For Girlies Only - Chicken Fillets In a Bag
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Posted:Apr 8, 2008 4:11 pm
Last Updated:May 6, 2008 9:40 pm 5067 Views
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I have truly surreal conversations sometimes. There we were, 10 women in a quiet studio late at night. The class had barely started when a student put her hand up to ask a question.
"How do you do that thing with your chest?"
"I beg your pardon????"
It turned out that quite a few of them had been struggling with isolating their pectoral muscles from their shoulders. We spent the next 15-20 minutes working on the mechanisms and drills when the same inquisitive student suddenly burst out, "It's because we have no chests, isn't it?" in frustration.
After assuring her that it was not the case, as blokes can do that and most of them did not have boobs, they started an assault of really personal questions.
"Are you wearing a bra?"
"What kind of bra do you wear?"
"How come you can do that if you are not wearing a push-up or paddings?"
"You don't ever wear padded bras, do you?"
"What kind of bras should we wear in order to do that?"
"How come the water bra I bought does not help me do the chest pops you do?"
Next thing you knew, we were having a tutorial not about dance techniques but about falsies.
Now, most of these ladies are mature, slightly conservative and very, very Asian. A few of them are medical doctors and we immediately dismissed the idea of breast implants as way too drastic an option.
I am not sure why they thought I would be able to shed light on headlights augmentation. Most of them had seen me in the altogether when we had to go to a Japanese bath together once. However, I was so nonplussed by the turn of the conversation that I started imparting some third-hand information on falsies.
Those gel-like fillets are better options if you stuff them into a push-up bra.
Why not the water bras?
Don't think those work as water is a live element and it can go in different direction with a buoyancy not seen in breastuses terra-firma, I think.
Oh. What about having serious sponge paddings?
I suppose those could work but my friends tell me that they do not bounce as naturally.
Your friends? Dancers too? What do they use?
Oh, my drag queen friends. They use condoms.
WHAT????
Er ...
I now had to explain my friends' unusual falsies experimentations.
Apparently, water in balloons do not work. They burst too easily and you look like you were leaking milk from one breast. Two if you are lucky. Or not ...
Ziploc bags with water are weird-shaped and pokey in the wrong places.
Sponge paddings made your falsies look too hard and stand at attention in a bad way.
Chicken fillets are the safest option but the queens do not like them as much as you need some form of breasts for them to stick on to. So since most of them do not have moobs ... they prefer the next option.
Water-filled condoms apparently look the most realistic, do not burst as easily and feel the most natural. Don't ask. I didn't.
You wear these by stuffing them into those granny bras or full-figured bras and double-siding the edges of the bra to your skin so the condoms do not jump up and plaster across someone's face.
This works on queens and so far has not been tested on chicks.
We were in hysterics by the time I disclosed the last bit of information and much time was spent discussed the type of condoms that will be most resilient and hardy.
I am awaiting the test results from these bunch of ladies at some point.
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Bloke in a Frock
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Posted:Apr 6, 2008 9:47 am
Last Updated:Apr 23, 2008 2:36 pm 4586 Views
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We all hold illusions about ourselves. Mine is that I see myself as a tomboy.
I am an only and growing up, was pretty much the only around. Thus, everyone around me was an adult and although there are a lot of women around, for some reason, I tended to gravitate towards the male members of the family.
I suppose the females annoyed me with their constant bitchy chatter and whining. I used to get headaches just being around them and would run off to the garden to hide. I would find my grandfather there, doing the same.
At first, I was rather shy and would not invade his sanctuary, hying off to another part of the garden so I did not disturb his peace.
Then slowly, I realised he did not mind my company and thus began our not-so-secret session in the garden.
The women were forever trying to dress me up. They would pull my long hair into elaborate plaids and ponytails, usually with some sparkly, ruffly thing or loads of ribbons and fluffy birds nests. I would get a headache from all that pulling and run off to the garden again, where I would try to pull all the bloody things out.
My grandfather was too terrified of my grandmother to help me but my uncle would take pity on me and help release me from the hairy torture devices.
Then he would take me for a drive so I could feel the wind through my hair and escape the scary women.
I was not allowed to wear a pair of jeans till my early teens when I knicked a pair from my youngest aunt who was the same size as me. My grandmother thought trousers were unladylike and even if I could wear them, jeans were far too undignified.
My other uncle would take me for picnics by the lake and he secretly bought me a pair of jeans that I could change into and we would play badminton till we inevitably lost all our shuttlecocks into the murky waters.
I had a favourite tree in our garden that I used to climb and hide in with my storybooks and read for hours. Usually during the time I was supposed to be in dance class. I never thought to change trees and thus, was always caught and punished rather severely when found out.
My uncle who was an avid gardener would see me in my tree but never told on me. He would just smile and put his finger to his lips and walk away.
My aunt who liked to pick the fruits from that tree would immediately scream my name out loud so my grandmother could come and literally pull me out of the tree by my ear.
Suffice to say, I was always fonder of the males in our family than the females.
This played out in school too. Or rather Catechism classes. I tended to bond with the boys more. We would read comics or talk about the latest Thunder Birds (don't make me feel old now) episode. I was quite confused when the girls started to turn surly and remote towards me, till another girlfriend told me they thought I was flirting with the boys too much.
Me? Flirt????
I was stunned and it was the first time I realised that others might see me quite differently from how I perceived myself. As I saw myself as not much different from the boys except the school made me wear a skirt and I had longer hair. Oh yeah, they had this thing that made them able to pee really far away and when I asked where mine went, the nuns got awfully quiet and asked to speak with my grandmother.
Anyway, I never saw myself as a girl girl, you know? I did not like to play with dolls. I hated tying my hair up. I always tore my dresses and skirts and I cannot tell you the number of times I tripped over them, falling face down and hurting myself. I was forever hitching them up so I could walk faster. I fell asleep when the girls talked about which boy was cute.
Looking back, I am not sure what the boys thought of me. I suspect they did not know what to think at first but after a while, realised I was really a bloke in a frock.
Which is how I always think of myself.
Then puberty hit.
