a little hello

I dreamed about you.

I don’t quite remember what it was. I just remembered you, in bed, in your grey brown shorts, in your olive green shirt, you wore a hat, a cap, the cap I knew so well.

You looked at me and your smile just said everything you’d wanted to say, everything you’d been trying to say, all those years, all those years.

I dreamed about you.

Months after months after months without even a little hello, a little acknowledgement of existence, but I know you’re still there, still alive, still surviving.

I don’t blame you. How can I. I was the one who left. I was the villain. The poison. The bitch. I took everything away from you. Everything everything everything.

Delete me. Eliminate me. Annihilate me. I don’t blame you. I won’t blame you.

You’re a better person than I am.

You’ll always be a better person than I will ever be.

The sun kissed my skin when I woke up and for a moment I wondered why I was so happy.

Canggu Beach, Bali

oh 2013 and the importance of having a clean ass

So, 2012 was full of possibilities, just as it was full of fear and apprehension. I remember trying so hard to live in the present. I’ve abandoned that notion a long time ago. I live for the future. If it gives me anxiety, so be it. Living in the present gives me even more anxiety.

I thought 2013 would be awesome. Nah. It started so shitty (which we’ll cover in a moment). It involved so much drama (break-up, etc). I declare that 2013 is The Year of:

  • Leaving Men
  • Loving Men
  • Leaving Oneself
  • Loving Oneself
  • Making Friends
  • Leaving Friends
  • Being Drunk
  • Being Skinny
  • Being Stupid
  • Being Slutty
  • Being a Sore Loser (I want to scream every time a copy of Glimmer Train shows up in my mailbox)
  • Discovering a New Hobby (have you seen my Flickr page?)
  • Frequent Bottoming

In accordance with saving the best for last rule, I’d like to talk to you about bottoming. Yes. I’m going in (HA!). I think I’ve earned the right to blog about this. I have more than ten thousand hits since I started this blog in July 2014. Granted, it’s not as many hits as I’d like, but then again, the subjects I write aren’t that popular. In fact, the post that really stands out is my review of The Conjuring (6,330 hits as of the time of this entry). I should point out that my other posts are also excellent (there’s nothing sadder than plugging one’s blog post on one’s blog. I mean, really) such as my How To Guide to Survive Parties for Socially Awkward People, and my essay about Relationships.

But I digress. Back (ha!) to the subject of bottoming.

Ah, the joy of prostate orgasm. Read this. I’m trying not to provide any links from Wikipedia because, well, it’s Wikipedia. So read this. There’s a tight (ha!) section in article about diets which we’ll discuss.


And I don’t douche – I’ll save that one for when I’m ninety. I was once asked by someone how it was possible that my ass was so clean and ready whenever he wanted to mount me. I told him it was because I’m Indonesian. After pooping, we clean the area with water, not just toilet paper. No, it’s not frivolous.

However, as much as we hate to admit it, we bottoms are not always pristine. We curse, we fart (we don’t do this in the presence of a top because it reduces our mystical qualities; we sometimes don’t do this in the presence of other bottoms because bitches will talk to our top and badmouth us it’s just impolite). I know I’m smelly (not down there, but how would I know, right?) after a good workout or when it’s hot and humid. We have mushy, chocolate mousse-y (or perhaps chocolate moushe-y?) days. Upon reading this WebMD article about fiber, I decided that fiber is all in all good for you. In and out. (Ha!)

Chocolate Mousse. Yum. Image borrowed (without permission but with acknowledgment) from Family Heritage Recipes.

So, here are some dietary items that don’t work for me (I’m vegetarian):

  1. Coffee (thank goodness I generally don’t drink coffee)
  2. Spicy food (which includes Indian, Mexican, and Szechuan, all of which are my favorites)
  3. Some types of cheese (I’m borderline lactose intolerant too, unfortunately)
  4. Anything that makes me gassy or bloated (beans, broccoli). This is probably the worst feeling. It’s like being constipated but knowing there’s nothing inside but gas.

