Experimenting "Womanizing"

I’m a Neanderthal in its perfect sense when it comes to this matter. Mind you and quite proud of it too. After my mum gave up combing my hair, my hair has not sighted a comb. I shave because I belong neither to the Navy nor the Al-Qaida. I never knew that “eyebrows” and “plucking” were words used together until five years ago. I cut my nails out of fear of scratching her while climaxing. Till now I was able to fend-off any comment on my skin/eyes/ears/hair/rear view mirror/radiator/paint job with distinction. Whenever a girlfriend told me to “better maintain” myself, I went to the gym. However the world seems to have evolved. I was part of a conversation about salons at the Germany vs. Costa Rica match. Worst part was the conversation was between men. “I was a part of a conversation” would have to be the understatement of the decade. My only contribution was that I’m trying to grow a “mullet” to see whether I can carry it off. These guys knew who gave the best “blow job” (the action that takes place when you operate the hair dryer) at a particular salon. It’s been long since I gave up passing judgment on things I didn’t know; on the other hand I hate not being opinionated.

So I google “makeovers for men”. The second result is from www.sofeminine.co.uk . My first generation of unborn children died prematurely. I pack my balls back up and click. The site asks me “Have you always dreamt of finding the perfect hair cut that slims your face, opens your eyes and flatters your skin tone?” WTF??? (I haven’t dreamt of it yet but I’m sure to wet my bed thanks to you now!!!!) The only way I can imagine that happening is if the barber is a fucking rookie or a blind. No pain, no gain. So I boldly go where some men have gone before.

Next www.fashionstylist.com.au.

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Till now I wanted to get married to Martina Hingis. She finished her career at 24, if I remember correctly, fourth highest in earnings (as long as you’re in the top ten it doesn’t really matter) and has a mid-rift to die for. Us making love over the kitchen table in the morning overlooking the sea (I assume she owns a beach house) would be a Hallmark moment………..ok maybe Hustler. But now I want Susan.

I’m fascinated and mortified at the same time. Apparently it’s amazing what an image overhaul can do for your sense of energy and confidence of attitude. Image overhaul? Sense of energy? Confidance of attitude? Ingreesy, gentlemen, Ingreesy. But even a Neanderthal can understand that those three words seem like they can do a lot, especially in the chick department.

So I relate this to Shorts. She trips. “C, come with me on Saturday. We’ll go for a treatment. Don’t worry, I’ll take you”. I’m like noway hozay. Then she goes on “do you know how many men come there? There are more men than women there”. I’m like, really, good for them. “Ok we’ll just go there, you don’t have to do anything. See if you like it”. Last time I heard somebody say that, he meant Alcoholics Anonymous! I’m given a leaflet with “SOTHYS” is printed on the top right hand corner. Now that’s the kind of name you should give a male beauty treatment…..eerr……joint!!! Great going, now I’m all motivated. I open the leaflet half expecting the treatment to jump out and grab me in the face.

Instead this is what I see.

• (W) The Lightening Institute Treatment – Proven results for a uniform complexion, translucent and luminous. (somehow I fail to come up with a reason why I would want luminous skin unless I plan on playing Elmos’ brother on Sesames street)
• Active contour – A complete contour answer with a combination of science and nature. (I don’t understand complete contour answer. These are three different words to me)
• Aha peel – Brighten your complexion with professional skin peeling with glycolic acid. (This I like. I like the sound of glycolic acid)
• Flash beauty – Here comes one really long sentence I can’t be bothered typing. (Flash beauty is Flashes’ chick. Simple)
• Hydroptimale THI3 – Hydrating system. (That’s all you need to know!)
• Oxyliance Institute Treatment – Radiance. Vitality. Anti pollution. (Remember my dad owing a car which need this treatment)
• Lift Defense 2 Institute Treatment – Double action firming and anti wrinkle treatment. (you can use Surf Excel as a substitute)
  

In a Salon.com article entitled “Meet The Metrosexual” (July 2003), Simpson said, “old-fashioned (re)productive, repressed, unmoisturized masculinity was being given the pink slip by consumer capitalism. The stoic, self-denying, modest straight male didn't shop enough. His role was to earn money for his wife to spend. So he had to be replaced by a new kind of man, one less certain of his identity and much more interested in his image. A man, in other words, who is an advertiser's walking wet dream”.

In a recent interview, Simpson goes on: “Commercially it makes perfect sense to maintain that metrosexuals are all straight. After all, advertising is trying to persuade as many men as possible to relax their sphincter muscles, cooing in their ear that there's nothing gay about being fucked by corporate consumerism. Which, ironically, is true”.

