About Nude Not Naked

‘Which is worse?’ he asked. ‘To have too many suitors or to have too little?’

‘I think it’s horrible to have too many suitors,’ I replied. ‘Notice my long list of complaints?’

‘Come on. Admit it. It is much better to have too many than too little,’ he said.

‘If you insist, then yes. I guess it is better to have more choices than a lack of.’

I imagined how beautiful the view out of his window. The Petronas Twin Towers must look absolutely majestic against the slow descend of the sun as we messaged each other on the Yahoo Messenger. Mr. Easter Bunny and I were conversing on a daily basis the week before and after Easter. I was searching for some writing inspiration and he was there at the right place and the right time.



*
If you have noticed (which I am sure you do), I have been avoiding writing lately. I must be one of the most boring persons you ever read about. I write only what I am ready to share and I don’t mince my words around. And when I am not ready to share, I don’t. Hence there is hardly any action here in About Nude Not Naked. I have my regular readers but I am no Kenny Sia.

Not that my life isn’t filled with action. It is. It is very much filled with all sorts of actions but I commit those stories to my memory. I did not tell you that I am doing well and how happy I have become in the last year or so. I dare not share how my life has changed for the better and how comfortable I feel.

And how I finally feel some measure of peace in my heart.

I don’t know how everything started. I hate to think it has to do with age. To admit that I changed because of age is like to admit that I have set limits in my life. And if you know me like how MiniBoyFriend R knows me, you will know that I hate limits. I hate the word because I feel it is constricting.

So no, I don’t think I made different choices (drastic ones, I might add) in the last 18 months or so because I feel that I am getting old. I much prefer to think that I changed because I needed to move onto a new phase in life. I have always felt a need to challenge myself, to push myself further and stretch myself wider. This decision happens to be one of them.

I have never been one that is complacent. My mind is always thinking, moving and changing. My eyes are always searching and observing every minute detail of everything around me. And I always listen to conversations and always enjoyed words.



*
‘Hey sexy mama,’ the voice said.

‘That’s hot, sexy mama to you,’ I said as I continued to type into my iBook. Time to change iBook, I thought to myself as it was overheating. The Apple laptop has served me very well in the last 4 years. I am a happy bird if relationships and friendships were as reliable as my trusty Apple iBook.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Working,’ I said

‘Why working so hard?’ he asked. ‘There is a gig tonight. You must come out. You remember XYZ?’ he asked. ‘He asked me to invite you out tonight because he has not seen you since Famosa’s party’.

I gave a muffled non-commitment mumble of some sort. True to form, I did not go out that night. I watched Heroes on TV instead.

One of the first things that I changed was to reprioritize my time. I have spent too many hours with too many people that I should never have spent time with. They were not bad people. They just weren’t good.

Some of you might ask what motivated me to go out in the first place. There are many reasons and perhaps only MiniBoyFriend R understood them. The main reason however was vanity and ego. It was always lovely to go out somewhere and be admired. Who would not like that? Who wouldn't want to feel that she had just lit up the entire room by just walking into it?

All I needed to do was to spend an hour dressing up (which is a therapeutic experience in itself) and head out for the night. It does not matter which night it was. There were always people out there and there will always be people who would look at you and talk. After some years of dealing with bad 'publicity', I have relented and decided that perhaps ‘bad publicity is better than no publicity’.

Think of it like how celebrities do it. They garner attention each time they go out. The more they go out, the more attention they will receive. They do not appear on magazines and TV for staying at home, you know. Now obviously, the attention can be either positive or negative. For example, having the paparazzi taking your photos, landing you on the best or worst dressed list. But celebrities still battle the paparazzo’s daily because they want to remain in the current news.

It used to be the same case for me too. Continuously dressing up to go out is quite an expensive pastime. However doing so keeps me present in people’s conversations, even when I am not around. The attention has blessed me many privileges. For example, girls working in boutiques reserve clothes for me to try on before they display them in the shops. My hairdresser continuously works miracles by framing my best facial features.

And my bowl of noodles nearly always comes with extra goodies, courtesy of the aunties whom I fondly visit and chat with on working days.

‘Aunty asked where you went,’ PY sms-ed the other day.



*
I have gone under the radar. When once I regularly spent weekends in Lola, I now regularly do not spend weekends there. I miss it every once in a while, so I would dress up again and visit the place. Each time I would try my best to relive all those happy memories I have of the place but I somehow no longer feel the same way. It could just be the booze but I swear that something inside me has changed.

When I look into the crowd of people dancing and gyrating to the music, I no longer recognize anyone. The bar tenders are now strangers, no longer weekend friends. The bouncers however still let me skip the queue and allow me to come and go as I please. Something has changed. I no longer feel that I belong in that noisy place.

I no longer crave for the attention and find no necessity to always be on top of everyone’s conversation topics. I still dress the way that I do and I still have the attention (daytime at least) but I do not feel that I have to push myself anymore.

‘Eh, are you unwell?’ my mother asked me one Saturday night as I sat watching Discovery Channel. She placed her hand on my forehead, to feel my body temperature for sure. ‘You must be sick, if you are not out on Saturday,’ she said.

You know, there was a time when I would just pop one tablet of Panadol and head out on sick nights. Nothing comes between the clubbing scene and me. Not even rainy nights. Nowadays it almost feels okay to be at home on Saturday night, watching TV and answering phone calls.



*
So this is why I no longer have too many drunken stories to share with you. In its place, I have collected many happy and sober stories. Maybe one day, when the time is right, I will share my happiness with you.



*
‘Can we talk?’ R asked yesterday. His message popped on my Yahoo Messenger as I was designing some work related stuff. (Remember that I am the boss, the PA, the dispatch girl and occasionally even the makcik cleaner in the office).

‘Of course,’ came my reply. It must have been the shortest sentence I have written him. Some time ago, I had made a mental note to recognize and allow MBF R to express himself without me prodding him. In short, I recognize that I must change myself, to allow him to write at his pace and not crowd the conversation with my opinion.

‘I must confess to her,’ MBF R started the conversation. ‘She has said yes and I think I should say yes too. So I have to tell her about all my destructive relationships.’

‘Your reasons for doing so?’ I asked.

‘I want to tell her everything, so she is prepared. She is such a precious and innocent thing, I am afraid that I will ruin her.’

R met a girl on a holiday trip and they spent every moment together on the trip. Returning home, the immense feelings they felt for each other did not dissipate. They have gone on with their normal lives and returned to work since they came back from the holiday. It was no longer a holiday inspired fling and they still feel as strongly now in KL, working and busy, as they did while frolicking and relaxing during a holiday.

‘I must cut ties with all my destructive relationships,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ I enquired, waiting for him to mention the not so short list of lunch hour buddies, golf bunnies and genuine muses. Which he did.

It was the first time I ever hear him say that he felt that this was it. The girl gave him the feeling of security and total unconditional love. Actually what he mentioned was, ‘I am 28 years old. I feel that this is the right time. I have to do this right. It is now or never.’ Or something along that vein.

So he is going to cut ties with all the unhealthy relationships and friendships he had developed over time. I understand each and every word R said. I have been down that road before. I have straightened some friendships and severe ties with the rest.

‘But what if I can’t do it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean you can’t?’ I asked.

‘You know, I like the beautiful girls that dressed to kill, flawless skin under heavy make up, willing to open their legs by the end of the night, drive you insane with jealousy and rage – those sort.’

‘Oh R,’ I said philosophically, ‘aren’t all men the same? They all like beautiful girls who dressed to kill, with flawless skin under heavy make up, ever willing to drop their panties by the end of the night.’ I sighed. Men would be perfect if not for the failure to control their lust factor. (I don’t want to even start talking about this topic).



*
I had a similar conversation with BestGuyFriend years ago, when he first met Nikki. So I guess I had the 'My Best Friend's Wedding' experience, though unlike Julia Roberts, I actually gave my best boy friends away. BestGuyFriend in 2006 and soon, my MiniBoyFriend.

BestGuyFriend married in December 2006 and we have remained casual friends since then. I can see that he is happy whenever I bump into Nikki and him. He is far from the person I knew years ago. He is confident and contented since he rescued Nikki during the great tsunami. I saw them last the weeks before Christmas last year and they looked perfect together.

MiniBoyFriend R and I managed to maintain a reasonable and healthy friendship. We make good friends and catch up for breakfast whenever possible. We still walk the dogs, Vodka and Gin. We still debate if Vodka has preferred inclination since he sniffs boy dog’s bottoms whenever we are out walking. But we no longer spend Sundays painting and cuddling up for movies.

I see D and his bunch of boys mostly in the restaurant that he is now in charge of. He’d call every now and then, for supper but strangely I have not felt hungry enough to dress up at 2 a.m. I think he has also grown up and moved on, although he still goes out with a string of girls, promising nothing to each and every one of them. You have to give him credit when it is due. He was fair to all.

My last memory of Adidas Boy is a happy one. We were walking around aimlessly in Mid Valley and settled for dinner in a Japanese restaurant. We went for some drinks somewhere and chatted until morning when he left for work, holding and manning a video camera and lighting. While snooping around my readers’ blogs (by backtracking to theirs) I discovered that some of you readers actually met and knew Adidas Boy. It is just that you did not realize it. The world is extremely small, don’t you think?



