But like all dreams that come to an end
They took a tumble at the devil's bend
The beast and charlotte they were two of a kind
They'd always take the line... from here to eternity
Hell ain't a bad place
Hell is from here to eternity

Random thoughts

Fight wars - Die in a blaze of glory
Come home - Meat in a plastic sack
Fall Down - Better pray to your God for mercy
So kneel - and help the blade cut clean
Nothing is sacred - Back then or now
Everyone's wasted
Is that all there is?
Is that it now ?

LUST FOR LIFE

Now I'm here can you see me?
'Cos I'm out on my own.
When the room goes cold,
tell me you can feel me ......
'cos I'm here.
Here I am, can you see me?
Passing through, on my way.
To a place I'd been to only in my dreams... before.
In a world of delusion,
Never turn your back on a friend.
'Cause you can count your real true friends on one hand ...... through life.
There are those that deceive you,
There are those that'll let you down.
Is there someone out there that would die for you ...... thought not.
Live your life with passion.
Everything you do, do well.
You only get out of life what you put in ...... so they say.
In a world of confusion,
People never say what they mean.
If you want a straight answer go look for one ...... right now.
In a room full of strangers,
Do you stand with your back to the wall?
Do you sometimes feel like you're on the outside ...... looking in?
You can make your own luck,
You create your destiny.
I believe you have the power if you want to ...... it's true.
You can do what you want.
If you try a little bit harder.
A little bit of faith goes a long way ...... it does.
Are we here for a reason?
I'd like to known just what you think.
It would be nice to know what happens when we die ...... wouldn't it?
There are some who are wise,
There are some who are born naive.
I believe that there are some that must have lived before ...... don't you?
As for me, well I'm thinking.
You gotta keep an open mind.
But I hope that my life's not an open and shut case.
Extra Sensory Perception.
Life After Death, telepathy.
Can the soul live on and travel through space and time?
You know I feel so elated,
'Cause I'm about to find it out.
And when I know all the answers,
Maybe then I'll come back ...... to fill you in.
You don't be alarmed now.
If I try to contact you,
If things go missing or get moved around ...... it's me.
And don't disbelieve it,
No matter what your 'friends' might say.
We'll meet up again some place some way ...... one day.