Butterfly Goes For Fuel

I’ve never been big on dance events especially not when Above & Beyond is spinning at Zouk and I have to turn up at what was billed as some high octane dance party with huge hype and a seemingly brittle task to deliver the goods.

From the go, the event looked like it was going to collapse from the sheer number of VIPs, which made the normal entry look almost exclusive. The great thing was that the crowd that had formed the massive line at the VIP registration was an impressive collage of beautiful faces.

The big hype over the event that teased he media’s interest was largely the presence of a celebrity DJ, Samantha Ronson. Samantha who you ask? That makes two of us.

P: “Is Samantha Ronson playing yet?”
Me: “Who is that?”
P: “Which stone did you crawl out from? She’s like Lindsay Lohan’s girlfriend!”
Me: [pause for thought] “Nope.. that did not give me the slightest erection. I do not give a fuck who that is.”

I walked over to take a peek at the queue, which looked like it was going stretch all the way into the Singapore Flyer. I was never going to be a part of something that looks like an audition queue for Singapore Idol, so I did what every spoilt Singaporean would do, demand.

Me: “Please tell me I don’t have to queue up like the rest of them.”
C: “Of cos not. How many of you? Do you have a table?”
Me: “Please tell you arranged a table for us…”

And that was just the start of her night with me nagging about everything from the poor service to the badly run bars to the lack of proper service for the VVIPs. If I was a decent human being, I might have felt bad, but consuming alcohol generally equates to throwing civility and considerations out the window.

When we got in, the place was starting to fill up. We found a table in the VVIP area and conveniently sat down. Then 10 minutes later, some girl came along and placed a ‘Reserved’ tag on the table. One of the guys came up to tell me that we were being asked to leave and I thought that was the single most ridiculous request ever.

I had every right to be. I was still feeling lethargic after a long morning, I was missing out on some serious Trance shit at Zouk and I was waiting so long for our drinks, I thought I would only get a sip right before the Apocalypse.

Me: “Excuse me, but my friend here said you want us to leave?”
She: “The table is reserved for someone else, so sorry about it.”
Me: “Then where is my table?”
She: “In the VIP area over at the other room.”
Me: “Is my table still there? Because if we have to walk over there and not get my table, I will be very very pissed. And I’m pissed as it is right now..”’

Just as I’m doing my best to fly the demanding / obnoxious Singaporean flag, C walked by and got another earful from me. It came to a point where she had to – and I quote verbatim -, instruct the hostesses to,

“DROP EVERYTHINGYOU ARE DOING AND GET HIM THE BOTTLES… NOW NOW!”

Reznor and I have known C for years now and she knew fairly well that if I started to audibly manifest my irritation, then there was a concrete validation behind it and quite simply, I don’t think there was anyone in that stretch of the VVIP area that was more important than the whole group of us. I was so pissed, I would have stabbed even Elmo if he appeared infront of me.

Whatever I was doing from sulking to the hostesses and organizers worked like a charm, because suddenly they started facilitating the services towards us and the table filled with so much Russian Standard vodka and Red Bull that I found it almost impossible to stay pissed. I was so excited at the cornucopian fest that I would have belted a duet with Julie Andrews and auctioned my kidney off.

The rest of the night actually turned out pretty decent because my time management chart read something like,

Drinking – 80%
Peeing – 3%
Smoking – 12%
Debating internally between sex or hugging the toilet bowl to sleep – 5%

I also realized that not many people actually give a shit about the rest of the DJ lineups, just as long as they are here for one particular person. Some weird Caucasian chick with a funky blonde spiked hair started a conversation with me at the smoking room.

She: “So you here for Samantha Ronson?”
Me: “I’m here for Tiesto.”
She: “Oh, is he spinning in the next room?”

Of course, I knew that the night was never going to let me off that easily. Not without a little drama or injury. Maybe both.

I don’t know whether it was the alcohol or the surge of taurine and caffeine, but the guys went crazy, chasing each other around spraying Red Bull at one another. And there I was, innocently boundaried from the madness by a conversation with a friend, and next thing I know, I am clutching my eyes in pain.

