NSFW: I Know Who You Slept With Last Summer

EL James and a new book, Open Wide! Photo credit: Dailymail.co.uk

Recently, I deleted a dating app because the results were lackluster. Like other curiosities I collect on my phone, there was no Christian Grey to be found on the app; and usernames like "Top4U", or "Looking 4 Dom"- ballsy, if you hadn't already googled what "Dom" meant, didn't impress as the enigmatic billionaire's. 

By now, we'd have known 50 Shades of Grey to be the epicenter of every woman's libido, all told from the perspective of protagonist/conquest Anastasia Steele. Whether its to be ferociously provocative, like begging to be slapped and f**ked, or genteel, whereby some form of romance is ought to be inspired from all that slapping and f**king, every woman who has acquainted with its now-familiar plot has a strong opinion about sex. Feminists think that the book is sexist (and that comes as no surprise with all the submissiveness buttressed in it), while others think it's liberating to have a discourse about sex this way today. Regardless, author EL James has opened a can of worms and 50 Shades is to be its conversation piece. That our submissive homegirl Anastasia Steele is that talked about chick every female loves to hate, or hates to admit to be, is a phenomenon that isn't quite yet flaccid, but just getting hard.

Fogging reading glasses worldwide, a new novel titled Grey has hit the shelves on 18 June, retelling the same story, except, through the lens of its namesake anti-hero, Christian Grey. It's sold 1.1 million copies in 4 days and has another 2.1 million ready to rockslide. Despite critical reviews, this novel is also its most intense.

"I have a sudden urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her over my knee, spank her, and then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied behind her back," reads one excerpt from the new book, when Anastasia first popped the question if Christian were gay. And no, to beg a second reading of the same plot, you'll find out that he wasn't even bi.  

Alright, let's come clean with ourselves: It's one thing to watch good sex on your laptop with a box of kleenex beside, and it's completely another to read about it on a public bus. They're two different communications, to be enjoyed separately. "Christian Grey is a complex character and readers have been fascinated by his desires and his motivations, and his troubled past," says EL James on the Dailymail. What Christian Grey has also evoked, for which the visual has yet to expatiate, is the fantasies we can only get from the pleasures of reading. He may be vapidly imagined, but his backstory should slide off your dirty mind like an ice cube. His sex is characterized, whereas there are no characters in pornography, and even if there were, there wouldn't any good acting involved either. Sexual desires, not sexual footages, are what 50 Shades is driving sales home with. "I'm going to make you cum like a freight train, baby," should be read like an afterthought. 

However, if you're going to make a social commentary, you're going to be feeling quite sore. From reading. Fault-finding would be like demanding to be part of the flogging between Ana and Christian, you just won't fit into the pages. Moreover, because book sales aren't as divisive as your opinions, it's most fun to take the backseat and read it as it is, with the same voyeuristic interest as at swiping through your neighbours' Tinder profiles. Trawling through the pages with a passionate scrutiny for potentially sexist scenes is simply a waste of time. At face value, the predictive backlashes aren't anything spectacularly new about 50 Shades of Grey. (What else could you contribute, apart from the I'd-never-let-anyone-clamp-my-nipples protest?) At the raw, reading Grey should be like reminiscing last year's crazy sex from your partner's point of view, all over again. You wouldn't waste precious sexual energy on wondering why you guys never dated afterward. 

Photo credit: Dailymail.co.uk

One common critique that hasn't been agreeable to the books' style of writing is that there are better erotica on the shelves. That's true- the writing's as bad as its scrupulously honest. But comparing, say, Miller's Tropic of Cancer and James's Grey is antagonistic. Tropic of Cancer, published in 1934, is disproportionate to 50 Shades today. While both were (and still is) reflective of its times, the only difference being that the former had only marginal success in contrast to EL James's popular sexualized work is due to the social pressures impressed upon women then. Here's an excerpt of Tropic of Cancer:

Later, when I had taken up with Claude, and I saw her night after night sitting in her accustomed place, her round little buttocks chubbily ensconced in the plush settee, I felt a sort of inexpressible rebellion toward her; a whore, it seemed to me, had no right to be sitting there like a lady, waiting timidly for someone to approach and all the while abstemiously sipping her chocolat. Germaine was a hustler.