*
I arrived at a stage in my life when I feel that I have a firm grip of everything around me. I do not write about it because I am not ready to celebrate my happiness in public. I still grieve over Alex.

The fantastic thing about men is that they are able to move on after some time. That is nice. That is what I want for Alex. I want him to move on and be happy. Nothing saddens me more than imagining him at a house that stinks of Polish vodka. I rather be the person in the stinky Polish vodka house. I want him to be happy and excited about living. It is important to me that he feels so.

I know that he no longer wears the ring I gave him 2 years ago. I still wear the ring he gave me and I still carry the keys to my English home. It is silly, I know. It isn't like I can open any other door using those keys. But I still carry them because they feel precious. They have a lot of memories attached. One look at them whenever I open my purse and I am transported back to my English home and life. I have not seen Alex for 10 months now, so clearly it is over. It was my decision but I still need time to grief. I just need time to tell myself that it is okay and I can be happy. I do not need to feel bad that I am actually happy inside. I can be free and I can let my happiness show.

Because if I really am honest with myself, I know that I am.



*
'When I first met you and again now as we speak during the past week, I thought that I was sent here to save you,' Mr. Easter Bunny said.

He believed in karma, even when he is not a practicing Buddhist. He believed in destiny and reasons for being. For Mr. Easter Bunny, our sudden conversation spreading over days was not a mere coincident. There must have been a reason why we spoke. I have told him several times that our conversations were just that; conversations. I have no other intentions but perhaps he thought otherwise.

(I do suspect that he reads About Nude Not Naked quite regularly and we are playing a cat and mouse game. He had asked me several times if I published my writings in a blog. He had also very casually mentioned that some of my emails to him were very blog-like, which they were published on ANNN as entries. So you know that I know that you know. Now shhhhhh...)

'That is what you always write about - sins and salvation. So I always thought that I am here to save you. But I now know, it isn't you that needs saving.'

He then told me his dark secret.

'We are talking this week because I needed saving. I have burden - a secret - in my heart. It turns out that you are the friend that I needed,' he said.

I was having afternoon tea on Sunday when something crept into my mind. The thought came between sips of apple juice and a slice of curry puff. As the thought grew, my frown became apparent.




*
You have seen the following movie scene a million times. The movie character (which can be male or female) does some mindless chores around the house, go to work, pick up some laundry, go home, lie in bed, brush teeth, read a book and wham! One day he stares at himself in the mirror and gets the fright of his life.

Oh yes. That’s the moment when the movie character realised that he had not lived a life despite having heartbeat and breath.

And that was exactly what I was thinking on Sunday. Going through my life, doing all the things that I wish to do and dream of doing and yet, waking up one day only to realise that I did not know what the fuck I was doing.

Everything is going great, I though to myself. Everything’s perfect. So what’s wrong? I don’t know what is wrong.




*
I stared at the mirror after brushing my teeth last night. I looked at my face, taking note of all the little bumps that were never there a year ago and all the lines that only appears when I do not wish to see them. It isn’t so bad, I thought to myself. Some girls half my age look twice my age. I snickered then breathed a sigh of relief.

So alright, I gained a little weight. Four kilos to be exact, which officially makes me a hefty 52 kg. I don’t weigh myself after lunch time these days. Makes me feel a whole lot better.

I could lie and medicate my heart with little purrs that I am still alright. I still look good. I feel great. So fine, fine, I have not pursued fashionable clothes like I used to a year ago. But I guess something has got to change. I guess you change as you grow older. Your priorities change. Right?



*
I met a client today. Her hands were shaking as she enquired if I would accept her as my client. Her eyes were dilated and her voice was quivering as she explained everything. You could hear all her anxiety through the little words she used.

I reached over and pat her hand. ‘We’ll work together,’ I said. If relief could be visible to the eye, I think the whole office was filled with relief. Her breath slowed down to a more comfortable pace. She had a smile on her face. You could see her optimism. The lady was happy and relieved that everything was finally settled.

It is amazing how one touch can change everything; that you can lean over and make another person feel good again. There is nothing more special than bringing joy and hope to another being.

It is gratifying to be able to change the world and make it sweeter and better. It is almost like magic, the feeling that you are able to make a difference in the lives of those around you. And for this feeling, I don’t think I will ever change what I do.




*
Do you know what a panic attack is? It can happen to anyone at any time. I think I suffered from mild depression and panic attacks at the beginning of this year and yesterday, I think it happened to MiniBoyFriend R.

I took Monday afternoon off so I could do something about my hair. You know this priority change thing I was talking about earlier? Well apart from neglecting my waistline, I have been neglecting my crown of glory. It’s part of the first impression thing.

I booked a spot at my hairdresser’s and went over by 3 p.m. As the saloon girl washed my hair, my phone started to beep tiny messages from MBF R. He was feeling a little blue and needed someone to talk. I am glad that he shared his thoughts with me. There is nothing worse than suffering all alone in silence.

Depression is a terrible thing. It does not knock your door to announce its presence. As a matter of fact, depression comes silently, sitting on your shoulders like dark clouds threatening to rain terrible things in your life. The more you walk in depression, the more you feel that you are not able to walk out of it alive.

I remember feeling so depressed that I did not want to wake up. Nothing in the world mattered to me and I felt empty. There were also panic attacks, the sudden feeling of heart palpitations and sweat, occurring at the strangest times and places. Everything felt magnified – more real, more painful.

The good news is that a friend always helps in times like these. Just talking to someone else might give you the light that you need, to guide you out of the dark tunnel you found yourself walking.

I am just glad that R decided to share everything with me. I shared everything with him and yesterday afternoon, in the most innocent place such as a hair saloon, I had the opportunity to be a friend.




*
‘Yeah, I don’t really want to bitch about this but seriously, D is driving me insane,’ he said.

‘Well, D wasn’t a problem to you before this. So why start now? He is just the very same person. The only thing that has changed is the fact that the bar isn’t doing as well as it used to,’ I replied.

I was slumped on my bed on Saturday, having a phone conversation with someone I knew a long time ago. Not much of a close friend but someone I knew and shared weekend tables with in Lola. I was painting my toenails when he started telling me how terrible D was.

‘Serve him right. Bitching to everyone about us doping. It is such a sensitive issue. Those boys dropped a few pops and he was gone on Saturday night.’

‘You know it isn’t nice to spike his drinks. He might be tested at any time and you might have gotten D into trouble,’ I said.

‘We are all professionals, so we have to maintain our public image. Who the fuck is he to tell everyone that we’ve been taking K?!’

You know, people are strange. They can be the most loving and loyal. Yet at times people possess such darkness within themselves, that you see the worst in them. Up to six months ago, D had so many girls hanging around him, like flies to light. Who wouldn’t want to be his friend? He had the flash car and the cash to spend on any girl.

The girls giggled whenever he spoke. The boys backed off when he was after a particular girl. Everyone was D’s friend. Isn’t it easy to feel that you are nearly like God when those around you keep nodding their heads. Won’t you feel like the biggest player when you can park your car just at any spot and you don’t give a damn whatever happens tomorrow?

I saw D on Saturday night in a newly opened restaurant. He was alone. He was not his usual self. He did not come for a hug or a chat. I did not approach him either. All we did was to smile whenever our eyes met. There was so much to be said but not a word was exchanged.

The day I spoke a long time ago had come. The day that everyone was worshipping elsewhere at weekends, when D was no longer the weekend God, had arrived. And D sat all on his own, in his little corner and I wished that I said that I was still his friend.



*
Two weekends ago the boys in London planned a grand weekend camping escapade. They were so excited and spoke of their compasses, new burners, fancy collapsible tents and a Geiger counter. Everything was planned and ready for deployment.

These boys might have fancy everything but nothing in their bags of tricks could stop their girlfriends. The girls forbade the boys from heading out into the jungle to play Tarzan.

It is Alex’s personality to organize a huge barbeque, complete with an axe to chop the wood for fire. He apparently perfected the art of selecting the correct wood for burning – matured oak.

He wrote about the whole process of grilling a nice piece of pork and for a change, he wished that I had a miserable weekend.




*
I want to go to the sea, to lie in a hammock, to wear a string bikini. That would most certainly bring some sunshine in my life.

Life is hectic and I am busy. I have not stayed here in Malaysia for so many months. I am experiencing slight claustrophobia, which I try to avoid by not meeting too many people. The more people you meet, the more politics and relationship issues you are involved. And that always sucks. At least I think it sucks.

I have to do something about my bikinis. Those 3 new pieces from Roxy are sitting in my cupboard. There is no justice in the world.

~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

I missed Alex and so two weeks ago, I had wanted to write him an email. How fortunate it was for me that Alex wrote before I did. And soon the emails flew back and forth between time and continents and here we are, two weeks later, chatting like old friends. Each email starts off offbeat and sunny, with greetings and sharing of news. Then like a roller coaster past its first peak point, the email will then tumble into a bloody tirade of emotions, tears and frustrations. It is safe to say, each email is a wordy mess.

We seem to be mourning for our relationship. Instead of the usual "I love you" endings we used to send each other, we now end our emails with "I have a hole in my heart that I know not how to fill". And then we feel a sense of great despair – a sense of loss that we don’t have any words for.

