devotee

strip me down and leave me bare
upon my knees suppliant
lips shall savour the roll of your name as
my tongue is tortured
under its breadth
carry me high upon your passion
‘til i taste a touch of heaven
and your angels stream down, warm and white
such the mechanics
of your ecstatics
taking me down
tying me up
leaving me breathless and
in bondage

Paradise (Not For Me)

Autour de moi
Je ne vois pas
Qui sont des anges
Surement pas moi
Madonna

It's still January. And already I'm feeling the tedium. Being shipped to the land of nothing happening for a week can do that. Helped along by a 3 hour postponement to my return flight (be thankful it's not an overnighter), thanks to Air Delaysia.

But oh, just when I thought I've made it back when along came the cab ride from... well, heaven.

We had barely left the airport when the cab driver turned to me and asked me how I performed my evening prayers in the plane.

Like... what?

My brain, all addled with lack oxygen, struggled to determine if I heard him right. After he repeated himself twice more, I realised his mistake.

"Oh, no... no...," I explained, "I'm not a Muslim."

But it didn't matter anyhow. I was in his cab, and I was in his mercy. Or perhaps in his God's mercy. I'm sure that's what he thought, that near-fanatic, chauvinistic zealot (beautiful women are filled with sin, as are singers - I was tempted to ask him about nasyid, but decided I shouldn't encourage him - and footballers; probably there'll be a special purgatory for JLo). I suppose he simply sees it as his duty and blessing to be able to preach to all his customers while they're helplessly stuck in his vehicle, but I'm honestly tired of people who have no respect of other people's beliefs.

Spare me your paradise. I just want to go home.

Matching Maids

Aunties. Is there some auntie gene or something that makes them totally pantang (taboo) when it comes to seeing an eligible young man (or worse, an eligible not-so-young man)? Some sort of primal matchmaking instinct that inevitably kicks in, compelling them to spread the news out into their formidable network of aunties in search of a suitable mate for the poor fellow?

Honestly, when I had gone through an entire wedding banquet without That Question (or That Other Question) popping up, I thought I finally would not have to deal with it. For life. Ah, such wishful thinking. A guy my age really should know better.

But how was I to even expect being accosted by a well-meaning neighbour about an hour before my own aunt's funeral procession, and be told that she knows someone who knows this other someone who has a pretty daughter about my age who is still single and very available and wouldn't I like to have her number so I can ask her out one fine day?

At which point another auntie (a cousin of my mom's) pulled me aside and gave me this beautiful piece of advice:

"Just go out with her and get to know her. Who knows, maybe you'll hit it off with her. They say she looks mixed. You look mixed, she looks mixed, wouldn't it be nice if the two of you got together and made pretty babies?"

Like... what?

I politely laughed (as politely as any dismissive laugh could be) and didn't take the number offered.

Now I'm thinking maybe I should have accepted that number after all. Meet up with this "exotic" looking lady, have dinner, share a laugh over what the aunties said, then slip her the fact that I'm gay. It'd be fun.

And who knows, I may then actually have my own fag hag. A different kind of match than the aunties would have hoped for, but a match, nevertheless :-P