That naive one,
She told me 'I wanna fix you up'
'That's a fool's errand' I tried to rescue her
Though I appreciate it
But this is me purgatory
Dinner, drinks, whatever.
Never really interested in anything
Yet I find meself telling her
'I wanna see what's inside that soul'
I find meself telling all of them
There's something magical
About everyone of them
A smile
A curve
A fragrance
A secret
It's true
You're all mystical one way or another
My life's work.
But then there's the morning after
Comes with a hangover
A realization
That I'm not as available
As I was the night before
Then she's gone
And I'm haunted by yet another road not taken
I’d heard these lines on some episode of Californication. Thanks to the readily available pirated DVDs in me country, we can buy a 24-episode season in a single DVD for $1, which explains why the entire urban Paki population is addicted to American TV – Sopranos, if you’re pseudo-masochist or yet to graduate from the Sinatra years; Glee if you’re a hopelessly single lass or simply a closet gay bloke; Entourage, if you keep imagining ‘What If’ fables had you been born the other side of the Mediterranean and Californication, if you’re a Hank Moody wannabe – I surely am.
As David Duchovny flawlessly rendered that beautifully crafted dialogue, I found meself drawn to the ironic apathy of that fictional situation. For once I felt that the roles had been reversed and Mr. Moody was now trying to ape me. Even I couldn’t have described me own irony so effectively. Those words stayed with me and probably always will. Well, let’s just momentarily ignore the fact I successfully managed to watch that scene, even by a conservative estimate, at least 20 or more times. In fact, I may have helped meself to the majestic hedonism of Macallan, perhaps one too many and written down those words on a piece of paper or is it a Saved Draft on me Blackberry?
Nevertheless, the whole exercise was far from futile, as now those words were officially a poem – another one of me ‘original’ creations. Feeling somber that evening, I wasn’t up for it at all, but it got me laid. Arguably, the best sex of me life; at least in the Top Two. It was certainly refreshing for me. It was actually like making love, not just good ol’, straight-forward fucking. Albeit, as Hanky had earlier predicted, the next morning came with a hang-over and a realization that I wasn’t as available as the night before.
I’d met Amber on the flight enroute to Islamabad. Feeling bored in the monotonous breeze of Karachi, I reckoned that a few days off surrounded by the mountainous greenery of the capital city may do me some good in lifting me spirits. This argument was inevitably substantiated by the fact that Moe resided in Isloo – the Pablo Escobar of blow dealers in the country. His stuff was smuggled into Pakistan directly from Amsterdam and was generally a refreshing departure from the concoction available in Karachi, one infested with talcum powder to maximize profits for the dealers. Moe, on the other hand, didn’t infest more than 20%, I would often assess. Blow or cocaine as it is usually referred to by the world, had massively exploded in the metropolis of Pakistan during recent years and the urban youth was now getting hooked on to it majorly. At $100 a gram, it was almost twice of what you’d get it for in London or New York, but Moe and his clan were never short of clientele, only occasionally for stocks. Such was the increasing demand that they now had underground processing plants in all provinces, the bulk of the local product’s supply coming from Quetta in Balochistan. That was the crap mostly on offer in Karachi. Though at $70, cheaper than what you got it for in rest of Pakistan, it wasn’t really me cup of tea. Of course, me impeccable inter-personal skills had enabled me to find a top-notch dealer offering his product with 30% infestation in Karachi and with the standard price fixed at $80, I was good to go, but Moe’s stuff was another league altogether. It was the irresistible aphrodisiac that always lured me to Isloo, of course coupled with the ever excessive indulgence of Sophiya. But more on her later. For now, let’s just focus on Amber.
I’d spent the last two days partying like there was no tomorrow and the professional responsibility of finishing me article for The Express Chronicles had completely taken a backseat in the hedonistic Targa that was the daily travails of me life. In me wishful self-appraisal, I liked to equate me life with the Porsche Targa, especially the panoramic roof – one that was somewhere between transparent and opaque and yet you could still push a button to release it. So there I was aboard the plane, waiting for it to take off, with me pad and pen in hand. Yes, I still use a pen. I’ve repeatedly mentioned that I’m old-school. I prefer King Crimson to Kings of Leon. I dig Bo Derek more than I dig Claudia Schiffer. Give me the controlled sublimity of Zidane and Bergkamp any day over the 50,000 goals of Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo and their ilk. I’d take Gary Oldman’s Immortal Beloved in a heart-beat over the new-age $500 Million 3-D marvel. James Cameron isn’t a genius for me, Woody Allen is. I liked the 1994 Nokia cell-phone, the one I could use for 3 days without recharging unlike those 16-Mega Pixel Cameras that also give me the option to make calls; the one that the Star Trek family would’ve been proud of. Of course, I’ve just said that to create a certain effect. I never watched Star Trek in me entire life. I was busy exploring the madness of Salvador Dali.
