Back To The Toilet Days

They say old habits die hard and I find myself nodding at it, surrendering my self-consciousness to carnal instincts on binge drinking and this insatiable appetite for alcohol – because I think my liver has given up on protesting.

I must confess. I still drink religiously, but moderately in relative measures. I’m no longer as prolific in emptying glasses, shot trays or champagne bottles like I was 2 years ago, but I’m still pretty decent by any standards, so long as there are drinks I favour available on the table – yes, I’m becoming less of a slut and more of a discerning drinker, it’s like I’m a connoisseur already.

The weekend turned out to be laced with such nostalgic themes like, alcohol amnesia, vomiting, hugging my toilet bowl and hangovers. Oh yes, I remember the days, and if you’ve been following this blog long enough and if you saw me, you’d have stood up and shouted,

“Now that’s Butterfly!”

It started with a harmless message from Faith, and ended with a quiet compunction when I woke up in bed reeking of alcohol 12 hours later. It was going to be a quiet weekend, lazing around watching Poca’s growing library of movies, until Faith suggested we head down to Wine Bar for some drinks because our other friends were going.

It sounded like a docile call to re-toxicate the liver, while disguising under the excuse of catching up over drinks. One part of me was too lazy to get out of bed and but I also had not seen the girls for some time, and Wine Bar sounded like a harmless idea – so long as you keep your Citibank cards locked.

When we got there, everyone was late, so Poca, RotiPrata, Faith and I headed to Zouk members for a drink, or a bottle of vodka to be precise. Then couple more cheers later, it became 2 bottles and a bar laced with Red Bull. Before I knew it, I was back to binge drinking.

Then we adjourned to Velvet, and it became 3 bottles. Somewhere between juvenile taunting of ‘can’t drink ah’ and the more mature, ‘bottoms up’, I might have surrendered a part of my memory to vodka, even though I do remember getting into a cab, and it was downhill from there.

I was trying to hold everything in as much as I could, and if I wasn’t so inebriated and bounded by fatigue, I would have cheered every time we passed a landmark to my house. Periodically, I would glance out and see a familiar building and I would think to myself,

“Two more traffic lights. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

And it was a cerebral countdown, landmarks versus a churning stomach, the Sonata cab versus my will to not vomit.

“Left turn into my estate, only 60 metres to go. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

The moment the cab stopped and Poca got out to my side to wait for me to sign off for my cab, I felt it coming. There was no way I was going to be able to wait out the credit card processing and less be able to decently throw up in the toilet bowl. I swung opened the door and,

“Arrrrrrggggghhh.. arrggghhhh.”

It was creamy, taxing on the throat but relieving for the stomach and I made sure not to splatter on the side of the taxi. I am one amazing human being because I am thoughtful even when I am drunk. I secretly congratulated myself for surviving the journey, although Poca wasn’t as amused.

I remembered walking up to my porch, and then sporadic flashbacks of staggering to the toilet and that was it. I woke up the next morning wondering how I removed my contacts or even climbed into bed. Then I remembered the taxi and I smiled to myself, and then I turned to see Poca, who was not the least bit amused.

Apparently, this was what happened.


Not only did I puke by the cab, I puked at the drain in front of my house. I came up, laid on the bed, too drunk to think but amazingly still had enough concern for my eyes to realize that I needed to remove my contacts.

Then I puked in the toilet again, got out, feeling terribly uncomfortable, too drunk to walk properly but yet again, still amazingly had the decency to brush my teeth – especially when hygiene is never a strong point when you have a penis. I am amazing.

In my drunken state, I was murmuring nonsense to her, most of the time she couldn’t make out what I was saying so she ignored me, except for the part where I went to the toilet and she could distinctively make out my noises to be one of discomfort.

I was in there for so long that she decided to come check on me, so she pushed opened the door to find me sound asleep on the floor – which I must say is a huge improvement over the time my mum found me hugging the toilet bowl.

She knew I was out for the count because I did not respond to her, when she unorthodoxly decided to use the prodding balls method, which is an effective method requiring only your index finger to poke at the person’s balls to ascertain if sex is still a remote possibility.

So sternly, she told me to get up to which I responded with more mumblings - the only natural response for anyone inebriated or mute to begin with. Then I got up, stumbled back into the room where I slept happily ever morning.

Until which, only pissness will greet you when you wake up.

The Disobedient Muscle

If you haven’t already realized, erections are a phenomenon, just like Ronaldo, meteor showers, typhoons and recessions. They happen quickly, they never last, are beyond our control and sometimes at the wrong times.

