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20.09.03; Sexy (or is it Sexually-frustrating?) Saturday; 05:20

Days before the desired regularization: 17. Eureka moments: The discovery of new form of hang over with the absence of alcohol. We shall call it Lorna’s disease. Texting power: Usurped. Online power: Imaginary with every minute. No. of men who made my heart skip a beat: 80, says Daphne. No. of men who broke my heart: 1. No. of men who broke my hymen this week: 0. This week’s controversial outfit at work: My one-sided strap black top.

Dear Niwee,

Yes, oh, yes!

I attended this year’s Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash with three of my colleagues inspite of how sleepy my eyes felt, how alcohol-hungry my throat was and how online-starved my manicured fingers were. But that all changed the moment my feet landed on the NBC tent.

The stage design and concept for Area 69 was cool, and so are the games. Makes me wish I won those games. Even if you didn’t, you won’t go home empty-handed. (I went home with the invite, a Washed Out notebook from Lee, an empty booze bottle and a receipt from North Park. How’s that for a souvenir? Yes, no men, no undies.) The sound system, I believe, has more room for improvement. (Either that or I’m not advertent to the spoken words.) The costumes (billboards even) were unmistakably Lee. The attendance was another indication that females rule, thus the minimal number of men out of the catwalk prompted me to have a night of existential thoughts.

Hypocrisy aside, the parade of human flesh was more than any estrogen-endowed being should have to endure. It was a torture for me, especially when a fine specimen waltzes in, the crowd around me yells at the top of their scantily-covered chests and I’m clueless who this man is. I would consult my friend for a proper introduction, but her breathless reply is no good. My knowledge is only limited to recognizing Lucky Manzano and John Hall who both made an anti-climactic and anti-orgasmic absence that night. Not that I fancy the Fruit of All Seasons.

What made my eyes bulge out of its sockets is seeing my former batchmate bare his upper body in front of me. So he made it.

A couple of hours later, God snapped His fingers in front of my star-struck peepers. Back to my badly directed and badly lighted chick reality show.

X’S: One manifestation of Lorna’s disease is flipping the old pages of one’s closed book. Mine happens to include poems written by and with hormones, instead of depth and wisdom. Penned down in summer ’01, this piece of junk best fits my Bach Bash fever. Feel free to discard the succeeding string of explicit lyrics.

The Nine Wonders of His Anatomy

The search is over, I have found the man

Whose features can make Greek gods look inferior

He rates forty-two in a scale of twenty

And fully defines a “heavenly body”

Sculpted to weaken knees, made to freeze and stun

Belonged to the specie of kings and warriors.

The nine wonders of his anatomy

I aim to care for if declared my property.

The First Wonder of his anatomy

Would be those dark pools with hypnotic wave

Usually shielded by a pair of shades

For its gazes can rival the sun’s blaze

Its winks can out sparkle the entire galaxy

Those eyes are heaven, no picture of grave

The second wonder of his anatomy

Would be that full line with red-hot appeal

Crapehangers rejoice, fuming ire expires

Once those flawless pearls bare its reasons to admire

Words within its ward is dripping with honey

What more sweetness will yield once that syrup spills?

Its fervent kisses warn an outbreak of worries,

Foresees the spread of chronic _____-itis

The third wonder of his anatomy

Is none other than his upper limbs

Armed with robustness, it takes no as an answer

To be entwined ensues sweet surrender

Each finger can play tunes of insanity

Out of a body imprisoned to him.

The fourth wonder of his anatomy

Would be that hard chest of his emotions

If there is a face that launched a thousand ships,

Then his lickerish chest can feed a zillion lips

Spell that pulls hearts into captivity

And makes them hammer in a wild fashion

No protests will be heard from umpteen nostrils

Its fragrance is all it takes for models to kneel

The fifth wonder of his anatomy

Would be that center of a woman’s hunger

A truly firm spot that shirts love to boast

Absolutely renowned from coast to coast

A hand’s poetic craft blooms naturally

Seconds after its lusciousness is savored

Belly-cious is not enough to describe it

And no one will ever get enough of it.

The sixth wonder of his anatomy

Is that smooth vestment of his inner charm

Every skin pore oozes with perfection

Every inch revealed calls for attention

Caressing his skin makes the wind merry

Granting favor to him abates the sun’s harm

Equipped with the skill to make the insides burn

Until the exterior yell for its turn.

The seventh wonder of his anatomy

Would be that strong base of his known statue

Those legs out tower any pedestal

Neither Stallin nor Xedong is equal

History scorns of Achilles’s boundaries

Yet extols of his steps that lead to the ground for two.

The eighth wonder of his anatomy

Would be the backdoor of his grand temple

No outfit can strip off his kingly glow

Even from afar his followers grow

His asstounding rear, for men, spells envy;

No woman will deny it is staple

And the ninth wonder of his anatomy

Is indeed his own good-tasting stimulant

The one I long to unlock my virgin gate

The flavor unspoiled despite of long waits

A brief moment with him truly nourishes me

A hard moment when my heart wants to pant

How can such a volcano, I wonder,

Cause a deluge of feverish water?

The search is over, I have found the man

Whose cut of jib demands devotion

This promise I make I seal with self-trust:

Love will end but my love for him will lust

If bodies decay as they depart the land,

Then a pampered pair shall be the exception.

These nine wonders of his anatomy

I aim to care for if declared my property.

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