The Birthday Weekend Prelude

It's that time of the year again, and since this time I will actually be in Singapore for my birthday, I've decided to actually plan for a night of mayhem. Yes, a year on, I'm inching towards 30 and I'm still trapped in a cyclical ward of alcoholism. Maturity obviously does not come with age.

When:

Friday night 29th August.

Why:

To celebrate LB and my birthday. And also Germ's last day of work. But it's really just another excuse to get drunk and tag consequences to inebriation.

Where:

Clarke Quay / Boat Quay / Butterfactory / Zouk / MOS

What:

I've decided to do a Patient's Card, which includes as list of 26 drinks (cos LB turns 26 and I will still be 26 on that day), mixed spirits on a spectrum of varying alcoholic contents. We will pub hop to several places, with the list around our necks, getting bartenders to strike off the 'medicine' we've taken. The list is as follows,

Category 1:

1. Peach Martini x 3
2. Lychee Martini x 2
3. Apple Shooter
4. Screaming Orgasm
5. Jaded
6. Brown Cow

Category 2:

1. Amaretto on the rocks
2. Vodka Red Bull
3. Champagne
4. Sour plum shot
5. Ginseng shot
6. Tom Yum shot
7. Jagerbomb
8. Beer
9. Blow Job

Category 3:

1. Flaming Lambo
2. Flaming Ak47
3. Extreme Titillation
4. Tequila shot
5. Vodka shot
6. Sambuca shot
7. Graveyard

There will also be 'dares' to help eliminate the drinks and a monetary penalty for not completing the list. Like for example, kissing a stranger allows us to strike off any two drinks that are NOT in the compulsory drinks category. There is a limit to the number of dares we can each perform, so that there is no perfect subsitute of courage - or insanity - for alcohol.

I came up with the Patient's Card idea and Candice tweaked it with ideas of the rules on dares, penalty and drink lists. And I think this is a pretty awesome idea, so credit to her. I amaze myself, always.

I don't really care if you guys take the idea, like I know how some of you paste my entire post on your blogs, just credit us.

*If you want a copy of the Patient's card, you can drop me a line.

Who:

LB, Reznor, Germ, Faith, Candice, Niner and Me. Naturally, I want more people in on this so friends who are reading this and want in, do drop me a line.

Edit: Huixx, Leo, Kat, Sheena, L'cky, Totti, Jerm, Botak have signed up for it. And there are 3 people in here that are potentially crazier than I am.

Butterfly Goes For Muay Thai Event

Is age perhaps catching up to me or could I have probably finally succumbed to societal vulgarities like responsible drinking and civil public conduct? Has my insatiable thirst for alcohol finally been beaten into submission by an ailing liver? Or has the toil of continuous late nights and parties finally reigned its wrath on me?

I attended a wine appreciation event last week and I didn’t even get drunk.

But Butterfly, its wine appreciation, no one gets drunk. Not when you are me – usually -, because anything that is free and alcoholic, deserves at least 6 glasses to wet my pallets or kill the liver. The last time I went to a wine tasting event, I got drunk and this was after my mum constantly reminded me that,

1. You sip, not gulp wine
2. You don’t need to finish the full glass
3. This is not a competition

This time, against my better judgment and outright inaccessibility of the place, I drove down to meet Totti at the event and kept myself contented with just sipping on the glass of the customary welcome drink.

Two of the event PR girls came over for a survey and one of them actually remembered me from an event I attended once.

She: “I’ve seen you before right? You were here for the Muay Thai event.”

I immediately told Becs who was the head PR (I think) about being recognized and she quickly rolled her eyes,

Becs: “Babe, all the girls remember you. You were so loud at that event la.”

And I was.

This was about half a year ago and tempted on the lure of free drinks, riding on my then obsession with Contender Asia and all things Thai and sparked by an impetus to start the weekend drinking spree a day early, I rounded up LB to attend the event with me.

It turned out to be some opening for a Thai restaurant which also ran in conjunction for a series of other underlying brands but none of which I cared, because there was a constant flow of free wine and finger food to keep me happy.