Thus far he had sent me some old photos of myself to remind me who I was when I first knew him. Most were photos taken in the summer, in his mother’s wall garden with beautiful flowers everywhere. We were both so exited and happy in those photos.

And now all we have are these…



We had wonderful conversations that seemed endless on these chairs. Their arms used to touch each other as Alex and I used to lean over to kiss and hug each other. Now these chairs represent all that is in our hearts – a sense of loneliness and lifelessness as the chairs grew apart.



Once I wrote a list of what I enjoyed with Alex. I know that I wrote the list because here is the photo of the note on which the list was written. That is my handwriting and it must have been written last summer. The list was short, consisting of only three items. I am sure that there were more to come, if only I had the time to write them all down.

And if I had to write them down now, I would add:

• The way Alex made me laugh. Eg: how he thinks that fat girls will love him best because ‘there is no love like a fat girl’s love’.


• Immaculate taste. I can trust the man to tell me how my bottom looks in anything. And Alex will tell the truth.


• Chasing each other up and down the stairs like a pair of kittens playing for fun.


• How we watched House and Scrubs in bed.


• How Alex fed an injured fox and managed to tame it enough to be his pet.


• Alex bought crates of tuna cans to prepare for the end of the world…

The list would go on forever and would include, ‘I rather tell people that we are breaking up because you want a baby. It makes everything sound more tragic and girls will want to date me.’ I never really understood his logic but I always loved his sense of humor.

This post has no ending, so I will end it with Alex's email for me today.



*
I'm glad I made you laugh...

So many words said getting a smile from you. I enjoyed teasing you too much, delighted in that little squeal of indignation, seeing you huff puff, and then tickling you better. Almost the entire basis of our relationship...

I would like to be over there shopping for a house with you, using my inflated expat salary to live the life of luxury. Alas just fantasy for the moment. Five years time i will be doing it with some other girl, and you will have found what you wanted with someone else.

Makes me sad, still miss you everyday.



*

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delilah
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all
~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

While lying in bed last night, all my eyes saw was the little room I slept with Alex in Sevenoaks. How the blue was just the right shade and how the white would bounce of the walls. Yes, I remember now. He painted the room just before I visited him three years ago.

As I thought about this more, I saw the white paper lantern hung in the centre of the room and insects appeared, one after another, as I thought a little more. A few were buzzing around the lantern, searching for where the rest were; in the lantern, nearer to the source of light. I saw the window ajar and closed it in my mind, the way I do whenever I laid in the bedroom, on the bed with my seven pillows.

The whole room smelled of Alex. It was distinctive male smell, very musky and not so floral at all. I am in no way implying that Alex smelled bad. He smelled like the rest of his species – manly. The room was crammed with his books and mine with lots of my shoes under the bed. There was a white cupboard filled half with his clothes and the right side, mine. There was a crumple at the centre of the dark blue carpet, where the walking traffic was heaviest. That must be the reason why it was crumpled. And when I closed my eyes to sleep at night, a faint light was visible, glowing from the Apple Mac, which was put to sleep.

Usually we watched an episode of House or Green Wings, which were short episodes of about an hour each. The last time we laid in bed together to watch something, it was a Chinese movie entitled "Dumplings". Alex had excellent taste in things and his choice of movies never disappointed. Alex tucked into his side of the bed when the movie was over while I arranged my pillows to form a little nest. I had a pink blanket, which I used in the summers under the thinner duvet.




*
Years ago we slept naked together. We never minded how we looked or smelled. I do not even remember if he snored in the first few years we were together. We slept, cuddled like little kittens for tenderness. When it was cold, Alex slept on my side of the bed to warm it up whilst I brushed my teeth or changed out of my clothes.

As the years rolled by, he slept in his dark blue cotton boxers and I slipped into t-shirts and panties. I began to mind us sweating on each other. He had large European nostrils, so can you imagine what I felt when he slept next to my ears. I felt as if a fan was next to me, blowing at 100 km/hr. I found it bothersome the way he breathed into my ears whenever he hugged me to sleep. So I slept in my little corner, away from him. Soon my nest grew bigger and wider. Now I cannot even tell you when we began to sleep as two separate entities on the same bed.

Don’t get me wrong. Alex and I make great friends. We have fantastic conversations and I guess we still would, if we were talking. We hardly argued with each other. Often we shared similar taste in things and would accommodate each other, if our opinions differed. We liked the same eclectic things though I think Alex was more pragmatic of us two. We could talk forever, if we wanted to.

We complimented each other many levels. I would not go so far as to say that we could complete each other’s sentences because I think we never did. But certainly we enjoyed each other’s company very much. For the longest time, Alex was the rock in my life as he provided me with the stability (and craziness) that I craved inside.




*
In retrospect, I guess you can say that I should have seen this coming. But I promise you that I did not. I never dreamt of a day when I will no longer be with Alex and until today, I shut my mind so that it cannot dream about it. Now I despair whenever I think about Alex and I. Whatever happened to the sunshine and happiness we bathed in years ago? Are we forced to grow up with the clouds of future commitment and age issue looming ahead?

Why I did not realise this earlier, I do not know. So do not ask me what my mother asked me since I returned home. ‘What is he giving you? You need to plan for your future.’ Obviously my mother was spot on. I must admit my mother was right however sore as I am with the notion. She was talking about all the things that I held in my mind and the difference between the mother and her daughter was, my mother spoke while I tried to hide.

Now you would think that I would cow to my mother since I share the same concerns as my mother do. Nope. I have been ultra defiant in my replies. ‘Alex might not have given me anything materially but he has given me happiness that you do not know. I have been happy for all the years that I am with him. Can you say the same?’

Yeah, I know. Stabbing my mother’s heart, picking at her emotional troubles is quite the terrible thing for a daughter to do but I have to protect my heart. And I have to protect Alex because all I said was true. Alex gave me so much happiness in the years that we have been together. And I will never allow anyone to say anything bad about him.




*
Last night was the first time I sat and reflected on the relationship I had shared with this Scottish man. He is no longer the boy I knew 6 years ago. I was 25 when I met Alex on an island and he was merely 21. He was a boy and now he is a man. He used to bum around, travelling and then sharing a business with me. Now he wears a tie and goes to work. On weekends, he cleans the toilet and washes his Monday to Friday work clothes so he can wear them the following week again. Alex is a thrifty boy.

When we met, I was a little girl, dancing the nights away, riding in the cars with boys and hopping from one party to another. Life was crazy and it was exciting. When I put on my high heels on weekends, everything was buzzing with anticipation and excitement. And it was okay that way.

Now I am a grown woman and my life has changed. I have to make decisions for myself, decisions that are crucial for my future. What I do in the next 24 months will influence the next 20 years of my life. Where do I call my home? Who should I share my life with? What should I do to secure our future together? When will I play mommie and who would be there to support me when I do?




*
Sometimes when you open your eyes and heart and dare stare into your past, you will see many beautiful things. You will things that you wished you could do again and then there are things that you wished you would never. There will always be heartbreak and disappointments but you will also experience great joy and happiness. And if you are lucky, you will share everything with someone you love.

Life is like a river flowing on and on, even when you feel like you are stagnant, like a puddle of water. That is the beauty about living. The only thing certain about life is uncertainties. You can plan for your future but you will never know what the future brings until the future becomes today.

It was difficult to let go. If I have to think about it again, I do not think I will let Alex go. It is a very difficult decision and until this minute, I dare tell you that I do not think about it much. I keep myself busy and occupied, so I can take a rest from everything and just trust that life will bring me something.

Maybe my future is with Alex. Maybe it will not. But whatever it is, I have realised that it is beyond my control. I cannot count and plan for everything. Everything has its time. So the plan is to get on with my life and do my own thing. Do not bother too much for the future but allow life to bring me whatever blessings it has in store for me.

So I ended up doing the most ironic thing that one can do. I contradicted all that I had worried about. I worried about my relationship but I chose to abandon it. Abandoning it seemed like the most logical decision. I knew that I would straggle the relationship (or myself or Alex) if I stayed on. Take a step back and let everything flow. I am sure I will catch up sooner or later.

Alex asked what happens if circumstances changed and they were not favourable to us. As it is, circumstances are packing up like a mountain against us. It cannot be any worse. And if my relationship with Alex ends, then I guess an end is an answer too.

If the success of a party is measured by the percentage of hangovers the following morning, I can say confidently that our Mid Summer’s BBQ party by the swimming pool last night was a roaring success. The party was ended abruptly when The Bachelor collapsed into a heap of snores at about 2 a.m. He literally collapsed onto the floor and whatever pain he must have felt caused by the fall was certainly numbed by the red and white wine, port, countless cans of beers and vodka shots.

I was speaking to Ed, my Romanian friend when it happened. My first reaction was to laugh and I have my reasons to. The Bachelor had been dancing on the swimming pool podium for more than an hour, putting on a routine common to beach parties, the light show. The only exception was there were no lights at the end of his fingertips.

Anyway, I kicked him a little, thinking that he was putting on his usual show. He did not budge, so I turned him over. The Bachelor was being not so bachelor. He was asleep and snoring at 2 a.m. Such sins.

BestGuyFriend and Ed took him back to his apartment while the rest of us girls got up and dispersed the other two Germans. One was drunk and the other was drunk and asleep.

‘Are our company so boring that you are asleep, sir?’ I asked one of them earlier in the evening.

