The One About Bobdog

“You have a lot of sex” she said.

It was conversation littered with quick teases and climaxed as I ran my fingers down Poca’s thighs as she made that statement. There was a tacit rule of tease between us. No quick movements, I won’t tear off her pants and she won’t attempt to tickle unless the motive is for me to swerve off the road.

Me: “We should go buy some toys.”

We all know the erotic merits of sex toys. They enhance foreplay, stimulate our voracious struggle for an orgasm, provide a catharsis for perverts and they make better substitutes for a cock – it’s that big and it never goes limp, how are we ever going to compete.

She: “I want a Cheshire cat.”

A Cheshire what? My mind furtively struggled to picture what that was, while I kept my smile to disguise my ignorance. Sex toys had always been a novelty for me and my abecedarian gasp on this was slowly formulating a picture of a dildo, with the tip shaped like a Cheshire cat and striped in colour.

Yes, maybe that’s what it was! A Cheshire Cat shaped dildo and when insert, gave the recipient the widest grin she could hope for. Smile like the Cheshire Cat; now that would have been the marketing slogan.

She: “Oh, no, I want a Bobdog.”

A Bob WHAT? Now surely this was getting too fancy for me to keep abreast. My smile was only going to hide that much ignorance, but I was running out of ideas on what these were. When it comes to sex toys, my experience with it is as much a eunuch would on wearing condoms.

So this Bobdog matter, was it another dildo shaped in a bobdog, because if it was, then unless I am truly vanilla, but dildos are really beginning to resemble those Fez candy dispensers.

Me: “What the fuck is Bobdog.”

Coming clean was the best way out of this. The last thing I needed was to be looking through the stores for a dildo, only to realize it was a blowup doll.

She: “You don’t know what Bobdog is?!”

Her astonishment told it all. Perhaps it was coupled with a tinge of contempt for my ignorance that how could someone like me be such a novice on this. It’s okay for Butterfly not to know Tulips from Roses, but surely sex toys would have been a textbook conversation. It was almost as if her eyes pierced right through me and branded me Vanilla.

Me: “It’s a sex toy?”
She: “It’s a cartoon character! Did you not have a childhood?!”
Me: “I had a childhood and it was called HE-FUCKING-MAN!”

Me: “What the fuck! I thought you were talking about sex toys!”
She: “You said toys!”
Me: “We were talking about sex! How the fuck did you move from sex to Cheshire cat?!”
She: “You said we should go buy some toys! And you said before that you were going to get me a Cheshire cat toy!”
Me: “Sex Toys! Fuck! And here I was trying to figure out what a fucking Cheshire cat and Bobdog was.”

It was almost a sigh of relieve to know that perhaps the dynamic progressions of sex and all its peripheral deviancies have not left me behind. I guess watching porn is still the best kind of news for armchair sex toy shoppers.

She: “Let’s play a game and see how long we can abstain from sex.”
Me: “That is the fucking dumbest game I have ever heard. Why can’t we just compete to see how many hamburgers we can eat. Why the fuck would I want to play a game that keeps me from having sex?!”
She: “Because it enhances the sex because the foreplay is longer!”
Me: “That's what the dildo is for!"

Just another day of my life.

Butterfly Goes To Turf Club

When I was younger, I used to hear my parents tell me about their day at the turf club and it was always littered with words like ‘alcohol’, ‘food’ and ‘gambling’. All that lacked, was some topless pole dancer thrown in and I swear my childhood ambition would be to work there.

Why would anyone not want to be there? After all, the place is testosterone charged, and people travel all the way to Kranji to place a bet and maybe lose a family. I won’t even begin to talk about how fucking far off the place is, because I’m glad that if anyone invades us, Kranji is going to be one of the first territory we lose.

I’ve never been an avid gambler – or at least I try to put some restraint to it – because I am gravely impulsive and I bet on hunches that fail most of the time. But I do know how horse racing is ran and how the payout system works – which is flawed and reeks of match rigging.

I had to literally drag myself out of bed because against the thought of having to drive all the way cross country to that forsaken province of Kranji, I would much rather have herpes. What was worse was that we had a wicked night before so not only was I dehydrated from puking, I was also so tired, you could do an anal probe with a vodka bottle on me and I wouldn't even twitch.

When I got there, I realized that there was pretty much nothing I could help out with at the event, except to block space and potentially throw up on random strangers. So what else is there to do, but to gamble on a couple of races.

Me: “Let’s bet on horse 6.”
DC: “Do you know how to bet?”
Me: “Ya, we pick the horse and we pay the bet.”

DC went off and then returned with a stack of betting slips that had so many boxes to fill, I thought it might be some HDB application form.

DC: “So how do we fill this up?”
Me: “How the fuck do I know? Do I look like I know how to bet?”

He went off again, the came back shortly with another smaller betting slip.

DC: “That was the wrong form. This is the one.”

It was smaller and had a lot less boxes to check, but there was also no option to place bets. DC looked at me, confused and equally disturbed. Then he went off again. 3 minutes later, he came back with a huge grin on his face.

DC: “This is the right one!”

It was another betting slip, even smaller than before with very distinct options on horse, match and bet amount. This was so easy to fill up, I actually believed these were custom made for spastics with brain tumor, because you cannot possibly fuck up on the betting. Unless you are blind.

When the race started I nearly choked because no.6 was actually leading the pack all the way to the 600m mark. Then it fell back to 2nd, then 3rd, then 4th and 3rd again just 200m before the end. I was about to win on my maiden bet. Life cannot get any better.