And here's one from Grey again:

My cock agrees and stiffens in greeting.

I'll take that as an approving nod. Because back then, women weren't allowed to publicly discuss their sexuality. Salacious literature had to be smuggled behind discreet book jackets, where the only place to let off steam from last night's private reading was in the even private corners of the office cafeteria. Now, sexuality is being celebrated. It's as openly talked about, written about with whim, and whined about, to whoever's willing to lend an ear. This may not justify the stalking, creeping, prowling, pounding that's to appear anywhere in the book, but it has opened up a sensitive area that's been waiting to be prodded.

Therefore, the relevant critique one should consider before purchase isn't why anyone should be reading this; rather, the question of, what does this say about me? 50 Shades isn't the virus that's plaguing literature, in other words, it's literature that's contagion to people to judge a book simply by its cover. Frankly, 50 Shades isn't even really literature. It's cliterature, as the Dailymail accurately names it to the list. It's a genre of readable porn, culturally more relevant than the old fashion likes of Nora Roberts, on your kindle or iPad, or in the pages of its physical copy. It's something to be enjoyed without being afraid of falling prey to judgement- as compared to the stifling past. And if that's distasteful that sex should sell, we should, thus, be reminded of who bought it the first place. 

Your Friends Are Not Empty Calories

#Jay

On a fragrant hot afternoon, my friends and I decided to stop over the Starbucks counter for a fix of its one-for-one's. I don't usually drink there, but I am a sucker for flash promos. Our eyes slitted at the menu as we pandered to our options before settling for each of its latest offer: Orange Honey Comb Crunch and Triple Coffee topped off with jelly- it's chin chou. They didn't sound delicious in name, nor looked as tangy or as jelly in print, but we married up nicely for it anyway. The barista had a cocksure look, cocking his head with a marker perched in one hand. He asked for our names, ready to mark our cups like a professional script artist. So when it got to my turn, I decided to throw him a curveball, "Amanda and Jay please- Jay, with a hashtag."

"O-Okay." His cool was lost on him by the time he stuttered.

"#Jay" had nothing to do with awkward baristas. It was an inside joke I felt familiar in sharing a laugh with my friends, which wasn't a very funny one in the first place. Though I won't distract with details like the other butt stupid things we flippantly do among those bantering during class hours, doodling lame caricatures on each other's steno pads, or stealing each other's pens (that I also never return), it was also a quip that'll probably live on as an anecdote for future round table chatters. Later, in that hour as we gathered, paced ourselves with the fraps, and drank in the calm, cool, collected interior of the coffee shop, I cracked up at something awfully funny, somewhere in between, and the rest of our time spent hence became a boisterous happening.

While our drinks may have been a letdown since it barely hit the tarty notes per advertised, my behaviour could have been poorer. I probably behaved like a fool, at that moment, when I wasn't acting my age. Had the jokes not ceased by the time we had to leave, I would probably have been asked to. In its brief hour, I felt like I was in a simpler time with a group of people I'm safe with. My friendship with the people I spend most of my work week with revealed a public affair where I'm allowed to be silly. And unlike those that we grow up from too quickly, mine still has childhood spunk that does not wither with age; however, it brings me back to its embrace.