He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘No, it is not. I won’t describe myself as being bored just because my companion on my right isn’t speaking much to me at the moment. I think she’s excellent company and should be here again tomorrow night when I organize a Bavarian BBQ,’

The 11 of us were invited to the next party, which I think will be cancelled on the account of everyone’s hangovers at 11 a.m. Sunday morning.




*
Hey, I just realised something. I devoted the first section of this story to talking about how everyone was dropping like flies during last night’s party. I swear to you, it was a grand party with a blazing BBQ grill since 7 p.m. and basically too much to drink.

Everyone was relaxed and the atmosphere was just right. The group of us mingled well. I could have proudly written that I spoke to everyone last night, if not for the architect’s wife, who is definitely ignoring me. I am not too sure why she is doing so but I am well aware that I am being ignored since the beginning of time. As if I had stepped on her tail. Maybe she thinks that I stepped on her husband’s coattail or maybe her husband has been thinking of stepping on mine…




*
Slumping next to me, BestGuyFriend lit his Marlboro Lights and started puffing like his usual self. ‘What is happening?’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I just let loose. All the words, every emotions and thoughts came streaming through. It felt strange talking about such private matters in such a huge public place, where even the walls have ears. But it didn’t matter. Everyone asked why I had returned to Malaysia early this year and I guess it was time to tell.

I am no longer satisfied with a relationship that is so far away. I do not want to be in a relationship where I am with the person for 6 months of the year, at the most. It used to work fine but it is not working for me anymore. I need something more than just 6 months of a year. I want companionship and love all year round. I need support and devotion, things that one receives in a relationship.

‘You are business woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. I have heard that word a million times but somehow it sounded more profound when he uttered those words to me last night. ‘At your very core is an entrepreneur. You are very independent and successful at what you do. On a social scale, you sit right on top.’ His right index finger was pointing at an imaginary ladder and according to his finger, my spot was the top spot.

‘Even architects and bankers have bosses above them. You have none. You are the boss. You are the universe and you make your own rules.’

‘Yeah but that doesn’t mean I don’t get scolding. I have clients to please too and they are a handful at best.’

‘Nonetheless you are on top. It had made you very independent and opened vast amount of choices and opportunities to you – opportunities and choices that not many other people have, especially girls.’

I tried denying what BestGuyFriend spoke about. I do not own a single expensive bag. I drive a 12 year old Wira with dents that represent the whole of Asia. I do not wear designer dresses and I have not appeared in Tattler or the business section in major newspapers. But BestGuyFriend insisted that what I had was luxury; the luxury of time, freedom of choice and at the end of the day, financial freedom through a business that I am absolutely passionate about. It had given me the confidence that I do possess and the elevation in the social circles that I move in.

It had given me even the ability and time to write you all these stories.

‘You are a very independent woman.’



*
Independent. Independence have, throughout human history, been celebrated. It was a cause for joy and celebration. Malaysia is celebrating its 50th year of independence and all Malaysians are joyous of the occasion. And in the last month, 3 men have described me as being independent. Not just independent, like a girl who is able to drive herself here and there, owns her little apartment and lives on her own. What they spoke about was total independence.

‘You are very independent. You are far more independent than many European girls that I know. Why are you suddenly demanding? If you want, I can squirt you full of babies and you can go have a baby in Malaysia and be happy with it.’

‘I know that I can have a baby on my own. I don’t need you or any other man. But what is the use of a relationship if there is no support and I am expected to do everything on my own anyway? I might as well do it like Madonna.’ I was referring to Madonna’s fitness instructor who donated his sperms for Madonna’s first child, who turned into a very beautiful and sultry Lola. He has no paternity rights at all and plays no part in raising her.

If I have to do it like Madonna, raise a child on my own without any support from the father, I rather do it with a very hot Latino. At least his sperms could contribute some physical beauty to my unborn. But that isn’t what I crave. I crave for emotional support from the man I call my life partner. I want him to stand by me as I will stand by him. I want to be around him and I want him to be around me. I want dinners together and weekends together. I want to be able to feel vulnerable and secure at the same time. Isn’t that what love does?

If I have to do everything on my own, what the fuck is the use of a man? Companionship? I have just been told that I can have a bucket full of sperms and play Mary Poppins on my own in Malaysia. Not the best answer to give to a very hormonally challenged 31 year old who is freaking out because she thinks that she has to take charge and do something with her life before she is seriously too old to have a child. And I have to cough up my own diaper and milk money. So what the fuck is the use of a man?

Most women either get emotional support or financial support from men. Some women, the lucky ones, will receive both or a compromise between the two. As it turns out, I will receive hardly any because I am independent. Thank you.




*
‘You are very independent. That’s why I like you,’ The Bachelor said one day when I asked him why he rather my company than other more available girls, such as my good friends, E and Jane.

Doomed if I am not and damned if I am. Why don’t men seem to realise that women, no matter what social or financial standing they are, crave for such a simple thing called love? And love means much more than just seeing you whenever they are free. Love is appreciating and supporting each other daily. Love makes everything lighter because you can share. And just because you think I am independent doesn’t mean that I do not need someone to be tender and care. It doesn’t mean you can chuck me out in the streets and know that I will survive.

I know I will survive but I would like to think that you would love me enough and keep me in the warmth of your presence and arms anyway. Okay, this one is another strike out, I thought to myself.




*
‘You are a very independent woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. ‘You would have been happier if you were just working in Kota Raya as a cashier. If you were a cashier in Kota Raya, you would appreciate Alex more if he brought you to the UK to stay with him because it meant that you would live 10 or 20 times better than on the streets in Pudu Raya.’ His cigarette smoke disappeared into the air. If only he could make my pain disappear.

‘Alex could have brought home a Thai girl but it would be very difficult for him to do so. It was easier to go out with you because you will socialise easier in London than a Thai prostitute. You have your own career and your own money, so he never has to worry for you. In very short words, you were very easy for him.’

BestGuyFriend could have very well described me as being slut easy because that was how I felt. I am an easy relationship. Well thank you for letting me know. It’s 6 years too late but I guess better late than never. It’s easier to have a relationship with me because I am less demanding than the girl who screamed murder when you don’t buy her the very new and very expensive bag. Whatever happened to liking a girl for her intelligence? Or tits, at this rate.

‘You are so used to being special and extraordinary, you won’t feel comfortable doing normal things. You are this high on the social ladder.’ Again BestGuyFriend was pointing to my spot in the social ladder. ‘And you need a man who is also on that top spot on the ladder. Now all the boys here are on the top spot because they are the cream of all the expats and locals and you don’t like the local boys.’

‘Correction! The local boys don’t like me,’ I said. ‘They can’t stand the sight of me and especially my thoughts and opinions on things.’

‘Ok, so the local boys prefer their porcelain dolls,’ BestguyFriend adjusted his storyline. ‘You are left with the expats and let’s just say that you did break up with Alex and start dating one of the boys here. What happens when his contract expires? Will you be content playing expat wife in another country? Will you be able to go back to his country and be ordinary?’

I didn’t get what he was trying to tell me. It took a while before I did. I think it took me the amount of time it did because I didn’t want to own up to what I had to.

‘Are you willing to go back to London or Stockholm or Munich and just be ordinary? Take the bus like everyone else. Own a house mortgage and try living within the constraints of his very ordinary salary? Can you be a housewife?’

‘It depends what sort of housewife. There is clearly a difference between a housewife in wooden shack and one in a 2 storey house in the middle of the city,’ That was me defending myself and refusing to admit the truth.

‘I don’t care what sort of housewife or career woman. My question is ‘Are you willing to live an ordinary life in an European city?”’

‘I,’ I paused for a few seconds consideration of what I was about to say, ‘I have never been ordinary and I do not believe in living an ordinary life.’




*
‘See that podium,’ I pointed to the one in front of me, where the racers begin and end the Grand Prix. ‘I will sit on that podium next year sipping champagne, if you don’t treat me right. I know where I belong and what I can achieve.’

He patted my head and then he said, “Extraordinary…”

"Like teaching a cat to fetch a ball.
Obedience is just not in their nature."
~ Alex's comment on his relationship with Otto.

Welcome back, sir.

It is approx. half 8 in London on a Saturday morning. I have successfully woken up 7:30 a.m. daily no matter what time zone I am in. I jump out of bed, shouting for my laptop so I can go to work. Ok, so I don't literally shout but you know, my mind somesort like ache for the familiar iBook and my fingers start crawling like tiny spiders on the keyboard.

Was in Wroclaw the whole of last week, which was beautiful. Girls there were beautiful, so the 8 boys I was with were getting more action than their pants could handle. The dining and clubbing scenes were fantastic. Oh my god, it was like heaven! Perfect weather at 30c minus the humidity in Msia. How much better can you get?

I should be going back soon. There are tonnes of things to do, both in my business as well as rearranging some stuff in my personal life. I need to get myself a proper house with a dining table. I can't sit on a coffee table having TV dinners forever.

The strange thing is I never had TV dinners until I met boys. My parents' household had civilised meals at the dining table, every day for every meal. Where you talk about your life and routines etc etc. Boys somehow enjoy getting stupid in front of the TV. It is yet another habit that I do not practice on my own - watching TV or getting stupid.

