Love on an Empty Stomach

"Honey, did I tell you how much I love you," said my man as he is sopping up the last of the chicken stew with his biscuit.

Why is it that a full stomach lulls you into thinking you're falling in love? There is never a time that I feel more love for my boyfriend than after he's made dinner and I am sitting on the couch just basking in the warmth of the food percolating inside my distended belly.

I know that my boyfriend feels the same way when I cook because he looks at me with such loving eyes, the crumbs from the apple pie still clinging to the corners of his smile. I smile back. The morsel caught in his front teeth could quickly become the puck in an erotic game of tonsil hockey.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I should be examining these feelings more carefully, especially when the elevated levels of cholesterol are making me giddy. Can these feelings be real? Is he trying to make love to me or give me a heart attack? Should I be suspicious of the dessert?

Is that why our mating rituals revolve around food? A romantic dinner at a French bistro, an impromptu picnic at the beach, a pair of strawberry-flavored edible underwear? It's the classic bait-and-switch. Use the crème brulee to get the guy. Just make sure he's eating it out of your crotch.

I think it's awesome when a guy offers to make me dinner, although it puts me in a bit of a quandary on what to bring. If he makes La Poularde aux Truffes à la Vapeur, should I pair it with white wine or red wine flavored lube? I often get into these internal debates, oh what would Julia Child do in my situation? She probably doesn't even use lube. She probably uses clarified butter. With a pinch of meat tenderizer for flavor.

The food in our bellies brings our defenses down, our feelings of romance and satiation becoming hopelessly entwined. Is this love or indigestion? Even poet Pablo Neruda would be confused.


I knew that it was a matter of time before celebutante Nicole Ritchie and her fiance split up; they didn't look too happy being under a hundred pounds, together. Love isn't love if it's on an empty stomach.

You know what would make them happy? A weekend at this great all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet that I know. In all the years I've been going there, I've never seen an unhappy couple or family. Everywhere you look, everybody's happily eating their egg rolls, steamed dumplings and hot and sour soups--or as I call them, the Three Happiness.

Hey, nobody reads my blog for advice, but heed this one. This one was handed down the ages, through the women of my family, from mother to daughter (and to me, because I was hiding behind my mother's bureau): if you want to keep your man, learn to cook. Your husband or boyfriend may fuck around, but they always come back home for dinner.

I'm Going To Tell You A Secret

"I got married for all the wrong reasons. When my husband didn't turn out to be everything I'd imagined he'd be, I wanted to end everything.

There's no such thing as the perfect soulmate. If you meet someone and you think they're perfect, you better run as fast as you can in the other direction. 'Cos your soulmate is the person that pushes all your buttons, pisses you off on a regular basis, and makes you face your shit.

It's not easy having a good marriage--but I don't want easy. Easy doesn't make you grow. Easy doesn't make you think. I thank God everyday that I am married to a man who makes me think. That's my definition of true love."

- Madonna, I'm Going To Tell You A Secret

Thanks Madge, but for me, I think that I thank God everyday that I am with a man who gets my cock hard as a rock.

But you know what I think true love is? My definition of true love is letting your loved one come first, and I mean this in the truest sense of the word "come," that is, he needs to shoot his load first.

I think that if you are always the first one to come in your relationship, you really are doing your partner a disservice. If your man is one who always has to gets his rocks off before you do, then I think you have a problem; there will be a day when you both will arrive at an impasse, when one of you will have to give way to the other, a life or death matter, like the decision of which of your mothers' Thanksgiving dinners to go to, and it will break you.

If I were to tell you what skill you need to have to have a successful relationship, I would tell you that it's not your financial acumen, nor your social causes, nor your ability to breathe through your nose while giving a blowjob--although that's also crucial--it's the ability give an orgasm, as well as have one.

It's nice to have a moral absolute, like a belief in an all-powerful deity, or in reincarnation, or in the gaudiness of the House of Versace, but most of us live in shades of gray which no amount of ammonia-free hair color is going to cover. If your position on anything is too rigid, then you've already lost, there's no way to come to an amicable agreement. Eventually, it's the little skirmishes which will lose your cause.