Hence, there I sat, in me old-school demeanor, deliberating over how to sound intellectual for the uber-pseudo publication that paid a major chunk of the financial damages caused by me lifestyle. Oblivious to me fellow passengers, I didn’t even notice that Amber had now occupied the two seats next to me, the aisle seat adorned by her mate, the intriguing Sabrina. Given the option, I’d have definitely swapped them. Life has, however taught me to utilize the options that are made available. In that sense, I’m truly appreciative of the gifts that life has to offer.
I wouldn’t know what it really was. Maybe it was the nonchalant attitude with which I happened to completely ignore her. It wasn’t a deliberate attempt; I was just trying me best to be professional by concentrating on completing me piece. Maybe she was in vacation mode and looking for some harmless kicks. Maybe she thought she should make a move before Sabrina gained the obvious advantage. I’m sure there was similar precedence in the past, because her mate had a unique absorbing quality. Or maybe I’m just too damn cute. Surely, that’s it: I’m too damn cute.
As I was pondering over what to write about that week, for a split second, I was interrupted by the weird laughter of a teenager, who as he was approaching his seat, laughed loudly talking to maybe a mate or his woman on the cell. I looked up and that was the beginning of what I was gonna write about. Clad in khaki boxer shorts and an orange Armani T-shirt, one that I was certain wasn’t a rip-off bought from the notorious Zainab Market in Karachi, the lad was making this apparently hilarious conversation on the latest I-Phone. I could see a glimpse of a portable Playstation shabbily tucked inside the see-through back pocket of his bag pack. His left hand, with which he held the I-Phone on to his ear, was conspicuously accentuated by a platinum Tissot watch. The observant writer in me had also managed to sharply observe the state-of-the-art, technologically enhanced, $200 Nike sneakers that the teenager was comforting his feet in. The Nikes alone were worth more than the average man’s monthly income in Pakistan. But hold on there – don’t you lot go on to conclude that I’d decided to write about socio-economic discrepancies plaguing me homeland.
Frankly, I’m usually as shallow and insensitive as most of me fellow natives to be moved so much by that in-our-faces reality. Those harsh facts are routine matters for us. Usually most of us, in the absence of a traffic sergeant on the signal feign ignorance to the significance of the Red Light. After all, life must move on. During other times, when vigilance is in place, as we await the Green Light in our air-conditioned vehicles, ranging anywhere between $30,000 to $300,000, there is a multitude of human species attempting vigorously to catch our attention – from a skinny, obviously impoverished and severely malnourished kid trying to wipe the front screen of one’s car without any permission whatsoever to several men who display a variation of amputated limbs asking for money. Of course, in developed countries, it’s mostly homeless addicts or alcoholics who observe similar practices in a much more dignified, “Spare Some Change” kinda way. What to do? We are an under-developed or at best a developing country. Here human beings need to lose body parts to qualify for that distinction. As apathetic as that may be, I was surely callous enough not to deliberate on it too long. These realities are in fact travesties for most Pakis – it’s just normal stuff for us. I was touched more by Jim Carrey’s under-rated and under-appreciated turn in Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind. Yes, rather than a handicapped, helpless human begging on traffic signals to earn a livelihood, an actor’s performance touched me more, although strictly in a non-prison movie kinda way.
