Gay Arab Guy

5 Kissing Styles Philematologists Hate!

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 06:08:00 +0000

Hi. My name is Wilmaryad. And I'm a philematologist.

What's with the big words, huh? Simply put, philematology studies chemicals kissing releases.

You know when a guy is eating your lips and you, suddenly, start having a helluva good time? That's because your brain's panties, literally, get wet.

The main hormone your brain squirts during lip-lock is called Oxytocin.

If you start feeling less nervous around the guy. Safe in his arms. Even bonding quickly as you swap spit? That's Oxytocin. The good news? It feels awesome!

The bad news? Only women experience that rush.

Guys have it, too, but in rudimentary amounts compared to yours. That must be why prostitutes used to refuse kissing, lest they developed feelings for their clients.

Say, you feel no chemistry with a guy on a date.

Maybe you haven't switched from work mode to compliments-accepting babe. Or you still see your ex's face on every man's head and want to throw acid on it. Or, worse, your ex dining at the next table with his new conquest.

Or maybe your date's just a dud! Hello?

Calm down and tame all Real Housewives of New Jersey table-flipping urges.

The bright side is your lips and his haven't collided yet. Because remember ...

A boring guy can turn the date to his favor if armed with lethal oral skills. Immune to Oxytocin-induced emotional attachment as he is, his smooth kiss can fire up a Chinese New Year's celebration up your spine, blinding you to his imperfections.

Next thing you know, you're hooked but he's not. Sounds familiar?

So, what type of kisser has no snowflake's chance in Hades to brainwash you?

5. Donald Trump

This kisser's lips are tighter than a chicken's rear. His lips just won't unzip!

The worst part? You launch a French attack and your tongue hits a wall.

Unless your mouth is a stinky dumpster, open sesame!

P.S. Pecks are for preschoolers, boo. Loosen up!

4. Toothpick

Ever seen a lizard's tongue whip an insect?

With this kisser, you shouldn't worry something's stuck between your teeth. His tongue offers free and thorough flossing and tartar removal.

Perfect after dinner! (Unless he ate something different and you get a taste. Ew!)

3. Car Wash

Forget Neutrogena face wash products!

This kisser takes "sucking face" literally. His mouth opens so widely, his lips and spit cover your nose, mustache and chin. He'll even lick your ear canal. Ew!

I'll give no names ...

... Sofiane.

2. Sterilized Tongue

Breath fresheners smell good and leave bad aftertaste.

This kisser means well, but I refuse to kiss Vicodin. I was vacuuming a guy's tonsils when my taste buds clammed up. "Had onions today?" I asked.

"No! I sucked on mint strips all day for you!" He enthused.

1. The Kissophobe

He is the world's absolute finest kisser! And he hates it!

His lips make you swoon. And, suddenly, he stops to say the unfathomable. "I can't! Kissing grosses me out ... but it's not you, all right?" He was a Virgo.

Despite kissing a few frogs, I admit having kissed more princes.

My personal record? 7 hours non-stop.

What's yours?

About the author: Wilmaryad's last Kiss Kiss was in 1999.

True Blood Sexiest Hunk is ...

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 14:13:00 +0000

Twilight fans, admit True Blood has got you beat!

HBO's better-than-the-Sopranos series is the sexiest thing on TV. Thanks to a sexy plot and cast, courtesy of Six Feet Under's mastermind, Alan Ball.

Today. From ten contenders. You'll pick ...

The sexiest True Blood hunk.

Honk a hunk loud'n'clear! (Pics enlarge when clicked)

Bill Compton

Tenebrous eyes
Ice-cap-melting smile
Impressive lower back moves
Genuinely loves Sookie

Jesus

Aqua eyes
Luscious lips
Latin swagger
Nurturing and patient

Jason Stackhouse

Insatiable sex on a stick!
Unassuming boyish looks
Naive trouble magnet
Protective of loved ones

Eggs

A body of steel
Calvin Klein had to reduce his junk
Truly loved Tara

Lafayette Reynolds

Puts the F in Fierce!
Gay. Out. Proud.
Fought against the odds
A pro in the kitchen

Tommy

Sam Merlotte's brother
A rebellious survivor
Hornier than thou
Fought like a dog for his folks

Alcide Herveaux

Protective
Perfect physique
Loyal in love
Forgiving of erratic love

Sam Merlotte

Bedroom gaze
Yummy scruff and chest
Makes love on billiard tables
Redeemed his past

Hoyt Fortenberry

Sensitive and humble
Loyal and romantic
Puppy dog eyes

Eric Northman

Dangerously charismatic
A Viking bad boy
Likes it and does it primal
Sacrifices himself for Sookie

G-Spot on a Man Stands for His Gut

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 23:26:00 +0000

Problems finding your G-spot?

Forget all theories about its location. Look at your man.

He rubs his with every ~~boner~~ bone!

Everything stands erect when a man gets happy (pants).

