Oh porn, why doth thou beckon?

An example of porn

When I think about it I just don't get porn. Perhaps porn should just be seen and heard but not thought about in much depth. After all, porn movies rarely demand much, or if any, intellectual rigour or emotional depth. The plot is usually easy to follow that even our local politicians can understand them in one sitting, or may even have acted out some of them out themselves unknowingly, of course. And like the usual Hollywood summer blockbusters, we all know who is whom, whom does what to whom and how it ends. Yes, there are some variations in terms of where the limbs are placed, or whether one is standing, kneeling, on all fours or lying down but when you come down to it, there are just two main working components with a straightforward two stroke motion. Forward. Backward. Isn't it strange the amount of complexity people go through to seek for such an embrace in such a manner as pleasurable (generally anyway, Navel Gazing recognizes that there are occasional performances so dismal in quality that it would have been better for both participants to have not engaged in the act) as it is simple?

So we can understand the act itself and the reasons for doing so. (And if you don't please stop reading the rest of this article immediately. Read only what is in within these brackets. If you stay in here, you will be safe. Now, very slowly, press the reset button. Keep your eyes on the words in these brackets. Got it? Good.) Now that we've got rid of those fellas, as I was about to pose a question rhetorically, why do we enjoy porn, or in another way, watching other people copulating?

We are not engaged in the act with them. We do not know them. And they are not performing it live in front of us, it's recorded. In an immediate sense the performers don't care what we think. In most cases we will never meet them. It's not as if we haven't done it before, or done it in that fashion, or know how it feels. What is more they could make us feel inferior with their better bodies, better looks (okay, maybe not for most of the guys), better staying power, and are skilled at their craft to do some fonky positions like the verticle 69 and helicopter (novelty factor: 10 cool factor: 0). We are also less likely to perform the act in heels, with a bowtie around our neck, or crotchless underwear in a room filled with other people. The loudness of the moans would usually be less because we are embarassed if other people hear us having sex (what's so bad about hearing other people having a good time? Enjoy it like you would good news off the radio-ish, unless of course their dirty talk sounds up like some filthy DJ banter then turn the volume down. They are, after all, not there to talk). Our facial expressions would more likelier be less intense and pained looking than those on screen because we are not performing for people we would never meet and need to impress them with the intensity of our performance.

So what is it really? Why ah?

I mean aside from the fact that it's nice to watch every now and again in reasonable doses.

i Am BoRed...

Bala oh Bala,

kenaper engko camtu

camner aku tak camtu

aku ditimpa bala

bala oh bala

kenaper engko timper Bala

camner aku tak timpa Bala

Bala carik aku

Bala oh Bala

kenaper ko carik bala

bukan aku yang carik bala

bala yang ikut aku

bala oh bala

kenaper plak engko ikut Bala

camner aku tak ikut Bala

Bala suker panggil aku

Bala oh Bala

mengaper engko sker panggil bala

bukan aku sker panggil bala

orang panggil aku Bala

Orang oh orang

kenaper ko sker panggil Bala

camner kiter tak panggil Bala

itu dah memang namer dier

memang namer dier

memang namer dier...

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Vindaloo

Uncle Veloo has a restaurant up Boogaloo Street which serves the best mutton vindaloo in the country. Today, Uncle Veloo has a visitor. His niece Letchoomi.

They are in the kitchen. Letchoomi is learning about the restaurant business, hoping one day that Uncle Veloo will pass on his chain of restaurants to her. Not that Uncle Veloo has no children of his own - he has 6 sons and 1 very precious granddaughter, Anjooli. Letchoomi is undaunted. She has her little ways to get what she wants. She learnt this when she was 14. A luscious 14 year old if ever there was one in our town. Quite the Lolita our Letchoomi was. Her first target was her stepfather whom she calls "Mr Buttons" to her friends - based on the size of his lil' knob. It was so small it looked like a button she swears to her friends at school. Perhaps its deformed she thought when she first saw it. After all, Mr Buttons was based in Iraq when those bloody Americans first attacked Iraq 15 years ago. It must be from drinking the water contaminated with depleted uranium. Poor Mr Buttons... she had to muster as much enthusiasm as she could when she was with him even though she could hardly feel anything. When he left her room, she had to finish the job herself with the school flute. Just as well she was a member of the school orchestra. She has fond memories of the school flute. It was unfortunate that she had to return it to the school when she left the orchestra.