I had Red Bull directly splashed into my eyes and all I could think of was, ‘first it was semen, now Red Bull’. I don’t know what I’m going to have that is going to hit my eye next, but it better not be a dolphin or a Volkswagon, because my right eye looks like it is a magnet for disaster.

There I was, clutching my eye, trying to rinse it with water and I still actually managed to piss off Poca from this.

Poca: “The girls were all over you!!”
Me: “Com’on, there were like only one of them.”
Poca: “There were like 5 and I hate them touching you!”
Me: “Babe, they are lesbians.”
Poca: “Lesbians also can have threesome with a guy what?!”

I realized then, that when women are unhappy with you. It doesn’t matter even if you have Red Bull in the eye or injured, because everything you say, is still wrong.

Playing Hosts - Pt 2

Following their club antics the previous night, we all became wary of their appetite for alcohol and parties. It was an anthem across the office and narrating what happened at the clubs became synonymous with words like ‘monkeys’, ‘crazy’ and a whole string of expletives that will make Tourette’s sound like a sneeze.

Yes, I must admit that there were pockets of their misdemeanor that tickled me, like climbing the tree outside Zouk but that was because I was watching it from a distance and that gave me impunity from any consequence solely by disassociation. And let’s face it, that tree has been scaled by many white men before them.

When we decided to bring them to House the next night, we already had a systematic plan to mitigate the misbehaving. We would separate them in two cars so that there was less of a chance of them feeding off the madness from each other.

The great thing about House was that there was a vodka promo that kept them busy for awhile, the downside was that they got restless really fast after that and the women weren’t as friendly without alcohol in them.

We left shortly after the bottle dried up and we decided that a place without the frenzy of bass and neon lights might be the best idea, so we took them to China One which still had a decent dance crowd to tickle their dancing shoes a little.

A round of drinks and another bottle later, they ran off into the crowd. Ten minutes later, we heard someone shouting from the dance floor, and then turned to see a man standing on the tables, surrounded by bouncers.

Me: “I think it has started.”

Then half an hour later, one of them came back to the table.

Me: “Why aren’t you partying?”
Him: “Those guys are crazy. They stuck their hands up some girl’s skirt. I’m not going to stand around when shit comes down on them. I’m not going to spend my night at the (police) station.”

I was speechless. I was just gawking, trying to digest every bit of the story and calculating the infinite scenarios from the consequence of letting them introduce such lewd tactics and liberal introductions to a straightjacket society, still embracing the yawns of Asian conservatism, such as Singapore.

When I finally comprehended the severity of the situation and possible carnival explosion leading to a brush with the law, I swear vultures would have circled me because I froze for what seemed like two Christmases.

Then they came back to the table, looking a lot more subdued. I quickly attributed this to the stern warning the securities must have issued. Then I stood corrected and learnt that people like them don’t give a shit about being thrown out of a club. The only thing that upsets them, is not having pussy.

It’s not hard to see why since they were hardly the quixotic gentlemen nor would I consider lifting skirts of strangers the most effective way to get someone into bed with you. If it did, then the world no longer needs chivalry, or pick up lines and perversion is the new black.

It came to a point that it became frustrating for them because they were superstars by their own rights and rejection was something they weren’t familiar with. So what did one of them do when a girl snubbed his attempt to initiate a conversation?

Hands up if you said, “Throw ice at her”, because you are a star just like them!

I watched in panoramic trepidation as the ice made almost like a freeze frame trajectory straight for the girl. And then watched as she shouted in retaliation to being hit and my heart missed a beat when her concerned male friends tended to her.

We were on the edge of a bar fight, prompted by ignorance and fuelled by a fast fleeting ego. I was already close to ten glasses and surrendered my ninja like prowess to hide or run on the fourth, but inebriated enough to shit my pants if they started throwing bottles and glasses over.

You cannot imagine how I had to ruminate the thought of ever taking them out again because they were slated to party at Butter Factory the next day and I might be known as, ‘that guy that brought the men that set Butter Factory on fire’.

So prior to their entry to Butter, I had to sit them down and run through a list of behavioral norms and acceptable introductory standards, like handshakes instead of boob grabbing.

Me: “Guys, we’ve all had a long day. Let’s keep this clean and fun. We don’t want to remember the night in a holding cell.”