It was a private affair of sorts which progressed to a dinner, where we interacted with other people who shared our dining space and thankfully Jerm and Botak turned up for the event and so did Geri and Dom, which meant that I now had 5 friends who might renounce their friendship with me before the night was over.

Over dinner they had a general knowledge quiz contest and we got grouped according to our table and by then, I was already on my 4th glass and fighting against speech impediments. I was probably known as the Chinese boy who was tipsy and talked alot.

Then 30 questions down and I was dishing out answers where no one had a clue, from the composition of countries for the former Siam kingdom, to the number of provinces Thailand had to varying geographical obscurities and I was single-handedly carrying the table.

Host: “What is the capital of Bangladesh?”
Guy: “Chittagong.”
Me: “No, Dhaka.”

And by now, the other people on the table – of which I was easily the youngest male, save for LB – were looking at me in disbelieve.

Girl: “How do you know so much?”
Me: “I don’t know, alcohol makes me smart, sometimes at least."

I was no longer the tipsy Chinese guy, I was now known as the very smart Chinese guy.

We submitted the paper to Becs, whom we didn’t know then to do the marking, while we all headed out for a smoke. We got back and Becs signaled a total of 12 mistakes which I immediately protested, because as drunk as I was, I was absolutely certain that I could not have possibly made 12 mistakes, especially not when I’m drunk.

Me: “Sweetheart, bring the paper over. I cannot possibly have that many mistakes.”

I quickly pointed out to her a whole string of marking errors which brought the final tally up to 5 mistakes out of 48 questions. It didn’t matter because some other team won by cheating and it only reinforced my stand that cheating pays off, sometimes.

It was a kaleidoscope of quiet compunction for not cheating and self congratulation for being surprisingly smart under the influence of alcohol, that I felt invincible and confident that I would have passed any sobriety test, even if it was taking a straight line with handstands while reciting my IC numbers backwards in Hebrew.

By the time it came to the main highlight, which was the Muay Thai exhibition match between two obscure local individuals and I thought I was knowledgeable enough to be dishing out name s of the sports greats like Yodsenklai and John Wayne Parr, to be sitting through an introduction of the sport. All I wanted was to see a fight.

When that got on the way, I was cheering on my team with so much fervor and equal amount of trash talking, I was keeping everyone around me in stitches.

Me: “Knee the balls!! Gorge the eyes!! Bite the ears or something!! FOR CHRIST SAKE!! YOU ARE LOSING!!!!!”

Me: “Com’on!! Punch harder!! Don’t make me regret supporting you!!! Dammit!”

Along the way, they teased an opportunity for one of the guest to step into the ring.

Me: “MEE PICK MEEEE!!!! I WANT TO FIGHT…THAT GIRL!”

I had my hands up in the air, yelling wildly and the guys were all cheering me on to get my butt wiped. The organizers ignored me, as usual.

The fights ended and I lost my chance to win a bottle of champagne because I picked a loser who could get knocked out by his shadow. I was bitter and sulking because I wanted champagne and I got bored because no one died in the exhibition match, so I decided to hit on the PR girls instead.

One of them turned out to be my neighbour of which LB thought was pretty attractive, but I offered my car to LB to drive another one of them home. She was petite, decently pretty and was from a mixed lineage. I was just bored of ending the night prematurely especially when there was still a good amount of wine in me, that if I took a blood sample, I might qualify as a grape.

It was a cordial conversation between us, up till her door, about her work as a model to her hobbies and her racial composition. When LB drove himself to his place for me to change over, he started clearing his stuff off my backseat and then emerged holding a magazine laughing.

LB: “Do you know who this is???”

He asked, pointing to the cover girl.

Me: “Who’s that?”
LB: “Dude, we just sent her home.”
Me: "Noo way...."

He placed his wallet and phone on top my car as we, spurred by the hilarity of it and fuelled by alcohol, started laughing our asses off for a good minute or so. For one, this was a girl that sat through the entire car ride with a cover shot of her on a magazine lying next to her. And there we are asking her questions I only just read of in the article hours ago. And we had absolutely no idea it was her.

I drove home still giggling over the matter after LB laughed his ass into the lift. Then 30 minutes later, LB called,

LB: “Dude, can you go check your car? I left my wallet and phone on top of your car.”