And how did a 14 year old learn the art of seducing men? you may ask. She watched a lot of MTV. All those hot chicks in tight pink hot pants with half their apple butts sticking out whilst gyrating and rubbing themselves up against some black geezer in an all pink velvet suit, his neck weighed down by the chunky bling blings with the obligatory large diamond encrusted dollar sign pendant.

Yes, little luscious Letchoomi shuttled straight from childhood to womanhood, by passing being an average teenager altogether. Now at 18, she is the luscious, lascivious, licentious, lubricious Letchoomi - the curse of the double-O family. Let us now move on from my unhealthy obsession with the "L" word. Uncle Veloo is not quite the libertine but there are spurts of libidinous activity spattered indiscriminately in his otherwise dull vindaloo life. (As you can see, I'm still trying to wean myself off the "L" word).

And now back in the kitchen with Letchoomi, Uncle Veloo is watching Letchoomi intensely, the heat of the afternoon mingled with the mutton vindaloo he consumed for lunch causing a slow burning sensation to seep to his loins. He feels Mootoo stirring in his pants. Mootoo, is the affectionate pet name given to his crown jewels by his wife. "My little Mootoo", she would purr lovingly before she takes him into her mouth claiming he tastes of her favourite mutton vindaloo. Letchoomi does not realise she has a formidable task ahead, wresting Uncle Veloo's affections from his deceptively dull looking wife.

Letchoomi continues kneading the dough, leaning forward, bending over slightly above the dough, pretending to be oblivious to Uncle Veloo's enraptured gaze. She has chosen her attire for the day carefully. A traditional saree. You may think that it is pretty inconvenient to wear a saree when one is planning to spend a day helping out in the kitchen of a busy restaurant. But Letchoomi has studied her prey well. This is a man who fantasises about deflowering a young village vestal virgin. The saree depicts her as a girl with traditional values and yet, it has many advantages. Wear a saree blouse which is a little too tight and tie your saree skirt a little too low below your navel ... et voila, you have the desired effect of portraying innocence & naivety and yet, at the same time, exuding a strong sensual appeal.

Uncle Veloo's eyes follows the drop of sweat trickling down Letchoomi's neck, tracing its way down the cinnamon tinged skin of her bosom and finding its way into the deep cleavage at the center. A sigh escapes Uncle Veloo - how clever a drop of water can be, he thinks to himself. His eyes then dart to a sudden flash of pink. In her vigorous act of kneading, her hot pink bra strap peeks out of the striking lime green tight saree blouse. Letchoomi leans further forward over the dough. Uncle Veloo can now catch a glimpse of the hot pink lace. He feels a sudden stab of irrational jealousy against this offensive material. How can such a delicate inconsequential piece of material be entrusted with such an enviable task? To spend the entire day encasing and cupping the luscious breasts of his Letchoomi. Yes, he had decided at that moment, to make Letchoomi his.

His eyes take note of the damp patch slowly spreading out on the underarm of Letchoomi's tight lime green saree blouse. Uncle Veloo likes a woman with a sweaty armpit. He breathes in deeply, wondering what it would smell like if he buried his nose into that damp patch. He imagines it to be similar to the smell of chopped garlic thrown into a pan of hot ghee as it is just turning brown. Yes, that would be perfect he sighed.

