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Sunday, December 02, 2007


WHEREUPON skippy FALLS IN LOVE AGAIN: SOUTH ASIAN EDITION

I fall in love 37 times a day. That's not ... shallow, is it?

Sometimes my amorous feelings are fleeting and restricted to my crotch. That happens appoximately 123 times each and every day. It turns out that I have a particularly active imagination and an almost cancerous libido.

Sometimes my lusts are deeper and somewhat more demented. For example, there's a 17-year-old girl who lives where I work and is possessed of the single most beautiful ass that I've ever seen. 98.2% of the last three months of my life have been consumed with thoughts of how great it would be if my tongue took up residence in that young girl's perfect posterior. I know that it'll never happen, but a boy can dream, right?

It doesn't help matters that whenever said girl sees me, her face lights up and she gives me an overly enthusiastic waves and cries out "HI!" with all the teenage passion that she can muster. Oh, how that makes my perfectly shaven testicles churn and ache with gallons of liquid love that howls and begs for release.

The shame that these feelings inspire only serves to make the entire experience hotter. I know that it's wrong, but if this is how being wrong feels, I don't want to be right. It is only now, in the twilight of my years, that I know what inspired Gene Simmons of Kiss (which is how he refers to himself, and who am I to quibble?) to write "Christine Sixteen."

And thank god that the Criminal Code of Canada allows a creepy old man like me to have such dreams. It's morally and intellectually wrong, but the age of consent in Canada is 14. Even if the Conservatives get their way and pass their crime package, I'll still be legally entitled to entertain depraved fantasies about girls as young as sixteen. It's wrong in ways that I lack the vocabulary to properly explain, but what are you going to do? It just so happens that being Canadian has its advantages. Sure there's the free health care that will someday bankrupt us all, but there's so much more.

Having said all of that, I'd be less than completely forthright if I didn't admit that my heart, loins and imagination have been long captured by Indian women. When they are attractive, they are so much more than beatiful, they're breathtakingly, hauntingly so. Those women keep me awake at night, thinking of ways to be a better man and hating myself because I know that I never will be. I was born to lose, and they were born to mock that loss. It's a simple life, really.

The first time I saw Aishwarya Rai was on a 60 Minutes profile called "The World's Most Beautiful Woman?" And she is. Upon gazing her, I could actually feel my heart stop for a few seconds. I never felt that way before and it would be a few years before I did again.

That happened with a girl I worked with a little while ago. She's of Sikh extraction and is far and away the most beautiful woman I've ever seen up close. It didn't help that she was probably the nicest person I've ever met as well. Each and every time I saw her during the ten months that we worked together, I felt a dull ache in my chest. While I was almost certain that her beauty wouldn't someday kill me, it didn't stop me from hoping it would.

She's the reason I started studying Sikhism and wrote one of my more entertaining essays. Because I'm almost supernaturally creepy, when I find myself attracted to a woman, I devote a great deal of time and effort to impressing her. This blog is usually a big part of that. Needless to say, it almost never works.

She once mentioned that she loved music, so I burned something like ninety CDs for her. I'd often give her fifteen at a time. I did this because I long ago achieved a level of douchebaggery that most men don't even know exists, and I'm pretty sure that I was in love with her.

One night as she was getting ready to go home, we were engaged in a heady discussion about how I'm ugly in ways that are usually reserved for comic book villains and how my mother would have smothered me with a pillow shortly after after my birth if she was smart. Just as the most beautiful woman I've ever seen up close is, I too am a seeker of truth.

And as the most beautiful woman I've ever seen up close was walking out the door, she looked over her shoulder and said from twenty feet away "You know, you're a really good-looking guy."

I'm not shy about admitting this, when I heard her say those words, I wasn't sure if my head was going to explode before my heart did. However, I didn't really have time for medical quandries because I was pretty sure that I only had seconds left to live.

I know that she was pretty safe in saying this because she's practically married to another man and I'm not enough of a scumbag to interfere with that. But to this day, I remember her saying that and the way she looked when she said it and I mastubate with an intensity that frieghtens me. And I'm no sexual scaredy-cat.

For reasons that should be painfully obvious, I never told her how I felt about her. However, it just occurred to me that I once stupidly gave her the link to this blog and that she actually has read it, so I guess I just did. Opps, sorry about that. Will saying that I'm kidding help?

However much being broken-hearted is my natural state and that "lost cause" is my middle name, I know that there's always a time when useless dreams of happiness are to be put aside. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen up close is taken and so, come to think of it, is Aishwarya Rai. Also, I can't even pronounce "Aishwarya Rai" with any regularity, which might inhibit any potential relationship. Just because white women giggle with glee when I call them "sugar tits" doesn't mean that all women do.

But because I've set aside one set of impossible dreams is no reason that I can't pick up another. That's where Mallika Sherawat comes in.

Firstly, Mallika might be the single most beautiful girl's name ever. If, god forbid, I ever have a daughter, Mallika would be my first choice for her name.

Second, while she's no Aishwarya Rai or the most beautiful woman I've seen up close, she's certainly in that league. She's awfully, awfully fucking close. And that works for me just fine.

Just look at that body, will you? She's pretty nearly perfect and her stomach is second only to the incomperable Annika's.

Thirdly, India is a very, very sexually conservative society. Modesty is not only the norm there, it is demanded. Anyone who doubts that should investigate the furor that was caused by the super-hot Shilpa Shetty getting kissed on the neck by the celebrated gerbil enthusiast, Richard Gere.

If my wonderful Mallika is willing to prance about with her amazing navel and awe-inspiring cleavage exposed as she does in public, who knows what she's up to in private?

Fourth and finally, Mallika Sherawat is single. More specifically, she's divorced. My record with divorced women is nothing less than exemplary, at least in the realm of carnal delights. Few women appreciate my brain-damaged sexery quite as much those who have been long ignored by two-stroke jokes and hairy-necked losers do. Not for me the tossing of a vibrator to my beloved after I bust my nut and inviting her to finish without me or ejaculating in the commode under the guise of needing to pee.

I just wasn't wired that way, although I wish that I was. Those men seem to get laid a whole lot more than I do. It turns out that I'm a fantastic sexual rebound but a horrible marriage prospect because I'm not a lazy, selfish bastard.

Being a divorcee herself, I think that Mallika could appreciate my demented single-mindedness in the ways of l'amour. Or not. I still cannot allow myself to forget that I'm an accursed loser who hasn't been graced with things like beauty or intelligence. I'm fucking doomed and I think we all know that.

I've long thought that perhaps I should move to India. But then I remember that a diet without beef would likely kill me in short order. And if Bollywood is any indication of the country's priorities, I would be forced to learn to dance like my perfect Mallika.



As you might imagine, dancing isn't my strong suit. Whenever I'm forced to dance the night away, David Lee Roth-style high kicks are never far away and no good ever comes of it.

However, the power of my own personal failures hasn't stopped me from using this picture as my new PC wallpaper. For reasons that only an army of trained psychiatrists could ever hope to understand, reminders of my own failure as a man comfort me.

Sadly, a more comforted man you're not likely to meet.

Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: Taste of India By: Aerosmith From: Nine Lives

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