It is the one disobedient muscle in the male body. If females had a disobedient muscle, then that would be the mouth, because they can’t seem to stop nagging.

The thing about erections, is that it is only socially appropriate within the context of purposeful sexual stimulation. By that I mean foreplay, lap dances and watching porn – or Animal Planet for some.

And yet, instinctively or accidentally, occurrences do happen unintentionally and whether it is appropriate is really up for debate. Like, is it okay to have an erection during a massage? Is it actually complimenting for the girl – or guy – who is giving the lap dance? Can men actually have an erection during a waxing session?

I always believed that erections are also a formality, a gesture that replaces verbal appreciations. Like if you are being showered or an unprofessional massage, it would be a commendation of sorts, like, ‘Hello, love what you are doing. Keep it up’.

Then sometimes at a less appropriate time, it can be embarrassing or misleading. Imagine walking into the men’s shower with one. Once, LB and I went for a spa and this was a legitimate one in all sense of the word, right down to the ugly masseuse with powerful fingers that could knead a wrecking ball into a Picanto.

When we came out,

LB: “Did you take off your shorts?”
Me: “No. Why?”
LB: “I asked her if I needed to take it off and she said anything, so I took it off.”
Me: “What?!”
LB: “Shit, I don’t think I was supposed to.”

I understood then that erections can also make women embarrassed.

And yet, when we truly need one, it is sometimes shrunken beyond the call of lust, passion, salacity and marital needs. And it’s always pegged to an excuse like fatigue, inebriation, guilt and fear of armpit hairs and cellulite.

Then sometimes, the penis just fails to respond for the strangest reasons, even against the better advances of a blowjob, cleavages or Maggie Q.

It doesn’t erect on cue, you can’t force it to, though it’s a lot easier to kill one. If you look at it objectively, it’s quite possibly the most important muscle functionally, unless you are a Whale, then that would be your mouth and you don’t need a penis to begin with either, unless it’s to pee.

We’ve been in those situations before. For the men, you’ve experienced it and for the ladies, you’ve seen it – or felt it. The one where she wants it and you can’t. The one where you want to but can’t. The one where you need to but it won’t. The one where you’re not supposed to but you did.

Sometimes I wished it was just as simple as flicking your fingers, because there is no willing it and the pressure to perform only exacerbates the problem. Men have it tough, which now validates my new found salute to gigolos.

Think about it, female prostitutes only need to lie there, lube up, moan for your pleasure and if they are really service-orientated, tell you how great you were. For the male prostitutes, it puzzles me how sex is remotely possible if the customer is a troll.

Is the miracle blue pill truly capable of even conquering repulsion and self-integrity? Can imagination really be such a motivating factor for the erection? Is it unprofessional if they request their clients to cover their faces with a pillow? Or is everything truly possible under the cover of darkness?

Over lunch the other day, we were having a discussion because RotiPrata was laying claim that he has a penis, capable of erection under all circumstances, and that it was something neither fatigue nor alcohol could kill. So a small wager has been put in place; he has to sustain an erection throughout the boyzillian – all this while WE watch.

Now, this is something worth witnessing.

The Survival Guide

If you haven't already heard, I'm doing a series of 'Survival Guides' for Butter Factory's magazine, Rhythm.

The first post is out, you can read it here. If you have something you want me to write, just drop a note. If it's interesting enough, I'll pick it up.

Butterfly Goes To Gigolo Bar

I must applaud the ingenuity of entrepreneurship of the men, who wrestle everyday for a piece of the nightlife dollar. Who would have thought there would be a lucrative market in subjecting men to parade on stage for the fancy of women.

Male host clubs have been on a prominent rise, whilst still strategically hidden from the mainstream pubs. And if you are thinking a club filled with menopaused women who come here as a catharsis to years of tolerating infidelity, aging beer bellies and flaccid dicks, then you are gravely mistaken.

It’s a peculiar myriad of female clientele. One of early 30's women with too much time and hairspray and another of young China KTV hostesses who come in throngs after their working shift, all so just to throw their money back on men. Now that’s what you call sustaining the economy.

Now why would any women want to pay men for company and drinks? It is because the shift in dynamics of power is an insatiable gratification that isn’t gender biased. It is because for every feminist, closet or pronounced, tipping men is sociologically and psychologically empowering – and endearing for some. It is because it is a novelty. And it is because going against norms is something inexplicably human.

There is a paradigm shift in social structures and the birth of the liberal independent woman is giving rise to alternative entertainment. Singing hostesses are no longer the sole realm of men. Women now crave for a catered source of entertainment, even if it means having men strut around with excessive foundation and hair wax, waiting to do anything for their fancy – in return for a tip.