Little Mootoo is little no more. Straining within the confines of Uncle Veloo's used-to-be-white Crocodile briefs which now morphs into a cruel prison - Mootoo's very own Guantanamo Bay. Uncle Veloo's own sharp voice abruptly breaks the silence of the hot lazy afternoon, startling himself from his reverie. He commands Letchoomi to take herself to the room upstairs to change into something more comfortable for kitchen work - claiming that her saree might catch fire from the nearby stove if she was careless.

Letchoomi quickly obeys her uncle's command, hiding a smile. She runs up the stairs flushed with excitement. Playing the game of seduced village vestal virgin is rather exciting. It takes skill to perfect it and our Letchoomi has perfected it to an art for she has played this role many times. She would be the dream actress of any Tamil movie director with her long dark tresses tied in a plait and her charcoal eyes framed by those thick dark lashes.

She unravels her burnt orange saree and was in the midst of unbuttoning her lime green saree blouse when Uncle Veloo burst into the room, driven by his lust, driven by Mootoo who has now taken over his thinking process. He rips off the lime green blouse, hesitates slightly before throwing the garment to the floor. He was half tempted to smother his face into the wet underarm patch of the garment but one must not linger on trifles when one is about to deflower a virgin. He glares at the offending hot pink lace material still guarding her breasts protectively. He barks orders for her to remove them. You may wonder at his lack of finesse in the art of seducing a young virgin. But Uncle Veloo understands only too well that one must take charge like a commander of troops in these situations. To ply her open with gentle words and caresses would put her in a dilemma - forcing her to take responsibility for her actions and thereafter deal with her ensuing guilt and shame that she has succumbed to temptation. It is best to dominate and let her feel that she had no choice in the matter. This is a very dangerous game to play as there is a thin line between this act of domination & submission and rape. Uncle Veloo could sense from the way Letchoomi's pupils were dilated that she was excited, that she welcomed him, that there is consent...

He quickly removes his shirt and pants, leaving his Pagoda singlet and Crocodile briefs, which by the way, he has been wearing for the past 3 days, only turning the briefs inside out when it got too damp yesterday afternoon. He pushes Letchoomi onto the nearby bed and hovers over her, commanding her to look at him as he peels off his Crocodile briefs.

Oh what joy Mootoo felt, released from the filthy confines of his own Guantanamo Bay, no longer a suspected Al Qaeda member. But wait, what is happening to him ?? .... Mootoo screams in horror, the silent scream of one who has no voice of his own to be heard but we can nevertheless hear his awful screams in our thoughts and shudder at its horror. Uncle Veloo has taken the role of Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Sassaman, the evil commander of the U.S. Army Fourth Infantry Divisions 1-8 battalion who is well known for having his Iraqi prisoners wrapped up tightly in barbed wire. The engorged Mootoo is now tightly wrapped in rubber sheath. "Made in Malaysia" says the torn golden foil wrapper thrown carelessly on the floor. Mootoo is screaming for Amnesty International to bombard Uncle Veloo with letters demanding his immediate release. What kind of man conquers his vestal village virgin in protective gear??? he screams at the injustice.

Whilst this battle between Uncle Veloo and Mootoo ensues for a few seconds, Letchoomi reaches down and surreptitiously removes her own protective gear and drops it carefully onto the floor. It is that time of the month for her. You may think this is most unfortunate for her but our Letchoomi has planned this with the precision of a CIA agent embarking on a covert operation. Uncle Veloo will expect to see blood and blood he will see.

Without much ado, Uncle Veloo plunges the still protesting Mootoo into Letchoomi. Letchoomi lets out the desired whimper of fear and pain (all an adept act of pretense on her part). She found difficulty concentrating on her role in the game as she is distracted by Uncle Veloo's frayed Pagoda singlet which has seen better days. (Mootoo is also not quite enjoying his role in his deep sea diving outfit.) There are several holes in the Pagoda singlet where Uncle Veloo's thick unruly chest hair has managed to spring out of, struggling to escape. Imprisoned without a fair trial. These rebellious insurgents who have sprung out of Uncle Veloo's Pagoda singlet are creating havoc on Letchoomi's delicate cinnamon tinged skin, acting like an abrasive loofah, causing her skin to burn. Letchoomi notices that the singlet is mouldy green at his underarms. What kind of wife would let her husband walk around clad in such filth she wondered. Why can't Auntie Roopah wash her husband's undergarments properly or throw them away before they deteriorate to such dismal conditions, cultivating a funghi plantation on their own accord. There is just too much anarchy going on, she thinks to herself, on Uncle Veloo's complicated body - presenting a whole continent by itself, full of rebellious inhabitants.