So.Not.Funny

The One Where LB Gets Drunk

There are some things which are never whispered in the same breath; high heels and champagne, whiskey and orange juice, and if you know us personally, LB and inebriation.

I hear you protesting from your seats already. What? LB drunk, and you weren't there to witness? That’s tantamount to phenomenal rarities like the blue moon, Singapore’s Olympic medal, mutes winning the spelling bee or a live telecast for the Paralympics – because you don’t know if it’s classified under sports or comedy. Not that it never happens, but even in our years as friends, I can count the number of times he’s been that drunk with one hand and several amputated fingers.

LB has for years been my sheath of madness. Like all functional relationships, we have a set of responsibilities to adhere to and getting drunk has always been my monopolized domain. Even through our overseas chronicles, he has always disciplined himself from alcohol and I always wondered how anyone could voluntarily stop after 2 glasses.

Last night was a climax of sorts for him. For weeks now, LB has been religiously subscribing to my partying regiment and this was after a sabbatical of months, where he had abstain from my tease of decadence and contented to just tickle himself with my stories.

It was that night out with Atila that brought him back into the fray of madness and it’s been a steady culmination of alcohol, women, pick-ups, triumphs and falls, and it all imploded into an intemperate affair with 3 bottles of vodka and Red Bull.

It all started as a night out with Adrian and a group of guys whom a couple of them I knew way back when I was still devoted to one woman and they were the boyfriends of the ex girlfriend’s best friends. Fast forward 4 years later, we are the ex boyfriend club, a collective being of sour experiences.

It started with two bottles and then Shou added another to the cornucopian backdrop of towering buckets of ice and jugs of mixers, and I knew that this was going to another night of liver bashing - but who needs a liver when you have Pierre Png. By the time LB joined us, we were already through the first bottle, but he came with that much vigour to drink that I thought I had to be pissed drunk to be imagining stuff.

Somewhere in between, he got generous with the gulps and it came too quick and too strong, that before I even knew it, he was prancing all over the club chatting up random strangers. Or as he says,

“I am invincible.”

What was hilarious was that I have never, since Atila showed me that it was possible to speed date in a club, seen anyone of my friends, asystematically hit on THAT many women and fail that many times and still take it like water off a ducks back.

He was running all over like Richard Simmons on E, minus the spandex, a wildfire through the sea of foreign petals and he was just that entertaining that I simply fuelled it by pointing out random women to him.

Me: “That one. I bet she’s pinoy.”

And he would walk up to chat her up, and be subsequently rejected.

Me: “There that one, she’s waiting to be picked up.”

And he would repeat the cycle of introduction and eventual rejection. And I was having the ball of my time because he was just that fearless and I was just randomly pointing at any woman who had a decent cleavage.

By the time he pin-balled his way through the bevy of skirts on the dance floor, with a numerical chat up performance that would pedestal him to the awesomeness of Atila, he finally turned to me,

LB: “I don’t think anyone has been rejected more times than me.”
Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”
LB: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

If I thought LB’s streak of perceived invincibility ended when the lights came on, I was wrong. He only needed some poker cards and an LCD screen to qualify as a walking Facebook. Yes, he was that much of a social utility. When we got out of the club, he was shaking hands with so many random strangers that I wondered if he was running an election.

Then we headed to Xiu’s place to continuing drinking, which was crazy because I knew I was bloated from all the prior drinking and LB was shit house drunk.

In the cab,

Me: “Call the girls, what’s the address?”
Shou: “I got no phone.”
LB: “Huuwhy dich I drink so much ah?”
Me: “Do you know the place?”
Shou: “Call the girls.”
LB: “Huuwhy dich chew let mii drink so much? I’m going to die man, I’m going to die, I feel like sssshit.”

Me: [making a call] “D, pass the phone to Xiu.”
LB: “Arrrrgggghhh, I feel like shit..”
Me: “Xiu, what’s the address?”
LB: “Dude, I am sooo drunk. I am never this drunk. “

When we finally got to her place and after managing to coax LB out of the cab, he broke out into a mini concert of his drunk rendition of Eternal Flame with Shou and this was along the private housing estate at 5.30 am in the morning. (Hilarious. And I have it on video.)