Obviously I wasn’t gonna write about the dilemma of economic and social injustice that keeps crippling the society I pretend to survive in. I was in fact drawing parallels of me own teenage years with that Nike lad. We were growing up in the 90s when most of these kids were born, the same ones who today hail Akon and Shakira as maestros of symphonic crusades. We, the Gen-X had now been super-subbed by the Gen-Y. We, the 90’s: the ones who awarded Eddie Vedder an honorary demi-god status, we who made Pulp Fiction and Natural Born Killers the cult worshipping objects of cinematic excursions those are today, we who actually made an effort to book cricket grounds reminiscent of the battlefields in Bosnia and play 35-overs a side cricket games on 42° Thursday afternoons, we who made Off-Beat, the monopolistic music shop in Lahore, into a business the size of half the GDP of Togo by spending obsessively on terribly-treble orchestrated audio cassettes, we who considered Sega and Nintendo to be the greatest inventions since Alexander Graham Bell allegedly stole Antonio Meucci’s thunder, we who did not develop selective amnesia when it came to reading and writing the national language and we who could fuel up an entire weekend’s load of gas in the car, buy 4 packs of Marlboro Reds and help ourselves to the local Vodka brand, the nostalgic Petrovska, also affectionately known as Petro – we could do all of that for just under $6. Yet the kids today may dismiss it off as simplistic weekend exploits. But children, gratitude should be pouring out of your $40 facial treatment skins.
Who taught you to even pronounce the term spliff? Who proved that actions speak louder than words and led by example to show this country that Black Label isn’t the only product on offer in the vast repertoire of Mr. Walker? Who propagated the importance of evolving: you think that pills known as Snow, Charlie, Mitsubishi, Mc Dees, Arrow and Butterfly were divine gifts? Who dispelled the false notion of rebirth by necessitating that we only get to live once: do you believe you had the courage to spend 70% of your monthly salaries on getting yourself sloshed if there was no glowing precedent? Yes, beloved countrymen: our contribution to forming the current thriving social fabric of urban Pakistan is immense.
We, the 90s, are indeed the pioneers of what some may refer to as hedonism. We merely phrase it as ‘Working Hard Partying Harder.’ The dispute that a few radicals may term us as dim beacons of debauchery is purely coincidental. Interestingly, our abhorrence of their stance in general and themselves in particular is utterly intentional and thoroughly cherished.
It was almost a self-conceited rant, but the job was done. Another pay-check would be on the way and I’d already started planning the next weekend’s portfolio of purchases from Philip, the most efficient and professional bootlegger ever known to mankind. After some deliberation, I’d decided upon a healthy product mix of Swing, Glenfiddich, Bailey’s, Jagermeister and Bordeaux. It’s crucial that one’s frequently stocked up to cater to all kinds of moods and more importantly all kinds of female species. Disrupting me fantastical anticipation of life back in Karachi as I was headed to Isloo looking for some respite, a hand loomed over the writing pad cozily rested on me lap.
It was Amber offering me some Clorets. I must admit I was impressed with her subtle endeavor of breaking the ice. It didn’t take us long to progress from the introductory pleasantries to some relevant conversation. I appreciated her inclination to not waste too much time. Over the next few minutes, she had successfully inquired about me relationship status, hang-out preferences and choice of alcoholic beverages.
Clad in a casual pink T-shirt with a portrait caricature of Che Guevara on it, she seemed to exude an aura of pretentious rebellion. A stark contrast was the black shirt and blue jeans attire of Sabrina who was seemingly convincing of her disinterest in the happenings around her as she remained engrossed in finding out what Floryntena Kane would tackle next in Jeffrey Archer’s The Prodigal Daughter. Meanwhile, I’d had enough of the monotony and decided to help meself to some of the Jelzin Vodka I’d smoothly sneaked on board in a mineral water bottle. I was delighted to find out that Amber was an eager participant as I passed on the bottle to her after taking two sips; she returned it to me half-empty. Fortunately, I’ve always been a firm believer of contingencies and Plan B’s, which is why I had back-up safely tucked in me lap-top bag.
‘Paki girls shouldn’t go down on a man! Ironic choice of words, but you lot suck at it. You don’t exactly have the apt historical pedigree for the job, now do you?’ I presented me case to Amber.
‘Let’s find out in Isloo if we can take corrective measures to dispel that incorrect notion.’ She readily accepted the challenge as if the street cred of Paki women depended upon it.
I was now feeling at home and looking forward to some happening days in Isloo.
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The aroma of the Poppers intertwined with the Issey Miyake-esque scented candles pretty much defined the intended mood of that evening in Islamabad. The four candlestands assembled in pairs on each nightstand were shaped like bongs and posed a picture of being obedient watch guards as if facilitating the intoxicating experience by spreading the Poppers in the atmosphere of the bedroom. She shared the unwarranted information of letting me know that the Poppers had been gifted to her by one of her lusting admirers in a wishful pursuit of experiencing with her what was now culminating between the two of us.