What on the earth are those two things on my chest? Suddenly, I kept losing my balance. My balance was definitely off. I could not throw properly anymore. Running was a pain as those bloody things jiggled. You had one other item of clothing to wear now. It was an evil joke.
Everyone treated you differently now. Girls made malicious comments. Boys started avoiding you or acted really strangely around you. And they no longer looked you in the eyes and either kept averting their eyes or staring at your chest.
Your body changes seemingly overnight into this thing that makes girls blink nastily at you the first time they see you and boys treat you like the lady who's always at the lamp post in the middle of town who only comes out at night. You wear really baggy clothes and try to remain inconspicuous but you are cursed by being in dance and gym, which means you are constantly in leotards and dance clothes.
You also realise you have a pair of eyes that seemed ... I don't know what it is but somehow, it made people think naughty things. Short of walking around with your eyes shut, which is not a good idea as you are clumsy enough with them open, there seemed no way to convince people you were not into half the naughty things they imagine.
Of course, I learnt how to overcome all these. But always, in the back of my mind, there is a slight bewilderment that I turned out like this when really, I still feel like a bloke in a frock. Mentally anyway.
I think it was a cruel twist of fate and someone with a very evil sense of humour to make me look the way I do. I do like girly stuff like makeup and clothes and the such and that has made my assimilation into feminine society much easier. But some things still make me go to sleep with my eyes wide open and a frozen smile of seeming empathy.
Things like who fancies who. Who's cute and their latest romantic escapade. Lord, I would rather be locked up in a room and made to listen to country and western music. Or given a razor blade to slice my wrist.
Blokes don't really do that. They make off-colour comments about a shaggable female and then they remember you're female too. They laugh and slap you on the back and say, "Aw, you're different, though, WHF ... here, have a pint!" and then you drink up and make your own share of off-colour jokes.
So, I was asked out on a date next Saturday. I agreed and apparently now there are a few snide comments from the women.
"Gee, has she no shame?"
"Notice she is always off with the blokes alone? They don't invite us!"
"What the hell does he see in her? She's old enough to be his mother?"
Yes, an 18-year-old boy asked me out. Being that young, he did not have the sense to ask me out in private and did so in full view and hearing of the bunch of harpies who made the above comments.
Firstly, the "no shame" comment. Yes, I fully admit I have no shame. Why should I? I'm not married or attached. Neither is he. Also, he's a lot of fun and we're just going out for dinner and dancing. The vertical kind, not the horizontal mambo, you pervs!
Secondly, I'm always off with the blokes because they are running away from you and your gossiping and whining. And I bugger off with them to escape you! We go to the pubs for pints to wash away the bad taste you left behind. That's why you're not invited. Comprende?
Thirdly, he sees in me a dancer and dance teacher with whom he can hang out with. Although he said "date", it's just a couple of dancers hanging out. He knew I will be in his town next week and he's just gonna show me around his local haunts. It's called hospitality, you spiteful shrews.
And yes, I am old enough to be his mum and his mum knows it and that's why she trusts us going out on a "date".
Of course, all these nasty comments were not directed to me or even said in my hearing. I had to hear from it from various parties to whom the vipers' whisperings were hurled.
See? That's why I sometimes prefer to hang out with blokes. A bloke would have the balls to say to my face,
"Yo, on a date with a 18-year-old, eh? Hitting them young, eh? You old cougar tart! Go easy on him and bring condoms. Hahahaha!"
I will thwap him, call him a perv and then drink a couple of pints, while I make fun of his faulty faculties.
So much easier.
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Even The Elephant Man Has Admirers
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Posted:Apr 4, 2008 10:21 am
Last Updated:Apr 23, 2008 2:36 pm 4497 Views
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I'm really a wimp. I cannot watch shows like ER or Chicago Hope without feeling ill. No, no, I am not casting aspersion about the acting quality (WHF, do not raise that eyebrow ... no, no ... damn) or the script.
I am talking about the blood. I cannot watch people being cut up, bleeding or in extreme pain without wincing and looking away. I get nauseous when they show graphic operating room scenes.
But I can watch real life autopsies and monitor myself getting injections and the such with no compunction. I can fillet, gut and skin in the kitchen amidst much blood and gore and it does not faze me. It's weird. I admit it.
Thus, I really, really hate doctors and I always marvel that so many of my good friends are doctors and I spend so much time in hospitals despite my deep dislike.
As some of you know, I was ill the last week and as usual, they gave me an arsenal of pills. All was well until I left for another country.
After being away for so long, I was not sure which doctor to patronise and was referred to one near my hotel. I just wanted to ensure that my last round of treatment was on course.
The man gave me new antibiotics and some other oral medications. I warned him I was highly sensitive to medicine and he told me that only 1 out of 100 people developed side effects to the antibiotics.
So I went back and took the medicine just before I went to bed.
And guess what, I am special. I make the 1 out of 100 people.
I went to bed as WHF and woke up as ... The Elephant Man.
My eyes were swollen almost shut and they itched and stung. I also had a queasy stomach and heart palpitations. Right, off I went to get dress, donned some dark shades so I did not have to go "I am a Man ... no woman ... no ... aw, bugger", and dragged my pissed off self to berate the doctor.
He wasn't there. The man had gone to play golf. I was so irritated I had some rather creative ideas about 9 irons and golf balls.
I saw another doctor and had to have an injection and another arsenal of pills just in order to catch my flight out the same day.
So it was a rather groggy and irate WHF who went to the airport. I must have looked a sight as the immigration people were super helpful and polite to me. One even held my jacket for me as I went through the detector.
Once on board, I took the rest of medication so I could sleep throughout the entire flight, in the hopes my eyes would subside and I could see properly again.
I fell asleep. Only to be awakened by someone poking me on the shoulder.
Some Chinese-looking bloke with a strange accent.
"Yes?" rubbing my eyes as they still itched.
"Are you OK?"
"Oh, no worries. Sorry to worry you but it's just an allergic reaction. I've taken the proper medication so I should be fine in a few hours. Thanks for your concern though.
"OK, OK. I sit next to you and take care of you. You can sleep on my shoulder."
Raised eyebrow. Nothing happened, mind you that you could see, as my eyes were still the size of golf balls and I just looked like I had a bizarre twitch.