Indeed, what kind of woman is Auntie Roopah, you wonder. She is the sturdy, strong, dependable type of woman. Strong and reliable. Yes she sounds like an advert for Standard Chartered Bank. She is the kind of person you would send to your borders to defend your country should a skirmish occur with a neighbouring country. You would feel safe with Auntie Roopah guarding your borders. She is the glue which binds the family together. Not the weak, easily distracted Uncle Veloo whose only love is his grand daughter Anjooli and his mutton vindaloo - not particularly in that order of priority.

The whole deflowering process did not last very long. There is no reason to linger. One cannot evoke pleasure from the recently deflowered. It is an act of dominance and submission. Uncle Veloo's "Shock & Awe" treatment specially reserved for vestal village virgins (if he could find any!). Yes, Uncle Veloo watches too much CNN. He should be dragged to the town square and flogged in public. But one suspects that he might enjoy that too much. He rolls off the bed, still in his Pagoda singlet, carrying its own horticultural lifeform, to head for the bathroom. He steps on something warm and moist. He looks down at his right foot. All he could make out is something partly white, mostly covered with blood, its limp white tail visible from the other side of his foot. Uncle Veloo lifts his foot in horror, not wanting to look down at the squashed object as he rushes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his body and his foot.

Back in the kitchen, Uncle Veloo is in the midst of cooking mutton vindaloo. Cooking is the only thing that can calm his nerves. Uncle Veloo is racked with guilt and full of remorse. How is he going to tell little Anjooli that he has stepped on, squashed and killed her pet white mouse, General Noosh???

Meanwhile, in the room upstairs, Letchoomi picks up the squashed bloodied object off the floor by its tail and flushes it down the loo. Her game is up, she thinks to herself. Uncle Veloo has discovered her farce.

Uncle Veloo had stepped on and squashed her earlier discarded .... super tampon...

Live Telecast

Whenever the television is left on and I have no particular interest one way or the other what to watch, I would usually choose whatever is showing live. I don't care whether they are showing darts, pool and cricket (which I would ordinarily would not watch, my favourites being tennis, golf and football which I would take the trouble to watch live), or its monster truck madness, or news, whatever - as long as it was live.

Why, you may wonder, hypothetically of course? (I do not expect you to trouble yourself even for a moment with such inane peccadilloes!) The reason is twofold. Firstly, there is this sense of shared togetherness that both those people doing their thing on the screen and I are sharing this time, if not space, together. We are both existing and playing out our moments before each other, instead of the usual out of sync, recorded and played back (like how most of television is). And in that, there is a sense of company and kinship no matter how tenuous when the television is on when there is a live thing going on. It also reminds me how beautifully different many of our lives are and that in all our differences we exist together and have to learn to deal with that instead of trying to suppress one another or fight about who is superior.

And secondly, because I think of live and recorded programs especially in relation to sport (of course not those series and movies, etc.) are comparable to that of freshly cooked food and reheated food. It's always better to eat freshly cooked. And even if you don't want to eat anymore and have to, at least it's fresh. As with all general rules there are exceptions. I, for one, wouldn't mind and in fact welcome reheats of my favourite football team, Arsenal, in full flight. Yummy.

