:: The Soundtrack of lust ::

Like most people, I’ve had my share of infatuations. These situations are different from the just a girl I met”, or “we dated”, or “a girl I hooked up” with or even someone I wind up calling your girlfriend. These are rare instances that we tell stories of regret about, that we look back upon and wonder “what if”, that we never forget...that always end poorly for us.

Infatuations are typically characterized by grandiose visions and fascinations of someone you know you cannot have. Someone who intrigues you just because they’re so different from what you’re used to and for some reason they decided through fate or chance to pay a little attention to you. And because of their unavailability or unwillingness to share your vision for a future together they reduce your suaveness to the stuff of grade school playgrounds. Words are fumbled. Notes are scribbled poorly. Everything is unrequited. It is like there is something magic about them that is so over and above you that your efforts to impress come out unrehearsed and desperate.

I am in said situation now. And I’m flailing recklessly.
By fluke or drunken charm, I picked up a girl who was working the coat check at a bar. Turns out she was a former model, turned actress. She is everything that is wrong for me – unreliable, a party-er, too young to relate to, has kissed way too many boys, and most importantly doesn’t have time for me.
But she is hot.

And somehow I managed to coerce her into having dinner with me which turned into a 30 hour date with all the fixings. And because she showed me a little interest, she now has me on a string. She tells me that she thinks of me. But I think that’s just a part of their charm, the infactuatee’s way of keeping you close, having options. For me, I know all too well that that I hang onto every word. Each sentence is scrutinized. Each email carefully read and reread for hidden symbols. When she messages me out of the blue, my heart skips a beat and my faith in our soulmateness is resurrected. I know that my gaze stays on her longer when we’re together and that I check her out on Facebook status far too often (God forbid she has IP tracking). I have the soundtrack from 500 Days of Summer in my head. I’m creating our own remix tape. And the memories that I have together, I relive over and over. I constantly plan our next date and then our next one after that and know our children’s middle names.

This is not going to end well.

But until it does I’ll enjoy every moment of this tragedy I’m playing out.

In response to the question: Do We need a Better Asian Man...

http://www.thefighting44s.com/archives/2008/08/18/sexual-politics-and-the-better-asian-man/

Dear F44:

I have been thinking about your posting a lot and in response to your question, I have to say Yes, we Need a Better Asian Man.

I am an Asian male in my early 30’s. I’m educated, extroverted and am blessed with “pretty boy” looks, the combination of which has brought me the good fortune of often being on the receiving end of interested women without needing to resort to strong-arm tactics. Most of these women have been Asian. And while my circumstances (i.e. growing up with a lot of Asian friends and living in cities with decent Asian populations) have no doubt impacted this fact, I cannot help the feeling that there is a glass ceiling between me and non-Asian women.

I considered that perhaps this thing I have felt is just me. This thing, a feeling I can only describe as a combination of insecurity and inferiority around non-Asian women. I figured it was something conjured up inside of me created through a long-suppressed memory of a long-time elementary school crush with little brown-haired Jeanine that went unrequited. For much of my life, I ignored such events, largely being satisfied with a consistent flow of compliments from girls about being “pretty good looking”. Except after a while, I started to notice that “pretty good looking” was followed by, “for an Asian guy.”

Lately, I have been thinking that I’m not alone. Like most Asian males in this country, I am well-attuned to the lack of Asian males being portrayed as leading alpha-men or sexual objects in Hollywood. Sure we have our traditional bad-ass martial art heroes but I have yet to come across alluring pictures of Jackie Chan or Jet Li on the cover of a lifestyle or teen magazine, not that I’ve been looking that hard. But has it really been 13 years since Russell Wong made it into People’s 50 Most Beautiful People? And wtf do I know this?

In fact, it has become crystal clear to me that I am indeed, not alone. A focus group of one is one thing. A discussion with amongst male friends is another. But this thing has cycles. There is something in this generation of young Asian males that is different from the previous. Perhaps it can be explained as a North American cultural gap having been created between the first generation Asian males and our parents or a perhaps our silence has reached a boiling point and we have reacted with a newfound sense of entitlement…an equal opportunity right to hold the spotlight as fairly as other male races have. In other words, we want to be just as universally sought over as Ashton Kutcher or Denzel Washington or Enrique Iglesias.

In my opinion, it has become even tougher to be an Asian Male these days when our counterparts, Asian Females have come unto their own. Mainstream media and porn categories aside, the popularity and desirability of Asian Females by all male races can be felt at the bars, in classified ads, on the Internet, walking down the street and everywhere else we seek out the opposite sex. I don’t have scientific proof but I can’t help but feel like we’re fishing in a more crowded pond than ever. A Caucasian colleague of mine explained to me once that “The Asian woman is the new trophy wife.” Which made me wonder, so what are we?

To have our sisters so desired, yet to be so undesired ourselves takes a toll on a man. I don’t care if you’re Asian, Black, Brown, White or Green. It sometimes feels like the game is rigged against us.

So it is with this sense of empathy that I applaud A Better Asian Man. After reading a few posts, I have to admit that it took awhile to suspend my disbelief that these PUA tactics and code words could be coming from Asian Males. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not prone to organize ourselves behind causes like this. But despite what one might call it – immature, vengeful or Ross Jeffries inspired – it is still a voice or a rallying cry…the very thing that our tribe could use more of.