If you like these things, then plan ahead. I get instantaneous reactions from consuming beans and broccoli. I think I’ve had several accidents involving coffee (let’s just say that during which times I wished humans excreted Nutella instead).

Ooh, it’s heart-shaped! Image borrowed (without permission but with acknowledgment) from HauteApplePie.

Finally, if you, as a bottom, think that you’re not ready to do it (for whatever reasons), just say so. It is pretty confusing because having something up the bum feels similar to pooping. Then you lose your hard-on because you’re obsessing whether or not it’s fudge and hoping by all things good and mighty that it’s not fudge. Some people are just so anal (ha!) about it.

And Tops, please respect our decision not to take it for the team and give us time if we really don’t feel like it? Thanks.

Well, there’s that. All the opening hoopla and just a teensy note on bottoming tips. I think it’s a pretty fair way to end 2013, don’t you?

Here’s for a cleaner, more pleasurable 2014.


Post probably totally somewhat inspired by The Daily Post’s Prompt.

out west

I’ve seen this part of the City of Angels before, but only in movies.

Sunday. Blinding afternoon sunshine. Heat that disappears with the breeze under the shadows of trees, buildings. An ostentatious building called the Pacific Design Center. Three big bean sculptures in a park in front of it. Boys playing basketball.

“I think everyone here lives at the gym,” I mutter as I look outside the window of his Passat. Safe inside the cage. He agrees.

“Please don’t climb the art” the sign says about the beans. I argue that it’s not art. They’re sculptures. Calling them art is presumptuous. Who decides what is art and what isn’t? He shakes his head. I can’t argue. I can’t make arguments. He called me ridiculous when I told him he should stop smoking pot.

We enter an establishment. Young waiters. Defined bodies in tight red shirts. “The Abbey”. I’m not going in. “It’s just a tour,” he says. I give in. I walk in. Young Asians staring daggers at me. I’d like to say, “Come now, boys. Don’t be jealous. I’m not half as pretty as you are.” Young Asians staring daggers at me. Spiked jet black hair. Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I can’t tell. I look the other way. Too fast. Too soon. I should get shitfaced. But not at this place. Where are the monks? There are two boys in lycra swimsuits by the bar. Where are the monks? Are they the monks?

Back on the streets. Two muscular gods holding hands. One in a black shirt with Gucci logo and other words splattered on it in white. The other, taller one, six foot five, in white shirt, his wrist as thick as my neck. Veins bulging, as though screaming from all the testosterone, all the hours spent at the gym, all the lifted weights. I can’t look. I look the other way. At a bird, a table, a tree, a car, anything. It’s all about the pecs. And the tight t-shirt. I need to get shitfaced.

A donut shop is opening in January 2014, disappointing, what I wouldn’t give for sugar. A cakery has four decorative cakes in their display, all of which look fucked. “But they look good on television,” he says. I agree. I can’t argue with that. 

He’s wearing Adventure Time shirt. “Puncha Yo Buns” with Finn’s head on it. I bought him that shirt. He’s reaping the benefits. I bought him that shirt.

One boy, two boys, three, four, eight, I’ve lost count, smile at him. He likes the attention. My false sense of security falters. The ultimate test. There’s a zit on my jawline. Big, fat, white zit. Big, fat, white. He offered to take it out earlier in the day. I refused. Afraid it’d hurt too much. I can feel it throbbing. I haven’t had anything throbbing in me for days. Big, fat, white. I need sugar. I need to get shitfaced.

“You’ve been missing a lot,” he says, coming out of a raw eatery, checking its menu. I stand by the road, by a parking meter. Three boys sitting outside. I don’t say a word. Why are there so many fag hags? 

I avert my eyes every time someone looks at me, smiles at me. Should I flirt back? Can I? Just smile sheepishly. Hide behind the glasses. Hide behind these dirty lenses. I can’t see a thing. The sun is blinding. I’m glad I slathered sunscreen on my skin.

