According to Liana, Toilet Humor is Sexy

A few weeks ago, we had lunch at the new Bintulu Port, over at the building where the MDD offices are. Me, Tang, Aldrin, Zaza and Liana. We settled down at a spot near the corner by the window, on a long table fit for five, and we dug deep and hard into the food.

We were surrounded by people we did not know and might never bump into again. Therefore, we did not give a god-damn, and we chatted like we always chatted whenever we, OPS/6, enjoy food--

We tell each other toilet jokes.

The horrific kinds.

Like: when I was seven, I was really angry at a friend, I pissed into his juicebox. And then I poked his ribs as he was drinking the juice and the piss-tainted juice came squirting out of his nostrils.

Or like that story by a friend: when I was in Form 1, I ate nasi lemak with a very pedas sambal udang and I drank kopi susu (they do not sit well together) and so I suffered this overpowering stomach ache. I tried my best holding it in, up to a point when I could feel the "head" sticking out, slowly. You ever saw those documentaries about praire dogs that stick their heads out and they do this little wiggling dance? Yeah. It was like that exactly.

Or taking one of Tang's classics as an example: I remember my grandmother telling me that before the Chinese invented the toilet paper, they all had to eat their feces. And then Tang proceeded to bring his game to a higher level, and acted out the whole thing by licking his fingers, which were covered with the thick brown gravy of kari ayam, his tongue dripping visibly, half-chewed rice, chicken and vegetables mashed in dribbling saliva.

Tang my friend, I said calmly, staring into him.

I am sorry you had such a terrible childhood.

He looked at me in a peculiar way. One of his eyes, the crazy one on the right, twitched, bulged and fluttered. He was ready to explode.

But that was first class! I shouted joyously. I think I swallowed my own vomit a little. That was so disgusting -- it was good. Hurrah!

And then the whole table hurrahed. Hurrah, Tang! That was gross!

After the laughter had subsided, Liana proceeded with her arsenal of filth, gained from decades of hard-sweat dedication and analytical deduction, studying the worst of internet porn fetish and the best of the National Geographic Channel (re: Animal Kingdom Week) -- she upped the ante by bringing to the table the case of the transgender.

How do transvestites and transexuals get it on?

Zaza asked to clarify, Get what on? Condoms?

Tang jumped in, Giant dildo strap-ons? Nipple pinch-ups?

Aldrin continued the rally, French ticklers? Vibrating ball gags?

I went in with flying colors, Double-headed drill bits? Motorized pummel horse?

The rally came back full circle to Zaza, Hmm... furry... costumes?

The group responded in unison, That was weak, Zaza. Try again.

Zaza struggled to come up with something else. Aldrin helped her.

Zaza, have you seen those things they use in S&M roleplays?

Zaza's face lit up like she had just been surprised by a street flasher --  Leather-strapped spank paddles!

And then the whole table hurrahed. Hurrah, Zaza! That was good!

Beaming with joy, Zaza turned to Aldrin to thank him for helping.

Aldrin, the youngest and most humble of the group, modestly played down his role. Oh, it's nothing. Actually, I was thinking along the line of fisting butt plugs, but your spank paddles are okay, too, 'za.

Hey guys, Liana shouted. You still have not answered my question about the transvestites and transexuals. How do they get orgasm?

Liana had shouted the word "orgasm" too loud, because I could see 100-Plus jetting out of the nose of an expat who was eating near us.

Well, Liana, Tang put his hands together, clasping them under his chin, his face contorted from deep thought, since they do not have the corresponding genitals to achieve orgasm, Tang pulled his face up and stroked the clean-shaven length of his upper lip, I think they must then resort to mutually pleasuring each other i.e. the 69 a-go-go, referencing an obscure Swedish bestiality-inspired sex yoga.

No, Tang, I disagree, I said. More likely is that they do dry-humps.

Ah Faizal, noooo, Aldrin rejoinded. They don't dry-hump; that is for teenagers in high school. Transvestites and transexuals make full use of their bodily cavities, he used his fingers to visualize the act.

Liana was very skeptical. Aldrin, are you sure that's how they do it?

