Dolls of a Feather and Little Miss Ironic

Like most conservative asian girls (with a game plan), I subscribe to the outer-nun-inner-slut school of thought. Which basically means: I can’t go to your place but let’s give you a blowjob while you drive. I can’t put on a cat-suit for xmas but oops, my skirt fell off. I can’t text you first because a phone set on vibrator mode has other uses. You can’t cum all over my face, no. you.absolutely.can’t…. but oh, you just did, and boy, does it taste good... Debbie does Dallas? is that a travel documentary? Oh, by the way, I won the spelling bee spelling bukkake backwards.

I can’t give you my mobile number, but please… take down my email.

You get my drift. It’s the Bi-Polar (dis)Order of the IT girl.

The physical-angel-mental-wildcat act, playing the traditional-on-the-outside, tigress-on-the-inside girl…. the girl most men would have a soft-spot and a hard-on for…. Little Miss Ironic. Little Miss Me.

It’s these girls that give them men some sort of validation. At least they know, getting into her pants, or even better, her mind, requires some scheming, some charisma and some magic. After all, it’s the thrill of the chase. If I was the going to be the prize, my willpower is my fortress.

Now now… which of the three dolls managed to tear down that fort? Was it hard-core strategizing, or a stroke of luck?

So Little Miss Ironic, i.e. Little Miss Me, gave out 3 cards. And I got 3 emails.

Mail #1 (cut and pasted and unadulterated, for your reading pleasure): Post-War Doll

Hi xx,

I really enjoyed talking to you last friday night, and I really would like, if we could have the chance to meet for lunch or dinner. As you told me, I would have to send my CV / application first, so here it is :-) :

Objective:
I felt good and comfortable talking to you, and I would like to get to know you and to find out, if you are as sweet as you look.

When I met you:
friday night 27th Jan 06

Please find below my data:

Name:
You know

Address:
Im an Eastcoast boy and i love it there, so normally i stay in a tent on the beach

Place of birth:
The wrong place .... i love to live in the tropics

Race:
Chinese angmo

Date of birth:
10 years earlier than i would prefer

Contact number:
+65 9XX XXXX

Nationality:
Danish by passport - rojak by heart (I have stayed in Singapore 7 years now)

Carrer:

........ can i skip this one !? ...... ok i guess not

-1 marriage which had to come to an end 2 years ago
-2 wonderfull children who lives in Denmark with their mother / my ex-wife
-1 ex-girlfriend

Education:
1965 until now: -school of life

Computer skills:
They call me "The Wizzard"

Languages:
Danish, English, German, a bit of french ... I can also talk non-sense, and after 5 bottles of Stella Artois im convinced i can speak fluently Mandarin

Skills:
-Very very loving guy
-Sincere
-Caring
-Responsible

Activities:
I love outdoor activities but its nice to relax at home sometimes ........ "its boring to be bored and its fun to have fun"

References:
If you wanna hear the bad things: - call my ex-wife
If you wanna hear the good things: - call my mother


PLEEEEEEASE! GIVE ME A CHANCE TO MEET YOU !

It put a smile on my face. But that’s because he spelt “career” wrongly, and my lord! He really sent an application! Now, that’s a first. Flew right into my venus flytrap. 2 stars. Minus one for the age and spelling mistake tho.

Mail #2: The Baby Doll

Hey, you're everywhere! - The pub on Friday, Orchard Road, a website, and now pages of a magazine?!?! it all adds up. You’re the girl my mum warned me about before I set foot on this island. I’m surprised I haven't spotted you in my office building, but I'll keep an eye out for you in Angola next week.

So had a good night on Friday?


Attempt at being funny not gone unnoticed. And a not-so-subtle mention of his activity for next week as conversation stirrer. 3 stars. Haha… and with the email, he attached a picture of me he grabbed from a website and scanned picture of me he grabbed from a magazine. It’s official. he googled me. Plus one for effort.

Mail #3: The Cocky Doll

Hi,

I think you’re very sexy. Do you like big cocks?

*major eyeball-rolling*

5 points. For being short, sharp and spot on.

and Little Miss Ironic, replies them all, in bipolar (dis)orderliness.

The (Controversial) One Night Stand Part II

And then there were 4. Mr. Oohlala, Bix, Mr. Rock Sugar and me.

Back at Mr. Oohlala and Rock Sugar’s place. - It was the penthouse of some condominium. Nicely done, I say. – our drinks were refilled and round 2 of drinking started… the boys were slowing down somewhat, probably because they had more important things at hand – come on, we all know, nursing that hard-on after drinks means no more nursing that whiskey. So there we were, drinking, Bix and Mr. Oohlala on a nice big bed and us on a couch. All eyes on the plasma TV, so we think. Bix was decently drunk. By that I mean sober enough to predict the chain of events that might follow, but drunk enough to let it happen. And I was thinking if Rock Sugar’s arms were bigger than my thighs.