Like, everybody knows I am lactophobic, but if my boyfriend told me that he would like to go to dairy farm and milk cows, I'll go with him and attempt to yank teats, even if the last time I did that, Bernice, the girl I went to prom with, told me that was when she knew I was gay, because I didn't treat her bosoms with holy reverence like all the other guys did. It's true--I was more interested in why I couldn't hang pasties on myself. Why oh why was I born with a scrawny chest?

Listen, I fight with my boyfriend like everyone else, and sometimes, it feels like crap, even if it's only about what color to paint the bathroom. It feels like the War on Terror, where the real agenda is hidden.

Sometimes when we fight, the blood rushes to my forehead and gets trapped there, and I can't see two feet in front of my face. But later, after the fever is gone, I look back and see, why the hell did I make such a big deal about that? Sea foam green isn't too bad after all. So what if I have to buy new hand towels to match it? It's cheaper than all the Saturday nights I spent binge-drinking on Shirley Temples. Could've I avoided the whole fight if I only gave in a little?

This whole BS that Madonna is spouting of her supertight lil' ass, it's trite, but I think it's true. She could be right here, even though whenever I think of her these days, I think of a giant cameltoe.

I don't know if I believe in someone who is a perfect soulmate. Overcoming gay Asian stereotypes is hard, when you're dating, everybody has a pre-conceived notion of what we are like: docile, submissive, a doormat. I am sick of these guys who want me to lie on the floor with my mouth open and pretend to be a bearskin rug. Most of the time, I am happy if the guy calls me up and doesn't order Chinese take-out, although the tips aren't bad.

And I don’t know if there's such a thing as a happy relationship with no conflict. And there are times that I know that conflict is unavoidable. But I think if you let your guy come first, it can be resolved quicker, even if it’s because after coming, he’s just way to tired to argue.


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Asians are the Model Minority

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Some great Madonna CDs:

How Does It Work?

"Do you take your tampon out before you pee?" I asked my friend Annie during Sunday brunch with friends.

"Whaaa? Where did that come from," she asked, looking around at Brian and Joe. They both shrugged.

"I dunno," I said, "I was just thinking about cotton candy and the thought just popped into my head."

Actually, this is not a rare occurrence on my part. I have a very short attention span. One minute I am thinking one thing and the next minute, I am blowing my wad. My friends find this aspect of me annoying sometimes, especially when we are having a conversation and they suddenly feel an unexpected wetness coming from my direction.

I continued, "I mean, doesn't it get wet when you pee?" Apparently, neither Brian nor Joe knew the answer to this as well. We all looked at Annie, waiting.

Annie squinted at me, probably thinking I was crazy be asking this, but she relented. "It doesn't get wet. Most of the time you don't even know it's there," she said.

I nodded, comprehension slowly seeping in. Maybe it's like having sex with my ex-boyfriend. Half of the time, I didn't know it was in there either.

"How can that be?" I asked. "Is there a separate hole for peeing and another one for your period?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, why don't you go into the bathroom and then come back and tell us," I said.

"No way." She said firmly, but I wouldn't be surprised if she took a magnifier and investigated later. Annie is the type to try to get to the bottom of things.

I had other questions: "What does a tampon smell like? Does it come in other designs other than white? Pink? Does it come in other shapes? Like a cute little bunny, a kitty-cat or maybe, you know, like a finger."

Personally, I thought that a tampon shaped like a severed finger would be pretty cool, especially smeared with the blood and all, but Annie and the others shuddered (I was actually going to say "penis" but I thought a finger might be more marketable, you know, and it would be like a little secret, that women have).

One of the weird things about my being gay is that I have so little experience (or interest) in the inner workings of the opposite sex; I wouldn't know the difference between a clitoris and a carburetor, except that I can pronounce "carburetor" correctly. I never know whether to pronounce "clitoris" with a short "i" or a long one, or whether the accent is in the first syllable or second. I know I can look it up in the dictionary, but I figured I would never need to pronounce this word in the presence of another person. Would a straight man know? Is the clitoris on a woman like a button on a gameboy? I'm not sure...

"What's the plural for clitoris?" I asked Annie.

My change of topic didn't faze her, she was ready for me now. "Cliteri?" She attempted, "Cliterati? I've never had to think of the community of women in those terms, normally, I just call them 'my bitches.'"