She turned to Zaza, who was attentive and curious. Zaza smirked in disbelief, I guess you have to be really fit to do all that acrobatics.

A minor debate took place. A few of us disagreed on the mechanics that Aldrin was suggesting. No person can bend over like that, Tang argued. We drew diagrams on tissue paper and referred to technical terms, like clenched sphincter muscles and second-degree rug burns.

A senior executive from the TES group, who was eating at a table across the room, overheard the commotion that was taking place at our table. He was not able to catch what exactly was being thrown onto the table, but he knew from his vast management experience that these young engineers were debating some very serious and very dire issues, perhaps something technical from work concerning Plant Operations; body languages full of unbridled passion, skin-of-the-teeth determination, and the strongest sense of ownership.

If you do that, you're gonna need a lot of lubrication, Zaza said.

Yeah, the shaft is the most sensitive. You grease it good, Liana said.

No, it's the other way around. Through the manhole!, Aldrin said.

That's hammering it, and the nipples are gonna crack, I said.

We don't want premature release. That's why we blow it slowly first, Tang said.

The senior executive looked on amusingly with an approving smile splattered wide across his face, fully amazed, and wondered, Why aren't these OPS/6 engineers in the High Potential Staff program?

                            

Pepper Spray

I was in a drab technical meeting on the third floor of the Annex Building when I chanced upon the sight of a flock of girls walking across the car park from the Engineering Workshop towards the Annex Lobby, striding along in leisurely gaits, thin waifs of hair blowing in the wind, not a slight blemish of worry on their faces.

One of them, a girl trailing behind the flock, struggling hopelessly to keep her hair from her eyes, caught my eye. I wondered, What do I need to say, do, or become to get her to jump into bed with me?

The long list of dating pick-up lines from Yazid's blog scrolled down past my eyes in rapid successions. I felt a big ball of carpet lint was coming up to my throat as I recalled a few of them, the "best-of", the ones reported to have had worked. I felt light and nauseated.

I find it hard to accept that the fate of all men is to make awkward advances to unsuspecting women. More than fifteen thousand years of civilization and this is the methodology that we have managed to come up with? Pick-up lines? Hi, do you believe in love at first sight?

The chairman called for a 5-minute break. I got up from my seat and I pensively observed the long row of old fat men in the smoking shed down below, sitting around murmuring, waiting for things to happen.

'No' is a Complete Sentence

"Of all things that drive men to Sea, the most common disaster, I have come to learn, is women." Charles Johnson, Middle Passage.

Asking a girl out is a new thing for me.

The experience is a whole new bag of emotional highs and lows. It is exhilarating, tiring, confusing, satisfying, titillating, frustrating, embarassing and incapacitating-- a nerve-wrecking ball of bouncing, bubbling, shape-shifting expectations, of pull and push, full of the rare wonders and mysteries of the genders, of boys and girls and the long chase from here to there, of playful preys and persistent predators. It is the feeling of the coquettish, the cunning, and the cowardly. It is the feeling of the racing heartbeat, the falling anvil, and the churning, twisting, bile-boiling, rollercoaster ride from hell.

When you ask a girl out, for a dinner and a movie over the coming Friday night, her answer is always never a Yes or a No. It is often a hesitant Hmmm or a long-drawn Ngaaaa or a fleeting Hoo hoo hoo or the worse, the eyes bulging, the jaw dropping, the pupils dilating, the near-silent echoes of her head, pinging, pinging, pinging, the soft thudding of trapped gaseous oxygen hammering the walls of her frozen veins, the screeching stop of all electrical signals in her brain cells-- the nonverbal siren, Holy Jesus Fuck Me He Said What What?

Or her answer could also be, and in my case, often is, Hahaha jangan nak buat lawak lah, kita kan sepupu. Mak ayah kita kan adik-beradik.

Today, well, this morning, I asked a girl out.

She kept cool, she was calm, I was calm, we were cool. She thanked me in the most polite manner for asking her out, that she appreciate the gesture and the thought. But she said she would have to decline.

A solid punch to the jaw, pow.