"Er ... that's OK ... really. I do not need to sleep on anyone's shoulder. I just need sleep. Thanks," I was edging away as far as I could in my seat from him now.
"No, no. You sick. I take care of you. You don't worry," and the madman starts leaning towards me with his hands stretched out to pull me towards him.
Woah!
I may not see very well and look like John Hurt at the moment but I am going to put the hurt on you if you do not back off.
Pure instincts kicked in and I grabbed his shoulder with one hand as one leg came up to thrust up into his chest, while the other hand twisted his face & head in the opposing direction.
His falling into the passengers in the next aisle caused the cabin crew to come running. Fortunately some of the other passengers had been watching him harass me and he was carted off post haste.
So there I am, feeling like pooh and some psycho troll decides he has a thing for the Elephant Man on steroids.
The up side is that I got fabulous service after that, They kept apologising, coddling me, sending stuff over and making sure no one bothered me. The old couple across the aisle even sent her hand-knitted blankie to cover me up.
Another couple actually walked me out and waited with me for my car to come pick me up.
By now my eyes had subsided enough that my vision was not as impaired but it's nice to see that human kindness is not extinct.
The down side is that I slept so much on the flight I can't sleep now and I have a series of meetings in the morning.
Yes, MM, I hear you. I am a troll magnet.
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Doughnuts
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Posted:Apr 3, 2008 11:34 am
Last Updated:Apr 8, 2008 11:40 am 4812 Views
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Boredom is a terrible thing. So is too much sugar.
I had to sit through the rehearsals of a group of young ladies today. I was not involved in any way except being a little too early for my private and so I quietly sat in a corner, minding my own beeswax till they vacated the studio.
One of them recognised me though and there went my precious minutes of peace and quiet. They obnoxiously and shrilly begged me to critique their choreography and dancing and insisted they could take all my brutal honesty.
I did not know them and was not sure how much criticism they could withstand. I was also not sure who their teacher was and did not want to stumble into a political minefield or make a faux pas.
So it was with some wariness that I watched them.
They chose one of my favourite songs. An upbeat and very old song that is a relevant classic even after more than decade. As expected, they pranced and jumped all over the place to the music and grinned and teased, like Paris Hilton in front of her paparazzi, throughout their routine.
It was so painful, I ended up eating all the mini doughnuts I had bought for tea after my private session with Mr Perv and Ms Stuck with Perv.
All 12 of them. Yeah. 4 choccie and peanut ones, 3 cinnamon and sugar ones, 2 maple sugar (my faves of the lot - should have bought more), 1 choccie, and 1 plain sugar doughnut. Within 4 minutes.
That's how much pain I was in. I wolved those babies down like they were my lifelines.
So it explains why I was totally honest with them. Never a good thing. Especially when I am on a sugar high.
I started gently by asking them if they understood or even knew the name of the song.
One of them did but she had mistaken the name of the album for the song title. Most of them thought the song was named after one of the singers.
I really wished I had more doughnuts.
I asked them who they were dancing for. And they said it was for an international conference of high level economists. Which means at least one of them might be from the country of origin of the song.
I resisted the urge to slap my hand to my forehead in despair.
Right.
Firstly, ladies, this song is about a man. A very special man. A poet and a prophet.
I translated a few stanzas of the song for them. Literally it sings to a "lady' and extolls her beauty and how he missed being in her arms and basking in her beauty. He is exiled from her but he yearns to return to her one day and asks God to help him survive the long separation from her.
One of the girls, fancying herself a bit of an intellectual, scoffed at the song and sneered that it was a rather silly song that was not very deep.
I blame all the sugar. I really do.
Bristling, I started ...
Young lady, the song is named after a prophet and poet. Do you think a song bold enough to use the name of a saint for a song title would be that simple? The song lyrics actually mean he is exiled from home and he is singing of his homeland. He wishes to be back in the arms of the "lady" and asks God to guide him home one day.
It is also a political song railing against a government that will exile anyone daring enough to voice their discontent. It laments the silencing of the real voice of the people. It preaches to the people not to forget the beauty of their homeland which was slowly being covered by the cloak of intolerance and misery. It reminds them of their own voices in a song sung from across the seas in a foreign land where people do not understand that poetry and music is the only way to disguise the pain of separation.
By now I was quite annoyed and informed them that to do justice to any song, they should at least know what the lyrics meant. And not wallow in their own superiority spawned from self-satisfied ignorance.
And since it is a song about a prophet, it was inappropriate to dance to it like a music video by Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson. Oh, shudder.
Fortunately for them, Mr Perv arrived just then and seeing the shellshocked expression on the girls' faces, recognised immediately that they had just been treated to a bout of WHF Brutal Honesty.
Smart man. He offered to buy me a hot chocolate before we started our session.
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Forgotten Sisters
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Posted:Apr 2, 2008 4:14 pm
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2008 7:20 am 4190 Views
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The maids quaked silently at the burst of tempestuous gale that buffeted against the burnished walls of the inner palace. It hurled itself from one hapless chaise lounge before flinging its angry arms around a previously immaculate pillow, now bedraggled in the incensed grip of its captor.
Night Wind's normally perfectly-coifed tresses were disheveled and mussed from the constant running of agitated fingers through the ill-fated strands. She was unnaturally flushed. Her pale skin was a bright peach and her breathing was agitated and staccato in rhythm.
Pika bravely stuttered, "Pri ... Princess Night Wind, you do not look well. Please calm yourself with some tea. And perhaps a bath?"
Some of the other maids looked at her in wide-eyed admiration and pitying inevitability.
The wrinkled pillow flew overhead and Pika instinctively shied back as the well-padded missile hit her in the neck and rebounded with a sullen thud on the floor.
"Shut up! Just shut up and leave me alone! Why cannot you leave me alone! I do not want bloody tea and I do not need a bath! Stupid tea and baths! Is that all you have in your brains? Water?"
The ranting girl flung herself out of the chaise lounge and every single person in the room cringed. She had been on the rampage for the last hour and they wondered that she did not tire. Some of them were wilting just from holding their breaths in fear of exhaling too loudly and calling attention to themselves.