It annoys me to no end. I am the sort who enjoys going out, sitting out in the open and watching people doing their stuff. Am vouyeuristic by nature, I think. I guess it is no surprise that I want to write. I love to read and I spent countless hours buying books that I hope to read some day. Currently I am alternating between two books. You know, some days you just fancy one over the other.

That makes me fickle minded, I suppose. My mother warned me about this when I was a teenager, changing the furniture in my bedroom every 30 days or so. "You are the sort that can't settle down."

Suddenly I am reminded of the movie Chocolat. I am not like this by nature; the restlessness I feel in my heart every so often. I do not bugger off after a period of time because my heart told me to. It wasn't me. It was never me. I think I understand Vianne Rocher.

The wind made me do it.

xoxo,
Otto

‘It is ok,’ BestGuyFriend said between swigs of beer on a cool Saturday night. His wife, Nikki was singing Hotel California when the conversation began. It was not your typical Saturday night party with your friends sort of conversation, if you know what I mean. ‘It’s ok if you do not know what you want. If you are unhappy that Alex is so far away, then you tell him. Or you break up.’

Life seems so simple when one is stoned. That must be the reason why many chose to drop and fly on weekends. Life seems easier and lighter when you roll a joint on late Friday evening and smoke with your love ones. Dinner conversations give way to the common sharing of a cig or two. In the UK, it would be a line or two. But since the conversation was held in Malaysia, we shall stick to the storyline that it was a cigarette or two.

It feels like it was ages ago that these two birds decided to pool in their finances, share their apartment with two strays (one is giving birth anytime soon) and purchase a car to drive their pretty asses around the city. Prior to that, BestGuyFriend loved his motorbike. In actual fact, it has only been four months since seven bride’s maids woke up, frantic that the wedding, held at a Buddhist temple was 2 hours behind schedule.

Nikki and BestGuyFriend stormed and raged in previous months, complete with screaming matches, confrontations and makeup and cuddle sessions. Often Nikki vowed to fly back to Leeds as she paced up and down the roadside. Four months on, this pair of lovebirds are stealing kisses whenever they can. They are happy and they are trying for a baby. It is about time anyway. ‘BestGuyFriend is 40 this year. We do not want an old daddy in our midst,’ Nikki teased lovingly.


*
‘Yo, you free now?’ the husky voice said at 2 p.m. I finished my last spoonful of chicken soup in my parents’ home when MiniBoyFriend R called. I managed to mumble that I had finished my lunch but it would be thrilling if I could see my closest MBF.

He was there at my parents’ front porch faster than I could zip up my Levis pair of trousers. His little red car was packed with discarded sandwich boxes, cartons of milk and the not so occasional boxes of Marlboro. MiniBoyFriend R looked good despite absolutely abusing his body constantly.

‘We smoked. We drank. We played games,’ he said. His cigarette pursed at the left corner of his thick lips. ‘It’s fucking amazing how he is going to be a father to a pair of twins this weekend.’ A common friend of ours, married his 25 year old college girlfriend two years ago and as of last Saturday, they are proud parents of a 2 year old son and a pair of 2 day old twins. 'How do you feel being a father to three kids at 27 years?' R snickered.

We were sat in a tiny coffee shop, lost in our private conversation. Haven’t seen him for a bit mainly because he keeps hanging out in Sunway on weekends. He looked good, clear skin and light brown eyes. MiniBoyFriend R was chatty and happy, especially since my return from London earlier this year.

‘Do you think you’ll make a good father?’ I asked him, between sips of my second milk tea that day. ‘Do you think it is ok to smoke and get high when you are a father?’

There is this trend where young couples, the semi retired ravers, who now are at a marriageable age. They marry, have kids and share chores and duties like all previous married couples. Then they decide to take weekends off parent duties and some holiday in deserted islands, so they can smoke their pot, pop their pills and snort their lines in peace.

R said that it isn’t as grim as I imagined it to be. He said he was ready to be a father. Where is he going to find the mother, I wondered. As if understanding my thoughts, R replied that he would adopt instead of marry or fuck a girl pregnant. R is unconventional in his art and he is still unconventional when it comes to the practical stuff. Skip the girl and just have the kid.

‘I still function like normal, even when doped,’ he said, his cigarette sitting on his lips like it did ten thousand times before this. Like this new generation, he is adamant that he is okay just as long as it is a habit that is under control. Just as long as he goes to work and works like normal, just as long as he has his relationships like usual and just as long as he carries on his daily routine the way he should responsibly do, MiniBoyFriend asserts that it is ok if he is riding on the sky miles on some pill or grass.

Maybe I am just old fashion. My parents did not drink nor smoke when we were young children. They still do not. They did not hang out with some cool dude they knew while travelling in Nepal. Or tried to search for themselves on some world peace religion. My parents were how parents were supposed to be. They were strict, strong and they were always right. They set the examples and we as children, followed suit. They were not there to be my friend or be the coolest parents in highschool. My mother did not borrow my dresses. She dressed like an adult woman and I dressed like a girl child.

And that’s how I think I want to bring up my kids. Conscious and considerate, not fucked up on some imaginary ride.

‘Oh come on,’ R said. ‘You should learn to chill and relax. I’ll teach you some day.’ R said, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. Two tables away, another family with two young kids sat. The father, obese beyond redemption, was busy puffing away his lights. Maybe he pacified his thoughts by thinking that his children were lesser passive smokers because he used filters.



*
PY and I had breakfast this morning. She had her usual hot drink and I had my usual ice coffee. I should stop this habit I developed some months ago. Coffee stained teeth are not the least attractive. I really do not think it will ever make it into any fashion catwalk collective.

She decided to get back on the Pill. Now this is a different pill altogether. A Pill with the capital P. After five years trying for a baby secretly (after the birth of her only daughter), PY and her hubby had decided to call it quits and throw in the towel. PY’s Pill days are starting again and she is almost successful, if not for the fact that she has forgotten to take her pills two weeks ago.

I have not met E since we last two approximately two weeks ago. I found out from the Bachelor that she called him one evening last year before Nikki’s big wedding. They went for dinner and chatted for a bit. Now this is not too surprising if not for the fact that E had confided that she was not too happy with her current situation with her Muslim boyfriend. The boy's family do not know of their relationship despite it reaching its 5th year.

‘I work so hard and sometimes it is nice to be treated a little.’ I emphatize with her predicament. I am also 31 years old and I am developing wrinkles thinking how my next few years are going to be. When the hell am I going to have babies, when my biological clock is ticking faster than my maturity and bank balance?

Although not said, I think E went fishing for a new boyfriend and the little fish was the Bachelor.


*
The noise was getting louder. I was less than 50 meters from Lola and already the music was banging. I snaked up the glass stairs, to the floor above, with my mobile in my hands. Sexy on high heels on a curving glass stairs, sending a text message to D was quite a task. I think it should be included as a challenge in the new Amazing Race Asia.

‘Where are you guys?’

‘Near the TV’ came the reply.

I found them, the usual group of boys, clustering in front of the huge flat TV screen. Man U versus Middlesbrough. Why did I even bother sending the text, asking for their location in the huge hall. I should have known better. All boys are drawn to the live football telecast, duh! I thought to myself.

D lost his voice. That boy has been having too much fun, I am telling you. I missed his birthday treat two weeks ago and I am not sure if I really miss it or not. Being stuck on an island with some folks that you are not too familiar with can be quite a daunting task. I don’t care if the trip was free. I don’t want to be trapped with a bunch of boys and girls that I do not share any common interest with.

Imagine the trauma of explaining why I don’t think it’s cool to play some ice breaking games with them. Or why I prefer to read a book in the hammock in my latest Roxy bikini.

There were 3 new girls at the table. I always get introduced to them. It is common courtesy but it does not extend beyond the initial name introduction. The girls were dancing with each other and with the boys, while I made my social rounds.

‘You pregnant?’ ET asked.

‘Fuck you. You think I am Mother Mary? Immaculate conception? How to be pregnant when I am not having sex?!’ I smacked his arm.

‘Dunno. You have been so quiet recently, like a pregnant cat.’


*
I sat down on a very hot Saturday, after redeeming my RM100 member’s voucher at Roxy and before having tea with MiniBoyFriend R. I dialled the familiar number. The only phone number that I can remember and it is 14 digits long. I can’t even remember my parents’ home telephone number.

Alex adopted a fox over the week. The lonely fox sat in our garden one day and Alex fed it with cheese. It was eager and Alex even more so. So he thawed a pack of cheap sausages and fed the fox again. Needless to say, the fox was a happy chap and Alex was busy buzzing me the news in the middle of the night.

We were talking about my upcoming trip, one that I am eager and not so eager. Business needs my attention and I am getting too old to fly here and there like some jetsetting superstar. It is an expensive hobby, especially since I end up in the same airport each year. I could have been in Tahiti or Kathmandu but instead I am in Heathrow every few months.

‘I am sorry that you feel coming to the UK is such a chore,’ he mumbled.

‘It isn’t a chore,’ I mumbled back. It has nothing to do with Alex. It is about going to the UK every year, spending at least RM6000 each time. Often it is RM10000 and above. Imagine spending that amount of money each year for a couple of years. Imagine what you could do with the money instead.

‘Oh utter rubbish!’ Alex said. ‘Feeding the poor in Africa with your money.’ He dismissed that I could have vaccinated some village kids and fed perhaps another village with the money I spent.

