Posts Tagged With: romance

(part 2) Six ways to reject an infatuated monkey

IN THE previous post I mentioned that a monkey called Scar-Face proposed to me, and is expecting me to give my answer this week. She has threatened me with physical abuse if I break her heart.

Scar-face-web-quality

You know, this whole thing is absurd. I don’t want to marry her. Even though she is sort of nice. Look at her! But I also don’t want to get beaten up. So, I have six ways to tell a crazy monkey that I’m just not into her, with estimated percentages of success :

1)      It’s not you. It’s me!  44%

How you would probably go about it: “You’re a beautiful monkey, with a scar that has disfigured your face so that you have three nostrils, but it’s just not the right time for me! Even though my advisor wants me to get married, and even though I have no heirs… Please, stop stabbing me!”

2)      We’re not the same species!  78% before Avatar came out, currently 34%

An obvious but popular favourite. The problem is, is that I’m king of the monkeys. I’ve sort of been adopted into the tribe, and I can’t use “I’m a different species” to escape the advances of suitors. Also, I complained to Abu that I couldn’t date a monkey. And he said; “Haven’t you seen Avatar? Where Sam Worthington becomes a big blue alien and gets to have a hot blue chick princess if he so wishes?”

Damn you Hollywood! You’ve made it socially acceptable to marry a monkey. Don’t you have any morals whatsoever?

3)      I’m scared of intimacy!  12%

Oh yeah? And what if she says, “I’m sorry  I’m so insensitive,” and cracks onto me even worse! The last thing anyone needs to see is a sleazy monkey in lingerie touching people in inappropriate places, like on the knee! No. NO! NOOOOOOO! I won’t even chance it.

4)      You deserve so much better! 65%

How you would probably go about it: “I don’t know your real name, so I call you “Scar Face.” So I think I’d make a bad husband. But I’ll still make a good king – ruling over hundreds of your fellow monkeys.”

5)      I’m just not attracted to you. 80%

How you would probably go about it: “You’re ugly. Really ugly. Your face looks like a Mr Potato Head. You have so much fur I don’t even know if you have a belly button. You need to lose weight. You need to be a lot taller. I’m pleased you wear make-up, but it’s the same lot dabbed on from that visit to the animal testing facility. I might get over these issues if you were from Texas. I’ve always wanted to go out with a girl from Texas.  Are you from Texas? Didn’t think so.”

6)      I’m saving myself for someone from Texas 0.5%

No offence.

What would YOU choose?

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Categories: Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Six ways to reject someone who is in love with you

So let me just write a few lines on here so that the “good stuff” isn’t shown on my Twitter and Facebook links. Blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah.

Okay, now I can tell you I sort of lied. This is titled Six Ways to Reject Someone Who Is In Love With You. And while that’s true, I’m talking specifically about a sleazy monkey I call Scar-Face.

Wait! Don’t go. The six ways can apply to humans too! Let me just pop on the music for the atmosphere.

See, I’m the Monkey King. I’m kinda a big deal in the monkey forest. Some monkey ladies are attracted to my glamour or title or charisma or whatever the hell this is.

Kilt

Damn. Wrong picture. Disregard it.

This was the one I meant to post.

Monkey king animation pic

Now where was I? Oh yeah, monkey ladies.

See, the most aggressive monkey who competes for my affections is a monkey I call “Scar-Face.” She has probably been on steroids and resembles a Mr Potato Head. What you assume to be her eye is actually an ear.

Anyway, on Friday morning she arrived at my throne room, delivering 12 roses before she kissed my feet. “Happy Valentines Day, M’ Lord. Will you marry me?” she asked.

“I thought you were already married to Rafiki?” I said.

“You’re thinking of Rhonda. My sister. I still available though. Give answer next week. Rude to keep a lady waiting.”

So anyway,  I have to tell Scar Face she’s ugly without hurting her feelings. If I hurt her feelings in any way, she will kick me out the tree, tie me upside down from a power line, and whack me with sticks. Well, that’s what she told me she would do.

So I have six suggestions of how I can tell a crazy monkey lady that I’m just not into her, with an estimated percentage of success.