They looked at me and I to them, trying to find that glint of acknowledgement and quietly sniggering at the irony of this. Who would have thought I was going to be preaching about alcohol moderation and behaving in clubs.

They: “Okay, whatever. LET’S GET SOME PUSSY!!!!!!”

Playing Host - Pt 1

We all know that alcohol is the paradoxically the greatest social adhesive and primary culprit for social unrest – unless you consider shotgun marriages. It is also used to explain many things like bringing strangers together, lying on the pavements outside clubs, accidental upskirts, sex with animals, UFOs and bar fights.

I know alcohol is a volatile agent that actually causes schizophrenia because I am equally guilty of many escapades that I would normally never do. I’ve seen men turn into complete wildcards and women into closet showgirls, so much so that they only needed a wrap themselves in aluminum foil to qualify as a Transformer.

Very rarely am I sober and tasked to babysit the inebriated ones. Very rarely do I doubt the merits of alcohol and believe that an intemperate flirt with it is a bad idea. Very rarely am I struck with panic pangs that my life would end in a bar fight. And very rarely am I not the one misbehaving.

Over the week, we had to host the riders who were in town for the Red Bull X-Fighters exhibition tour. This is generally a good thing because it is an added reason to party, so whilst everyone else complained about an encroachment into private spaces and time, I secretly rejoiced.

That was until I met them at Zouk, and realized that this was going to be the worse night of my life.

For one, being Europeans and celebrities in their own rights, meant that the tourist mentality of superiority and appetite for madness was on a magnitude beyond the social bindings of Asian norms and etiquette. And whatever handful they were to begin with, the introduction of alcohol into them, made them the single most implosive group I’ve partied with.

After we left Velvet for Zouk’s members area, they were almost impossible to contain. The flurry of bass thumping and Asians in mini-skirts exacerbated the situation gravely. They started hitting on every girl – and I emphasize, EVERY – that they saw on the way .

And this wasn’t even just about making conversations and introductions. They were practically groping everything that was in a skirt. I was convinced that they would have hit one Scottish men in kilts so long as they had enough drinks.

What made matters worse was that the members area was packed with people and it was hard enough to walk, let along attempt to usher four testosterone charged men to our table. Apparently being crowded just meant that they now had more women to grope and hit on. They went crazy, like R Kelly at a kindergarten.

Next thing I know, one of them was throwing ice onto the dance floor another trying to have his hands up every girl’s skirt. One of them went round asking every girl if she was shaven and the last one was making out with a random chick whom I realized was ladyboy.

It got so bad, we had to cut short out stint there because if they stayed there any longer, at least one of them was going to be spending his night in the police station. It was really a matter of putting a sheath to their misdemeanor and there was only one place in Singapore that could swallow their antics like a porn starlet to cum; Orchard Towers.

Along the way we started making fun of Morgan because he kept refusing to believe that the girl he was making out with used to have a penis.

Morgan: “Hey, I put my hand under her skirt and there were no balls. There was a pussy so she is a girl.”
Nick: “That’s because she chopped off her dick!”
Morgan: “Hey, if you put a 250cc on a 150cc. Is it a 150 or a 250? I say it is a 250.”
Me: “If you put a Honda sticker on a Mitsubishi. It is STILL a Mitsubishi.”

If I thought the short escapades at members was a torrid test of patience and teasing for disaster to strike, then I had no idea what I was in for on the car ride to Orchard Towers.

I didn’t realize that.

1. Seat belts are meant to be ignored.
2. It is perfectly ok to stick your body out the window.
3. The space between the driver and front passenger was meant for people to squeeze through.

When we got there it was like watching a re-enactment of what unfolded in Zouk. They hadn’t lost their momentum in their onslaught to get us all killed in a bar fight. One of them was still going round asking the girls if they were clean shaven, another had his hands down the panties of so many girls of different nationality, that his fingers would have smelt like the SEA games.

One of them eventually pissed a ladyboy off –I have no idea what he said, but I know she was pissed because she was yelling across the escalators outside the club. I knew she was pissed because she was yelling,

She: “Your mother sleep with other men. You are a slut.”

This was in your best pseudo high pitched Thai accent. And Nick snapped. From there he begun to rap and dance and it tickled me to no end because all he was saying was just,

“You got no vagina down there!!”

