Behind The Yellow Curtain

2010-01-12T00:57:00.000-08:00

:: 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.

2008-08-20T17:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-01-18T16:59:00.000-08:00

: 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.

2007-09-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

: 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.

2006-12-20T16:58:00.000-08:00

: 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.

2006-12-19T16:49:00.000-08:00

: 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.

2006-07-25T01:04:00.000-07:00

: 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.

2006-07-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

: Ritual :

I have a horrible disability. When a girl gives me her number, I call it. I call it pretty much immediately. I try and hold back. Really I do. I’ve heard the warnings about calling too soon. Horror stories. All of them end with the main character getting disembowled by a chainsaw. 3 days, 1 week, 1 year...I’m told by friends, my dentist, the characters in 40-Year Old Virgin. I’m confused. They all seem to disagree on the right approach.

But in that moment of “what if”, whether fueled by boredom, drunkenness, loneliness, eagerness to be loved, or misdialing, the power of suggestion is overpowering. My rational self loses a battle to my hands. It happens everytime. A landslide. Hands 76 – Rational Self 0
I know I shouldn’t be calling and I can almost guarantee that they won’t answer. In fact, they rarely do leaving me with a moment of sheer panic where I need to decide whether to do the following:

1) Hang up and hope they don’t catch the number
2) Leave a voicemail

Usually I suck it up and do #2. No matter how witty or interesting I try and sound in my voicemail, it’s always a nerve-wracking experience knowing that they can save it, send it to others. I foresee the phone being placed on speaker at the bar, friends gathered around laughing and holding up scorecards.

I always try and say something memorable but more often than not I fumble through my improvisation and it comes out sounding like cats fucking in the alley. Not pretty. I try again with the pound button but that only works on some mobile services so when the pound button doesn't work (which on the other end sounds like a long beep followed by the sound of a oh shit), in desperate fashion, I fumble through the immediate push of the red button to end the call. I am left with shame and hope and then more shame.

This lasts for about a day or until I’m drunk next, whichever comes first, and then the ritual begins again.

2006-07-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

: Identity :
I was trying to find an appropriate photo for my new blog. First of all, can you even put a photo on your profile? Am I an idiot cause i certainly can't find that button to save my life.

I'm keeping this post anonymous so searching for a picture that doesn't have my mug in it was a challenge. Plus no one gives a shit about a picture of my car or my apartment so I went with this picture.

What a face.

In all modesty (ha) I am a good looking guy, but this dog chewing a cinnamon stick is a stud. I took a picture of him at an internet cafe in Bangkok. Thank you dog for letting me steal your identity.

Of course he knew it at the time but he and I are in fact very similar. While others oodle over us, we do our own thing. I gots me a cinnamon stick, back off. We could care less. Feed us, pet us but fuck with us and we're all teeth. I think he embodies all the goodness in my little heart. Of course I can't lick my own crotch but if I could...

2006-07-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

: Broken :

What a day.

I spent my Friday night and Saturday at the office on the other end of an ass kicking from my client. I rallied the team and marched us off the cliff. We will complete this project but the relationship has been strained, so perhaps our efforts were in vain.

I was really looking forward to meeting with Yvette last night. We had the date set. I picked out the restaurant, flossed, cleaned my place and even shaved my nuts. But a few hours before, she texted me and asked for a raincheck. Stomach ache. WTF? I've had worse excuses but that really was the icing on such a shitty week. It drove me to drink by myself again at the bar and of course, more drunken text messages and phone calls to girls i knew would never call me back. But in my state of depression, i really needed some love.

So i called a girl i just met through a friend a few weeks back. Asian, not really my type but she was really a lot of fun when we hung out. I met her at her place. She fed me, gave me wine, picked up the plates, hugs. She was nothing short of wonderful. I wasn't really planning on having a go with her and she certainly wasn't either considering she had thought i was gay when we first met (i told her friend that to get her off me). But after a couple glasses of wine, things took a sexual turn. She told me stories of college lesbian experiences, showed me her nurse outfit and a giant blue vibrator with rabbit ears she hid in her drawers, and explained her love of doggie style and reach-arounds. We were supposed to go out to a club but the Issey she sprayed on (which I have a weakness for) was the last straw.

