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.