He collapsed onto the sofa almost immediately and woke up groggy an hour later and started gagging.

Xiu: “LB, don’t you ever puke in the house. Go outside!”

I was watching all this from the corner of my eye, while D poked away at me to get me up to help LB. I obviously knew that he was going to mess up the place with his puke, so I did the only rational thing, I pretended to sleep.

D: “Oh my gawd. Wake up!! He is puking!!”

I peered through the window to see him spewing in the middle of the front porch, I ran through the list of responsibilities in my head that included cleaning up the spew, then decided to go back to pretending to sleep.

D: “LB!! You are making a trail!! Stop walking and vomiting!!”

When we finally left her house at noon, LB was still tipsy.

LB: “Dude, I puked my bile out. I have never fucking been so drunk before. I cannot go home like this. If my mum sees me looking like this, she is going to disown me.”
Me: “What the fuck are you talking about. I need to pee.”
LB: “Dude, I really thought that I was invincible.”

Then we took shelter at the bus stop and he sprawled over the bench.

LB: “Dude, my mum is going to disown me if she sees me like that, I swear."

3 in 24 Story

3 has been widely considered a magic number in English literature. Macbeth had three witches, Mother Goose had the three blind mice, and the French gave us the ménage à trois. And so Butterfly had written his own set of 3 with the ink of infamy.

As promised in the statistics post, here is the 3 in 24 story.

It was in the fall of 2005. I was the very man you affectionately know as Butterfly; young, restless, a blatant disrespect for commitment and periodically daring all consequences to catch up to my actions.

It was in that dark epoch of social profligacy, where attention spans were grossly limited and dating was sustenance to fill a void soul. It was a time where months were pegged to women’s names and if there were frequent flyer miles for sex, I might have made it to mars. It was a time conscience was a malleable word that I had no comprehension over, just like ‘morals’ and ‘heartbreak’.

It all started with a girl with a spark of curiosity, gained momentum with Ivory and climaxed with a third nympho within the 24 hour mark. I remembered this because it was a calendar marked date of sorts for me, a milestone in the halls of assholism and self realization that I was well capable of three erections a day.

This was in a period where I was still embroiled in the whole Ivory saga, which in brief recap, included several ‘relationship’ ending punctuations like, ‘let’s end this’ or my personal favorite, ‘let's not see each other again’. This was one girl that pissed me off so much, that if you could actually measure the multitude of piss I was in, I would say that if I ran a sanitation plant, I would be on Forbes list of billionaires.

The sporadic sabbaticals between us were largely a grey matter without affirmation from both parties. It didn’t matter to me since I wasn’t dating her exclusively and by this period, there was another individual who became a branched staple in my life.

What sparked this marathon of carnal indulgence was an inquisitive individual that was intrigued by my ‘Miss Months’ dating ritual. She was a convent girl by educational upbringing, vicarious feeder of one too many sex blogs and concupiscent temptress by the time we were on the sofa.

She was a layer of contradictions. She believed in plunging necklines and accentuating cleavages, but never participated in sex outside a relationship. She was fine with me having my hands under down her blouse, but coy about kissing. And that list ran on and on, that if I actually wrote it all down, it would count as running a marathon.

By the time we actually headed to my place it was way past midnight. And by the time she had her fill of my dating stories and sexual catastrophes, and teased enough to lose a truckload of inhibitions to lie under me, it was pushing 3am and I was battling against time to sneak her out before I had to unceremoniously introduce her as the new cleaning lady for my room to the family.

And so it was one..

Even before I could disrespect the afternoon by sleeping in, Ivory called to ask if we could hangout. You have to know that at this point, I was already so tired with her bullshit that she could bore me to sleep even if I had a full bottle of Speed and a carton of Red Bull.

The down side was that Ivory never accepted no for an answer. If I said I was too lazy to go out, she would suggest that she come over to my place. If I said I wanted to rest, she would suggest resting together. And if I said I wanted to be alone because I was sick, she would offer to send me to the doctors.

There was never a reason she could not find a solution to. If one day someone finds an alternative source of fuel, you’ll know she did it, just because my car ran out of fuel.