Need is a strong word. So to elaborate on my preliminary answer, I believe that we do not necessarily Need a Better Asian man, but what we do Need is the spirit behind it.

: Otani :

We waited for the perfect moment. She watched the back and I watched the door for any sign of movement. It was quiet, too quiet almost. But we figured the guards were preoccupied with some other ruckus on one of the floors above. One last check. We looked at each other and we knew…it was now or never.

So we went for it. She lifted him up and exposed his chains to allow for easier access. And with steadfast hands and sheer determination, I broke them apart…snap. I opened up my coat and she took that as her cue to burry him in there as best as she could. It was like we had danced this tango before, we anticipated each exact step the other would take, movements precise and coordinated in perfect symphony. We looked behind us once more but with our bodies huddled together blocking the line of sight, the guards were oblivious to our intentions. In a calm fashion, we took several steps forward and walked slowly out into the brisk night where our getaway car was already waiting. We jumped in and away we went, smiles on our faces, never looking back.

I often think about that fateful night and imagine what the nights before must have been like for him. I wonder what his previous life was like, whether he was loved and how he got to where he was. I try not to think about how long he must have endured his imprisonment and what horrible things had caused the permanent frown on his face. And sometimes as he sits there in silence pondering, eyes in a faraway place, I look at him and I wonder if he was better off there, in a place full of people and passerby’s.

But most of all, I wonder…despite the weight of our deeds and the risks that we took to free him, whether it was he who actually saved us. Freeing Otani might have been the only good thing I did all year.

: Wonder Woman :

Last night I went out on a date with Wonder Woman. She was tall, had long black hair, wore small red shorts to complement her red ankle lace heels, a blue top and to complete the ensemble, a yellow belt. The only thing she was missing were the power bracelets that enable her to lift small vehicles and reflect laser fire.

And although I was a little taken back by the selection of attire, the Wonder Woman outfit paved the way for a grand entrance. The Mexican Valets, the people in line, the standup comedians, the bouncer at the bar all took a step back to pay homage to her crime-fighting ways.

Some people have a way of being subtle. Not me sir.

“So what do you do when you’re not fighting the forces of evil?”
“Do you have an invisible bra to go with your invisible jet?”

I didn’t close though. Wonder Woman made it very clear that she doesn’t fuck on the first date, or give up blowjobs, or provide threesomes.

Whatever. I’m Superman. I have powers. I’ll do her on Tuesday.

: The Pon :

I put my fingers in between her legs and felt the string.

"Oh no, Aunty Flow," I said. "That’s ok," she replied and right then in there to my astonishment, she pulled it out and laid it next to my bed. For a split second I was surprised but that feeling was quickly overwhelmed by my need to get laid.

And then the next morning upon lifting the toilet lid, I saw the pink evidence floating in my toilet.

: Oh Shit :

In my rush to get back to work and in my fear that I was holding up the single men’s toilet in our office, I guess I didn’t wipe very well. 2 hours later, I felt the stickiness on my bottom and low and behold upon checking I discovered the tire tracks on my white underwear leading away from the scene of the crime.

I tried washing it off but to no avail. So now I’m sitting here in my cube with a mound of toilet paper stuffed between my cheeks, nothing but a few layers of one-ply shielding me from yesterday’s dinner.

Some things shouldn't be rushed.

: d ng g l-b r :

In a sea of yellow faces, she was the only one with cute plastic framed glasses. So I met her, bought her (and her 9 friends) a drink and fingered her. There we stood by the bar, conversing with her friends, my left hand holding my drink, my right hand up the back of her skirt gliding gently up and down her wetness.

She was young. The kind of young that merits a messenger alias with weird punctuation and unexplored keyboard characters L*kE tH^s!

Via AIM, we met up for drinks a week later on a Wednesday night. She lived an hour south but I figured if pussy awaits, who am I to not oblige. Over dinner she shared a lengthy list of her passions, all which were rooted in the need to rebel against her parents – hidden tattoos behind her ears, dropping out of school, running away to the big city. At that point in the date, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she put on a retainer half way through dinner. She was young but my penis was willing to overlook the colored braces and the potential jail time.

We went back to her “place”, nicely situated above her parents garage. It was cozy. A single bed with a small tv on the side. Elegantly decorated with flat helium balloons and posters of Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony and Hello Kitty. I was at the Toys R Us hideaway. We sat on the bed and after checking her MySpace page, she proceeded to pull her 3 foot bong out of the closet. My Dingleberry, she proudly proclaimed, pointing to the monkey sticker on the tube. She pulled out a big baggie and proceeded to ready her tool for action. With my limited smoking experience, I followed her lead and watched in equal parts of awe and amusement as she opened wide, wrapped her lips around the top and sucked so hard the water bubbled like the jets from a spa. I followed and took my hits like a seasoned 420 friendly pro and after a few tokes I was ready to replace the bong with a more suitable device. We kissed and when I moved in for more, she responded with a, “I hardly know you, I don’t do that?” I was baffled. Didn’t we do “that” in the middle of a crowed bar?

So with that I got up and left, got in my car and drove home senses enhanced, lights blurring slightly, brain trying to figure out what the fuck a Dingleberry was. I laughed so hard the next day when I looked it up.

din·gle·ber·ry ( P ) Pronunciation Key (d ng g l-b r )n. Vulgar Slang

- A piece of dried feces caught in the hair around the anus.