And that will be on the next post (sorry!).

Categories: Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Rabies from Scar-face

I’M SICK of being propositioned by suitors. In an effort to get me hitched, Jo-Jo (my Monkey’s Paw) has been encouraging  the many suitors to advance upon me. They would try to get to me at night if I hadn’t thought of fixing the walls and padlocking the doors of a local trader’s back shed in which I am currently residing in.

The most aggressive of them is a woman monkey I call “Scar-face”. She’s a bit suggestive.

"Hey beautiful"

“Hey beautiful”

I’m too scared to talk to her, and it’s not because I care what she thinks. Yesterday, Scar-face told me she had rabies, bit me on the neck, and offered out some sort of syringe which she said I needed to take as soon as possible if I didn’t want to die a most painful death.

“I’ll give it to you,” she tittered. “But you have to put a ring on it first.”

“I think we’re done here,” I said, climbing to the top of a tree and waiting for the first signs of madness. Or whatever symptoms humans get for rabies.

I’m not mad yet! And maybe I can fight the madness away by shrieking at the top of my lungs.

“Hey beautiful”
Categories: Animation, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bitstrip War’s final battle: Even Monkey Kings can be losers

THERE’S this girl called Gina. She’s a TV presenter. She’s hot. I don’t think I’ve mentioned her before.

Regular viewers of my blog might be rolling their eyes right now saying “dude!”

Anyway, for a while she was disinterested and tried to ignore me as much as possible. And then we became…well…frenemies by insulting each other through Bitstrip photos. I liked to call the battles The Bitstrip Wars.

I was the happiest I had ever been in my life. Surrounded by the monkeys I cared for in the heart of Bali, and insulting the girl I had the hots for.

But then I got into huge trouble when I sent this photo:

BitstripwithGina7

After a few days of silence – making me sweat my body weight mind you – she sent through a Facebook message.

GINA: You’re right, that is horribly inappropriate! Are you crazy? My fiance checks my Facebook page. He doesn’t want us to be friends anymore. He thinks you like me.

MONKEY KING: Oh Boo hoo! That’s nothing if you snapchatted with me.

GINA: I don’t think I ever want to.

MONKEY KING: You’re a strong, fierce, independent woman. Be friends with whoever you want to be friends with.

GINA: Stop being a patronising jerk. And no more naked photos! Or that’s it.

MONKEY KING: Only if YOU stop sending me naked photos. Chompy finds them a little arousing.

So then she sent me another Bitstrip photo. Except this photo was different. Before, it was harmless sexual innuendo, pen dropping and teasing.

Bitstrip with Gina9

MONKEY KING: Wow, just a little hurtful, Gina.

GINA: What? That’s hurtful?

MONKEY KING: Yes, I’m…hurt…Gina. I thought we had something going.

GINA: Oh shut up.

MONKEY KING: Ooh, getting angry, are you Gina?

GINA: You really piss me off. Die, you creepy jungle sleaze!

So…ignoring the danger signs that suggested the subtle danger signs had gone from “Irritated” to “Anger” to “Hate”, I posted another Bitstrip to ease the tension.

As you do.

Bitstrip with Gina10

GINA: Ha ha ha. Comparing me to Jack Nicholson? Oh honey. Is that the best you’ve got?

Bitstrip with Gina11

You would be surprised how many people have called me “crazy” or a stoner  or “heavily medicated” or like Brad Pitt’s character in 12 Monkeys (love that movie!!!).

After a while you get weary of the judgement. I know I was being a bit sensitive, and was letting Gina wind me up too easily.

So I got a bit carried away, trying to make a joke.

It’s a defence mechanism.

Bitstrip with Gina12.2

And it’s been half a week, and there was no sign of what she thought of my “proposal” until this morning, when I noticed she unfriended me on Facebook.

The Bitstrip Wars were over. And I was left with a sour taste and a broken phone (because I threw it at the ground), realising an important lesson: that maybe in war, there are no winners.

Even Monkey Kings can be losers.

Categories: Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Bitstrip war with my crush (round 2)

I HAVE fought so much temptation since I found my smart phone near the creek. I have not posted stupid Bitstrip photos to Gina, the girl I have a crush on. It’s stupid and immature. I know that now.