I took it nicely, thud, ouch, and I felt only slight pain. I was still up and standing. That's good, I thought. I started to move my feet a little, do a little dance, hop hop hop I am a butterfly baby hop hop hop. Oh, I see. She was wearing those kiddie boxer gloves. Very nice, very soft. She got that ruffle-ruffle thingies hanging from around the edges, the colors matched quite nicely with her hair...

Okay, concentrate.

She continued by further explaining why. She is not yet ready to go out with boys, she needs some time and personal space, she needs to think what matters to her life now, her priorities need to be straightened out, she thinks all this is too fast, too rushed, it should just happen naturally, like chemistry. She repeated the not-ready part again, ok, ok, I heard you the first time lady, I was listening, I was listening. I didn't know where this was going, she had been--

A Disclaimer! She is citing a Disclaimer! Oh my god, how did I not--

She continued by saying that although she is not yet ready to go out with guys, she hoped that we could still be friends, and that we would still be cool if we were ever to stumble upon one another in town or somewhere, shopping at the Mall, having lunch or dinner with other people. I nodded politely, ahah, ahah. Where is this going? She said although she is not yet ready to go out with guys, she does go out with some of her best friends, who happened to be guys, like [dropped a guy's name] or [dropped another guy's name].

I nodded understandably, ahah, ahah. Hey, wait a minute, those two

You are blowing me off so that you could hang out and have dinner with a soon-to-be-married coworker and a closeted in-denial gay?

Why?

I mean, you can't mean to say that I am that--

In that exact moment in time, somewhere down in the basement of an old and run-in commune factory in China, a dim light bulb was lit.

Faizal, I would rather date a married man or a wuss.

The light bulb flickered for while, flick, flick, flick, and then poof.

Upon this divine revelation, I staggered to find a nearby chair and I slumped into one like a deadweight doorstopper, gasping for air, reaching up to the surface, swimming as fast as I could to shore. Reeling from the pain of rejection, terribly shaken, all that I could think of then was, "Oh God, no wonder a lot of guys join the Navy."

After a full fifteen minutes of silent pathetic pondering, reflecting on past mistakes, painful regrets, failed jokes, bad cheques, wrong passwords and other such milestones, I leaned back into the chair, popped open an imaginary can of spicy mexicano Pringles, and I imagined that I was in a cinema with my best of friends, watching the best film of our generation, The Story of My Life, in DiGi IMAX.

The Greased Manhole

I was on the upper deck waiting for my turn to enter the Boiler Drum vessel, a confined space, when Azlan, an inspection engineer with a big frame, was coming out of the vessel after finishing his sampling.

As I stood there watching big Azlan in his white polythene coverall, smeared with all kinds of disgusting black, brown, red and yellow, struggling hard to come out of the Boiler Drum manhole, pushing himself out of that small hole, his face grimacing, his eyes closed, his face stretched, his forehead and neck all greased up from sweat mixed with corrosion dust, debris and chemical residue, the fat around his gut squeezed down to his knees, his arms shaking and pullling and grabbing all kinds of things to pull, grunting, growling, howling, yowling, calling out names of cousins and distant relatives--

I could not help but make a mental note to later ask Mom whether she had a natural birth or a c-section when she gave birth to me.

After a few more minutes of primordial caveman struggling and with a little help from fellow strong tribesmen, big Azlan finally came out of that small hole, his body was wet and slimy, the odor appalling.

The crowd cheered and applauded, wishing him well and praying for his future success, and the Standby Person christened him his name by returning his Confined Space Permit in a colorful, glee ceremony.

The Mozart of Bintulu

Whenever day-staff girls, those who work in the office and not in the plant and are not required to wear coverall, pass by the MPCC where my work desk is located, I like to lounge around in the main walkway and loiter with a cup of coffee in my hand and wait for them to walk by in their nice tight pants and sheer blouses, one by one, back to back, like the majestic runway of London Heathrow Airport, and silently watch them go, dingle dangle diddle-dee ho--

Hot damn. You could tune a piano off of that ass.

And then Mazni, one of the shift charge engineers, would ask me--

"Huh? What do you mean?"

I would look at him in utter disbelief, "Seriously?", and then explain--

"Because that ass", points at the fine specimen, "makes you siiinngg!"

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