Mr. oohlala was a bloody octopus. Roving hands that knew no boundaries on Bix’s porcelain skin. She let out a little yelp, a little giggle and snuffed it with a soft moan. Rock sugar and I turned our heads to each other and let out a cheeky smile… We had already done the mandatory introductions and hurled the necessary insults and taunts at each other. All our amateur pick-up tricks had been successful and it was time to shed the civil banter and get a little wicked.

So we kissed… A long, hard, hungry kiss.

I like alcohol. It has always been more of an ally than an adversary. it dissolves my inhibitions and absolves me of all blame. Like a true friend… I… like… alcohol... Did I say that already? Because by now, rock sugar had already gone past my lips, my neck, my shoulders, had most of my clothes expertly peeled off… and was heading for a home run. bix and mr. oohlala were just two metres away… but it didn’t matter… I was miles away.

Not enough alcohol.

Cos I sat up, held him by his shoulders and gave a light jerk. He looked at me, half-dazed… and with my half closed eyes, I gave a very debatable shake of the head. His eyes reflected a remarkable understanding of my shoulder-jerk, but his actions spoke otherwise… the home run was thwarted, but that didn’t stop him diving south. I threw my head back, clamped my eyes shut, arched my back and was further away than ever.

But I sat up again. Panting. The fact that I was about to be an exhibitionist was the least of my concerns. It’s the thought of having to face Bix the next day that jolted me. But that’s not why I’m panting. *wink* Anyway, as if sensing my signals once again. He picked me up (easily with one hand) and carried me into his room. This guy can kiss... I was in for a proper treat.

When we got to his room, there was a renewed sense of sobriety. Fearing it will affect us dramatically, he quickly put on some tunes. very.good.tunes. Still, kissing him had a dizzying effect on me, so we started from square one anyways… and something in me snapped. And I said “I can’t” he pressed his forehead on mine, trying to study me. See if all I needed was a proper forced fucking or if I meant that. When he spoke, his breath fell on my face and I actually liked the cigarette-laced dry breath.

Him: “Are you fucking serious? What, you got a boyfriend?”
Me: “no… I don’t”
Him: “you know, I would force myself on you anyway”

I looked at him nervously and he smiled

Him: “just kidding, what do you think I am, some horny horseshit? Hey, if you don’t want to, you don’t want to, it’s cool.”
Me: “it’s just (long ass pause) I’ve…. never had…. a one night stand” I finally blurted (told you this was in 2003. my sex life has since changed very much, not to worry.)
Him: “we’ll do it a few times. Spread it over two nights”
We both laugh…

*pregnant pause*

Him: “wanna smoke?”
Me: “yeah, I got my own”
Him: “no sugar… in my place, we smoke something else” and he takes out a survivor kit
Me: always a fast learner “ohh…”
Him: “bet you’ve never done this too Ms. One-Night-Stand Virgin…”

He taught me a life skill that night - how to roll a tight, fat joint. and we spent the whole night… you got it… talking. Unfuckingbelievable. It’s one of my best nights ever, really.


Postscript: If you must know, the author actually dated Rock Sugar for a few months after that. he was her supplier and she was his junkie. it was truly months of drugs, sex, and rock n roll. they split up for a very good reason - she needed a change. He has since re-located under her egging-on and raking in the chips across the causeway. They remain friends - with benefits. He visits checks in on her every 6 months or so and the relationship has been kept purely sexual and chemical.

Dolls of a Feather

Once upon a time, there were 3 guys in a bar.

All friends. All born and bred in the same country. All in the same industry. All had the yellow fever. And all were blonde hair, blue-eyed Carlsberg-drinking dolls. Each with a different brand of humour. Each with a different charm. Each with a unique strategy. Each from a different age group. One’s in his 40s. another, in his 30s and the last one… you guessed it… in his 20s

Once upon a time, I was by the same bar.

This is a story of very individual cocks - pointed in the same direction.


The Post-War Doll i.e. the one in the 40s

He is old-fashionably handsome, with a regal quality to him. He could very well be some form of untapped royalty. Strong nose, strong jaws, and towering at 1.9 metres, he is made for an Armani suit. But the minute he opened his mouth to speak, the air or refinement he worked up in that 5m walk towards me, dissipated.

Him: *shouting* “er… hiieeee… iii saaww you. Walking… heeere to there… there to here… and I wanted to tell ew… ew look… er. great.”

