Love, but not quite

I've finally met a man I want who doesn't want me...not the way I want to be wanted. I knew this day would come and I would have to examine the way I chose to lead my life and make some sacrifices but I am not sure if he is worth it.

He only rings me up for booty calls when either one of us is in town. In that short time we spend together I feel like the only woman on earth. The sex is great, but I live for post-coital conversations where he fills the gaping hole in my heart with sweet nothings and soft kisses. But when we are apart it is back to being strangers. This confuses me. I don't know if I am happy to play this game where I have no control of. But I can't stay away. It's been going on for over a year now.

Never thought I'd say this but I think I'm in love.

A break always does you good

No, I haven't abandoned the anonymous ranting; there is really no other place to spend summer but Europe. Triapsing from one small island to another, soaking in the sun. After months of dusty Malaysian air, I needed a break. I am safely back now, freshly tanned golden and full of bedpost glory tales.

Travelling alone is the best chicken soup for the soul there is. Exploring new places, ideas and people stretches the mind like nothing else. I am duly re-inspired by the kaleidoscope of culture that I was immersed in from dawn to dusk, much more so that when I was in Sydney, and with it fond memories that will bring a private smile to my face for the months to come.

I need to unpack.

An art form

The loveliest thought to impart itself upon my sunny weekend is that I am single. Yes, single. And how happy I am to exist without the condescension of an all-too-significant other...not to mention the notion of being vulnerable to all love's cruelties. But being able to be completely selfish has to top the list here.

Dean whom I met two months ago (strictly platonic) has become the Adam in my KL life. However, unlike Adam, Dean is straight. Which means such a thing as platonic sex exists in our friendship, thank you very much. The good thing about having Dean is that we're both not interested in having a relationship, at least not with each other and not now, and we're both still getting enough not to have to flirt with strangers in dark places.

(No, Tash is not a nymphomaniac or anything or that sort, but she does think vibrators are overrated and too much play time with one can cause semi-permanent lack of sensitivity to one's genitalia.)

Case in hand: One evening, Dean came over and I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies. As expected, after 20 minutes kneading dough, the chocolate chips started mysteriously finding their way into my mouth...via his. Things got a little messy, and the chocolate chips started finding their way onto my bedsheets as well and soon after we were both skin-to-skin. But the cookies needed to go into the oven, unforgotten, so I flipped Dean over and told him I wasn't up for it. "OK. Whenever you are, Tash." He replied. The cookies we baked were pretty darned good, even if there could've been more chocolate in there.

Yes, about being selfish, it definitely tops the list - it makes me forget my age.

Suede

I'm tired.

Tired of running away from things, tired of always having to explain myself, tired of thinking.

All this girl wants for Christmas is to see him again...to realise all the things she fabricated in her head for when they would meet again once more. His fleeting smile, the double take...things like that always made her heart bleed and long for when she could relive those moments outside her head.

I wonder where he is now, what he is doing and as you do: I wonder if he thinks of me.

Adam and Ash

My new friends eventually left Sydney, but not before we painted it all shades of the rainbow and exchanged solemn promises to keep in touch. The two weeks I gave myself to settle in was up, so I enlisted the help of a few recruitment agencies which resulted in a boring, 9-5, bread-and-butter desk job. I did not exist socially in Sydney for a few months...until Adam.

I'd gone traipsing about Paddington one afternoon, determined to learn my way around on foot. I was making my way down Oxford Street when I had a sudden urge to get a haircut. So I stepped into the first decent hair salon I saw, which advertised "Haircuts from $15", and bounced in. I bounced back out, 3 hours later, looking fabulously like Samantha from Sex, but much, much poorer. Somewhere in there, a dangerously sexy young man in tight blue pleather had convinced me to go the whole nine yards.

When I left, we exchanged phone numbers because Adam of the tight blue pleather promised to 'show me around'. It turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam was gay. It also turned out, unsurprisingly, that Adam had many, many gay pals. It goes without saying that sexy gay men in Sydney have very, very interesting ways of having a good time, and like any new girl in town I tagged along every time Adam, Dolly or Jazz phoned. They often turned up at my door after work, uninvited, to drag me from one bar to another drinking ourselves into a stupor. Dolly knew everyone there was to know in Sydney: bouncers, bartenders, restaurant managers, models, fashion designers, photographers. He was our ticket to the free and the fabulous, which only happens after the sun goes down.

Adam broke up with his live-in boyfriend about three months later and when I told him to move in, Dolly and Jazz became part of the furniture (which, back then, consisted mainly of Ikea catalog specials). He brought along with him an assortment of kitchen tools and a huge box of vinyls - Adam was a closet Jamie Oliver - I often found him swaying away to golden oldies brandishing a ladle over a simmering pot of something in my tiny kitchenette.

Of Bombshells And Men

"I guess you have to be some kind of bombshell," her email reads, "because I would never have the guts to attempt that thing you did with Alex...you make it sound so easy lah, sigh!"