Night Wind's tantrums were infamous in the palace. She once threw a pair of scissors at a maid who had the audacity to answer back to her. Fortunately, her aim was not true or there would have been a dead servant girl carted out of the palace that night.
She paced the room like a restless, raging tiger, ready to leap and tear shreds and slivers of reluctant flesh from those unfortunate enough to cross her path. Everyone made sure to stick to the far edges and corners of the room, allowing and hoping that her fury will spend itself.
She hung her head down as staggered eruptions of searing ire puffed up the jagged fringe of her forlorn dark locks .
"How dare he? I am a princess and he turns down the chance to be with me? How dare he?"
She tossed onto her side and stared at the intertwining leaves embroidered in gold and black on the chaise lounge. Picking at a few threads peevishly with one fingernail, she felt unaccustomed tears sting her eyes.
"Why? Why did he not want to be with me? Is home so important? What is there at home that he cannot find with me here?"
Her mind started racing as she wondered how she could make him change his mind. Did he not realise what he was turning down?
Perhaps it would be hard at first to work in the shadows to turn her father's eye and the court's sentiments in his favour. But she was smarter than all of them combined and what she put her mind to, she always achieved. Did he doubt her ability? Did he not trust her? Why did he reject her offer? What could it mean? Why?
The sudden pivot of her head towards the door startled the maids, causing one particularly timid girl to whimper sharply, drawing a pair of glittering eyes in her direction.
"You! Get a bath ready for me. And lay out the red gown with the golden roses," NIght Wind sat up abruptly and wiped her tears slowly as a stony look of determination hardened her face.
No one thwarted her. If Bernard thought he could get away with disregarding her feelings and good intentions, he had better think again.
Dashing a quick note out on the perfumed vellum paper she had acquired from the West, she bade Pika deliver it to its intended destination.
*
Night Cloud returned to hear the maids whispering quietly in a corner. Perturbed, she asked, "What is going on? Why are you girls crowded in a corner gossiping?"
Pika kept her eyes downcast as she stepped forward.
"Princess, it's the Princess Night Wind. She has been in a state since she returned home. Crying and tearing things apart. It was quite frightening. Then suddenly it just ... stopped. She was shouting one moment and then when she stepped into the baths, she seemed to calm down and had some tea. And suddenly she just fainted. We were so afraid and were just going to summon the Royal Doctor but were afraid to inform the King as he is so angry at the moment."
The panicked maid stopped for breath, gasping and trying to collect her thoughts before the older princess.
"No! No ... she is just ... tired. From all that emotional break down. Do not call the Royal Doctor or inform Father. Just let her rest. We shall just watch over her. Una, go prepare some broth with the special herbs we obtained today."
Una caught the hidden instructions in the careful words and set off for the kitchens, dragging an unsure Pika with her.
Night Cloud walked towards her sister's section of the bedchambers and sat next to her reposed sibling. Slowly, she drew her hand gently across the furrowed brow of the sleeping princess.
"Even in sleep you are troubled, my sister. Do not worry. I shall watch over you and together we will defeat the evil spirit. We have more medicine for you from Troubled Waters. All will be well. Trust me, my sister."
In her sleep, Night Wind was dreaming of a gentle zephyr that caressed her brow even as it brought the faint smell of decay with it. Her brow furrowed further, inviting a soothing smoothing from a pair of alabaster hands.
*
Golden Lily was quite pleased with herself. She had sent the message to her husband that the first part of their plans were in place without even the machinations of their original plan. The fates had played into their hands quite nicely, which only proved that the gods were on their side.
As she walked past the quiet peacock gardens, an assessing pair of eyes watched her scheming shadow from a quiet pavilion in the corner. A shuffling of feet drew them away from the gloating princess as a folded note came to rest before them.
*
"Father, I think you are too precipitous. We must not listen to just one source of information. Perhaps we should wait to hear from Night Cloud before making a decision," the elegant pair of hands lifted the golden chalice serenely to vermilion lips.
"One source? I have heard from at least three different sources since this afternoon. Everyone has seen her cavorting all over the city with this foreigner! It is a disgrace! How can we marry her off now without bringing shame upon us?" The furious KIng glared at her through mutinous brows.
Unperturbed, the calm princess smiled gently before lifting orbs of quiet strength and aged-knowledge encased in a tranquil symmetry of quiet beauty.
The monarch felt his temper easing a little as the insistent aura of peace his eldest always emanated surrounded him. Somehow, the very fact it calmed him made him slightly more peevish. How that happened every time she was around was a mystery to him. He was not quite sure he liked it.
Rain Orchid studied her father fondly as she chose her words carefully.
"Sometimes we see what others intend for us to see. It colours our perception unevenly if we do not allow the other shades to assert themselves."
The king resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. He was fond of his eldest but her constant pontification of ambiguous analogies drove him quite mad sometimes. Why could women not just say what they meant without cloaking it in so many words?
"What do you mean, ?"
"I simply mean that there could be more to the stories than what you are being told. How did the stories start and how much of it is true can only be confirmed by the parties involved. We should perhaps ask Night Wind directly and summon this foreigner into court to question him. But we would have to be careful as he works for a powerful company and we should not invite the foreigners' censure by reacting rashly."
"Hmmm ... but if we summon him in, everyone would think that I approve of him. Let's just arrest him and then we can question him in the prisons."
"That might work if he did not work for the local representative of one of the biggest companies linked to the Eron court. If we arrest him arbitrarily, we might invite their retaliation. We must conduct this more discreetly too or it will sully our name even more," Rain Orchid looked limpidly at her father as she smoothed her skirt across her knee.
The King tried not to show his disgruntled agreement and kept silent as he weighed his options and calculated the chess pieces.
"What if it is true, Rain Orchid? I will have to punish her as we cannot let such a violation of court rules go unanswered. You know the rules."
Rain Cloud's eyes soften with compassion as she saw the old man's fears of a life without his favourite . Her voice was a soothing balm of soft sympathy as she offered to speak with her youngest sister.
*
The maids were getting worried. The princess had slept the whole day and missed dinner. She had hardly stirred except to mutter incoherently a few times, prompting Una to spoon tiny sips of tea through her parched lips.