Last week we flirted a little using Bitstrip. Though she might say otherwise. She sent the last Bitstrip photo and I meant to send another one, but Jo-Jo threw the phone away so I wouldn’t retaliate.

Anyway, she sent me another Bitstrip photo this morning!

BitstripwithGina5

Okay, so maybe it is true. Maybe I have visited her office a lot lately with a retinue of monkey bodyguards (with the excuse that I have a few hot scoops for her). And sure, maybe there might have been a few pens that were dropped. And sure, maybe she might have seen my arse the seven or eight times I bent down in my skinny black jeans.

But she has just brought on ROUND TWO!

So I sent her a nice photo.

BitstripwithGina8

To which she replied:

Gina: Ha Ha Ha. You have made a powerful enemy, my friend.

Monkey King: Ooh, who?

Gina: Didn’t anybody tell you not to annoy a TV presenter?

BitstripwithGina6

That’s when I probably took it way too far. She never replied to my next one.

BitstripwithGina7

Categories: Animation, Humor, Romance | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Bitstrip war against my crush

ON Tuesday I nearly fell off a tree branch in surprise. Gina actually added me as a friend on Facebook.

Unfortunately I got a bit carried away in excitement, and I misunderstood this friendship. So I sent her a Bitstrip photo. In my defence, I’d had a few beers, and I checked with Mojo and Abu before I sent it, and they said…”ha ha. It will be fine. She’ll love it!”

Bitstrip with Gina1

No. She didn’t love it.

Now a normal nice girl might delete me off Facebook, or (more likely) totally ignore it and make me realise my terrible mistake with a “OMG!” when I sobered up.

Instead, she retaliate.d. With another Bitstrip photo.

Bitstrip with Gina2

And it escalated from there.  I said to the monkeys, “wow, she is so hot right now! I’m going to send her another message.” And Jo-Jo (the only monkey with some sense) said, “um…no, don’t do that”.

But the others said “YEAH Monkey King. You’re a legend.”

So I declared my love.

Bitstrip with Gina3

Now, once again, a normal chick might ignore the stupidity of a drunk. Or perhaps (less likely) be flattered. But oh no. She retaliated.

Screw You Buddy!

Bitstrip with Gina4

I was like “Wow, I like her a lot, one more!” and Jo-Jo screamed “NO!” and threw the phone away.  So no more  Bitstrip until I find that phone =(

Categories: Animation, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lust and the potential energy in Ubud

TWO years ago I am in the bed of a former French supermodel. She is on me, in fact, as we kiss. I am near blinded by her red hair. The only thing that stops us screwing at that point, is a thin black piece of fabric between her legs, still a little damp from the pool.

I am nervous at how rough she is treating me, how she forces my mouth to move to hers to avoid pain. She pulls apart and looks down and in the room’s shadows I see her smile. “You’re a nice boy,” Luce says, and I’m confused.

Then she yawns. We’ve been up all night and it’s nearly seven. It’s catching. I yawn too. When I close my mouth I see she is watching me, eyes squinting. She is thinking about something other than sex.

“Do you want to be inspired to write more?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ve love to be able to write better,” and I did. I had relaxed in Bali enough to envy writers, sculptures, creationists. I just didn’t know how to start.

“If you mean that,” Luce said, humping me teasingly. I gasped. “Then I’m going to do something that  seems cruel. But I’m doing it because I like you for more than your body. I like you for the potential your mind can bring. And also because I’m so bloody tired.”

She slowly got off me, dragging her leg to make me feel so good. I understood then I wasn’t getting a screw and I am ashamed now for the glare I must have given her, the frustration expressed knowing that what I’d hoped to happen for half the night wasn’t going to.

Luce watched me with a serious expression on her face, checking for any danger signs. She then stroked her hair and stood. She dressed in bright pants she must have bought from the market, and then settled on the bed back to me. I put my hands on her hips and she let me keep them there.

She fell asleep, but I was too tense. My body was filled with adrenaline and ranting chemicals that screamed “why can’t we leave now?”

