2009 August | where i write my wrongs

Archive for August, 2009

Elephants Frolicking In The Sand

There was a Blogger Happy Hour yesterday. I don’t do recap posts so you won’t read about how I got there before everyone. Or how Antipop…actually, no, Fez was there before, only that she attended in her capacity as a ‘person that had gone to Mateos then attended BHH”. It didn’t help that the wonderful establishment has a cocktail promotion every Thursday!

So anyway, selecting a cocktail is a most complicated task. It is not so much that the names are suggestive and basically lie there on the pages of the menu asking, nay, begging you to use them and make them feel dirty (Sex on the beach, pink pussy… hey, my blog will be listed as a porn site if I keep this up), but they also call into question a person’s sexuality.

Men can drink cocktails.
Women can drink cocktails. BUT real men shun cocktails. See, the thing about cocktails is that they come in these colors that sorta look like, how do I phrase this delicately… like puke! And the ones that don’t look like last night’s drink are pink. It’s a bit of a no win situation as far as that goes. Back in the day we used to have a debate over the color of Coca Cola, today, we are old enough not to give a shit. We know alcohol is a drink and not an art exhibit. Sadly, that fact has not fazed the guy behind the counter that seems hell bent on trapping the rainbow in a glass.

Elsewhere in Mateo’s.
The broadband company adverts that littered the men’s room seem to have been taken down. I don’t know whether the contract run its course or some dude walked into the loo, saw a poster proclaiming “You cannot ease yourself here” and thought, “The hell I can’t!” Then ripped it clean off the wall.

The Same Men’s Room
had posters advertising the sumptuous dishes that you could purchase from the establishment. And another poster advertising the cocktails. I have worked in the advertising industry for a couple of years, but I can’t, for the life of me understand how this stuff works. On a subliminal basis, maybe? Do you leave the loo after taking a dump, look at the poster and think, “Actually, now that I have space. . .” or better yet, you walk out, give the loo the obligatory glance and wonder, “what the hell did I eat?” then look at the poster and think, “hey!!”

I can’t begrudge the drinks poster really. You go pee, look at the wall and go for a refill. No biggie there. Heck, you can run back to your friends screaming, “I have seen this drink I think we should try out” and it won’t be weird. Provided you were not in the loo for not longer than 2 minutes.

After that, it’s just weird.

2009: 08/28
POSTED BY: Ivan
CATEGORY: Uncategorized
10 comments

Just like a tattoo

He waits in the corridor. Nervous. After promising himself and to a larger extent the world, he is finally going to go through with it. The excitement coursing through his veins is no match for the adrenaline flowing beside it. His heartbeat quickens with each passing second as he looks around for a distraction.

A bulb. Bulbs are good. They produce light. This one has not been switched on so its just there. Unassuming. Useless. He looks around for something else. Anything.

The chair in front of him couldn’t sustain any ounce of attention even if it tried. The girl sitting on it on the other hand. leaning over, showing flesh. He laughs, remembering something he read somewhere, “crack is wack!” The laugh is not convincing. Barely a whisper, failing to mask the nervousness within.

He glances at the door down the corridor, wondering whether he made a mistake coming here. The voice of reason had told him not to, that it would be a mistake, something he would regret. But it was too late for that. In any case, he didn’t want to have to deal with the look of contempt and derision that would follow if he failed to go through with it.

What is taking her so long. . .

He looks down again. observing some movement on the other side of the door. Well, he may have imagined it. He hopes he did. Movement means progress, progress means that he is.

“Next”. The voice calls out.

It comes from a pretty brown thing. She can’t possibly be a day out of campus. She certainly looks ‘campus’. He tries to pay attention to her body. Hoping that he can muster some other emotion that is not panic. Heck, he would sooner deal with feeling ‘horny’ at this point. Maybe if he gets it up,she too will feel as nervous dealing with him as he feels now.

He looks down.

There’s a message from his man in the south, “Not today mate, you’re on your own.”

SHIT!

He looks back at the door. The “fresh-out-of-campus” looks at him with a smile. A knowing look playing on her face.

She walks over.

Dear Lord,this is going to be embarassing, she is not going to.

She does, she holds his hand and pulls him to the door, “Customer, let’s go”

The other clients in the establishment look at him, amused.

She shuts the door behind him as he sits.

“Is this your first time?” She asks, half concerned, half not really giving a shit.

He nods. A lump in his throat.

“Don’t worry, I’ve worked with people like you. First timers are always nervous. I will be easy on you”.

He feels reassured. He doesn’t know why. Its certainly not from the way she says. She sounds highly ‘indigenous’. There is certainly nothing to arouse any ‘interest’ there. However, there is the body.

She leans over and strokes him, “This is where you want it?”

He can smell the cheap perfume, but the proximity inhibits his taste. He knows no standards. He nods his head.

“Okay, take off your shirt”.

He is, it would appear, too slow. So she does it for him.

Then she lays her tools on the table. . .