Do I friggin look retarded?
I later found out that he talks like that all the time. And after every sentence, the vein on his forehead will throb cos he was borderline shouting. It’s the accent. It forces him to speak English like every word needs to make a dent in the wall.
He was first to approach. So not very cool. Plus he was talking to me like I’m a deaf retard. Could be something to do with the old geezer handbook of pick-up-strategies, I don’t know, but from there, everything he did lacked finesse, charisma, and finishing touches.

With exaggerated eyeball rolling, I jokingly replied.
Me: “argh… I’m sick of people liking me for my body”
Him: disbelief in his eyes “haha… and you’re funny too!”

He caught on fast though… and for the next 15 minutes I was on interviewer mode. Like most interviewer-interviewee interactions, I hardly had a chance to give out any interesting bits of information about myself - like my interest in killing pets of all sorts, finishing people’s sentences and my fixation on ben & jerry’s cookie dough ice cream. Why?

Because post-war hero here was telling me his life story.

And what did we find out? Post-War Dolly sits in an office two streets away from mine. Also, his career pathway for the past 8 years. His proficiency in Singlish. Some of the antics of the psycho-girls he has dated. And his divorce.

15 minutes, a saliva-peppered left cheek, and one perforated ear-drum later, I was sending out attention-deficit-damsel-in-distress signals. This included looking over his shoulders, making random eye contact and checking my phone for booty calls. Of course, he takes the last act as a cue for him to ask for my number.

Him: “Orh…. Yeeees. Giver me youuur nummer…” throbbing vein
Me: “no”
Him: incredulous. And with one raised eyebrow and same throbbing vein “what no?!... carrmmon… I’ll take ew out to luuuunch.”
Me: “Girls here are skeptical about giving away their numbers to dodgy, trashy, tacky white guys. You need to send me your resume first.”
Him: loving the taunt, “I af tooo sind ew an applicashen?!?!?! Okok lah… I’ll do that…”

And I gave him my card. Just as I did it, his friend conveniently slipped into the picture, ignoring Mr. Post-War Doll who’d just spent 20 minutes badgering me for my number. He looked me right in the eye, with a swift check at my cleavage, and said cheekily, “Don’t I get one too?” How smooth. Of course he gets a card. Let’s call him The Cocky Doll. – *wink* I’ll explain that.

The Cocky Doll – The one in his 30s

He’s hot. Under the pressed shirt and pants get-up, there was a soccer-ruffian dying to get out. The shirt was white and the pants brown. And ugh… great shoes. Nestled on his throat, a chunky Georg Jensen pendant peeked out from his brusquely undone collar, and the hair looked expertly styled. I seldom pay such compliments, but this guy has great style and exudes a processed amount of sex appeal. Squinty eyes and a small sharp face… he has the face of a rat – a very crafty rat. Don’t get me wrong, he looks pretty darn good really.

Me: “so you just hijack chicks your mate chats up, that’s what you do?”
Him: “yup. I let him bore them first”
Me: “ha, you’re mean.”
Him: “and you’re sexy.”
Me: “oh, you’re discerning too. Discerning skirt-chaser”
Him: “oh come on… I have other interests”
Me: “please. Like what? killing babies?”
Him: “half right. Killing baby seals”
Me: “oh but in Singapore you could get a fine for that. And a jail-term for a blow job. Depending if you’re giving on receiving though”
Him: “no la. I heard they castrate you”
Me: “oh yes. With a butter knife”
Him: “a rusty butter knife”
Me: “you can talk shit!”
Him: “yeah you too. We should get married. (pause) oh, but I’m not free on Saturdays, I got football practice, get married on a Monday?”
Me: “no can do. I got yoga class.”

We both shrugged at the cruel joke the heavens have played on us. He took my card, stuffed his into my hand and left to talk to some other chick. All the time making timely eye checks at me. What a player. I like.

And just as I’m about to leave, another doll appears before me…

The Baby Doll – The one in his 20s

Baby smooooooth skin. Megawatt smile. Straight teeth. Bright eyes. Typical young punk expat who’s wondering how to spend the unbelievable amount of money he’s making. I mean, there’re only so many play stations and ipod one needs. He’s what we call fresh meat. Loving the asian attention and believing he’s living the it life right now. He is the shit, although he’s terribly sincere and earnest and a puppy at heart. Undeniably handsome but nondescript. You get the impression that his face would be otherwise lost in the sea of white guys.

“you want to be wary of those two guys” he said
Me: “oh, thanks for the advice doll, I’m sure they have more to be afraid of.”
Him: probably not used to any girl making a comeback “Oh really?”
Me: “yes. Really.”

And I left. The next day, I get 3 emails.

