About Nude Not Naked

~ Goodnight Moon, Shivaree
Listen closely to the lyrics for this post's hidden message.




I know my posts suck in the last two weeks. I know I am not writing at my optimum best and I am not writing what I am good at – relationships - or so I think I am good at. I am hanging in limbo at the moment, with half of my next four months packed into a box and a backpack. I have a whole new set of facial cleansers that I fear I’ll lose in midair. Airplane pressure does strange things to your feet and your cosmetics. And watch batteries for my watch died on me upon arrival in London on the last two occasions.

This feeling of neither here nor there is nothing new to me. I have travelled this way and lived this way for the pass five years. Even Milo, my puss has gotten used to me coming and going. I sit in my bathtub, thinking and reflecting. What have I achieved in my life, what do I want out of my life and how I am going to achieve it? I love going back in time and relive some moments of my life.

Like last Monday, when I was on my way home with a flat tire. 100meters to my house, a familiar silhouette appeared in the opposite direction. I swear that this shadow is carved into my heart forever. It never fails to make my heart skip a beat.

As his car approached mine, I could see his eyes and how intent he looked. His girlfriend was sat next to him, looking to her left. He looked to his right and into my car. He stole a glance and smiled a knowing smile. Our paths crossed and then it was lost again.

He had a mop of dreadlocks. Clocks all over the world have moved a million times and he still had his serene grin. There is something boyish about him; his t-shirts, jeans and Adidas shoes.

I could write a million stories about him but I guess there is no use of doing so. It would all begin with, “he used to”. What is the use of “he used to” when he no longer is? What is the use of writing a whole book about him? It will not help him. Neither does it help me. Perhaps I could immortalise a small part of my life but what will I achieve?

I would be nothing more than a lovesick puppy, thinking about a person who does not think of me. He used to be mine but now no longer. I do not know if I had him for two seconds or perhaps three years. I know however that we could be great friends but never great lovers.

So that is that.



The Good
The constant question I ask myself is, “Why are there so many men?”. I am surprised that no reader has asked me this and I am not sure if there were readers who were beginning to question. Perhaps I am just an introvert and I think far too much for my own good. But yes, even I have asked myself, “So Otto, where are there so many men in your life?”

I know the answer to this question. There are men who break your soul and then there are men who would mend your heart. Some men rolled along and robbed me of my life and I waited years before some men came to save my soul. I am sure that through my stories, you are well acquainted with some of the men in my life and how they shape me into the person that I am.

The one person that I do not talk about much is Alex. You are greatly mistaken if you think that I do not love him. I love Alex to bits. I am very private about my relationship with Alex because I love him. What we share is private and I do not like people interfering in it – be it with smart comments or nasty gossips.

I think I am a very private person in real life. I do not know how I am to part with some measure of privacy in favour of a blog now, a newspaper or magazine column within the year and a book by the next. Not many around me know me as one who has a boyfriend. The general public sees me with so many boys that they cannot keep track of who is who. I am not one who would hide under some manly armpit. Neither am I one who can be tamed by a man.

So perhaps I deserve the amount of gossip surrounding my public figure. After all, I have the ability to have my daily meals with three different men in a day.

The only time I am very open about my relationship with Alex is in the UK. Somehow I feel free there and there aren’t any second cousin’s older brother’s best friend to scrutinize how Alex and I conduct our lives. Nor tell me what to do with our lives. Nor are there great family dinners to attend every three months.

It is just me. It is just Alex. And that is good enough.

I cannot wait to go back to my garden. Apparently my garden has sprung into action and all are blossoming well. All are well except the Ligularia, which are slug food anyway. I never expected them to grow back this spring. My bags are half packed and now all I need is my ticket. As it is, I am going to miss my duck rice date with Boss Stewie because I bought my ticket late. I have not bought my ticket yet. Otto bad!




The Bad
And because Alex is not around to tell me what to do with my life or how I should live my life or where I can go and who I can be out with, I am left to my own devices. Some see it as good (that would be me) and some see it as bad (everyone else). I certainly feel that Asian men generally need to control their women. Or perhaps, Asian women like to be instructed. It makes them feel loved.

“No, you cannot have coffee with him/her.”

“Make sure you come back by 10 p.m. I will call you to check.”

“I don’t like you out clubbing.”

“You are not permitted to wear that sexy blouse.”

“You must eat less. You are so fat.”

I know of a chubby girl who loved the fact that her even chubbier boyfriend kept calling her fat. “He loves me so much, that’s why he calls me fat and asks me to lose weight,” she said, beaming a smile, now a size smaller and in high heels, of course. What good is a pornstar if she is not in her high heels?

I might be mixing with the wrong type of Asian men. I have thought about the possibility that I might just be in the wrong company. But the Asian men I know are either the businessman who married a decent lady, have kids with her and dump the whole bunch at home while he is out working. And his definition of working includes having meals and after drinks with beautiful secretaries and clients.

Have you seen the lot of them? These men burp and rub their tummies on any given Sunday while his 2.5 kids run around the dinner table, his wife dressed in a fitted blouse and linen pants. These men are great caregivers but they do not give their souls to the family.

Of course he gave the best that he has – his money – to his wife. In turn his wife, because she is a nice girl, uses the money to build a home for the family, send the kids for tuition and tennis lessons and some sexy lingerie for herself to fulfil her duty as the ideal wife.

I do not want a life like that.




The Ugly
Now the bachelors are not any more noble. I have gone for parties, be introduced to new men and be on a joyride home with my girlfriends. And the calls will start 5 minutes after my goodbye.

“You going anywhere after this?”

“Perhaps I can see you for coffee tomorrow?”

“Let me show you the most beautiful skyline.”

I always imagined them to excuse themselves from the given company to call me privately. Then they will say how much of a good time they have had and a suggestion of the possibility of catching up later. They will go back to their company, pretending as if nothing ever happened then after.

There would be nothing to write about if it was just so innocent, now would there? These men often pit themselves against their closest mates, childhood friends and even colleagues. These are the same men who pat each other’s back ten minutes ago, saying how close buddies they were with each other or how they played football since Primary Five.

Tell me how you would feel if you have heard all the lies and the stories that men can ever make up? Would you not feel like me, a little disgusted at how bitchy a man can be when he wants to get into your French knickers? Oh no, I am not saying that these men love me. They lust, not love. Which adds to the disgust, I guess.

Sometimes I wonder whether this is just a “Otto problem” or do other girls experience the same? I bloody hope that this is a general female population problem and not just a ME problem. If it is, then I am truly fucked.

I will not end this post with a traditional feel good conclusion. This is because I do not feel good about all that I have seen and heard. Normally I do not want to talk about stuff like this because I think it is fucked up. It really plays with my mind and it makes me wonder how much can I trust a man with my heart.




“There’s a shark in the pool
And a witch in the tree
A crazy old neighbour and he’s been watching me
And there’s footsteps loud and strong coming down the hall
Something is under the bed
Now its out in the hedge
There’s a big black crow sitting on my window ledge
And I hear something scratching through the wall

Oh what should I do I’m just a little baby
What if the lights go out and maybe
I just hate to be all alone
Outside the door he followed me home
Now goodnight moon
I want the sun
If its not here soon
I might be done
No it wont be too soon till I say
Goodnight moon”
~ Goodnight Moon, Shivaree