Now I’m not the kind of person to get fucked by corporate consumerism but I’m contemplating masturbating, just to know what it feels like. If I come out looking like a boiled egg after all the treatment, there’s always coffee with Shorts to look forward to.

Chocolate Éclairs and Onions

Ever had a chocolate éclair with an onion? Well I did last week. In the form of an ex-girl friends’ (whom I shall refer to as Tash from this point on) wedding. A chocolate éclair because she’s such a sweet person and I was happy to hear that she was getting married (me not knowing the guy helped too). An onion coz everybody I knew, who was going to be there at the wedding, knew “us” and I never made it as part of the gang after we broke up. I knew this was the kind of social situation that would make me want to eat bed sheets but then I never learn.

So come Tuesday night I don my purple slim cut shirt I got from Hameedias after pawning my balls. Tie? No tie? Ma decides tie. Crutches? No crutches? God decides crutches. Call 688 or 588 or 666 or 999 or something like that. Half an hour later a Toyota Corolla parks itself in front of my gate. I have a very intellectually stimulating conversation with the cab driver on how G-force works on my way to the Inter Con.

I take a deep breath and get down in front of a glass door with a sign that says “push”. Now I’m trying to make up my mind whether I would prefer giving up my N70 or my Doctor Martin shoes for a half a bottle of “gal” so it would keep the friends and the awkward conversations at bay.

These days if there is one thing that I hate more than the “murunga” curry the maid makes at home, it’s “push” and “pull” signs. For me to push or pull doors with the crutches, I need to have either a third arm or a penis that one could hang a wet towel on, when not erect. And I have neither, so some god damn bellhop better be at the door by the time I hobble my way over there.

“Oh my god C, what happened to you?” I freeze. It’s like I just had Mr. Freezes’ icicle gun shoved up my arse and turned on. Everything in between my rectum and eye balls felt submerged in liquid Nitrogen. One flick and I would have come crashing down in a crystal blitz. Bling Bling. Oh, look it’s Hash, the bible quoting sniper form Saving Private Ryan. She will aim for your gut and then read the bible while you bleed to death. If you are really nice to her, she will pull your intestines out for you so you make your trip faster. Don’t forget to thank her for the bullet. “Hey Hashi, it’s been a long time. Yeah men, shit happens but it’s sooooo nice to see you after all this while” (Did I introduce myself? Hi, I’m the fucked up nice guy). Anyway I share my accident story for the googleth time with her. The “chick version” of the incident works like a charm. Especially on dumb chicks. She decides to walk with me to the reception. Though most people I related this story to, thinks it had nothing to do with my charm, I think otherwise. On the other hand Hash, knowing her, would have relished the attention she got when she walked in with a guy with crutches.

A cute girl asks me my name at the entrance. I tell her. She asks whether it’s Mr. & Mrs. I tell her “oh yes, but Shit, I forgot the Mrs. at home”. She gives me a smile that I know is wondering why she gets to handle all the freaks. I’m on table number twelve. Hash and I are at the same table. Somebody upstairs really loves me. I would have been happy being stuck at a table with an aunt who thinks I was “just right” for her three times divorced, thirty nine year old niece. No such luck.

I hobble my way to the furthest table from the entrance. Now I’m beginning to think that this is one gigantic conspiracy of Tashs’ to teach me a lesson for breaking up with her. Chicks have memories of elephants and guys that of gold fish.

Reach table number twelve and lo and behold! all the gangs there. Visa, her bad breath and all. Tashs’ I-can’t-remember-her-name friend, who thought I was cute. Tash always thought she was blind. Ruvi, who I always had the hots for. I will always remember her as she helped me complete my transition journey from a breast man to an arse man. Then there were people I’ve met before but can’t remember. Seems almost like in a different lifetime. Time seems to go by so fast.

Then I saw her. My Tash. I’m sorry, Tash. All of a sudden memories came back like lightening crashes. I felt so nostalgic it made me sick. The conversations, the fights, her lips, those eyes and that smile. Suddenly I was happy. I knew that smile. That smile still tells me a thousand stories. One which says that today is the happiest day of her life. I’m happy just to be here to share her happiness.

After a good trip I get back to my seat to find I’m sandwiched between a half drunk Hash and a bird who smells of cheap perfume. I decide to drink and flirt with Hash. A drunken sniper is better than cheap perfume any day. For all you know I might get lucky……..she might decide to shoot me in the head.