It was hilarious because he was dancing in the middle of the escalator and yelling his crude rap at a ladyboy. She of course knew that it was about her so she did what she did best, and that was looking ugly while staring at him.

I will give it to him because it was the single most hilarious thing I saw all night and I couldn’t stop laughing. The best part was that the other ladyboys who had no idea what he was singing, started dancing to his rap when everything about his rap was mocking them.

Picture this. There were two of them gyrating to the beat of a song with rap lyrics that said.

“You got no vagina!!”

Butterfly Meets Ninjas

Many people think that ninjas are myths, like werewolves, unicorns, and the swine flu virus. You think they only exist in cheesy Hollywood B-flicks or Japanese anime. Maybe sometimes you hear about them on the History channel or you watch men try to replicate their feat on Ninja Warrior.

But I can assure you that those are as fiction as it gets, because those aren’t even close to the truth about ninjas. You might not know this because ninjas are a highly trained and equally secretive breed, but they actually live amongst us.

Yes sure, television propagates nonsense about how ninja’s have superhuman agility and poor fashion sense but they undermine the very element that makes a ninja special. And that is the ability of stealth. If you don’t already know this, then let me reveal to you the greatest urban secret.

NEA officers are actually ninjas. They have to be, because they appear out of nowhere, when you least expect.

I have to hand it to them. As I am typing this, I am reeling a fine for illegally disposing of a cigarette butt. And this was at a dimly lit carpark and I have no idea where they were hiding, but they also obviously have super night vision and an incredibly keen eyesight for tracking offenders. Sometimes I wonder why no one employed these men to track Mas Selamat, because if he ever threw a cigarette butt on the ground, they would have found him; even if it was in the Himalayans.

After I got into my car, one of them came up to tap my window. Thinking he was in need of a parking coupon, I graciously opened my door.

Him: “Sir, I’m from NEA. You just threw your cigarette butt on the floor.”

He was polite and smiling, but this is the one time I hate people to smile at me. People, despite what they teach you about being altruistic or helping people in need, don’t listen to any bit of that fuck crap, because if I had driven off, there was nothing they could have done.

I immediately stuck my head out the door,

Me: “Wah, where were you hiding.”

He ignored me because I believe it is his job to be rude after the first sentence. Then some other guy came along.

Guy2: “Sir, don’t worry this time it is just a fine, the second time you will be charged in court..”
Me: “Okay. But seriously, where were you guys hiding.”

I wasn’t trying to be a smartass, but I was genuinely curious because there was NO ONE in the immediate vicinity of my car.

Guy2: “We are around.”

I don’t know if that was his speech on omniscience but it sucked.

Of course, after I got fined, I stuck around because I wanted to watch them in action. And I was just being sadistic about it because I actually found myself rooting for them when they caught other people throwing their cigs on the ground – 3 to be exact.

And it’s amazing how fast they move, how they conceal themselves amongst the cars and how they can spot offenders from such a distance. The best part is that you’ll never ever see them coming and they’ll engage you with surprise and leave you with a pinch.

Normal human beings? I don’t think so. Ninjas? Most definitely.

The One About My Red Eye

Porn is a foil for reality and not many people realize this. It’s a play on fantasy and subjugates you into believing that what you see is worth practicing or subscribing religiously to.

It feeds you with novelties beyond your regular partake of vanilla sex, largely on boggling positions and stances that look like it was made for gymnasts but tempting enough for you to surrender inhibitions and try it even if you have a lack of dexterity.

The worse of it, is the Bukkake. It may look like it’s empowering to be giving your partner a free facial, but I assure you, this is as hazardous as employing Michael Jackson as your babysitter.

I learnt this the hard way sometime back because porn makes you think that having cum on your face is a delightfully enjoyable process. Well it had to be because all the porn starlets are always grinning even when they have semen dripping down their fake lashes. Believe me, it takes a lot of acting talent to smile with all that shit on the face.

They truly deserve Oscars, especially the ones that are being poked by 2 inches of meat and are moaning as if they are straddling a horse.

Sometime ago I learnt that seamen in the eyes, is not funny.