I wasn’t angry at Luce. Understood that for whatever reason, no meant no. I still felt wounded. I took it personally. Why would she stop when things were going so well? I forced myself to stay where I was. I didn’t want her to think I was leaving because I was sulking.

A toilet break and a light dip in the pool later, and I had enough. Other writers staying in the same villa were awake now, and they made awkward conversation with each other, presumably wondering “who is this guy?”

I dressed in her bedroom, and squeezed her hand. “Wazz up?” she asked and I told her I was leaving.

“Okay,” she said, not comprehending, and I left the villa and the resort, and walked the road to Ubud. The tension I felt in the villa lessened as my legs stretched, and as I heard the birds and smelt the greenery.

Still, I was confused as to what had happened, and when I realised I felt cheated, I knew I was in the wrong. I told myself I was glad we did not have sex. Luce owed me nothing. I enjoyed her company all through the night, she helped me into the VIP party, made me feel special, made out with me in the ravine.

As soon as she asked me to come back to her place, I didn’t care what she was giving me. I only hoped for what more I could get; the communication between gender that defines success to man. It was only much later – after I took the plane back to Brisbane, after I failed my uni degree, after I had a story published in a magazine based on the events that just happened, that I understood what she had done.

This amazing, generous, wise girl had deliberately given me something much more lasting.

Potential energy. And Herpes.

Categories: How I Met a Woman, love, Philosophy | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Loving Luce

Luce parked the moped in front of a resort called Ubud Green. She led me through a maze of pathways to different villas. We entered through a door,  walked through a hallway and lounge to a patio and swimming pool where several other people chatted on a Bali lounge.

The patio overlooked the rice paddies. It was silent out there but for the night time insects and amphibians. The unspoiled and hard workers would wake soon.  But in the villa it was filled with talking, the clack of wine bottles, and the doomed voice of Amy Winehouse. Crime writer Joey shared the villa next door with a few other writers, so he kindly went to get me some surf shorts to wear.

We stripped to our swim wear and were in the pool in minutes. Luce and I broke from the others. She swam to the edge of the patio, and I swam casually in her direction. I was her satellite now. Joey sat on the pool stairs and talked with the others, and though he settled on a frizzy haired blonde beauty to talk to during the 3am blues; still he frowned as he watched us both.

SONY DSC

Luce and I talked. There is much to it when you love the sound the words come from, the lips the sounds escape. She told me why she left modelling, and why she liked photography so much. She was reluctant at first, but she spoke faster and her hands would jump animatedly from the surface of the water, often splashing me in the eyes.

“They used my image to represent other products,” she said, sometime during the early hours, when we were the only two left on the patio. “Sure, I felt beautiful when I saw the finished photos. But I suppose I always wanted to record other images to represent how I felt. Guess after a lot of crap that happened, I gave up the fashion. Put on too much weight anyway.”

I wanted to tell her she wasn’t fat, that she was beautiful, amazing, gorgeous. I am glad I didn’t get the chance to reveal my infatuation. She ducked under the water. Resurfaced and spat the water in my face. “Argh!” I groaned dramatically and wrestled her back under the water. She slid away like an eel, poked me in the ribs and swam to the other side for another Bintang.

We sat on the pool stair, she comfortably between my legs, as we watched the sky lighten over the rice paddies. The palms that marked a ravine in the distance began to colour from dark blues to orange and greens. The air warmed. Once we left the pool we would sweat.

“What about you, Chris?” Luce asked as she stroked my tanned, hairy thigh. “We’ve talked about me all night. I’m so sorry.”

Only now did I start thinking of the degree I had left behind. The assignments that were due. I knew I would have to turn on my phone and answer the many messages from concerned family members. I felt tense now, and perhaps she felt that. She spun around and kissed me.

“Do you write much poetry?” she asked. I knew then she believed I was entirely different to what I was. She thought I was a wandering bohemian writing love poetry and down to earth travel fiction as a way to make a living.

“I never wrote poetry before,” I said, “I never performed. I never wrote any stories. I’m not that creative.”

“Everyone is creative,” Luce said. “You just need inspiration. You need a muse.” She grinned. “Write about tonight, where we were, what we did, what we’re going to do.”