An excerpt from my very first reader email. Friendly compliment, but read between the lines. Does it take beauty to score? So instead of bitching about mid-life crisis with the ladies during Sunday lunch, I casually put it to the table. "You girls think I'm a bombshell?" Their eyes pooled in unspoken mirth, and one by one, we started recounting our 'youth'. A story here. A reason there. Many whys, and as many answers. And here is my unspecified reason:

It is easy and I am some kind of bombshell. Only, I'm not very pretty myself and 'bombshell' has never been the first impression I give people. Miss Tasha is not going to ever win any beauty pageants, not even as Sha (the mental bombshell) or after various surgical procedures. You would not pick me out of a sea of people, but spare me only a fleeting glance that holds no flicker of interest, if you were to look my way. I am an ordinary woman, like much of the populace. But one thing sets me apart: confidence.

So how does confidence transform an ordinary woman into a bombshell?

Knowledge is power, my dears. If you walk the walk like you were born to do it, people will assume that you are. The masses are followers, and all it takes to command their respect is to know what you are capable of. Bullshit if you have to, but always check your premises. A real man cannot resist a confident woman: he probably intimidates a lot of women and will definitely remember one who isn't bothered by his charms. So if he is intimidated instead, you wouldn't have wanted to keep him anyway.

In Man terms, success is easy...if you hold that power. Before you read on, keep in mind that I am generalizing men. Yes, the inevitable stereotyping!

Men, Intelligent Men, are all animals at heart. Feral. In the bedroom sense, of course. Whatever power they hold in the boardroom does not matter in the bedroom. Some want to conquer, and others want to be conquered. As long as you're ready to take on the task of doing either, you're set. An Intelligent Man adores a woman who is confident enough to take charge and lead him to his pleasures, and confident enough to get down on her knees and submit to his commands...knowing that she is only yielding because she knows that is what he really wants and she has the power to give it to him, and NOT because she does not dare to say no. Of course, you can also say no, take the reins and satisfy yourself before him...and pleasantly find that he actually enjoyed that a whole lot more than you saying yes all the time. The bottomline? You come first...in all senses of the word!

As for the rest of the men that do not fall into the Intelligent Men category, I never bothered. Not these days, anyway. Age makes you cynical.

And how do I know all this? Because self-confidence can never be a bad thing :) So never underestimate your powers as a woman, Bombshell!

A Malaysian Girl in Sydney

Where was I? Sydney, oh yes.

I spent my first evening with a two girls from Norway that I'd met at the commons in the backpackers' inn where I was staying. We exchanged stories from abroad, both transcontinentally and from the vast landscapes of our imaginations. A week, they said, was all they planned to spend in Sydney - and it has stretched to three already. Over budget beer, they shared with me their best Sydney moments and I diligently took notes. The Tank, best club in town ("Let's go get tanked!" the girls screamed in laughter, almost spilling the beers.) The Establishment, best place to meet 'poshies'. Kings Cross, red light district and all-rounder in Strip/Sleaze Stakes and sexy gay men. Oxford for shopping and sexy gay men, and Darlinghurst for dining and more sexy gay men. In this city, the homosexual ethos extends beyond the boundaries of the city itself, they tell me, almost whispering as if no one else should hear us.

(A quick note: I adore gay men.)

I went apartment hunting first thing the next morning after a quick jog 'round the block. The girls were hungover and I had a slight headache, but I needed to find a place to stay. A quick comb through two real estate agents in the city unearthed the perfect bachelorette pad - a studio reasonably close to the city where I'd planned to work.

'Ultra modern glass-front studio apartment in high security building with combined lounge and dining area, small kitchen with stainless steel appliances and gas cooking, bathroom, balcony, gym, sauna, lap pool, concierge, spectacular views of the city....'

At $350 a week, rent was debatable but not blatantly unaffordable, so I went to see it. The place looked even better in person - the bedroom had a glass wall and at playing voyeur up 15 floors would be challenging for some. But the agent informed me that it was mirrored glass on the exterior, and that I could walk around naked if I wanted to... "Not a warry, swee-art, no one will see yah," she said, winking. I took it.

I moved in that afternoon, my lone luggage and handbag in tow and rang the girls from a payphone. I'd told them what I intended to do here the night before and we'd scoured the yellow pages together looking for real estate agents.

"Birget, it's Asha...yes, I'm fine...listen, I've found a place! Already, yes...Surry Hills, yah...you and Meg should come over and hang out tonight...at 8? cool! I'll get the beer...the address is...."

I found a convenience store around the corner that proved a worthy refuge for singles like myself, the shelves heavy with single portions of all that is tinned, dried and powdered. I bought papers, a loaf of bread and 12 cans of cold VB.

"Havin' a big noight in, are we?" the boy behind the counter grinned at me. He must've been about 20, at most, and in possession of the greenest eyes I'd ever seen.

"Just a few beers with the girls" I replied in my American-Malaysian accent, handing him a $50.
"You must be new. I ain't seen yah come in here before. I'd have remembered yah."

"I just moved in up the street," I offered.

"And drinkin' like an Ozzie already!" He handed me my change, still grinning.

I laughed, and went back to my new home. Dropping my purchases on the kitchen counter, I realized I had nothing to keep the beer cold in...so I cracked one open and started on the papers; an attempt to familiarize myself with the local going-ons. Even off-season, rugby is big in Australia.

And I sat alone on the carpet in my bare apartment, which no longer suffocated my senses with musty emptiness but lingered of Romance and cigarette smoke, and waited for my new friends to arrive.