Friday, 20 June 2008

All Eyes On Him

He can feel the eyes peering into his back, slightly prodding his nape to keep looking forward, chin up, don’t swing your arm like a girl, stop raising your chest like a bouncer and for goodness sakes don’t trip over a stone or walk into a lamppost.

He always dressed up for not only the ladies but the guys too, it had to be said or thought by all and sundry that he looked good, better still smelt nice too.

He could tuck in his shirt a gazillion times within the 8 working hours of the day, or for as long as he had to have it on. At age 10, in elementary school, he won the award for the tidiest boy, he would always, undo his belt to tuck his shirt in properly, even on the corridors, it was a helpless ritual. Thanks to his mum, it has followed him to today. He would excuse himself to use the bathroom because he wanted to be sure he was in order, and couldn’t understand why guys would not notice that their shirts were jumping out. For the records, he hates to wear shirts that have to be tucked in for the above reasons. Secondly that he’s not particularly a slim person, a slightly thickset lower abdomen and a very fleshy bum *yea very grabable*.

He would look at every mirror he walked past, clear image or not, anything that would show a recognisable reflection, even his phone. He can be unbelievably vain. Some women cannot compare to him, not even with number of perfume bottles owned. He brushes his eye brows too. He can't totally be blamed, he’s good looking and people confirm it almost on a daily, even guys. He admits compliments massage his ego and he loves it, that’s why he wouldn’t want to let anyone down.

If there was time, he would ensure that he knew exactly what he was going to wear to whatever occasion. He tries to be careful. With other things, he could be said to be suffering from that kind of OCD, just like Beckham.

In spite of all this, he loves wearing t-shirt and jeans with slippers *not flip-flops please*, palm slippers, thank you. He selects undees that have waist bands that make statements. His painstaking selection makes regular clothes look like a million bucks. He makes NEXT look like Ted Baker, or so he would love to think. He’s not rich or so much of a spend thrift but he’ll pay for it he wants it dearly, of course the Jaegers and Ralph Laurents are reserved for those occasions. He can’t afford to look like everyday.

He has only just recognised that the entire world was not out with binoculars like it was the Ascot Racing, watching his every step on the streets, maybe indoors, yes. It has occurred to him that he’s just a guy with regular clean clothes like the rest of the world. His jeans are shredded at the bottom and scrapes the ground on which he walks, one other has a gash somewhere.

Yesterday to prove to himself he stopped in the middle of Oxford Street and pulled at his crutch to adjust his underpants that had gotten twisted his pubic hair and was causing discomfort. However, he would rather die than try that anywhere in his home country, least of all, city centre. He strives for sophistication amidst his spontaneity, even speaks of himself in third person.

Tuesday, 10 June 2008


I was thinking about you and what happened the last time you came over. You know what, if that’s how you want it then let it be that way. It’s not like you’re my girlfriend and I cheated on you or anything like that.

You would have to learn to grow up and take responsibility for your actions and stop acting like someone is tying you up and sucking on your clit against your will. Maybe you really are slow.

I know I have my faults and I ask for exoneration, but who doesn’t. The drama you put up was utter rubbish, first of all, you stop me right in the middle of intercourse; in-between your moaning, groaning and telling me to fuck your pussy you start begging me to stop and mean it. What the problem might be, I ask. I initially thought it was because we were not using protection; but we had just fucked one hand before now, you were the one that sat on my bare dick and said you were safe. Anyway, I was wrong; it had nothing to do with contraceptives. I stopped.

You said something about not being able to do away with the feelings you once had, as far as I am concerned, you had moved on. Were you not the one calling me and giving me beef last year? Somehow you succeeded in giving me no reasons why we had to stop sex halfway through.

The gloop on my shaft was enough for me to wank with. I return from the bathroom to find you sobbing. No one within a 10mile radius knew the reason why you are crying like you had just lost your virginity. I comfort you saying sorry for ever inviting you. You asked to leave next flight and cut a 4 day trip to an overnight outing. After I had concluded arrangements to leave work and take you to the airport 50 minutes away from town you change your mind to stay the entire trip. Let’s be friends like we had originally agreed.

That day goes by quietly and peacefully, nothing absolutely physical between us, not even a hug. We’re back from the evening's outing. This girl at this point I won’t call my chic called and we spoke for about an hour, over half of which I spent in the toilet because I had to take a shit and couldn’t clean up till after I was done with the call.

You got angry when I said yes that it seemed like I had a chic, I said yes because she was the one I had been spending all my talk time with for the past couple of months. Not like you ever called me anyway. I was not sure if I was going to tell you about her because there was nothing to tell. Saying stuff like you felt used and betrayed was silly, I was never yours to start with and made you no promises.

I don’t see what you were getting hurt about. I am not your boyfriend, am I? We once had something going that didn't work, now are trying to be friends. We should feel free to tell each other about the other people in our lives; maybe you’d have me tell a lie. I told you I was sorry if it hurt you, you said I should go fuck myself.

If you can’t handle fucking a man that’s has his eyes on another chic then don’t agree to buying you a plane ticket to fly halfway across the country to him. I wish it didn’t end this way but now I don’t care if you forgive or forget anything; it’s your own kettle of fish, fry or boil as you damn well please.