There she was pulling me off because fatigue gets the best of us and sometimes lying back and enjoying the moment is a privilege people tend to forget is a given right in the bedroom etiquettes. Generally, the practice would be a tap to let her know when I’m blowing my load, so that a quick cap with the mouth – or tissue if you wish to deny your partner of protein – ensures that there won’t be a need for immediate housekeeping of the bed sheets.

Sometimes, even a simple drill as such can go wrong because of complacency and blatant disregards for cues. And this one went wrong.

As I tapped her, I laid my head back in trust that she would play the part of the load catcher. She had been a stereo of moans, good enough to actually have a recording contract if there was a commercial demand for it. I just didn’t know that I would end up contributing to the noise.

All I knew was that she had gone into a low soothing moan and I thought this was because she was going to mouth cap me. And next thing I know, I saw a trajectory of squirt like it was an air raid and I immediately joined in for the orchestra.

Me: “AAARRRRGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

I started screaming and I really mean screaming because I was clutching my eye and rolling off the bed. For a moment she stopped, thinking that was my orgasmic vocal amplification, because I was panting and growling from the pain.

She: “Are you okay.”
Me: “NO!! I HAVE SEMEN IN MY EYE!!”
She: “Are you sure?”

I immediately pulled my hand off my eye and I believed the cheeks must have been glistening with enough cum because she went from dumbfounded to laughing. I was not amused. For one, it hurt. Not that it was unbearable, but there was a certain degree of dis-comfortness and I had to stagger to the washroom to run my eye under the tap.

And that was when I found new respect for porn stars.

The Club Of The Beautiful

Sometimes I’m guilty of not being a patriot. It’s not that I don’t love my country, but I’ve never really pitched about Singapore with the same fervor and glee that I engage my conversations about the nightlife of other countries.

I’ve preached endlessly on the marvels of a Singaporean passport in Bangkok and how it accelerates getting someone naked into your bed and how Taiwan is flooded with pretty faces, which makes clubbing an absolute distraction. And all I would have said about Singapore is that the water is safe for consumption and you need to worry about getting shot in the streets.

I should and I will compile a comprehensive guide to partying in the sunny – and I mean bloody humid – island we call home. For now, I will also admit that we do actually have quite an impressive stable of beautiful people and you actually only need to be at one place to enjoy the view; Butter Factory.

I was just exclaiming how impressed I was at the general caliber of party goers there are in Butter Factory couple weeks back and it came to a point where I was asked to put it in quantifiable terms, so I said,

Me: “Just imagine Room 18 in Taiwan, but one head shorter.”

Now, if you’ve been to the clubs in Taiwan, you’ll know how insanely good looking the girls are over there. And by that I don’t mean your normal pockets of gorgeous people cleverly isolated at the prime visibility areas, but actual sizeable groups of beautiful people at every turn of the eye.

I swear, when I was there the last time round with LB, I was in such awe, I was drinking so much less because I was gawking half the time. The only problem with Room 18 – crème de la crème of Taiwan -, was that the girls were largely models and on heels and I could have auditioned for the role of a hobbit.

The great thing about Butter, or this being Singapore, is that with pretty faces and killer cleavages – hardly to be honest – comes a lack of height. I secretly rejoice that women here aren’t generally tall.

We’re at the all the clubs a lot because of the nature of our work, so my word is credible enough. There really isn’t another place in Singapore at the moment that houses that many good looking people, while serving alcohol, not even the perennial big wig that is Zouk.

Yes, I know the queues are insanely long and I’ve heard stories of 1 hour queues even, but those are for the un-privileged in a capitalist world. And it’s good because Whales do not have that much of an endurance to stand that long without rupturing a vein at the ankle, and so they won’t turn up there.

Apparently being a reader of mine also has its perks because I got two of you in and all they said was, “Butterfly” and they offered to buy me a drink. Okay, maybe I was swayed largely by the prospects of alcohol, but that’s what you call quid pro quo.

Reznor no longer shares this perception as me because his penis is being chained for now, but generally every other of my friend who has been there concurs to this. There was one night I was so impressed with the crowd, I told them.

Me: “This is good. There are at least 8 people in the immediate vicinity that I would want to date and marry.”

Everyone thought this was funny, except the girl that was with me.

She: “Then you don’t need me tonight.”
Me: “How about a hand job first?”

She was not amused. Women are hard to please these days.