That dark little corner.

Sometimes all it takes is a line from a unassumingly sad song to take me there. The windows are covered by thick layers of curtains and the light draws along the ceiling's edge's in worried yellow to a forever sunset. The floor is smooth waxed red with a stark chill to the touch. And when air is hard to breathe, but you have no choice. The walls aren't what they seem. They look like they're closing on you but they're miles apart. Its filled with a very heavy empty and you're right smack in the center. And that song whispers that one line over and over again. Then everything fades to black and you think it's all over. But it hasn't even started really.


Not even 32 orgasms can save you. I've counted. It's a pretty sad state really. But to be honest, this is my element. And I do remember a lot of great creative spikes in such a state. But it still sucks. And I attest to the truth that having abs does not make having a boyfriend any easier.

But where exactly are all these coming from? Some months ago, I learned my ex has been seeing someone for some time now. A few weeks ago, I learned he had invited the new guy to live with him. Too soon I think, but hey, I wasn't judging. From all his travels and life much around the world, I just wished he got a lover that has no connection to me or to this small world I live in. Why did he have to be with someone whom a huge chunk of my friends know, is of the same racial origin as me, and is also physically fit (if not fitter). There's that bit of comparison that I heard from some folks, and even if it was to my favor, it still sucks to be compared. Feeling a bit Aniston here. And after all these years (since we broke up) I await that day he finally speaks up about how bland he felt living with me despite him saying that I was the one (first) guy who taught him how to love. Bleh.

Apparently, I am still very human. Next orgasm please.

Where is the baggage counter?

When I began my journey of dating older men (same time I began dating men per se), some good friends warned me of one thing that came with dating such individuals - with age comes baggage. And we're not just talking about the Louis Vuittons, Hermeses, Pradas, and such. We're talking more of formed biases, aged opinions, stubborn stands, mostly emotional in nature.

Earlier, I thought about this as I break-off a nuisance online "friendship" (using it for lack of a better term, since I wouldn't consider this character a friend even) and it hits me. My bag's filling up. Over breakfast, I take a couple of steps back to see some stuff I have stashed in my emotional bag and to my surprise, the list has grown unassumingly full and bitter with chock-full of dating and relationship details.

Let me share some of them.

1) If I had the power to command Ragnarok/the Apocalypse/end of the world, I'd have it strike Switzerland first for breaking my heart.

2) I will never set foot in Paris, France (I actually have a blacklist for countries/places that broke my heart).

3) Never date a New Yorker.

4) Never date someone from a broken family.

5) Never date someone from a rich family.

6) Never fall in love. Let them fall in love with me (this one my dad taught me).

7) Marry up (this I learned from my boss).

8) Never date anyone from my industry (it's okay to fuck some, just not date them).

I could go on, but really it's not a happy list and I am not particularly jovial about the state of my date-life or absence thereof. And even the prospect of slimming further down and gaining a killer-er bod does help arrest this notion. I learned that although you get more sex prospects, having a tiny waist and six-packs does not get you a boyfriend/husband. Don't get me wrong, I am enjoying this side of the scale. I was merely expressing fact.


But what I am worried of is growing into a bitter old fag who can't even fake a smile because even his lips are held down by over-packed bitter baggage. Six-pack and all.

Apologies, dear readers.

Forgive me for my delinquent presence. The past few months have been physically hard on me. I embarked on a personal pilgrimage to working out while leaving an owning presence on other elements of my life, including work. Yes. Work. In the end, it all worked out. Not only did I get a killer bod (seriously more killer than you thought - meaning meat, abs and all) but I also got a promotion at work. But don't let me bore you with professional stuff. Let's get back to being anonymously personal.

So the big question that I have been asked by friends who observed the great changes I have undergone was "How's the sex?" Honestly, few and far in between. I dunno, but there seems to be something about being hotter that makes you want to go for quality activity partners as well. I mean, it's definitely easier to get head at the gym lockers and such (considering it was already so easy to do so before), but on the other side, as conceited as this sounds, doing all that hard work only to be blown by some random plain Joe in the lockers is quite a waste.

As another friend puts it, when one loses weight, gets abs, and undergoes good physical change, they either become nicer or bitchier. Guess which one I ended up as.