actuality.log


All entries tagged 'Crayola'

Sunday, September the 13th, 2009

“Hope for everyone”? “A loving home for every child”? “Home is where the…”?

I was staring at the clichéd words on the sheet of paper before me when I first sensed her. I had promised to help Crayola with the branding and publicity campaign she’d embarked on for Shelter, a small home caring for orphaned children infected with H.I.V. And on a sheet of paper colourful options for logos sketched upon it, I was doodling potentials for a suitable tag line; hoping to come up with something that was relevant, heart-warming and not hackneyed.

I think it was her sweet-smelling perfume as she approached that I picked up on first. I casually glanced upwards with a curious smile only to have her beam back at me with her wide grin and big, lively eyes. As I returned to my doodling, I unconsciously hoped that she would make her way through the crowd to the vacant seat beside me.

“What about, ‘A home for hope’?,” asked a lovely voice interrupting my thought. I had been too engrossed in my scribbling—I really thought I was getting somewhere—to notice her make her way through and sit down beside me. She’d glanced over and gathered what I was doing; and now she was trying to help.

Soon, we were giggling and going through one cheesy phrase after another. When it was obvious we were actively playing with hackneyed phrases just for gag value, we gave up. I folded the heavily-scribbled piece of paper and the lively conversation turned to other things—who we were, what we wanted out of our lives, where we were along those journeys… It was fascinating, and most unexpected. Here I was, talking to someone I’d just met and baring some of my deepest thoughts and opinions. The fact that she had an interesting point of view on just about everything made the affair heavenly.

The minutes spent in the rush-hour traffic had whizzed by, and we’d reached her stop. She grabbed that piece of paper from me and somehow found enough room on it to jot down her phone number—telling me she didn’t want this to end and would love for it to continue. By now, the bus driver was becoming impatient waiting for her to get off. When she hurriedly returned the sheet to me, I didn’t bother looking through it for space to put down my own number. I just got off the bus with her, hand-in-hand. I didn’t intend on letting her go anywhere.

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Sunday, June the 21st, 2009

It was the second, perhaps the third, time that night. I had that sinking feeling of despair wash over me as I realised how little of a man I was. As I lay over that beautiful woman—wet and ready with her legs parted in invitation—I found myself doing the unthinkable. I was desperately holding my shrinking cock in my trembling hands and stroking furiously: I needed to be hard again. I needed to feel that wonderful sensation of her pussy lips wrapped around me once more. I needed to feel like the strong man towering over that delicate flower rocking rhythmically as I caressed her chest and face with my own.

I needed to be within her.

I am shrinking some more. Panic is beginning to set in. Her annoyed breaths are turning to sadness as she’s trying to egg me on. “Please,” she sighs, “don’t stroke yourself when you’re over me. Just enter me.” I could have died at that instant. I haven’t felt as little or as inadequate as I did right then. All I wanted to do was to show her how much I loved and needed her. All I ended up doing was to struggle to stay hard and convince her there was something wrong with her form.

I don’t deserve anyone, especially not such a gentle loving creature that adores me so. I don’t know what went wrong, but I am terrified.

Hey, wait a minute. That’s not how this story ended!

However the story did end, the moral of the tale is this: Don’t use newfangled muscle-relaxing, cock-desensitising, stay-hard-for-her-longer condoms.

Friday, August the 8th, 2008

I’m quite convinced the problem with my brain is that it’s not dead—it’s actually capable of thought.

As I lie there exhausted, my heavy eyelids slowly descending over my tired eyes, I feel her snuggle up even closer to me with a contended sigh. That’s when it happens—right when I’m on the brink of actually experiencing a moment of true happiness—my brain begins to race in a frenzied panic:

“But she’s not petite enough. Shouldn’t she be younger? She doesn’t look anything like what you’ve always longed for. Does she have to be such a tomboy all the time? I wish she were more of a girly-girl; it wouldn’t hurt for her to pay more attention to herself…”

How much I adore her, or how good we’ve been together, or how much fun I have when she’s around, or how liberating it’s been to openly share things with her… all of this, every single positive facet, quickly fades into the distant background. My brain has decreed she doesn’t look like she “ought to,” and its own voice is the only one it’s willing to hear.

The sad part is, I’m not able to convince it that it’s wrong. Superficial? Of course. Acting idiotically to our detriment? Hell yes!

But wrong?

Thursday, November the 15th, 2007

The pen in my hand stares nervously at me, anxiously awaiting what I have to say. Its cap bears the words “Dr. Me,” beautifully engraved in the most elegant of font-faces, and is emblematic of the love and excitement in the heart of the woman who painstakingly created it for me on the day I successfully defended my thesis. This pen, as did everything else in this room, watched aghast as I coolly shooed her away, declaring that I don’t care about anything in this world… including her. The most unfortunate thing here is that in a state such as mine, nothing really does matter; even if a part of me knows that it should.

Like the drunk finding himself alone on the street in a pool of his own vomit, it often takes hitting rock bottom to realise that it’s high time you did something about your life.

And last morn, I finally did.

I worked up the nerve to go and talk to a professional about what I’ve been like for the past few years, and how things have progressed to a stage far more serious than anything I can just “snap out of.” As you’re reading this, two large vials of my blood are being subjected to a battery of tests, aiming to implicate any physical issues that I might have, along-with or bolstering my psychological problems. Diabetes, kidney damage, anaemia, hormonal imbalances… all the usual suspects linked with this sort of affair are being carefully investigated.

Over the following days and weeks, through intense conversations and lab-work, I hope to have a better grasp of what I’m dealing with so I can begin to cope, and eventually, start caring again.

Perhaps then, this pen won’t be as nervous when I pick it up.

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Friday, June the 23rd, 2006

I’m writing this with Crayola sleeping peacefully on top of me.

I call her Crayola you see, for I love how we behave like a bunch of kids given a piece of paper and some crayons. Me sitting up close behind her on the floor, barely able to take my focus off her as we draw; we just sit and draw for hours and hours. She’s so talented and expressive, I’m perpetually mesmerised; as my fingertips can’t help but trace those creative, long hands of hers. Before long, the drawing we were creating takes a back seat—the drawing with my broad, abstract strokes with her lush detail making it come so alive.

And now she’s asleep. So peacefully, raising and lowering slightly as I breathe. Her slender arms still wrapped loosely around me. Her hair so elegant even as it’s dishevelled. One look at her lazed form sway softly over me, and every delicious event since I first sat down behind her to draw flashes before my eyes.

She’s so beautiful you see, I’ve been unable to go to sleep—I’ve just been lost staring at her soft form. Watching her breathe, hearing her murmur and whimper so cutely from time to time, the soft vibrations of her body—oh goodness, she’s delicious—I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s taken so much out of me to part my palms from her delicate, soft back to grab this letter-pad. It’s so dark, and I can see very little, but my dear Crayola I see so clearly. She doesn’t know how much she has me mesmerised. Oh, her nose is totally blocked, she’s snorting and grunting slightly, trying to ease her breaths. And I’m whispering softly and reassuringly in her ear each time she mumbles in her sleep, perturbed. I can’t bear to see her perturbed, I want her forever peaceful and protected in my arms; with me still deep inside her.

Oh, I can’t take it anymore. I have to leave—to kiss her forehead, those tired, closed eyelids and that cute, blocked nose.

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