She gave me one of the most enthusiastic blow jobs I've ever had. I came on her face and she licked it up. Mortified, satisfied, tired, I went straight to sleep.

What a day.

2006-07-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

: For Goodness Sake :

...where did i go wrong?
...who have i become?

2006-07-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

: The Night of the Moon, Mariachi, and the Midget :

I answered the phone half awake and on the other end was Yvette, the halfie from Chinatown. It took me a second to get over the surprise that she had called. I had plans already but I put them aside to meet her for dinner. The second time that day, I drove out to the Echo park area. By the end of the weekend, I would get to know that route well.

She was gorgeous. She made me nervous and insecure. I couldn’t stop looking at her and found myself at times over dinner trying too hard to be funny, working my wit beyond its limits, trying to be bigger than who I actually was. She taught yoga. She made her own music. She did commercials. She had more passions than I could name and I was enamored, eyes wide open, sucking up everything I could.

It started a little uncertain but a couple of margaritas later and we were laughing naturally. Her kisses were amazing. Soft. She smelled sweet like clean pillows and her skin felt like a girl I once knew in NY. We sang in the car on the way over to the bar. She danced on my lap and I was intoxicated in so many ways. And then when the bar was closing, the night took a surreal turn all over a spilled drink. “There, now we’re even” she had said to the girl. While I was clearing up my tab, my sassy girl had gotten her ass kicked. The night ended early and I went home feeling guilty that I wasn't there.

I know I'm supposed to be alone, but I can’t stop thinking about her.

2006-07-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

: Fields of Gold :

She lay down on her stomach and I took it as my cue to make my move. As I lowered my face to her neck, I couldn’t help but notice the small blonde hairs that flowed like fields of gold down the line of her back. Much like the same hairs that had bristled off the side of her cheeks and caught the sunlight ever so slightly while she scooped Pad Thai in her mouth over lunch. But that’s ok, I thought. No chin, no lips and a waist wider than mine could all be dismissed for what I was about to do.

I was determined to have sex with my first white girl. The tall blonde from Riverside didn’t count given she was a crackerjack and I released my boys prematurely partly out of tiredness but mostly because I was nervous. God forbid how quickly I would have come if her vagina wasn’t so deep. My hotdog didn’t stand a chance in that hallway. She never returned my messages after that. Bitch.

But Margaret Thatcher was a revenge fuck. A single act of standing up for our people having lost so many of our daughters and sisters to the white man’s plague. I vowed I would avenge my brethren and through this one act of penetration, inspire our kind to gather, put down our fancy cars and superior math skills and fight back one snow white princess at a time.

This selfless act alone could ignite a revolution.

I made a mental list of my scars: Illyana, the professional hair coloring girl who subtly touched my arm while laughing at all my jokes at the bar. Lindsay, the account executive whom I had interrupted for her number in the middle of her client schmoozing meeting. Amy, the hot halfie lawyer who gave me her real number and then proceeded to let some guy (her boyfriend probably) take a message for her when I called. And then Yvette, the yoga instructor who had looked me up and down at the club and then paid me no attention and gave up no number when I finally summoned up the courage to talk to her. All had started promising with witty banter and disarming smiles. But no messages were left, no emails written. I was a product of their diversity training, a non-descript supporting character in the background of their beer commercial, a means of fulfilling their affirmative action policy. But these wounds meant nothing now. In fact, they had toughened me up and sweetened the taste of inevitable victory.

But victory never came. I got as far as seeing her left boob when she pulled her crop top up and covered her face to wipe away her tears. I’m sorry she said. Buts it’s just, she was not over this guy…3 years…she loved him so much…why did he have to leave her. And as certain as I was five minutes ago that it was going to happen, in that strange twist of events I became as certain that it wasn’t.

So with that, I sat up, took off my contacts went to bed…defeated. The revolution will have to wait another night.