In my half awaked state, disturbed by an unwarranted phone call, battling phosphenes and a throat full of phlegm, I might have uttered, ‘anything’. And that might have set off a sprint on her end because she got here even before I could start on my third dream.

The great thing was that there was now another person in the room who could do a better job of waking me up than the snooze button usually does. The bad thing was that in the morning where I am usually at my sexual arousal peak, I will fuck anything that has its hand around my prick or anyone who is sitting over me, greeting my wake up with an eyeful of cleavage.

I constantly remind myself that it is wrong to be fucking a potentially psycho girl, but I also know that it is a cardinal sin to be wasting an erection.

But in this instance, it wasn’t any of the above arousal tactics that dropped my pants. No, it wasn’t the C cups that were threatening to spill out from her tank top. It wasn’t the way I was fellated under the boxers. And it surely wasn’t the way she cleaned my ears with her tongue.

No. it was that stare that she gave when I said I didn’t want to have sex.

If there was anything she was good at, it would be staring. She was so good at it, she would win a staring contest against blind people. Yes, she would kick Stevie Wonders ass even if she had dust in her eyes.

It was that cold piercing stare that was demanding for a valid reason and I wasn’t even going to be a smart ass and tell her that someone beat her to it just 6 hours ago. I was sleepy, but certainly not stupid. She was sitting on me and I was lying down, and in the words of Mixed Martial Arts fighting and the laws of physics, her punching down is a lot more advantageous than me punching up.

Half frightened by her stare and half convinced that I will get a beating of my life if I denied sex – now that will be the joke of the year -, I reached for her left breast and cupped it twice, just as a symbolic surrender of my dignity as a man.

And so it became two..

Ivory left shortly after the whole ordeal on some pretext that she had dinner plans with her dad and I was wondering if I was actually listed on her phonebook under ‘booty call’.

I didn’t care too much to think about it, because I was genuinely glad that I was free for the rest of the day and like I mentioned, there was already a particular individual who had somehow weaved herself intricately into my life.

Her name was Bing and she was a pandemonium of passion.

Between us, the chemistry was right but everything thing else was wrong. It was a dangerous flirt with a consequence that none of us could bear. It was a relationship we both knew well that was best left void of emotions, promises and plans.

That aside, she was an explosion of raw sexual energy. If you suggested something, she would take it up and raise it to a new level. If you said you wanted sex in the car, she would demand that we do it with the lights on. If you said you wanted to fuck in the office, she would demand to do it on your boss’s desk.

She was always ready, never afraid to be vocal about her moans and she was so horny so would lick your ass like they had chicken wings in them. Which was why despite the built up of lactic acids in me after two tempestuous romps in the last 14 hour or so, I was still eager on that midnight rendezvous.

Bing was the kind that laws of chemistry played no significant part in. For one, she defied the periodic table because for her, there was only one element, and that was the element of Surprise!

I know this for sure because she was capable of springing a ‘I want to fuck you here, now’ demand on you at the weirdest of places, which included the CTE stretch heading to Cairnhill, despite the fact that I debated with her that it was physically impossible for me to climb over to have sex with her on her side of the car, while still driving safely abiding lane disciplines and speed limits.

Yet, Bing was remarkably good at coaxing. She was so good at it, she could walk into MacDonald’s and come out with a Whooper Burger and a Rootbeer float. I sometimes believe why she moaned so loudly was because there was so much awesomeness in her that it was a catharsis for her to release it. Yet, despite the makings of a true goddess, she was flawed in one way, the climax.

We eventually headed for Sentosa beach, because fucking at home was impossible given the decibel of her climax, which would qualify as a shockwave if you gave her a microphone, and hotels lacked the novelty. It was great for me, because if anyone caught us fucking there, they’d probably think she was communicating with dolphins thousands of miles away.

It was hilarious because at some point we strayed from decadence and ventured into unfamiliar territory of a normal conversation, while she was still straddling me and she asked me what I’ve been doing all day, and I said,

Me: “Oh, the usual. Meeting people.”
She: “Have you been sleeping with anyone else?”

I looked at my watch, and it was already past midnight,

“Today? Nope, only you.”