Brushing the Teeth

There used to be no doubt in my mind: the manual toothbrush rocked. I had complete control of the vigrousness and angle of my stroke. There was not a tight little corner that escaped the relentless probing of my toothbrush. And the broad head of these toothbrushes with their dense and stiff bristles confidently signaled to me that no plaque or stain might hold out against their assaults for long. It was only a matter of time before the toothguard brigade found them, brushed and fluorided them. And there was the pleasure when you grooved the rhythmic rocking motion of brushing. As if in finding that elusive optimal rhythm, you too could be sure of the sheer efficiency and confidence of your brushing. And because it was the optimal rhythm, you felt you could just keep thrusting, withdrawing, caressing and probing forever, as long as the firmness of the bristles in your toothbrush held out.

But then I was seduced by scientific advancement: the electric toothbrush (what I call the 'e-toothbrush'). Its small, circular but potent head perched high above its long neck which threatened to flare out into a frock dress but then merely joins indiscreetly to a lower stately sober and fatter lower body prompted one to think of a slimmed down alien robot based on a toothbrush and an ostrich. That it lacked the simple elegance of the toothbrushes was obvious. The small head, quiet and inert when not in use, seem to say defensively, 'it's not the width or length that counts but how quickly it spins.' Its entirety seem to say, 'Do not pay attention to that, the e-toothbrush seemed to declare. I may be staid, dull and unsexy, but I will take care of you like a mother can.' And when it was turned on, the noisy robotic whirr declared its single-minded scientific efficiency, its intention to relentlessly and mercilessly eradicate plaque and stains. That was just the problem - it was too coldly efficient. The hand did little, it just stayed in place where the head was whirring, its job only to keep it in place. It was like being damned to watching someone pleasuring themselves with no hope of ever partaking in it. It felt distant. Though my teeth felt more secure with the electric whirr and vigorous one speed brushing, my hand felt neglected, useless and uninterested. 'If this is what it means to use an e-toothbrush, I don't want any part of it.' And so it became that even though it was so easy to now brush my teeth, I took no pleasure or interest in it. What used to be a pleasure looked forward to was now a chore. Done only at virtual gunpoint. I had to remind myself that no one would want to french a toothless guy, especially a young one.

So breaking out the paralysis that was threatening to affect my teeth brushing habits, I one day bought a manual toothbrush. Not those cheap ones either. No. You cannot do these things half-hearted. The one I bought claimed to have built in the latest technology into it. How a simple manual toothbrush had so much technology built into it escaped me. I mean, just look at it. It's really a stick with a brush at the end. But on closer inspection the bodies now looked better, sexier almost, like a model with her perfect body gracefully arching it, pushing out her breasts, as if it may help with the brushing of your teeth. And bristles now were multicoloured, went this way and that (better and more effecting brushing! it promised on its glitzy packaging). The heads were slightly longer and just that little wider. Come back to us, Mister! We promise to love you long time, the new manual brushes tempted and beckoned like sirens on sirenum scopuli.

And like a sailor, I had no choice and went back to them. Thankfully, there were no crashes against the cliffs or surrounding rocks. Instead, upon trying out that spanking new sexy manual toothbrush, I was hooked. My hand grew excited at the prospect of being, well if not directly at the centre, then at least having an important role to play. It relished the cut and thrust of the brush. Like a swashbuckler in battle freshly unleashed from prison, it parried, it advanced, it stabbed at the unwelcome invaders. Brushing became fun, exciting and almost an adventure again. And this toothbrush episode taught me one thing. Scientific advancement must never come at the expense of meaningful human involvement. For to do so would be putting science at our disservice. If brushing teeth be the music of love (and minuet of lust), brush on, good man, brush on!