When we got there last Thursday, the place was already packed with people; men, women and gays. All we lacked were some Ladyboys and this could have passed off as Orchard Towers. The good thing was that there were pockets of women who were under 25 years of age, tucked to one side of the club, whilst the other more matured women packed the front.

The draw, as with any male host clubs – I prefer the derogatory term Gigolo bars – are the male hosts themselves. Yet, for this one, they hardly looked impressive, so much so that I was beginning to miss the foundation laced face, gravity defying hairstyles and yesterday’s fashion clad Thai boys.

Me: “They don’t look very tall to me.”

That was from 15 metres away and 3 glasses of cognac down the throat. The moment their set ended and they had to walk round for a mandatory meet and greet session with the patrons, I was left eating my words.

The first 3 guys that came by felt like they were on stilts, or that I was auditioning for the role of Frodo Baggins in a Lord of The Rings extension encore, called, The return of the Male Host giants.

They were at least 1.85m tall, dressed in finely pressed suits and belts that made my Gucci look like a discount. Either way, nothing they wore could save them from their attempt to converse in English, which if they wore a T-Shirt, would have qualified them as refugees. Either way, I went to sit at the back to avoid straining my neck with every handshake.

It’s a dream job, if you have a penis, able to sing decently, hold your liquor well, enjoy groping women and can remember to smile when you get tipped.

The great thing was, some of these guys sucked at it, which is always enjoyable to me when I get to laugh at people.

There were a couple of the guys who were so horrible at singing, they actually got booed and had to apologise. They were so bad, even the deaf would have jeered at them. I was the only person enjoying it because for a brief moment, I believed that Communism was dead.

This other guy had on a pair of sunglasses all night, and this may I remind you was in a dimly lit club, illuminated largely by a stage that looked like it was designed in the 60’s by a blind carpenter. I don’t know what it is with people who wear shades in clubs, because unless it is for hiding your constricted iris, there is nothing cool about wearing it – unless you are Stevie Wonder.

It really is a matter of chance for these guys, because some of them who were luckier, got ‘booked’ by the young Chinese KTV hostesses, whilst the others got stuck with female clients that looked like they were going to see dick for the first time in 30 odd years.

There was one guy who just sat quietly with a lady who had such a huge mole on the face, it was like a squirrel shat on her face permanently. If I had more passion for humanitarian aid, I would have petitioned for someone to pass him a dagger to slit his wrist – or her mole.

In general, as it got later and the younger women started strolling in, it became clear that there was a two prong approach to milking these joints. Women come for the men, and men come for the women who are there for the men. It is a vicious cycle if you ask me.

The thing is, there isn’t a point in trying to understand why women patronize these places – some even patriotically. The best way to digest this, isn’t about conceptualizing the rise of the feminist dollar, nor is it about giggling at the apparent absurdity of KTV women throwing hundreds back at men. If you are a man, it’s really all about waiting for your sugar mummy to roll in.

Cramps The Way

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I’m plagued with a periodic bout of cramps. And last I checked, I had a fully functional penis – except when I have one too many rounds of vodka, or in the face of obesity.

Just last Thursday I was crippled by this radiating pain. A variation of contractions and pulls that for an instant I thought I was growing a vagina. My stomach was cramping so badly, I could hardly do a decent strut to the washroom, where I diligently put the seat covers down before I sat there clutching my stomach in pain. Yes, hygiene is only neglected with inebriation.

It was horrible, but it was also something that I’ve been used to, because this cramp ordeal does have a rather good recurrence frequency with me.

So there I sat at the club, almost sprawled out on the couch. My back slouched comfortably enough to distract the pain and graciously enough so that I didn’t look like I just came out of a backbone removal operation.

I was in so much pain I would have killed for marijuana. It was like being hit by a bus, then ran over by its wheels, then have every alighting passenger step on you. It was tragic, so much so that I would have made a Cambodian kid who lost his leg in a mine field look less worthy of your sympathy.

The hardest part was actually convincing people that I was having cramps, because somehow, people generally tend to think cramps is only a medical symptom isolated in the X chromosome, like excessive shopping, nagging and mood swings.

They: “Why? That time of the month? Haha.”

Yea well, if I wasn’t truly in that much pain, I would have appreciated that cliché humour. The good thing is that no one is funny when I am in pain, because I can’t imagine laughing during cramps. I might tear an appendix or shit my pants uncontrollably, or I might even throw a punch.

Poca was slightly amused because there I was curled up in pain, and bitching incessantly about cramps in the most ironical fashion since Michael Jackson decided to cure racism by turning white.