More boys. More men. Sidelined. Sidedished. Sideshowed. A guy points at his “Puncha Yo Buns” shirt. The guy says, “Oh hey, Adventure Time!” and disappears around the corner. The guy is tubby and he’s wearing skinny jeans. I want to say, “Oh, honey, it doesn’t work that way. See, wearing something that’s labelled ‘skinny’ doesn’t make you skinny.”

Why am I judgmental? Why am I offensive? Why am I bitter? Can’t you guess?

A thrift store. I found an XS sweater. Take off my black hooded jacket, reveal my low cut shirt. A young Latino comes in and smiles at me. I look the other way. I’m with someone else. The sweater doesn’t fit me. I’m fat. I’m wearing skinny jeans.

We enter “Gold Coast”. Oh, this is cozy. Dark film screens the windows, censoring half of the sunlight, dark wooden parquet floors beneath us don’t creak, or perhaps they do but I can’t hear it because people inside are talking, smiling, being friendly. Oh, this is lovely. A mutual friend greets us. How relieving it is to see him, to see someone I know in this beautiful world. I feel like fish out of water, a mutt in a dog show, a donkey in a horse race. Hee haw. I need to get shitfaced.

A handsome Ginger by the front door smiles at me as I enter. I avert my eyes yet again. Unsure of the smile. Really? For me? I stand where I can see him, where we can see each other. We see each other. I’m with someone else, sorry, someone who buys me Coke (in all fairness, I ask for Coke), I want to say, someone who says (jokingly) that it is apparently possible to have even less fun visiting West Hollywood with me than visiting The Castro with his ex.

Feels like being punched in the gut. Puncha Yo Buns.

I sip my Coke. Is this Diet? A little Christmas tree is blocking the Ginger. I want to burn it.

It’s getting colder in West Hollywood.

“You have to remember that I choose you. None of those boys are as beautiful as you,” he says as we walk back to his Passat. “I think it’s good that you don’t know how beautiful you are. I’d rather keep reminding you that you’re pretty than telling you you’re not all that.”

I want to smile, I want to believe, but I’m tired and somewhat defeated. I have a big, fat, white zit on my jawline. I can’t argue. You like the attention, I want to say. But everyone likes attention.

We come home and sleep until ten pm.

on regrets

There are at least three types of people you shouldn’t trust: 1) those who hunt animals for fun; 2) those who wear real fur; 3) those who tell you they don’t have any regrets.

The first two are pretty self-explanatory. The third one, on the other hand, well…

I have so many regrets in my life. I regret not taking care of my teeth and losing my braces twice and not being disciplined enough to wear the third one. I regret not telling some of my exes to go cut their dicks off as they told me I wasn’t worthy of their time. I regret my growing apart with my siblings. I regret missing out on a lot of things and seeing my parents age. And the list goes on and on and it won’t stop. There will be more items added to it and it won’t stop growing until I die, and the pessimist in me is saying that as I’m struggling to draw my last breath, I will think of my past and all those unfulfilled dreams and ambitions.

When you think about it, regrets stem from making the wrong decisions, or perhaps believing that you’re making the right decision, but then you keep looking back and thinking, “That could’ve been smoother,” or, “I could’ve handled the situation better.” When you have no other options, then you can only do one thing and there’s no reason for you to regret it. But I had the option to be disciplined enough with my braces, I had the option to not be a doormat to my exes, I had the option to stay away from the Internet and hang out with my siblings more, I had the option to stay home more and spend more time with my parents.

Something happened to me very recently and now I’m thinking, have I made the right decision by choosing this path?  Will I regret it tonight? Tomorrow? A week from now? Ten years from now?

On a somehow unrelated and happier note, I passed the DMV written test. I got four answers wrong (I chose twelve months prison time instead of six months for the question regarding DUI).


everyday haiku: oh for goodness sake

oh for goodness sake
can’t you see that I miss you?
you and all of you?

toes flanked by cats

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.

everyday haiku: the thing about love

the thing about love
is that it molds me into
all you desire


“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.