Georgia on My Mind

Funny thing these fonts. They are annoyingly personal and sometimes imposingly so. It’s fun to run through the preview list of the fonts on Word (especially after you’ve just loaded up one CD full of it) to see the diversity of styles in which a word can be reproduced. And they do strange things. Like I used to like Arial because my office uses it. It looked neat, clean shaven and dependable. But what Arial didn't know was that I had a secret affair going on with Palatino Linotype. I would use that for submissions that I did alone so nobody knew of my betrayal. It felt more mature, more considered, more worldly, not what Arial had become for me, clinically well rounded. Such a bore. And so in my despair at my situation I would have casual affairs with Times New Roman, Garamond, Century Schoolbook and even flirted briefly with Sylfaen, Book Antiqua and even Baskerville Old Face which some probably even overlook in their scroll. God, I was such a whore! But to be honest, I couldn't stay loyal to any of them. They lost their charms too quickly, like an inexperienced stripper who whipped off her clothes before the music even started. Times New Roman, I suppose was my longest lover but it was mostly because she was there and willing. She was the bloody default for god’s sake. But I did not totally dislike it – I liked her style and wanted something similar but different. You know how when you use a font you don’t like, each letter is heavy and reluctant, each word and paragraph resists you. You do not just fight for creative impulse but your fonts too. Whatever you write (or type rather) doesn’t look right. It just doesn’t taste right.

Out of sheer frustration one day ('come on man, find that font that says ‘this is me, this is who I am') I scrolled through the list of fonts, one by one and trying out those I thought may find resonance with me. Am not sure whether it is love just yet or merely still in lust, but whatever it is, of this I am certain: I'm at love's doorstep. Georgia. Georgia, is her name. Just that bit firmer than Palatino Linotype, resembles Times New Roman, and even had hinted at an antique typewriter font. And I tried out a few passages with that. Stuttering, floundering at first until, like a flower that chose when to reveal itself did just that, I was mesmerized. This font doesn’t just express my letters, it inspires them. It tempts and teases them to leave me. It cajoles and caresses them away from me. I look at the screen and see these words that I’ve typed reproduced in such beautiful style that even if whatever I’ve written is crap, by god, at least it looks good. Georgia makes me want to see more. The end of each sentence is like just that inch higher on her skirt on an endless pair of shapely legs. If this be the task asked of Sisyphus to go to and fro on those legs, let me bear that punishment with him! I've got Georgia on my mind. (P.S. That is not a partial shot of a Georgia font)

Reminiscing the Bookstore

I love bookstores. Absolutely adore them. New ones are like mysterious strangers. Favourite ones like close family. Even in foreign non-English speaking countries, I would try to search out a bookstore, any bookstore. I don't care how small the shop, how impoverished the collection, how frigid the storekeeper, or that there are no English books at all. I don't even care if it's those local 'fake bookstores' which have more magazines and stationary than books (and even then, most of them are cookbooks and primary and secondary school workbooks and books that make you wonder how they ever saw print). I would go in even knowing full well that I would be disappointed. That's how compulsive I am where bookstores are concerned. Why you may ask? Because you would never what you may find. And I am always looking to find just that very book that would strengthen, fortify and enrich my collection. Or rather that's what say to palliate myself.

The sight of pages bound together between two hard covers is for me an icon of civilization. Just the sight of it makes me feel glad. Safe, almost. Perhaps that is why I look for bookstores whenever and wherever I travel overseas. Finding them is like discovering I share a deep and profound communion with this foreign civilization. Different, but civilization all the same. Books to me are what daffodils are to Wordsworth. Except I wouldn't be wandering lonely as a cloud. I know exactly where my destination lay and would bear down upon it like the wolf on the fold.

The books displayed at the front of the shop is telling of the management, or whoever it is in charge of book purchasing and the display. Smaller and second hand bookstores on balance tend to display more interesting types of books that you may not find at those chain bookstores. That's because the owners and storekeepers tend to actually read the books and know their stuff. The chain bookstores tend to just put the bestsellers, latest releases and promotions (though to be fair, Kinokunya's Gems of the Month recommendations are a genuine attempt to educate and promote the better works on offer). The more unusual though clever the selection displayed, the more interestingly eclectic on offer for sale inside. Those hidden gems that you discover while trying to find your way back down an unintended alley or turning are the best. Purchasing a book from such a bookstore made you feel like a successful explorer, like one that has just discovered a whole new continent.