"Since we're talking about women parts, my gynecologist told me something strange," said Annie. "He told me matter-of-factly, 'I don't know if anybody's told you this, but you have a, very, small, cervix.' Like, I don't know where that came from."

I'm not sure about male gynecologists, about their ability to treat their patients. If they can't personally know even the most basic of female experiences, you know, like spontaneous bitchiness, or that dark hole called PMS, well then, the guy might as well be a vet.

Guys make comparisons, who's bigger, better, faster--it's the high school gym locker room all over again, with guys all flicking each other's butts with towels, comparing dick sizes and making out in the steamroom--ok that last one's just wishful thinking. My own gym locker room experiences were basically non-existent, since I was afraid I would want to go in there and give everyone a makeover. High school boys are so clueless in personal grooming, with all those unruly pubes.

So, I don't think I'll ever understand what makes a woman work. But do you think they will buy a tampon shaped like a finger?

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Guest blog posts by my friends Annie and Joe

The answer to all your questions.

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The Long Way Home: The Vacation Posts

In between the meals my father cooked and the guilt trips he served; my mother's campaign for sainthood through her devious schemes and machinations; my brother's bid for online gaming supremacy and four little tykes that I alternately want to hug and choke to death, I was inspired to write a whole series of posts (probably my most prolific blogging ever) about my vacation in the Philippines in February of 2006.

Here they are:

The Long Way Home. After years of putting off a visit, guilt has coerced me into making a trip back to my homestead. Will I survive the trip? Starvation. On the flight home, it's between me and a bag of honey-roasted peanuts in a fight for my survival. Fake Plastic Food. All airplane food is basically bland and fake--until I found bibimbop. My Old Room. Tired and weary, I seek succor in the comforts of my old room and what I found in the back of an old dresser. Autopilot. My parents switch to autopilot on their marriage while I duck from the missiles they hurl at each other. Jetlag. My mind and soul are here, but my digestive system is left four days behind.

A Conversation with My Father. Only a computer program can save my relationship with my father. Our relationship is doomed. Archeology. I went about digging up my past history armed with a camera and no map. What I found either amused or disgusted me. A Conversation with My Mother. What does it mean to be a good son? I climb back into the uterus. Redeye. My last day. In just a few more hours, I will be on my way back to normalcy. But first, I must survive the final challenge: four adorable kids. I Carry Your Heart. I have a congenital defect that pre-determined my fagularity. Plus: one of the best love poems ever written. Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop. That says it all. Bonus: Bean Pole. Celebrity sighting!

Fun with Fake Poop

“How was your trip?” is a very dangerous question to ask someone who has just come back from a vacation. You should really avoid this question altogether, if you can, along with similar phrases like “nice tan” and “hey bitch, I guess your plane didn’t crash.” Otherwise, you could be trapped looking through a thick wad of pictures of smiling natives, of artsy macros of flowers, or of bulging flesh peeking out from skimpy beachwear, all accompanied by a full narrative of every pebble or bird encountered.

I forgot about these pictures I took during my vacation. They were of an afternoon I spent running around chasing after my little nephews and nieces at my parents’ house with fake poop. It had the color of fresh, steaming poop with bits of corn encrusted on it--a healthy, medium-sized dog poop.

I bought it when I was about twelve or thirteen, along with a magic set that included among other things, a trick card deck, a magic wand and silk hanky. I was a very bad as a magician, but I wielded the silk hanky like a pro as a sexy magician’s assistant. I got bored with the magic set after I couldn’t convince my dad to buy the magician’s assistant’s gown to go with the hanky.

It was another one of my amusing finds during my archeological expedition. The poop was amazingly realistic, which is a technological irony. Why are we able to make fake excrement look remarkably real, while we have failed to make fake actresses even approximate real ones?

My nephew Andy, the ten year-old, became my accomplice, chasing around his five year-old sister Alyson, who seemed deathly afraid of the fake poop and fascinated with it at the same time. She cringed and giggled as we rubbed the poop on our faces, our faces in a mock grimace. Andy even licked the poop and pretended to gag, laughing at the same time. The two smallest ones looked on blankly, perhaps they were too young to comprehend, or possibly because they've already fished a small snack from their diapers?

So now, here you are, cornered. Paste on a smile and nod politely while I compel you to look at these pictures.






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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

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