It's the simpler times that tugs at our heartstrings. Then, good times spent were less contrived, less convoluted. Play time meant being crazy, not tipsy. Therefore, anything that simulates the same amount of fun that makes us go along with a certain degree of courage at being our stupid selves again should be applauded for. Funny, I almost forgot what it felt like to laugh today. Today, in an adult world, I guess the politically correct thing to do would be to wear a suit of seriousness, in which jokes should be kept clever. Crassness has no merit, a form of decorum between two people should be maintained, and anything below dirty bar jokes is considered immature, or even, God forbid, "lame". While being cool comes with a greater reponsibility that I'd have to behave aloofly with a steely exterior to upkeep its image, I was beginning to wonder if my image generation, one that has conscientiously worked so hard for to portray a teasing smart look, has much to live for if we were to all but play by its rules, in the first place. Have we forgotten, thus, how embarrassing, carefree, and careless we were before being introduced this sinuous path that is to be adulthood? Where's the fun if we were to grow up too quickly? Why grow up, for a lack of better phrasing, if we could still be happily stupid?

Friends don't let friends count their calories. They count the dollars saved when one promotion begins. And in a way, I would have its marketing acumen to thank for because it opens people up to continuously reach out for that one cheapo friend you can count on to share a drink with- and spend a great time over. Starbucks, which understands this cheap thrill, has my gratitude. Because like happiness, my friendships are saccharine and I'm its sucker.

Letter to Jack Kerouac (in a sentence)

Dear Jack,

By being the "crazy catholic mystic" that you were, you were meta-YOLO even before the Instagram age: When On the Road was published in the late 1940s, you gave America its great Western story, written, as you'd have called "spontaneously" with a bulk of collective insights amassed over the twenty years of high times spent with the rest of the gang- what the road did to you, you maniacally typed on a continuous, one hundred and twenty-foot scroll of tracing paper sheets that were cut to size and taped together, as quick as it's short of breath to read along in fast, punctuated, rhythmic sentences; what I would like to know, was how long it really took for God's chair to warm you up to such speediness, deftly stringing recounts after recounts of the vivid expressions you single-handedly captured- on the "scroll"- like the "three weeks" as I've later learnt in your reply on the Steve Allen show (though, rebuked as untrue, since, in three weeks, I'd still be reading On the Road, and again if there were some parts of America I would like to revisit in your novel); from Denver, to Hollywood, California, to the "dirty fag" part of town that New York played center stage, wherein most of your debaucheries found its way to the heart of the novel, I'd like to know if you invented the Beat, or did the Beat invent your characters like a cautionary tale every "Aunt Sally" would pander to; that the Beat also became the main event, overrunning every other character written by young adult fiction writers: Dean Moriaty, the protagonist whose manic episodes witnessed his rolling down the abyss in a torrent of self-destruction has become a summary of the romance we've had with being lost; Marylou, a loveliness that met with a quick demise by the maniac of her boyfriend, Dean Moriaty, whom she associated too cloyingly with, like the anima to our deep longing for love; and Sal Paradise, whom you've made him as you'd make us want to live just like him, such with the long winding snake roads that have connected the rest of the Beat life's forlorn disciples to the landmarks you've made sacrilegious, where all of them are but profane, relatable, in which nothing is holy except the unholiness you've inspired; only if you'd Google Maps then, perhaps too, your mystery novel would have been truncated to two pages long, as living on the road could have been told in those selfies you would have taken; those hashtags that millennials operationalize, which you would have corrected them over because drinking on a school night pales in comparison to what you were spearheading then; those couple of tweets you would have thrown in- #RIPME Marylou is askin’ for a 3some, get some, #YOLO- whereby everything would have gone south, instead; or have you speculated all that already? 

Best Regards,

TJ

The Sweet Truth About Sugar

For the dad bod I call dibs on.

I take my sugar with everything. I take it in my cup of teh tarik at least thrice a day in the form of sweetened milk; I take it with my prata; I take it with my compliments. And according to my dietician, that's also the respective order for an escalating threat. First, you get greedy, and then addicted; finally, to keep up with the habit, you cheat yourself to obesity.