By the time it had crossed the line, there was a photo finish and no.6 had faded all the way into 5th or 6th, either of which I don’t care because it is a loser and no one gives a shit about mid placing horses.

Me: “Fuck! Let’s bet on no.9 the next race.”

While people spend hours analyzing horses on weight losses and form, I pick them by random selection, sometimes by name. DC went off to watch them parade the horse at the grounds then came back looking sufficiently drenched in revelations.

DC: “Dude, I wanted to bet on any horse if it was called Sea Biscuit, but there wasn’t. But the next horse was called Sea Cucumber and he was looking right into my soul.”
Me: “What number is that?”
DC: “9.”

Was this sheer coincidence? Could this be some divine sign? Was this my Lamborghini calling out to me?

We made our way to the grand stand to watch the race. Bet slip in hand and a fist full of hope that our lives were about to be touched by a horse with a silly name. No.9 wasn’t in the top 4 for a good part of the race, which was okay since race leaders always tend to fall behind half way through the races.

By the 3rd quarter, no.9 was no where to be seen, which was still okay since there was a possibility of the front horse tripping up near the finish line, because shit happens. By the end of the race, we saw No.9 galloping in strong to overtake the last horse to finish 2nd last.

Me: “FUCK YOU AND YOUR SEA CUCUMBER!!”
DC: “I swear it was looking into my soul.”
Me: “Fuck your soul!”

The damn horse cannot run but it is able to stare into souls? I say this one belongs in Hogwarts.

Butterfly Digs Peer Pressure

I’ve always believed that with age comes an abandonment of many teenage entitlements like, sudden erections, pimples, pocket money and submission to peer pressure. I always thought that with age, a degree of resoluteness inures us from submitting to the petty coaxes of our friends.

Apparently, I am wrong – along with many things lately, like guessing the exact number of the human population and phone numbers of random females. Last week, I learnt that if you cannot convince someone to do something, get more people to help in convincing. Remember, teamwork is the source of all successful peer pressuring.

We were at Butter Factory the other week and Yang started bugging DC about a bottle of Krug that DC apparently owes him. I don’t know what that bet was, but DC also owes me a WRX because we had a bet on Transformers 2.

His premise was that Devastator – the combined Constructicons, or if you are really not a fan, the huge robot that was sucking up dirt – was not featured in the film. This was despite the fact that Wikipedia says it is and that in a distinct scene, Megatron actually said, and I quote verbatim,

“Devastator, come here!”

But no, DC chose to ignore all this basing on his principle that Rampage, supposedly being part of Devastator, was fighting Bumble Bee at that time, and hence it was impossible for Devastator to be in the film. Today we discovered that Rampage isn’t part of Devastator, and DC is still not convinced.

Me: “Dude, I went through all that trouble of finding the web for evidence. I deserve at least the steering wheel, or the seat buckle. Or a hug at least.”
DC: “Fuck you!”

Anyway, Yang started bugging him about the bottle of Krug – it’s a champagne for the uninitiated-, and we all started jumping into the fray. It was an alternation between snide remarks and sarcastic banter that was always punctuated with, “but up to you”.

We were playing up the guilt card so much that it would have forced O.J Simpson into confessional murder. We were relentless, sneaking in every chance we had to verbalize our disappointment in him for not honouring an agreement. We just kept going at it with so much vigour, that if my words had to wear dresses, they would be Spartans.

Obviously I was pretty sure that DC was never going to cave because a bottle of Krug is close to $400 and I wasn’t sure if he actually had a bet with Yang or that Yang was just kidding about the whole issue, and DC wasn't someone who would admit losing. I just went on about the bottle because if someone else is paying for expensive champagne, then it sounds like a great idea already. I don’t care, really.

Then 20 minutes later, he snapped.

Me: “You know what we need?”
DC: “Shut up la! Order the bottle la!”

You know the feeling where you are so happy, but shocked at the same time that you cannot find words to express how you feel? That was entirely not the feeling that I was having. I was shocked because I didn’t think that anyone would be foolish enough to cave. And especially not DC.

The whole thing seemed like a TV commercial with the punchline at the end that says, “Peer Pressure: Exploiting stupid people always”, complete with a two thumbs up and a huge grin.

It was almost like a moral education snippet that taught me, persuasion works best in teams and with a lot of bugging. All it took was persistent teasing and edging from Yang, Hao and me, and that bagged us a $340 bottle of champagne. Sometimes I wonder if there’s really a need to work.

I wasn’t entirely keen on the champagne to begin with because I was still bearing the consequence of the previous night’s binge drinking session which ended at 5.30 in the morning and I was up at 9 for work. My stomach was queasy and I hardly had the appetite to digest a decent dinner, the last thing I needed was to be gulping bubbly.

Yang: “Dude, the best way to cure a hangover is to drink more.”

Two glasses of vodka Red Bull on.

Me: “Fuck you. I feel like fuck. My stomach is bloated and I can’t puke. But I can always puke because I’m that good at it. No like for real, if there was an Olympic sport for this, I would be your national hero. You would want to hug me. Not give me that look.”

Then we turned to the champagne that was chilling on the bar top. There sat the labour of less than an hour of taunting, or teasing, of just banking that somehow, humanity hasn’t smarten up fast enough to avoid the woes of peer pressure.

You got to love it.