The same goes for his gut. Men are that simple.

The difference between men and women is subtle.

Women's sexual organ is their brain. Tantalizing foreplay, reassuring gestures, smooth talk and the woman squirts your bedroom into an aquarium.

Men have two heads but one brain. And they can't use both heads.

Truth is, a man rarely makes a woman climax.

Women aren't hard to please. Men are just more easily satisfiable. Steak, a romp in the hay, and a snoring serenade is guaranteed. That applies to me, too. Except, unlike my Chinese pals, I don't eat pussy.

My life's changed since I embraced the size of my G-spot.

Nobody needs look for. It rests on my lap when seated. It's so big, my face and feet don't touch the bed. It's handy as the pillow skips a shower by my dinner-flavored goo. And the bed avoids velociraptor toenail scratches.

Size queens, if you saw my G-spot, you'd gag!

Like women's G-spot is believed to be bean-shaped, so is my gut — only vertical. In the mirror, I see a slim figure, with most of the gut "out of frame".

Even without Redbull, my G-spot has wings!

I asked my cousin to open the door, she mistook my love handle for the doorknob. She saw me shirtless, navel down to pubis, she thinks me a girl.

Truth is, more muffins penetrate my esophagus than trains enter tunnels. I so spoil my hairy G-spot with spicy treats, it's often drenched in such heat! Mom puts a bowl under me and uses the gathered sweat as vinegar.

Some salads we have!

But, I'm considering reducing my orgasms to a reasonable 3/day: breakfast, lunch, dinner. Exercise looks good, too. But work out alone?

So, I'm looking for an e-workout partner. No one fancy. Just a guy who is gay, athletic, nutrition savvy, patient, with a charming smile and single.

Yes. That's code for "I'm looking for an Apollo of a boyfriend".

You heard me.

Recommend applicants and help me choose one?

Please and thank you.

Breakup: One-Year Anniversary Lessons

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 14:56:00 +0000

Sex and the City popularized Post-it breakups.

But IM splits? Had to happen to me to believe!

Making pizza. Via GChat. He 9/11-ed me.

They met and fell in love over a weekend. He asked that I cross my fingers for them. Before severing all ties.

A year later, learning my lessons, my recovery lingers.

Compiled below are my 007 dating dont's.

1. Don't ignore red flags

Nobody's perfect. But we all have deal breakers.

If you spot and overlook the following red flags, red will be your tears' color.

Chip on His shoulder If the guy is brooding, argumentative or resentful, flee. Walking on eggshells or using humor won't improve his mood. He needs a therapist; you're not one.

Alcoholism Alcohol unveils hidden desires. But it blurs reality. So, don't believe love declarations by a guy with a bloated liver!

Suicide If he often mentions wanting to end his life, your love can't dissuade him. You dream of a future he wants to abort. It's heartbreaking. But you need a romantic kindred spirit.

Now, don't cross him out just because he picked his nose. *wink*

2. Don't go all TLI (Too Little Info)

Do you live in a third-world country and are getting to know a foreigner?

Explain Internet cuts can last days. Or he'll think irregular contact avoidance.

If you gradually gain access to more sites, abstain from logging onto the site where you met. If he sees you visited, he'll accuse you of cruising.

3. Don't build castles alone

Both birds must want to build a love nest.

If one bird dreams up plans alone, the other will feel neglected.

By the time that bird had mentally schemed the love itinerary, the other will have flown away. So, keep the other in-the-know before it's too late.

4. Your blog is a secret garden

A personal blog is the psyche's vomit.

Its content can be sarcastic, impulsive or offensive. Inviting a suitor to become a reader limits your freedom of expression and you may unintentionally hurt him. Especially if he thinks the world's out to get him.

If he finds it on his own, it'll be a sure-fire test of his character.

5. Be solid friends first

Friendship is a healthy point to start from and regress to.

A relationship with no prior friendship is like cordless bungee jumping.

If romantic compatibility lacks, you may lose both friend and boyfriend.

6. Beware Type Casting

If he exclusively likes hairy and stocky guys, don't get cancer!

Chemotherapy emaciates and causes hair loss. He wouldn't like it.

Falling for the same type reduces to ashes any unique trait you, God forbid, might possess. Earth counts seven billion dwellers. Variety's good.

7. Learn

Making mistakes in love is not the end of the world. So, learn to learn from the opportunities at trial and error that life throws your way.

Without trial and error, all your knowledge about love will be passive. And passive learning has been proven to be beneficial only in the short run.

Learn to fish or wait to be fed fish?

The guy you dumped will get over you by dumping another. You'll get over the guy who dumped you by dumping another. And so on.

It's the learning from each guy that matters.

And one day, you'll meet prince charming. And both of you will have learned from your mistakes. And both will remember not to repeat them.

Just remember to invite me to the wedding, OK?

Teachers Sexually Abusing Children

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 17:40:00 +0000

Mom sent me to school at four years old.