Sugar has been in my blood since I was born. Look to my baby photos and you wonder what was in the formula. From a healthy, cherubic toddler who had just learned how to crawl, I was making a calculated effort to run by the time it dawned on me in school that it wasn't baby fat that weighed me down. Rather, the gravity of the situation was the crime that if a child wasn't chubby enough, he's not cute. It was a stigma against skinny babies and healthily slim prepubescent children alike. In fact, I was so fat, singling me out for every TAF club exercise (the now defunct pejorative Trim And Fit club for fatties) in school felt natural, almost deserved.

For a tie, I wore it like a noose.

At fifteen, somewhere between a concern and a call-to-action, my parents suddenly decided that I was not a baby anymore. Their primary mission to get me out of the house, to choose between a toy and a golden glow that radiated within the foil wrapped chocolate snack, Crunchies, was also a struggle for my love for both. That I only exercised in later stages of my youth, and never quite did enough crunches to make up for the tummy fat amassed at the waist was a giveaway to the poor choices I have made in life. (So far.)

Today, as a healthier self who does not look quite as oblong as he used to, my consumption of sugar-laden products has not waned either. Once, for the sake of it, I made the mental note of counting every cup of milk tea I took in a school day. The breaking record came at five cups by the evening, which wasn't as bad as the alcoholics who smuggled gin to class. But that did worry me.

While I don't plan to give up on sugar, or cut back, I am disconcerted. As with alcohol, sugar has the effects of a drug. And to avoid the unsettling withdrawal effects (evident in my morning mood swings), I return to my habit, and if unwary, increase its dosage. I don't wake up to smell the coffee, I wake up to get fixed.

Sugar, an early signal of death in my family, was criminal to my grandmother's health. She had a bad diet. She passed when I was fourteen due to failing stages of her organs caused by deficiencies her younger self would warn her against of. She loved life- God bless, but she loved soda more. So much that if she did not indulge a can at every meal, there wouldn't be any food on the table to begin with.

According to experts, you can abuse sugar like how you would abuse alcohol and drugs. (Most of the time, you abuse them separately but severe cases have witnessed all three coming into play.) The hard part is: how do you quit sugar?

Have it with anything you like, sugar is an additive that will not stop us from loving our foods. Sugar, though indiscriminately gave my grandmother diabetes, also tastes delicious as a sweeter: from the sweetened dark sauce you dip your crisp slices of roasted pork into, to the cup of milk tea you decide its level of sweetness with. If I were to make a conscious effort to eat clean every time an article warning against the globesity epidemic surfaces like a tirade, I would be living a life not lived. Life, in every sense of the word, would just be bitter.

The Speed of Life

Godspeed, Budget Air travel.

When I was young, I used to bus around the city and gamble my chances without a clue as to where, or when I would alight. There was always a suspense palpable through the end of my seat as my eyes were glued to the windows, consuming each fast moving image with an insatiable appetite as I moved, leaving no sights unseen. I saw buildings as they looked like sculptures; vehicles as they looked like moving boxcars; pedestrians as they looked like figures, who were impervious to my scanning everything and nothing at once for all the exhilaration that looking outwardly provided. In those days, the journey only mattered because I wasn't going anywhere, in particular; I just kept moving.

However, today, everything moves at a different pace. "The speed of life", as David Bowie used to sing. With a purpose in whatever I do, wherever I go- the places I'm but only too eager to arrive at, I've learned to take charge in any bending course, setting goals no matter how tricky, tedious, and more often, in pursuance of an end that they are.

Unfortunately, sometimes, I too, wean myself off the joy of in its process. Harking back, if my goal was to write well, and writing were a game sport, I would have been its benchwarmer because that's all I seemed to be doing then: sitting on it even when I was shamelessly bad at it. That my reluctance to write stemmed in the same dread as a can't-do attitude. Stringing sentences without any logical structure, or connecting my ideas so carelessly it made my peers wish they'd fact checked the Yellow Pages instead, I only sought after change much later because I wanted to move away from that tight spot of torpor. I wanted to become a disciplined writer who would never shy away from the writing pad every time the urge to write nagged me to do so. And relentless as it sounds, knowing it to be an uphill goal only aggravated my discomfort. I would rather sit through a fifty hour plane ride, if the engines don't fail me first, than to remain stationary as I were, in other words.