Night Cloud sat in silent vigil by her sister. She was calm for the first time in weeks knowing that the over-long sleep was only the sign of NIght Wind's battle against the evil spirit that had invaded her consciousness. Only in sleep could she fight this most fearsome enemy.
She watched her sister's face and continued her painstaking sewing of a snuff bottle pouch for her father. A shadow darkened the stitch she was just picking through the stretched silk, causing her to start and almost prick herself.
She spun her head up to stare into a smiling pair of eyes.
"Sister! You startled me!" she breathed out in relief. Standing, she beamed and gratefully fell into the wide arms of her eldest sister.
So warm and gentle. The familiar scent of wild orchids and cloves. She loved this smell. It always made her feel so safe and at peace. She unconsciously rubbed her cheek against her sister's shoulder and suddenly felt an unbidden sob rise up and almost tumbled onto the silk-clad limb.
She bit her lip and lifted her head to stare at Rain Orchid.
"How is it you come, sister? Not that I am not glad to see you but I am just surprised," Night Cloud started feeling a small thread of unease wheedle itself into her brain.
"Ah, I just thought I should visit my two favourite sisters. It's been far too long. And I heard Night Wind has been unwell. Is it true?"
The younger half-sibling kept her eyes on her sewing as she feared the intelligent and all-seeing eyes of the acknowledged genius among the princesses. Even NIght Wind could not compare to Rain Cloud's renowned superior mental abilities.
"She has just been over-tired recently and caught a slight cold. She just needs a lot of rest."
"Has the Royal Doctors been to see her? What medication has she been given?"
"Ah! No! I mean, no, there is no need to call for the Royal Doctors for such a slight illness. She has just been taking tea and broths as well as some steamed chicken to keep her strength up. Do not worry, sister, I am taking good care of her."
Rain Cloud narrowed her eyes slightly at her sister's down-bent head. Something was wrong with the picture. She meandered seemingly aimlessly around the room, picking up an ornament here, examining a tapestry there, all the while making a sure path towards Night Wind's bed.
"I am sure you are. You two have always been the closest of all the sisters. The years of being outcast by the others have made you two cling to each other. I have always regretted being married and away from home so early and thus, being unable to ease your years here," Rain Orchid looked regretfully at Night Cloud as she remembered the young sisters clinging to each other and sobbing from the window of their bedchamber as they watched their eldest sister carried off in the wedding palanquin.
The vision of the two frightened and desperate 's tear-stained faces haunted her for years, driving a cleaving wedge of regret and worried sorrow through her heart.
Night Cloud looked up with eyes gone soft and moist with the remembered panic of two abandoned . "It is not your fault, sister. You were always kind to us and when you left, we felt as if our only friend in the whole world had been taken from us. But fortunately, Night Wind was so clever. She managed to find her way into Father's attention and charmed him into remembering us.
If not for Night Wind, we might have been forgotten all those years ago. She always said she learnt all the tricks from watching you," Night Cloud smiled sweetly and in gentle acceptance.
Rain Orchid stopped in her tracks and looked over at Night Cloud, whose embroidery hoop fell listlessly from her hands as she remembered the days between Rain Orchid's departure and Night Wind's first gueriila attack on getting themselves under the protection of their father.
As their eyes met again, Night Cloud's eyes were clouded with the remnant tears of a bewildered chid left to fend for itself without the protection of an adult. Rain Orchid's blurred with sympathetic pain and maternal regret. Her own daughters were her most precious treasure on whom she lavished all her love and attention because of the guilty memory of her two forgotten sisters.
Rousing herself, she carefully and efficiently sealed the mental painting of her daughters back into their precious compartment in her heart.
"Let us go see to Night Wind and you can tell me all about this young man that has caused such a storm in a teacup."
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Left, Right, Left, Tit, Left ...
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Posted:Apr 2, 2008 12:39 pm
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2008 7:27 am 4067 Views
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I've never had a crush on a teacher. Ever. Part of the reason could be that I was always in a convent school or all-girls boarding school and most of the teachers were females.
But then again, I seldom have crushes on anyone. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I have had a crush on someone and still have fingers left free. I think it's because my head is so busy on other things that it is truly the last thing on my mind. So I was always slightly puzzled and perturbed by my girlfriends' swooning fits or stalkerish behaviour when they fancied a guy or a celebrity. In school, I even had to pretend to have crushes so people would not think I am odd.
The couple of times I actually did fancy someone, I was rather disastrous. I was more inclined to be terribly embarrassed, refuse to meet their eyes or acknowledge their presence, pretend great interest in a book and by the time I read past the third chapter, I would really have had forgotten they were there.
We had a very flamboyant dance teacher, as they usually are, who was quite the ladies man. Despite the fact he was short, wiry, aging and rather oily, women seemed to fall all over themselves for his thick accent, big eyes, broad smile and extravagant charm.
I liked him. He was a downright funny bloke and was immensely talented. I started taking lessons from him, a little on the sly, as I was from the rival dance company. But I wanted to broaden my scope and range so I trotted over to his classes and was very impressed.
It is a measure of how talented I thought him that I did not bugger off on the first day. By the first 30 minutes, I could tell he was a rather touching feely type of teacher but he seemed fairly respectful of the boundaries thus far.
Then it came to me. While demonstrating a particular forward movement, he told me to walk forward into him while exerting a backward resistance. To illustrate his point, he decided to put his hand forward to aid me.
Right over my left tit.
Happily squishing me with his hand, he did not blink as I blinked owlishly at him, looked down and back at him again. Everyone snickered.
So I said, "Oy, do you mind?" And moved his hand to my shoulder.
To his credit, he never did anything like that again. To my credit, I did not hit him or throw a wobbly because he turned out to be one of the best darn teachers I ever had.
Still, I could never really relax around him and was always wary and distant even when I was friendly and respectful.
He ended up getting one of the girls preggers and they have three together now. But he was still trying it on with other dancers around the world.
I bumped into him by accident in the local supermarket recently and we were both terribly surprised and delighted. It had been years and I politely inquired about his and his girlfriend.