It was now hot above the surface of the water. She slowly got out and held my hand. “I’m tired,” she yawned, and took me into the villa, kept on walking till she opened a glass sliding door into her bedroom. The king sized bed was made; ready; prepared on both sides. Her body was still damp as she lay next to me on the bed.

An air-conditioner hummed somewhere above us. I kissed her, and she kissed me harder. Her facial expression seemed angry in the room’s vague lighting, even when she closed her eyes.

Categories: How I Met a Woman, love | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Making out at Bridges

I kissed Luce, and before I could break apart she put a bit of her tongue in my mouth. Just a light flutter; the buzz of a bumblebee wing. Her eyes were closed and she kept them that way until our lips broke away. She put her hand lightly on my chest, almost as if to keep me from kissing again.

Other writers sat beside us – one of them I eventually recognised as a well established crime novelist; Joey Valandana. He looked like a short haired Jim Morrison. “This is amazing!” he said, ignoring what was at that point the greatest moment of my life. “I can’t believe I’m here with Paul Kelly, and some of the greatest writers and musicians alive!” He pointed at an austere looking man with moon shaped glasses, who was talking to an unidentified woman with an afro.  “That’s one of those most influential political journalists in China.”

He followed Luce and I across the balcony. She was stopped by a much older woman, who engaged her in conversation about night time photography.

“And I can’t believe I’m talking to Luce,” Joey whispered as he asked for a vodka. He picked up a stray frangipani from the bar and put it behind his ear. “You know she was one of the most highest paid models in Europe, a couple of years back? Did you read her memoir that came out a few months ago? About her depression and self-harm and why she gave up fashion? You should have heard her interview two days ago.” He gave a lazy sort of smile as he chewed a vitamin C tablet. “Guess a little like us all.” He paused after another mouthful. “So what do you do anyway?”

“I study law,” I said, and he lifted his glass with a moronic smile, and said “cool man. Good for you.” But I’ve never seen someone look so unimpressed with my chosen profession.

I had Luce’s attention again. She waved me back to the corner of the balcony where there was a set of stairs. We followed them down into the darkness. We were at the edge of the ravine. I stumbled on a rock.

“Careful,” she grabbed my hand. We explored underneath the balcony, and another set of stairs going even further down the cliff. We stood at the edge seeing if we could do down closer to the river.

“I guess we’re at the end of this path.” She squeezed into my body. We made out somewhere underneath that balcony, the conversations above eventually quietening as the night became morning. I could see nothing but the reflection of lights above. I smelt frangipanis and perfume. I heard our lips and tongues click, crickets and frogs, the waterfall, and the light scuffling of each other’s clothing as we pawed at the bony and fleshy shapes they protected.  Hip and butt and breast and stomach.

Eventually someone called down to us, “Is someone there? The place is closing now!” I followed Luce to the front where the late leavers gathered for opportunistic taxi drivers to take them home.

“Can we see each other before you go to America?” I asked, and she led me to a moped at the side of the building.

Then she said, “the night doesn’t have to end just yet!” She shouted at Joey and a couple of her other friends. “We’ll see you back at the villa!” and she put her helmet on. “Let’s go and have a few more drinks.”

“Are you able to drive?” I asked, and she said she had not had that much alcohol. That was good enough for me. I climbed on behind on and grabbed her waist.

“Tighter, you sexy man!” she yelled over the engine as she revved past the other writers, and I did what I was told. I should have been more frightened than I was, it was bloody dangerous being driven on a moped at night by a drunk girl, without even wearing a helmet, but I had never been more excited.

Categories: How I Met a Woman, Romance, Ubud Writers Festival | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Hobnobbing with Paul Kelly and Luce

The festival’s closing ceremony was amazing. I will remember it for the rest of my life.

It was held beside a resort on the top of a hill. 500 locals and westerners (perhaps more) danced  to bass, acoustic and Balinese rhythms, as large exotic birds – like cockatoos, parrots and horn-bills – all gathered on artificial branches by the back wall, watching us with disdain.