The Beautiful Boxer

Me: “Oh myyyy gaaawwwwd!!! This guy is fuck.king.hot.” nudging my homegirl. hard.
Anjali: always quick to react, snaps her head 360 degrees. “Oh, I know him. He’s hot. But he’ll never like you babe…”
Me: took one last look at him and turned to Anjali… zeal in my eyes and in a nothing-is-impossible-for-a-seven-year-old tone. “and why is that?”
Anjali: I’ve been dying to fuck him. But he’s a close family friend. So he’s out. Super hot, super shady, heard he’s done time before. big time badass... And… he only likes Indian girls babe. He’s dated all these girls that are fucking beautiful. They got nothing up there of course, but yeah, fuck-ing beau-ti-ful. *biting her lip in an attempt to be a ventriloquist* shut up. He’s coming this way.

He makes a beeline for Anjali. Holds her by the waist. Forceful grip. Check. Defined jawline. Check. Tight butt. Check. Intense eyes, sharp nose, charisma. Check check check. He playfully rubs his thumb on her back and goes, “You gotta stop looking so goooood, girl…”

one.sexy.motherfucker.

Anjali took her time flirting with him and laughing at his jokes before remembering to introduce us. One handshake later, he was on his way.

Me: “so, is he smart?”
Anjali: “he has his moments. A pathological flirt though. Good thing is, he doesn’t sleep around. He’s very selective about who he fucks. I soooo wanna fuck him.”
Me: “Me too!”
Anjali: “I have a slight advantage, I’m afraid.”
Me: “just cos you’re half Indian?”
Anjali: unapologetically “Yup.”

Anjali: “So we’re on.”
Me: “what’s on?”
Anjali: “W.F.H.F”
Me: “what’s that?”
Anjali: “Who’ll. Fuck. Him. First. I’m going to win.”
Me: “Screw you. I’m going to win. Loser buys beer.”


trreeet titit treet. That’s my SMS tone.

Anjali: gonna give tonight a miss babe. You girls have fun. Big kiss.
Me: ok. I’m stuck with ms. Hanger-on tonight. Wish you were here. Next time then. X
Anjali: if I’m not there, you stand a bigger chance. WFHF.
Me: Fuck you. But thanks anyway.

So I walk into the club with Ms. Hanger-On and headed straight for the bar… on the way to the bar, I see HIM. He looks at me, and gives me a stern nod, followed by a teasing smile. I throw him a flirty frown and said “don’t I know you stranger… Remember me, anjali’s friend?” and he said, “of course I do… face like yours, how to forget?” and we stood there, for three full seconds soaking in the sexual tension, before he leaned in to give me a kiss. He pressed his cheeks against mine and planted a dangerously lingering one. I could smell his perfume. Strong and masculine. From the corner of my eye, I saw ms. Hanger-on having a successful night getting the 20 yr old ah beng of a bartender to buy her drinks… I was just thinking she’s learning the ropes fast, when he said something that completely jolted me back into game.

Him: “What are you doing later?”
Me: “huh? later?” like i’ve never heard the word before. What a complete pillock.
Him: “I’m going to pop by another club first. And I’ll be back here at 4. will I see you?”
Me: “Will you?” (fucking dumb blonde I just turned into. I’m usually a lot more engaging. The promise of good cock sends my conversational skills into space)
Him: “Give me your number.”

And so we met at 4. I was careful to make it look like I had lots of stuff to do in between, although all I could think of was what to SMS Anjali after I scored. He walked in… and with fluttering eyes, mock surprise and a weak smile I said “hey, you came back… just in time to say goodbye… I gotta go…”

Works like a charm. Cos he puts me in a cab, climbs in and says… “Where do you live again?” I looked at him, no words came out of my mouth. He put his arms around me and I obediently buried my head in his chest, and he gave the taxi driver his address. 20-minute cab ride and we were kissing like teenagers.

Pretty Fucking Mind Blowing.

I woke up. Seeing him in the day for the first time; his body for the first time. His back was inked with various tattoos. Some on their own, some a kaleidoscope of colours and some were obvious cover ups of memories best forgotten. I looked around his place from where I laid, I saw old trophies. Some pictures, and made a quick deduction that he was a one-time professional boxer… explains everything, I thought… then he woke up. We looked at each other for the first time in sobriety and daylight, and we both smiled, probably both thinking thank god he/she looks the same. I ran my finger on a name inked on his chest. He looked down, as if he needed to remind himself what he tattooed on his chest, gave a grimace and said. “ex-girlfriend” I gave a nod and pointed to another. And he said “that’s my favourite”… then I said, “so, I hear you only date Indian girls”, to which he replied. “your source is rubbish”… He made me wear his oversized t-shirt and his size 11 flip flops and brought me down for breakfast. He showed me his hood, brought me back to his place, popped in a dvd, told me his mini plans for his bachelor pad, told me Jamie Foxx and him are similar, and we made sweet shag again.

The minute I got away. I SMSed:
“babe, we have to meet tonight. I’d like to claim my beer.”