Thankfully he did not ask me feed the poor with the money I allocated for my Aldo shoes fetish.

Anyway we are doing okay, I guess. I imagine that there is a dark cloud looming somewhere far away in my mind but I do not wish to think about the emotional clouds at the moment. I am trying hard to be where I was before I flew home past Christmas this year. I am trying hard to remember how Alex touched me with his stories and antics. Like his pet fox in the garden.

Maybe I am trying too hard. That is why it is failing. Maybe if I learn to let go and just let it be, everything will return to normal and everything will feel fine again.

We are going to Poland end of May. He signed me up for pole dancing lessons. Alex said that I could go pole dancing while he swam in the town council’s pool on Wednesdays. Hurrah, I thought to myself. Well at least if we do break up, I do possess a new skill to add to my relationship CV. I might joke about this but I really do not think that it is funny.

I imagine writing into my relationship CV. ‘Attractive 31 year old, who is able to amuse you with her pole dancing skills. Riding not included’.

Somehow I don't like to parade my new skill at all.

And because...
Your favourite blog author, Miss Otto thinks that a GIG is a show where strapping young men take off their pants in a striptease (and not some mumbo jumbo about computers) you are cordially invited to help her help Wouter. Please take a minute to fill in a questionaire on my behalf and make Otto look less blonde.

Click here to start.

***
Related Links

• BestGuyFriend & Nikki's wedding


• A day with MiniBoyFriend R


• It's a post about Alex, Alex, Alex


• How I pottered along with Alex for the past 1853 days


• Should women contribute equally in a relationship?

On the ferry to Koh Phi Phi, I was buzzed. It was Alex and he began his short message with ‘my hands are shaking as I write this…’. He asked me to read an email he wrote me. I was overwhelmed with so much sadness that I could not hold the tears that were welling up along my eyes.

‘This is what sunglasses are for,’ I said to myself as I coolly took out my Gucci shades out of its box and nestled it gently on my nose. I wondered if Jackie Kennedy wore her sunglasses for the same reason. Did her glasses hide tears too?

The ferry was packed with people. Backpackers and locals sat next to each other. The sun worshippers walked up a flight of flimsy stairs, to the upper deck, only to walk back into the cool of the lower floors. The sun’s rays were beating everyone’s backs on the Thursday I sat the ferry to Koh Phi Phi.

Thirty minutes before sitting the pair of sunglasses on my nose, I found myself in the company of two girls. They flew on the same flight on the previous day and by chance, we stumbled on each other again onboard the ferry boat to Koh Phi Phi. We chatted along merrily as I related to them how years ago I spent summers in Stockholm.

I kept my mobile away during this trip, in a separate compartment and every so often, I flipped it open and checked for calls and messages. Good way of avoiding work related matters on the precious trip. I slid my hand into the bag as the girls and I spoke about Mid Summers and skinny dipping with friends.

A message from Alex.

I did not have a mirror but I assumed that my face turned pale when I read the message. What horror to read that his hands were shaking. My hands began to shake too. I felt faint, as if all the air around me was withdrew and I was stuck in a vacuum. That was how my heart felt.

Empty.


*



I now sit on my office chair, thinking what happened back then. It has been a week since that message arrived and I am not sure what I did other than slipping on the pair of sunglasses and refusing to open my mailbox until the day after.

The girls and I checked into the hotel and I managed to keep myself busy with other things. Like checking out the seaside and Zeavola, which was a beautiful boutique hotel. Zeavola was this perfect sweet dark chocolate structure sitting prettily between swaying coconut trees and the steadfast rocks. Beautiful yellow umbrellas and sun beds lined the white sandy beach. I am not sure if the place made the people beautiful or if it was the other way around.

I decided to read the email while the two girls prattled on in Swedish the morning after, immediately after the complimentary breakfast. I sat in front of the computer with trembling cold hands and cold feet on a very hot day on an island that swept Nikki away. It was not a very nice start to an island holiday.

‘I have neglected you and now our love has suffered’

That was the subject. Suffering, I thought to myself, then taking a deep breath. Suffering definitely fitted what I felt at that moment. It was a long email, the longest I have received from Alex in a very long time. There were lots of things written, things that I am not free to share with you because they are very private. But I will share what I wished I could tell Alex then and now.


*

I am sorry that I have hurt you in the past. Yes, I slept with someone else three years ago. Yes, perhaps that killed part of your love for me. I am a murderer and I am guilty of killing whatever passion and love you felt for me.

Do you remember the movie “Lady Killer”? The daughter wrote a secret letter to her mother and demanded that her mother apologized three times for all the hurt caused. And the mother did.

I wished that there was a secret letter and you demanded me for an apology, times three.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

And I wished that it would make everything better. But I know that there is no secret letter and that you made no such demands. There is nothing more that I can offer other than a very sincere apology. I do not know how to mend you better.

You are my sun and I have depended on you for love and support. I never imagined that you would not love me. Until now. Now I no longer know what is real because I thought our love was real. What I felt with you was real. What I felt for your was real. I thought that our love was strong, what we share is special and now, after what you wrote, I do not know what to think anymore.

Now all I feel is that everything was a convenience. It was convenient for you to be with me and on my part, I felt safe with you. We are good friends. We always have been. We share so many things in common and we supported each other through a lot of things. I felt so comfortable with you, in my very own skin and you were comfortable enough with me to be just who you are inside.

Perhaps that was the killer. We grew too comfortable. As the years rolled by, we just grew too comfortable. Somewhere along the way, we became very good friends and not so good lovers. You said so. I thought we made good lovers. We were physically close, walking hand in hand all the time and we had physical contact even when we sat down for a movie. I remember stretching my legs on your lap whenever we were sat in a bus or the cinema.

Do you remember our special jiggy dance? Yes, the one we made up when ‘Saturday Night Fever’ reality dance competition was aired on TV. We always did the jiggy dance while we cooked dinner. I stood in the hallway. My index fingers twitched as I tip toed in a little dance while you opened your arms to catch me when I jumped at you after three steps. Is that not passion and happiness?

So fine. I am not Lolita and you are not Brad Pitt. We no longer possess the passion like how young lovers often do. But I never considered what we share as poor. I just figured it out that we were past the initial first love rush and have settled into a comfortable routine…


*
One week on I am still on a row with Alex. He has made a peace offering but I am not so quick to accept it. This is highly unusual. Some thing has changed this time. I knew that I had changed since coming home after Christmas. Something inside me changed.

I think I grew up.

Or grew old.

I am tired of everything. I feel lonely and depressed. I do not want to be alone anymore. I am not willing to settle for the best, which is so far away. Not anymore anyway. It is no longer the best when you are so far away.

I think I am going crazy. I must be. There is the only logical reason why I would not just let this go. I am afraid. Yes, I am but I am not willing to patch this one up with a little emotional plaster. You might feel better after the cuddle but the issue is not resolved. It is hidden. I know it would not go away. It never did. This issue will crop up some months down the road.

Realizing that I might regret this stubborn need to confront Alex at the moment does not seem to stop me from confronting him. Or refusing to resolve it at the moment. I think I am a little angry at the moment and I am not thinking straight. I have been pushed off the edge or I have pushed myself off my own brink of reality and now I feel as if I do not care whatever happens to me anymore.


*
The men knew they were trapped the second they ran into the wooden shed. The police were on their backs and there was no backdoor to run out from. The leader, the one with the blind right eye, climbed up some bays of hay and his army of bandits followed.

The whole place was swarmed with police, he thought to himself. There were men in green shorts, machine guns and barking dogs outside. There were many of them. Ten, twenty or even thirty of them.

All was lost.

‘Today is the day we die, soldiers!’ he shouted. He rushed out through the door, his men behind him.

Sprays of bullets filled the dusty summer day.

I know I talk about Alex a lot here in ANNN but in reality, I do not talk about him often. I have always liked my relationships private, just the two of us. Below are two post Valentine's Day emails. The first from Alex and the second, my proper response to his emotional review.




Alex's request for an emotional review
Well, do you think we need emotional status review? We can't judge each other's mood from such distances.

From my point of view I'm feeling a little insecure, you see when you were supposed to be coming over here, I was in control and didn't feel threatened by anything you could do, it would leave me no worse off... thinking back to why I left in the first place.

Now if I am to go back over there then I'm no longer independent in the same way, and have to rely on the trust that's been rebuilt. I suppose that is why you are giving me more time, not hurrying me to come over, but then again, it might be an example of the insecurity I feel -> I suspect you enjoy your current secure but single status...

See, at the moment the atmosphere is sort of humid, like the build up before a thunderstorm, we just need the row to open the floodgates and clear the atmosphere...? maybe? Just like BestGuyFriend and Nikki do every couple of weeks...

Food for thought.
Alex




My response to Alex's emotional review
Well Nikki did say that we haven't argued as much because time is precious for the two of us. We realise that there is a limit to how much time we get to spend with each other and as a result, we tend to be our very best and we forgive very easily.

She suspects that when we get together permanently, we will argue just as much as they do at the moment.

I don't like her theory, I am telling you. I am getting a little too old to row and argue. Time is too precious for me to spend days playing the silent treatment. It throws the focus off what I want to do and I know I won't be able to bear the emotional insecurities, the way Nikki has to deal with BestGuyFriend's.