I had usually struggled a bit to make out with women after Sasha, sometimes the reluctance resulting into hilarious dichotomies, for one having me brains fucked out by a woman without even kissing her once throughout the process. Another one would be gently pushing a woman’s lascivious overtures to make out with me – so on and so forth. Not this time. Strangely I found meself allured to her lips. I didn’t hesitate at all; not in the least. Of course, even I couldn’t have envisaged it, but once it began, it reminded me so much of Sasha. Be it the feel of her lips or how she was overcoming me with her gentle kisses yet it was pretty much back to square one – I kept imagining I was making out with Sasha. In effect, this one was just an appropriate prototype for me weird imaginative experiment.
She was definitely freaking me out consistently as the foreplay progressed. Quite a few of her techniques were reminiscent of Sasha, as if she had been a distinguished pupil of hers or vice versa. A few years ago, this would have surely fitted in the definition of mindless sex a few of me friends keep accusing me of having, but this was far from mindless – I was hopelessly thinking about Sasha. The only saving grace was me not calling her name out loud.
I was truly savoring this experience because the last few times I’d had sex with women was more like physical excursions or at best gym workouts. Somehow, I’d managed to not imagine Sasha those few times and at the end didn’t exactly feel exhilarated. Of course the lack of exhilaration was also due to the fact that almost all of those women were textbook definitions of bimbo and had it not been the compulsion of blow, I would have probably fallen asleep listening to the boring conversations based around fashion designers, socialites and celeb gossip. Each time though, I chose to exercise the next best alternative to getting on a treadmill. I allowed all of them to fuck me brainless.
You may have read about it on a website actually intended for help-seeking losers who’d probably still struggle to get laid or heard about it from a friend who’d probably also read it on the same website and falsely bragged about it to you, but the first thing you’d learn after sex on Poppers is that you won’t exactly feel the need to brag about it – it’s a bit like popping a pill for the very first time; unless you’ve actually done it yourself, it’s a bit vague or may I say even a bit surreal to accurately explain to someone what it’s exactly like.
The naive one interjects me
Certainly not the effect I had desired to create
She's impressed
That I'd managed to drop the act momentarily
And actually said something real
And I’m thinking
Even when you’re not trying
The aphrodisiacal words of Hank Moody
Get you laid!
I attempt to characteristically joke
But she kisses me passionately
Now she's trying to rescue me
Don't they all?
She hopes I would find solace in the kiss
But all I could do is close me eyes
And imagine The One
The One who saw through me
I recall the ironic words of The One:
"Sunshine,
Came knocking on me window
But I said, 'Hello,
What you looking for?'
'It can't be me, I didn't call you here
Somebody needs you
Go and look for her'.
I broke a heart today
Because I'm leaving."
I see the irony
I should be as honest
As compassionate as The One
I should say the same words to the naive one
It's an apostrophe
Between me and The One
And then there's that stubborn, tiny tear
That refuses to flow from me eyes
That same one that’s been trying to escape hers
Yet she refuses to let it flow
That's another apostrophe
Between me and her
So, Dear Naive One
You've misunderstood
I really am this shallow
And all the glitz you see is a farce.
I'm hollow.
And Dear The One
That stubborn tear that hangs like an apostrophe between us
Let it flow
For you left long ago
But don't live under an illusion
You never broke a heart
You gave life to one that never was.
As I lay asleep in the unabashed comfort of those black satin sheets teetering on borderline equator of corny porn prop and wannabe homo-erotica, she almost had a tear in her eyes, while reading those original words on me pad; the ones I had coyly added to me Hank Moody original. She understood those words as if soulfully feeling the yearning plea of that ‘Apostrophe’. At least she said that she did. When do we ever know the wholesome truth?
There the two of us existed in that moment in that room – me lying on the bed, to be honest, knackered out of immensely fulfilling yet challengingly exhaustive sex.
She sat on the chair, me pad in hand, her black shirt still laid on the floor, clad in her blue jeans only and attempting to relate to the seemingly superficial emotional trauma I had chosen to face.
Sabrina was moved. Or so she later confessed to me.