An experimental acoustic guitarist from Jordan opened the night – he crooned out songs as the crowd got loose. A girl danced with me for a little while, and I made the mistake of dancing too. The surrounding backpackers booed at my moves.

Embarrassed, I slunk away, as men wearing masks and stilts twirled with fire. They co-ordinated their somersaults and twirls in traditional dress, blasting fire over the audience like dragon fire. Instead of terrified cries, there was applause, and another song began.

Someone took my arm, while I was still blushing. “Did you see that?” Luce said (the girl I met in the Bali Buddha the day before). “Wasn’t it incredible?” She let go of my arm. “I love Bali.”

“Me too,” I said, and I just stood, not sure how to keep up the conversation while we had to shout in each other’s ears to be heard. I watched her out of the corner of my eye for a little bit, loved how she had curled her red hair, how the colour suited the low cut black dress. Once again – I kept my eyes from slinking down her body.

“I’m Luce,” she said, offering a hand. I shook it.

“Nice to meet you.”

She smiled. “This is the part where you say your name, isn’t it?”

“Chris.”

“You’re from Australia,” she said, guessing from my accent. “I love Australia.”

“Seems like you love everywhere you go,” I said, and she laughed and pushed her hair behind an ear and said “not quite. I’ve been to a lot of places, and some of them have been hellish.”

Her mouth was dry, so I offered to get us both a bottle of flavoured water (no alcohol at the actual ceremony, that was reserved for the after-party) and when I came back she spoke about her photography, and where she had been this year alone (Iceland, India, Nepal) and that she was going to America in a few days’ time.

A few minuters later there was a loud applause later and the crowd scattered. The 2011 Ubud Writers Festival had closed. Before Luce went to join a small group of writers, she said,“If you’re going to the after party at Bridges soon, I’ll see you there?”

I told her I would.

Twenty minutes later and I was at the Bridges Restaurant. It was unclear at first how large the building was. It was set on a ravine – and by the main street bridge which was obviously it’s namesake. There was a spiral staircase set over three floors but the main entrance was on the second. There were bright lights, light brown polished wood and candles everywhere. Bar keeps and waitresses strode calmly but hurriedly to serve the increasing number of customers. I walked downstairs but a blond Dutch man guarded a doorway which was signed “Writers and VIP guests only” and asked me politely if I was anyone special.

Photograph taken from julieinbali.wordpress.com

A photograph of where the writers after party was. I presume the photo was snapped from the bridge. Taken from julieinbali.wordpress.com

So I sat out the front, sharing a bowl of chips with a few other friends I made throughout the festival. They were nice, welcoming, friendly. But I kept thinking of Luce. I was crushing on her, bad.  I thought our conversation could have meant something. But as I write this I realise that the polite conversation she initiated was a lovely reflection on herself, and not on me.

“Chris!” Luce waved at me as she passed by with her writer mates – who were beginning to walk in improvised swirls that only intoxication can bring with such nonchalant lack of elegance. I recognised the poet who inspired me a few nights before into writing poetry. “Come on! We’re going downstairs! Join us!”

I followed her without thinking as I followed the troupe down the stairs – hoping to pass unnoticed by the bouncer. They all showed badges to the Dutch bouncer and were in the party on the other side.

“Who is this?” the Dutch man eyed me down.

“My plus one!” Luce said, and when he looked sceptical, she held my hand. The skin on her hand felt tough and bony, certainly not soft like the powdered cheeks on her face. He waved us through and we stood on a balcony over the river; surrounded by talented musicians and writers I recognised,  but without PR or security blocking them. I recognised Selina Godden, Geoff Lemon, the guitarist from Jordan, Morris Gleitzman, I even brushed arms with Paul Kelly.

“So how do you make gravy anyway?” I asked the famous Australian musician, who was reaching for chocolate mousse. He smiled at me quizzically.

“Stay cool, Chris! Stay cool,” Luce said.

“Give my love to Angus!” I shouted back, as she led me to a corner to sit under a frangipani tree. And still she did not let go of my hand.

“Thank you,” I said as a waiter offered martinis, and as Luce passed me one, she smiled and said, “you’re absolutely welcome.”

Categories: How I Met a Woman, Ubud Writers Festival | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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