Frankly one of the primary reasons why I chose you over SwedishLove was for the fact that you do not have as many emotional baggage as SwedishLove does. He depended on me for a lot of his emotional needs and it was tiring trying to be perfect for him all the time. He did not have a good relationship with his mother, often being the parent in the relationship whilst his mother wasted her years away.

As a result, he innately believe that if he loves enough and if he finds the perfect woman, they will share a perfect life. And he concentrated and focused too much in the relationship that we shared.... which drained me emotionally because I had to live up to his idea and aspirations for the perfect family life. I became the source where he derived unconditional love and devotion.

You, on the other hand, perhaps due to your parents' devotion and nurturing, aren't as insecure as he was. And you do not see me as the solution to your emotional troubles. In our relationship, I think that I am the one who is needy - the need for security, love, affection and stability. And you have always proved yourself well... and that simple act deserves my loyalty and devotion.

I admire you a lot for what you are able to do and what you have given me. You are generous towards me and you are a great teacher. I have learnt a lot from you - love, patience, devotion, faith, hope and generosity. It is almost strange to derive these attributes from of all persons - A NON CHRISTIAN.

It has, in its very subtle ways, taught me that one has to appreciate a person for WHO HE IS, never what membership he has enrolled himself into....

I am getting sidetracked.... HighSchoolSweetheart asked me once why I chose you instead of many other men. I chose you because you are the very best part of me. I have made mistakes and I swore to myself that I shall spend my life repenting. You do not know how many times I have silently asked you to forgive me.

Each time I am nice to you, just remember - it is my way of showing my love and devotion towards you. Each time I cook, do something extra, send a card, think of you - they are all little acts that I do because I realised that I do love you very much (in my own way). Perhaps I am strange and to a certain extend, maybe I am even a little crazy. I am not perfect but each time I do something, I did it because my heart recognized how much I love you.

There are things that I do for you, I would never do for others. And I most certainly not even do it for my family or for myself. But for you, I would most certainly do almost anything, if it means that you are more happy and comfortable. I hate getting up my ass but if you were sick, I'd make Lemsip for you. I won't do it for myself but I would do it for you.

Sometimes I fear that I would lose you one day. And that one day, when I wake up, you would chose not to love me anymore. And I fear that tremendously. But I have realised that I can't control you and I can't make you love me. I don't even know why you love me or chose to be with me. I only know why I chose you.

Otto




***
His following response was terribly poor. So poor it was that I would not copy and paste it. All Alex said was that I wrote well. That was the last thing I had expected from Alex since he requested for a damn emotional review at midnight while I was sitting in my panties writing new car articles for the magazine! Argh! Men... pffft! My emotional floodgates are now open.




***
Related Links

• Read more about Alex


• Read more about SwedshLove


• Read more about HighSchoolSweetheart

~ Satisfaction, The Rolling Stones.

I have been back in Malaysia since the 18th. On touch down, the phone rang like an alarm clock buzzing every ten seconds. Got straight into the office after a warm shower and wash. My staff grinned. They looked as if they were relieved that I am back in command, sitting in my little office. Perhaps it was comfort.

PY and I launched ourselves into shopping mania. I had spent a quarter of my salary on clothes five hours after arriving back home. Went home with bags of new clothes, only to be greeted by my fat cat Milo. He had knots in his armpits, which he demanded me to attend to by laying on his back and showing me his armpit knots.

Was out Friday night, catching the usual crowd of people. I went to Lola and gave dear D a warm hug. “You shouldn’t go to the UK too often,” he said between puffs. I realised that we have been friends for close to 5 years. That is how long we have been drinking together. Last Christmas was the first Christmas when I did not buy him some gift. Christmas was the only day in the year when I bought him something. He treated to me sweet bubblies for the remaining 364 days.

Reached home at 6 a.m. Saturday morning. Slept 4 hours and caught PY for last minute breakfast. Then she was off to Langkawi for a week and one day. Had a special date on Saturday night, which turned out lovely. Then it was one drinking binge with E, E’s boyfriend, BestGuyFrien, Nikki and SL.

That was two Saturdays ago. By last Saturday, nothing much had changed. I had very restless sleep during the four hours I get each night. I did not possess appetite for food and felt full after eating a bun or half a bowl of noodles. My dreams were vivid and wild. Some were sexual and Alex was not the man in my dreams. The dreams were disturbing in every sense of the word.

I could not take the quarrels I had with my parents anymore and so I left home. I created a home of my own in an instant, purchasing pretty little furniture pieces and made myself a nest. I slept in my new room in my new bed with new bed linen but my seven pillows were the still the same. Maybe the stress of returning home, coupled by jetlag and non-stop weekend parties turned me into this zombie.

I do not feel tired despite sleeping inadequately. I do not feel hungry if I had only one muffin a day. I worked during the day and when I had time, I ran to the boutique to buy yet another blouse that I would wear only once. I laid awake in bed, tossing around until 3 a.m. on weeknights and on weekends, I do not reach home before 6 a.m. the next day.

And yet, I do not feel a thing.

Or maybe I do. My world is not complete when I am not with you. Food taste bland and nothing is special in my life. I know what is wrong. I try to medicate my soul with clothes, shoes, pretty furniture and booze. Do you know that I had 2 glasses of whiskey on rocks, 1 tequila pop, 4 shots of vodka neat and 2 vodka cocktails. Then I had one whiskey on the rocks as nightcap before dropping myself on Nikki’s sofa. That was just one Saturday’s worth of drink.

I tried to medicate my soul but then I realised that what I needed was you. Nothing feels right when you are so far away and I miss you deeply. My soul did not know this but now I do. I miss you.

I miss the way you used to push me onto the bed and then you jumped on me, with your eyes and mouth opened wide, as if to scare me. Each time I giggled and screamed, watching you fall onto of me. It looked scary when you do that but when you do land on me, you were as light as a feather.

You tickled me senseless each night before we go to bed. You said that it tired me out and I would sleep better. Each night I complained that I nearly peed in my panties and you said that it was erotic. And no matter how much I protested, you would tickle me again. This, I miss too.

I miss running around the house with you. The house is small but it is filled with giggles and laughter. Sometimes you carried me on your back, like a stallion galloping up and down the stairs. Sometimes I closed my eyes and screamed for mercy but you knew that I was just pretending. You would be just out of my reach, each time when I stretch my hands out to touch you. You have the cheeky grin whenever you do that. You hold my attention whenever you are around. Your presence offers me security.

I miss breathing heavily into the pillows. I miss listening to your jokes about migrating to Canada and your declaration that the world is ending. I miss you telling me how we would start a cult together and I would be written in as the goddess. I miss you making me a cup of hot chocolate or the occasional hot tea when my nose feels blocked by the damn sinus. I miss sitting at the end of the tub and you sucking my toes just to hear me giggle. I miss you loving me coy.

I miss you swinging by for lunch, where we would sit in the little tight living room and we had the tastiest food. I miss marching into Tesco for our bargain hunts. I miss GU chocolate cake with you. I miss how you mewed for my attention. I miss nagging how you are annoying whenever you are without things to do.

I miss watching you mow the lawn from the bedroom window. I miss watching you shave. I miss the way you look when I shave you. I miss listening to your endless stories of how the dehumidifier improved our laundry chores. I miss you showing off your vacuum cleaner that looked cute. I miss watching House in bed with you. I miss watching you as you watched Japanese manga.

I miss you unpacking and petting your latest tent equipment. I miss your Leatherman. I miss your pimp daddy black shoes. I miss your ties that took some space in my cupboard. Yes, it is my cupboard. You hang your clothes on the left side and mine on the right. I miss the way you are meticulous with things and how you are manic about your bolts and screws.

I miss catching you watching porn and you had a hard on. I miss your sniffling self when you cut onions for the curries. I miss you washing my hair. I miss drying your back after we have our morning bath. I miss you enjoying the way I fuss about you. I miss you doing things that make me fuss over you.

The Malays have a proverb and I dedicate it to you. You are the reason why I "makan tak kenyang, tidur tak lena". (trans: "eat and I don't feel full, sleep and I don't sleep soundly"). Without you there is no satisfaction in my life.

I love you with my heart and I miss you.

"I can't get no satisfaction
I can't get no girl reaction
'cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no"
~ Satisfaction, The Rolling Stones

~ Perhaps by Doris Day.

My hands tremble when you are near. See, my hands are trembling now. They only tremble when you are around. They dance to an unknown rhythm. Maybe my hands are dancing because of you. Maybe they are dancing for something that my mind is yet to know.

My heart skips a beat whenever I see you smile. Thump, thump, thump, my heart goes like a little leather drum. Even if there are ten thousand laughing in the room, my ears only hear yours. I know your laughter. My heart recognizes your laughter as tiny melodies of joy, floating gently into my very essence. And yet sometimes it beats so hard, I swear that my heart leapt out into yours.

Everything in my life is beautiful because of you. Colours appear more vibrant and each sound more distinct. Each cloud is whiter and even the grey skies seem brighter. What used to be a burden now appears lighter. Is it because your love gave me wings to soar when everything was dragging me down?

I now know why lovers say, “you take my breath away”. I can hardly breathe when I catch you looking at me. Those eyes of yours, they look deep into mine. Your eyes strip me bare and all that is left is just who I am inside. What is it that you see when you look at these brown eyes? Do you mind what you see?