So he asked me if I had been working on my craft and I had to apologise and confess that I had neglected our dance form for years and needed polishing up. We agreed to arrange for a private lesson to work on some techniques. I told him I would call his girlfriend since she managed his schedule and he told me to just call him directly instead.
Suddenly I felt a phantom pressure on my left tit.
It started getting tighter when he remarked that I looked fantastic. Mind you, this was right after I had landed after a very long, exhausting flight and probably looked like the dog's pooh. He put his arm around my waist and asked what I had been doing to myself to look so good.
Hmmm, let's see? Thwapping pervs like you?
So I said, working on my craft and you know what? I think I will arrange with your girlfriend for the private. I would like her there too as she has a couple of techniques I would really like to work through with her as well.
Smiling politely down at him (yes, he is that short), I asked for her number and he had no choice but to give it to me.
I remember how so many of my girlfriends had a crush on him. When he got his girlfriend preggers, it somehow made him even more desirable to them in some strange, unfathomable way. I just thought he was an irresponsible and horny git.
I always felt sorry for his girlfriend, especially as all the girls who claimed to feel sorry for her would flirt with him incessantly.
I always feel a terrible conflict. On one hand, I have such admiration and respect for some male dancer/teachers because of their sheer talent and how giving they are as teachers. On the other side of the coin, their personal behaviour inspires nothing but disdain in me. Usually, I can push that aversion away and concentrate on being totally focused and professional in my behaviour and attitude towards them. As long a it does not touch me.
But once it does, the gloves are off.
I don't know. I hated it when teachers hit on you in school. I hated it when your gynae asks you out to dinner. I think it's not on. It crosses the line, violates your trust and makes you want to commit bodily violence on them. Except you have a feeling they might bloody enjoy it.
So you do the next best thing. You make them sweat as you talk to their girlies and smile mysteriously while doing it.
I'm glad I bought three tubs of Ben & Jerry's at the supermarket now. I'm gonna need them tomorrow. Protective chainmail bra on. Especially on the left tit.
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Wild Horses of Home
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Posted:Mar 29, 2008 9:45 am
Last Updated:Apr 2, 2008 9:10 am 4687 Views
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Sometimes you find yourself doing inexplicable things. Stopping in the middle of the road because a stray rain drop on a bright red flame of the forest glistened suddenly like a diamond, throwing a seductive wink back at the lavish sun.
Why? Because it reminds you of slow summer afternoons when he took you on walks, explained what a flame of the forest was and went home to teach you how to paint one.
You almost buy an antique wooden badminton racquet that is chipped and missing its strings. As you fondle the age-smoothened handle and savour its weight and grip, you contemplate not its valuation but the value it once played in a 's joy.
You remember the first person who bought you a wooden badminton racquet and a canister of shuttlecocks. The focus on how to grip it properly in your little hands. The unfamiliar weight and desire not to disappoint. The yelling you both receive when the shuttlecock toppled one of the porcelain ornaments and shattered the lesson. The sneaking off to the back hills to continue the lesson. And then the years spent in training and tournaments.
You contemplate those days and feel a faint sense of regret in abandoning that childhood play.
A Chinese ink painting of a herd of wild horses catches your eye. Simple in composition, sure in execution. The lines are fluid. The brush control is assured. The pressure is aggressive yet the strokes are light. The manes of the horses flow in the ghost wind and the prairie is suggested.
You almost buy it and then remember you will not be home for a long time to display it. Should it travel with you and accompany you as the sand clouds that hover nebulously behind the in the background of this painting?
The urge comes not from yourself but from the memory of one for whom horses hold much significance. Born in the year of the , painter of horses and nothing else, collector of figurines and statues, carvings and paintings all glorifying the freedom and wildness of the desert nomads. A remnant of home. A reminder of heritage.
The painting is wrapped lovingly and you carry it with you across the seas and clouds, farther from the desert sands and wide plains suggested in ink.
You find yourself caressing the cool, jade-coloured bottle of Chinese wine. Shaped like a gourd, with a red plastic seal. A small bottle of liquid fire that used to burn and glide across lips and throat that spoke of home. Where horses roamed free and the eye could see for miles into the sky and endless horizon.
A glass or two after dinner. Sitting in the darkened grotto under the warm amber glow of a garden sconce. Fanning himself gently as he drank his wine and smoked his pipe. Banished from the house which did not abide the pungent smell of tobacco, the only companion a skinny young seated by his side.
Tall tales and short hugs. He was not a very physically demonstrative man but then again, none of us were. But he showed his affection in myriad ways. Usually in ways that got him banished from the house.
A little baby pipe so you could smoke by his side. When you were all of six.
A tiny snifter so you could share his wine and whiskey.
A set of rice paper and Chinese ink and brushes so he could teach you to paint bamboos and horses.
A badminton racquet and shuttlecocks so you could break things in the house. Which got both of you banished from it.
Much time was spent in that garden. Smoking. Drinking. Painting. Not the most wholesome activities, perhaps, for a young .
But he also taught the art of self defense, the love of Chinese literature, music and poetry from the motherland, how to play the violin (badly), ancient medicine, folklore, the art of war, honour, loyalty and sacrifice for your fellow comrades during these sessions in the garden.
You wonder sometimes if he realised you were not a boy as he never treated you differently and imparted lessons that seemed more appropriate for the oldest male of the family instead of the tiniest female .
Perhaps it is because you were so tiny and frail that he wanted to make sure you were strong enough to stand on your own two feet when he was not around.
Hit first. Ask questions later.
Never let anyone touch you without permission. And only give permission to those who will not use it to stab you.
Never harm the weak and helpless.
Always defend the weak and helpless.
Never hit a woman.
Only fight when you need to. A gentleman learns to fight with words before fists. But when in doubt, deck the bugger.
Protect your own.
When overwhelmed, hit to stun, then run.
Never show your strength till the last moment. Then go for the kill.
The killing stroke can only be made once. If you miss, you lose.
Before delivering the killing stroke, remember that the enemy is someone's and parent and think if it is still deserved.
Fight fair. Fight smart. If you have to fight dirty, make sure no one finds out.
To get rid of the problem, kill the root.