Excitedly, I went head-on and became my own critic, my own friend, my own cast of heroic influences that saw the ilk of great writers breathing down my neck: "I wouldn't punctuate that way, if I were you. You're no beat writer- you're not even American." What I saw in myself, apart from a no-good typewriter, was also an overambitious cow. I turned writing into a performance, its pleasure into a stressor, for which I've lost sleep over the spat that I could, perhaps, never truly aspire my goals.

Have I changed since? Yes, in ways that'd be petty to crow about today, and yet, not quite since I'm still feeling as foreign to writing as a whore in a church. But what I've learnt somewhere in between the analogy, is that gradual change yields results if I kept persisting, no matter how unlikely, or unending the journey seemed.

Like getting strapped to your seat on flight, journeying through a goal can feel liminal. It's easy to be looking inward, after all, when the only thing that's really captivating at an outward glance of the window is a monotonous overcast. You're in view of wailing toddlers, snorers, talkers, nightmare neighbours who're fighting for the armrest or holding your arm like one. If you're wishing for sights to see, there are but none. As with gradual change, goals are like plane rides; it's like flying off home ground toward somewhere far more breathtaking- twelve hours without a stopover if they're long term, at least. At thousands of feet up in the air, you fidget, grumble, and tug at your sleeping mask, hopeful that the painful ride would nullify if you've had a chockfull of sleeping pills to swallow. (Especially if you're flying Budget.) Because you were so fixated with where you're going, your ride becomes a drag, not a carousel. Those excitements count for little until you've reached your destination. But that's what goals are: a long pursuit of something worthwhile, where it's easy to forget how fast you're moving in the air until you step outside; although, that's an impossible mission even for a Jodie Foster movie in Flight Plan.

Miles away from where you've started, goals are tricky if you're not patient. They become a sensitive gray area that cast more doubts than a beat that is to exhilarate, excite, and envision a pulsating bright future. We often ask ourselves why had we taken our goals in the first place, knowing that to give it up halfway is to plague ourselves with a guilt far more wrenching than tolerating a plane ride. How else do you explain avoidance behaviours? Like a fear of flying, which is to be a fear of failure, we're afraid of that uncertainty, that unknowingness we cannot predict, only to nag at us if we're never going to get there.

For one, it's not unlikely that nobody wants to go, say, across continents in their travel, it's just that places like the North Pole distances ten thousand kilometers from where we stand. Our goals, like the arctic holiday we can only dream about, would, therefore, mean as much when we do finally arrive. Imagine the North Pole! Imagine Alaska! Imagine the strange sights that would be John Green! If only we could give ourselves that chance to jump off the deep end and chase those goals. If we deviantly clung on and maximized our means to test our patience, no matter how begrudgingly they were to tide us over, goals aren't that cumbersome if we were patient. Goals are beautiful places we could go, if we were enduring.

Just a semester ago, I was miles away from home in a plane. And looking out of the window, incredulous at the adventure and sights I were to see on my private trip, it sent my blood rushing, at first, looking down at nitty details that dotted my country as I were up in the air. It gave me a sense of power, to be lifted across as I loomed largely over the landscapes. I felt brave, like there were so much to see if I kept looking down, that the enthusiasm captured would continuously leave me breathless up till I reached my destination. Though, at midway, I fell asleep, and forty minutes later, fidgeting in my tight spot, grumbling at how long the journey was taking, I was reminded of those trips I used to enjoy, unending in its ride: I began to see toddlers as cabbage dolls, snorers as as indicator to plug in those headphones, my nightmare neighbour who wouldn't stop hugging as a needy friend. Fearlessness, resilience, and patience, I had all the means to hold it out till I've arrived. I would be free, hence. And then I conquered.