Do not touch me for I fear that I would melt away. Do not kiss me less I disappear like the morning rain. Love is only beautiful when it is fragile. I feel my breath slipping away again. I think I am in love with you. “Do you love me?” I asked you many times. Each time I do, your answer is “perhaps, perhaps, perhaps”. Perhaps that is why I am still here. I am here because I can never be too sure.

Love make the strongest man shy and the weakest woman bold.

***
Related Links

• Read more about Alex.

“You know that you are punished because you refused to buy me the Prada bag I wanted,” I teased him.

“Babs, don’t be cruel,” Alex said. His three frown lines appeared thicker after the police car drove off. “I lost 600 Euros…” He flattened his lips, pouting like one of those yellow plastic rubber ducks. “Oh fuck it!” He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed and submitted to the Consumerism gods in Milan.



***
At long last I managed to drag Alex into a tabachi (Italian newsagent) on Day Three in Milan, who sold the right ticket on the right side of the street, on the right road towards the right tram platform. Happily we walked down the street. Alex was singing his happy tune again and I was absolutely thrilled that my legs could take a rest. Afterall we had three more days of walking in Rome, so obviously we should conserve as much as our walking miles points as possible.

A car pulled up fast to the side of the road, just a junction away from the right tram platform. The fellow wound his window down and spoke in Italian. We shook our heads and replied that we did not understand a word of Italian. Our hands were still strung onto each other’s and we were still smiling, happy for the fact that we managed to buy the damn tram tickets.

“There are complaints of drugs around here. What are you doing here?” the fellow asked in English. He opened his badge and we saw a shiny silvery tag of some sort. The driver (on the left side of the car) was talking on the radio, mumbling on in Italian whilst the guy on the passenger seat asked us for our passports.

Alex showed his red one while I ransacked through my black bag for mine. Milan was equally famed for her pickpockets as well as her Dolce and Gabbana’s, so I had my stuff locked securely in the secret pocket inside one of the three compartments. The police took a look at our passports and proceeded to ask us for reasons why we were in doing in that slum part of the city.

“We are tourist in your city,” I replied firmly, peering into the car. There was a radio and walkie talkie set and of course, the two men in dark police suits.

He asked Alex to empty his pockets. So out came the map of Milan. The police man proceeded to sniff it and flapped it a little. Maybe he’s searching for pot, I thought to myself. Another pocket revealed some tissue paper and scribbles of paper. And the two damn tram tickets. I was smiling nervously as the police said that some residents lodged a report that some tourists were dealing drugs in the area and he was searching us.

Fucking stop sniffing, I thought to myself. The thought was meant for Alex. He was having slight flu and was busy sniffing away, like a coke addict. “We are just walking to the tram stop,” I said to the police. I tried to remain calm as he asked Alex to empty his jacket pockets.

Out came the passport again and then his wallet. The police took his wallet, swung it about, opened it and sniffed it. He emptied the wallet into his left hand and said, “Are you sure you are not on drugs? You really tourist here?”

The moment he touched the cash, the Malaysian in me jumped. Oh my fucking lord, the police is doing it here, I thought to myself. I could not believe what was happening in front of my eyes. The damn Italian police were fleecing our cash. I heard of “duit kopi” (trans: coffee money ie. Bribe) back home in the sweet country called Malaysia but to see it happening in Italy was something absolutely devastating.

What are we going to do? Two stupid tourist just passed their cash to the police and there was nothing that we could do. I stood there, stunt by the whole event when Alex reached out and demanded for his wallet. The driver picked up the radio and mumbled something. He handed the wallet back to Alex, and then the cash.

“It’s dangerous here. Don’t walk about after dark,” he said. They then sped off down the street, leaving us only with dust and a wallet much lighter.

Three seconds later, my mouth was still wide open. “Did the police just take our money?” I asked Alex. I turned around and looked at his face. Alex’s frown lines deepened. “Did it happen here in Italy? Fuck, it has never happened to me in Malaysia and it is happening in Italy?!” I asked again, shaking his right hand for comfirmation.

“They are not the police,” Alex said as he took a deep breath. He turned around and covered his face with his hands. “We lost 600 Euros.”

“Are you sure we lost 600 Euros?” I asked. I asked him to open his wallet up and check precisely how much we had lost. The hairy boy nodded his head. He walked aimlessly down a street while I tried to convince him that we should report to the police.

“What for? We are not going to get our money back…” his voice trailed off as he walked on.

“We might not get back our money but we have to report so the police can look into the matter and make sure other tourists don’t get conned by the police or otherwise!” I took his hand and walked back towards the hotel, determined to make hell for the people who took our 600 Euros. Oh now Milan has really pissed me off.

We informed the front desk that we were just robbed in broad daylight. The man nodded and repeated what I said a sentence earlier in question form.

“So we lost our money!” I fumed.

“So you lost your money?” the front man asked.

“Yes! The police stole 600 Euros!”

“The police stole 600 Euros?”

It was getting us nowhere. I asked where was the nearest police station. Judging by the near circle on the map, we were about 20 minutes walk from the police station.

“It is too far. Let me call a taxi for you,” the front man said.

“No…” the hairy moaner said. “We don’t have any money. We will walk…”

I recorded the time and street where it took place and we walked towards the police station. The Italian police are a strange bunch on a public holiday. They do not speak a word of English. You should bear in mind that the fashion and tourism industries are Milan’s heart beat, one would assume that English is spoken, no matter how broken the English might turn out to be. Even the egotistical French, known for their national pride and insistence on speaking only French, speak rudimentary English at all tourist related industries (such as restaurants, museums etc).

A Chinese man with a small moustache walked in a few minutes after Alex and I sat on the bench. After a talk with the policeman who appear to have swallowed five honey melons for lunch, the policeman walked on over to us. We spoke in English and he shook his head. He did not understand English.

I mustered all the Mandarin vocabulary I had under my belt in order to communicate to the Chinese man. He nodded his head and related back to me that he was at the police station for similar reason. He had 3000 Euros stolen from the same syndicate and he had the car registration number. After going around in three way conversation, the policeman instructed the Chinese dude to go to another police station to record the incident.

So we got a ride in the Chinese man’s car since we were all in the same boat, quite literally. After two stops, we found the police station and were made to sit on benches again. A Greek couple came in after us and I could not make it out what was their report about. Another Italian couple came in, presumably tourists too to make a theft report. Then 4 chubby kids came in with two Thai ladies to make a theft report. Their 6 passports were stolen and their passports were Australian.

“Those police you met were not real,” said this young man, a guard at the main door said when I related the story to them. Alex coughed a “no shit” audible only to my ears while I recounted the incident to the young guard turned translator.

“Slowly,” he mumbled. “I don’t understand.”

So I repeated the story, the second time a little slower and a whole lot more concise. He nodded and got a form for us to fill. Since we did not have the car plate number and we could not recognize the men from a profile book, it was a formal goodbye to our 600 Euros. We walked out of the police station 3 hours later, passed by Armani Café and had no heart to feast on something then.



***
“See, this wouldn’t happen if Alex bought me the Prada bag,” I said to Adrian. Adrian had a smirk on his face. Yes, the curse of the Consumerism gods in Milan struck a hard blow on us. Alex refused to part with his hard earn money on some useless bag with manmade logos beginning with “P”, “D” and “G” and now had to suffer the lost of 600 Euros at the hands of some con artist posing as the Italian police.

I must add at this juncture that the real Italian Policia were not the most empathetic people on earth. One would have expected that they had more heart for people who find themselves in a terrible situation. Such as the lady who broke down in tears as she sat in the police station, realising that her whole family had lost their passports and it spelt the end of their Italian holiday as they had to file report of lost in the police station and then at the Australian embassy.

“You have a point, Otto.” Adrian agreed. “If the money was converted into a bag, it would not be stolen.” He pointed his finger at Alex. Alex broke into protest. He crossed his arms and said, “Well they could have snatched the Prada off Otto… But anyway it was Otto that lost her Prada than me losing 600 Euros.” Alex rolled his eyes.

Yes, your mind has the ability to cheat you into believing a better lie. Alex convinced himself that he did not lose the 600 Euros. He decided that it was less traumatic on his brain if he deceived himself into believing that it was I that lost a potential Prada handbag. It obviously appealed more to his ego self – Otto losing a bag instead of Alex losing 600 Euros. Whatever, I thought to myself, the first time he uttered this nonsensical excuse.

So there you go, gentlemen out there. Here’s a tip from Miss Otto. Remember to buy your girl a Prada when you are in Milan, less you get penalized by the Consumerism gods who are eyeing on your wallet. Either way you have to vomit your cold hard cash, so you might as well treat your girl to her dream bag.

Don’t lose money + happy girlfriend + extra shagging potential = happy holiday in Milan.

It makes absolute mathematical sense.



You know it would be a shitty day
when the sky is crying...

Oh rainy day...

The height of Roman technology.
This was a two storey palace built in before Christ!

The Romans call the building behind us
the "Wedding Cake".

Will be flying back to Malaysia tomorrow morning, arriving in Malaysia lunchtime 18th Jan.

***
Related Links

• Day One - The Spiral Technique


• Day Two - The Lady And The Tram


• Day Three - The Milan Tax