He loved his idioms and quotes. Old-school, old tales. Afternoons and quiet evenings spent listening to him spin stories. Favourite tales of long lost heroes sacrificing their lives for their home and hearth; heroines who infiltrated enemy lines at the risk of their virtue and lives; families who devoted their names in history to fighting to the last in defense of their country.
He loved epics detailing the bravery of knights and warriors. Genies and djinns who beguiled, guided and misled. Princesses who did not wait for rescue but used their wiles to bedevil their captors.
You hold the newly-purchased bottle of wine and painting of his birth sign close to you. It is time to make a journey. Back to a quiet garden under the silent skies. A row of aged stone and plaster and grass. To place a painting and toast some wine across the slab where his name is inscribed.
To leave a note written in Chinese ink. On rice paper and sealed in red.
"Dear Grandpa
I come again to sit with you. To speak of tales of heroes past and admire a fine painting of the wild horses of home.
I come again to drink some Chinese wine with you. To sprinkle some across your garden so you can enjoy it when I am gone.
As I have enjoyed every moment we had.
These I leave with you till I come back again. "
It is time to make a journey.
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Do Not Klingon to False First Impressions
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Posted:Mar 29, 2008 3:16 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2008 7:24 am 4641 Views
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You know how some women are just so immaculate? Not a hair out of place. Flawless makeup. Gorgeous clothes cladding a well-cared, proportionate body.
It's easy to make swift first impressions about such ladies but I've learnt that judging a beautiful book by its cover and dismissing it as such leaves you many pages short of an interesting novel.
I remember a lady from Hong Kong who seemed the typical brand-conscious, fast-talking, social-climbing yuppie. We were sent to a team- and leadership-building retreat and had to participate in a paintball tournament.
She grumbled incessantly when we got there. Her French manicure would chip. Her hair would smell. The uniforms were ill fitting and unfashionable. The helmets smelt funny and were uncomfortable. I was ready to shoot her myself before we even got on the field. I love paintball and dreaded having her on my team.
Then we got in there and the woman stopped squealing. She transformed into Rambina. She had my back and was our sniper. Boy, could that woman shoot. She personally took out 6 of the enemy's team. With her small build she could cower behind everything and sneakily zap an unsuspecting victim before they knew it. She had a killer instinct that made me beam like a proud parent.
She also had no compunction, besides a slight grimace of disgust, when I asked her to crawl through the muddy swamp to circle behind the enemy lines with me.
We won and she was the loudest and most ungracious victor I had ever seen. She did not mouth off a single complaint or whine about her bruises and whooped it up as obnoxiously as the rest of us.
Bless.
That night, we bonded over beer and exchanged totally exaggerated "war stories" of our victory that afternoon. We had not been able to do that at any point of the retreat till then. Guess paintball does bring people together.
Then there is this really hard body dancer who has such tremendous muscle control she can pop her shoulder muscles individually in isolation and in total controlled rhythm. She looks rather hard and has the dramatic dark looks, wild hair of a vengeful gypsy.
Her makeup is always dramatic and full-on. Bright red lips. Dark slashes of brows. Cat eyes makeup. Her hair teased and curled in a magnificent cascade of wild curls right down to the dimple of her back. Clingy, tight dresses in leopard spots or tiger print or some bold tropical floral design. She's a lean, mean drama mama.
Some people have even questioned if she was not a drag queen. I have not had much opportunity to speak with her but not being a gym bunny, thought I might not have much in common with her.
So it was with some trepidation of awkward silences and mild curiosity that I sat next to her for lunch. Made the usual ice breaking small talk. Then it started.
"Love your hairband, WHF! Where did you get it? It's so cute. Love, love the wide silk band with the tie on the side. Looks faboo on you with your long hair!"
I tried not to simper vacuously as I preened and petted my hairband. We immediately lapsed into the kind of girl talk that sends men to the pubs for fortifying pints.
She is phenomenally funny. Totally girly and not a half-crazed health nut and gym bunny as her look suggested. She is also not a brand shopper and loves visiting flea markets and finding obscure little shopping havens.
Still on the hairbands, she said,
"I may try hairbands like yours but not those cloth ones you know? The wide ones that cover your hairline."
"Me neither. I look naft in those."
"I look worse than naft, WHF. I've got such a short forehead and strong features that if I wore those, I look like a Klingon."
Which sent the two of us into hysterics at the mental picture. Then I discovered another common bond. We both loved sci-fi. And we spent the afternoon annoying the rest of our table by mournfully toasting to Arthur C Clarke, making whooshing noises as we pretended to be Jedi knights and speaking like Yoda.
It's brilliant when you discover new things about people you never felt any real connection to before. And forge a bond, even if it is for a transient few hours as you share a meal.
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Dial I for Irritate
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Posted:Mar 28, 2008 10:17 am
Last Updated:Mar 29, 2008 7:53 am 5348 Views
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"Hello? Hey, it's Lucy here. Did I wake you?'
"It's quite alright, I was going to wake soon anyway. So ... what's up?"
"Oh, I'm just so glad I found you as I have been looking for you everywhere!"
"Oh, have you? Why?"
"I wanted to find out your schedule as I wanted to take lessons from you."
"Oh, but aren't you booked at K's place for my lessons already?"
"K's place? No. I called B's place but the date was not suitable so I called Y's place and they told me to contact you instead?"
"Huh? But I am not teaching at Y's place. I've never worked with them."
"No, my teacher taught at Y's place but she stopped so I am looking for another teacher."
Silence. Looking around for coffee.
"Er, O ... K ... so you want to know where else other than K's place that I will be teaching at when I am in town, right?"
"Right."
So a quick update is given and she's busily copying it down.
"Thanks so much! But some of these places are so far away. B's place is really the nearest to my home. If only you could teach there on other dates."
"I'm really sorry but my schedule is completely filled up."
"Oh well, it's better this way anyway as I heard the girls in B's place are really bitchy and do not welcome new people."
Silence.
"Sorry?"
"Yeah, I was told they do not like new people joining the classes."
"Where on earth did you hear that from?"
"The teacher who used to teach there before - Jas."
"What???!! Look, you must have misunderstood. I've known these girls for a while now and they certainly are not "bitchy". Sure, they definitely know their mind but they are really just a fun, nice bunch who are very advanced and serious in their study. So perhaps the teacher meant it is hard to join that group because of their advanced level. But by no means should that be misunderstood as "bitchy". You best not repeat that as it may cause others to accuse you of malicious gossip."
"Oh ... right. OK, so how advanced is advanced? How long have they learnt from you?"
"With me? On and off, maybe two years but with other teachers ... they have been studying for an average of four years. Unlike you who have only been following me for 3 months."
"Huh? I haven't learnt from you yet. Thats why I am trying to sign up now."
Silence.
"You are Lucy from K's place, right? Lucy S?"
"No, I am Lucy C. A former student of Jas."
"Oh! So, I don't know you then? I thought you were one of my students, Lucy S, who is from K's place. I was wondering why you said you were not registered there! Oh dear. I'm so sorry! How embarrassing!"
"Ha ha! So funny! So do you think I can join B's place's class?"
"But I thought you could not make the date and you were leery of the girls. Why don't you go back to Jas or her partner, C? It will probably be easier for you."
"No, no. I heard a lot of things about you so I want to learn from you but none of your dates and places suit me. Can you change the dates in any way?"
"I'm really sorry but these were confirmed months ago and other girls have registered for them so we cannot change things arbitrarily. I also have a tight schedule and cannot move things around at all. Do try other teachers though. There are loads in your town ... so good luck."
"No, no. I will wait for you and try to get into one of your classes. Can you ask B's place to let me register there?"
"Well, I usually do not meddle with things like registration and let the studio owners handle all the arrangements. But I can try to send them an email if you are really keen. However, remember this is an advanced class. How long did you learn from Jas?"
"Two months."
Silence.
"Well, it's very ambitious of you to want to join an advanced class of four years. But I think you will find it tough going. Why don't you try the other studios with beginners classes? B's place is probably not appropriate for you."
"Oh, can you have a beginners class there for me?"
Inward sigh and frantic look at clock.
"No, I am sorry. As I said, I do not have any available time slots open for additional classes. I'm really sorry. I seriously encourage you to look into other teachers. I'm flattered by your interest but you would probably find other teachers whose availability and schedules will suit yours. How about Clare who has a studio near B's place?"
"Clare? That one? Hah, you can forget about it! No way!"
Raised eyebrow. Did she just diss one of the top dance teachers and incidentally, a good friend of mine?
"Well, there are many others and I am sure you will find someone who will ... suit your requirements. And personality."
"No, no. I heard a lot about you and I want to learn from you only."
"Alright then. As you wish. Well, I have to go. Sorry for the confusion earlier but I am never good when I am woken from sleep. Anyways, good luck."
"Thank you. You are so nice. Jas was wrong. You're not a bitch at all!"
Silence.
"Ta. That's kind of you to say so. Bye now."
Lord, I have a migraine now.
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The Geriatric Knight
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Posted:Mar 27, 2008 8:42 am
Last Updated:Mar 28, 2008 8:40 pm 4322 Views
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Asians seem to like the word "killer". I noticed that.
There is the Auntie-killer, which is apparently a male who can charm any and every older lady.
There is the young men-killer, awarded to an older femme fatale whose seductive charms give young men the sort of wet dreams and cougar fantasies their mothers dread.
There is the little sister-killer, usually a young man with the hunky looks and boyish appeal that little girls and young teens fall for.
Then there is the old folks-killer.
Which is apparently what I am.
Many of my friends and students have noticed this phenomenon and gleefully informed me of the diagnosis. For some reason, old people like me. I am not sure why but it happens so often that even I cannot deny the charge.
After a few days of incarceration from over-zealous doctors for the flu, I was sick (sic) and tired of not doing any real exercise.
So I got suited out in some yoga pants, sports bra and tank and clipped on my iPod for a brisk walk around the block to work off some energy before dinner.
Head down and not paying attention, I almost got off at the wrong floor and had a bit of a start when an old man poked his head through the doors.
After a few flustered moments and embarrassed apologies, we withdrew to different corners of the elevator.
I heard his voice through the pumped up tunes of Breathe. And his lips were moving as he looked at me. Oh darn. He wants to speak with me.
Sighing inwardly, I withdrew one ear-phone and smiled at him.
"Yes?"
"Did you get a fright just now?"
No, I just tend to gasp loudly, and start backwards when someone almost head butts me, for no reason.
"Just a little. It's alright though. I should have been paying attention."
Smiling, I made to replace my earphone but he started speaking again. Sigh.
"So, are you going to exercise now?"
"Yes, I am."
"At the gym?"
"No, I thought it was such a nice day that I should go out for a walk before dinner."
"A walk? Where? Outside the hotel?" He looked startled and alarmed.
"Yes."
"That can be dangerous! You should be careful as it can be dangerous for a young girl like you to go out walking on your own."
Young girl? Yo, you need better glasses, mate! And we're in the middle of the tourist belt. And it's not even 6pm yet. The sun's still up!
"Er, that's quite alright. I'll be careful and it's just around the block. I shan't be walking too far away. But thank you for your concern."
Bright, beaming smile and Jedi mind trick to end conversation.
Damn flu messed up my Force. He smiled in response but still looked troubled.
The doors opened and quickly bidding adieu, I hurriedly walked out of that awkward conversation.
And heard his voice behind me saying, "No, no, it's too dangerous letting a pretty, young girl like you walk around on her own. I shall accompany you. Or we should ask hotel security to assign someone to you."
So I ended up taking a very, very slow walk, escorting a sweet but terribly misguided 70-year-old man on a walkie.
He was awfully earnest in protecting me but the end result was that I had to physically aid him halfway through the walkie as his legs gave out. We had to stop for a coffee to revive him before we could return to the hotel. He was so knackered, I got worried and had to make sure his driver and wife arrived before I returned to my room. I also had to spend some time turning down their dinner invitation without hurting their feelings.
I ended up being late for my own dinner. And had to explain to my dinner mates the reason why and endure the entire evening being teased and addressed as the old folks-killer.
Sigh. I have the worst luck. Being an old folks-killer is tiring.
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