My friends were still playing while I was uprooted from home, every morning, to grasp content two years older than my chronological and cognitive abilities.

I hated school. Til that middle school freshman year.

Ongoing laughter had resulted in year-end awards. Some classmates and I decided to decorate our classroom for the festivities.

Glitter all over, all giggles, we thought we had school all to us.

Wrong!

A classroom away, a teacher was tidying up his desk. My ebb and flow to grab decorations must have caught his attention. He ordered me to enter.

To my surprise, he said we had unfinished business. That he held a grudge against me. Laughing the news off, I argued not knowing him.

His face hardening, he exclaimed "This is no laughing matter!"

He slammed his books and sat on a table, thighs spread. He, then, ordered me to get closer. My gulps amplified, I stopped an inch from his knees.

Discontent, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer.

A button flew off.

"What am I to make of you, handsome?", he whispered, his eyes salivating, while contemplating the skin the missing button revealed.

Insistent I owed him, he instructed I kneel and crawl the classroom.

I refused.

His voluptuous thighs almost touching my zipper, combined with the probability of him molesting me, was unbearable. I burst into tears.

Hearing me cry, my classmates ran in.

He feigned innocence saying he was just teasing me. The girls escorted me out, shocked such a popular teacher was a pedophile.

Petrified, I decided to skip attending the day after's ceremony.

Guess who became my Arabic teacher for the following two years?

Exactly.

To indulge his vice, he divided us into boys-only and girls-only groups. Each week, one group attended a "make up session" to help us with ambiguous lessons. He and his shadiness were the only ambiguity.

He brought a sexual jokes encyclopedia he'd delight in telling. To the euphoria of my fellow boy classmates. I cared for no such content, especially from him, attracting criticism from the boys.

"Oh, relax!" they'd say.

Seated across from him, subjected to his hungry-wolf stare, made his class seem an eternity. My grades were as desolate. Justifiably.

Why like school when it employs pedophiles?

I was 11 when I asked that question.

Son Confesses Sexual Abuse to Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 05:32:00 +0000

Late afternoon.

On the bathroom seat.

I confessed sexual abuse to mother.

Incensed, she asked "Why didn't you tell me?"

Aside from reporting a male babysitter, this was the first time I'd mentioned names and places.

The inclusion of her two sons in my hall of shame seemed to matter little.

On the spot, I blamed it on the surprise effect.

I, now, think she blindly accepts anything her sons do — except me. She did curse the hell out of the culprits after all, minus her sons.

Many emotions attended the party on mom's face.

Stupor at hearing names of married neighbors she took for saints. Disgust at how they lured kids. Heart wrench over neighbors my age abused.

Sadness for her own child's body and soul was a no-show.

Pleading guilty for the charge of absenteeism could have been palpable if mom were strong enough to admit faulting and try to repair the carcass.

But mother has never been strong.

All that rage, yelling and steely facade were tailor made to intimidate me.

If my child cited my absence as cause of his molestation, I'd be humbled.

But, mother has never been a responsible parent.

She cowardly faked amnesia.

But I reminded her, in detail, how she had caught me after the act, once.

Despite many Aha's, no innate motherly instinct to protect the flesh of her flesh transpired. She let out a halfhearted "Wanna see a shrink?" before pouring water for Pontius Pilate to wash his hands of her son's crucifixion.

A virulent fight, triggered by truth seeking to come out, occurred prior.

Mom had sort of gone back to school and her year-end project happened to be about "Abuse in and outside of Schools." Ironic?

I Googled a chart detailing child abuse consequences.

Right there, I understood why I unknowingly encompassed those traits!

Swallowing my tears while rereading, mom came in to launch yet another gratuitous and degrading attack. Right then, I demanded that she no longer belittle me like that. Blames were exchanged, many accusations denied and a week had passed before I divulged my aversion to her tyranny.

I was in the bathroom but, for the first time, my head wasn't down the seat.

J'ai Faim: Dieting to Win Him Back

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 14 May 2010 21:46:00 +0000

Summertime is here.

Looks get rejuvenated. Abs sculpted. To slide into hot swimsuits. And cause tsunamis on the beach.

Not this body!

I've been on a muffins, donuts and anything dessert diet.

But I'm flirting with the idea of losing weight.

I blame French comedy!

J'ai Faim (I'm Hungry) sees Lily, a florist unafraid to take a bite out of life, go through a draconian diet to win her man back.

Aided by diet-obsessed best pal, Lily vows to change for Barnabe!

The lengths vengeful Lily goes to, portrayed by Catherine Jacob, are as extreme as the makeover she undergoes. With friends in tow, she ruins the life of Anais, the girl she suspects of stealing her man.

It took Lily and Co. midnight prank calls, vandalizing the poor gal's house, and dragging her down the stairs to realize her innocence.

The movie shows friends' influence, positive or negative, on our choices.

If Arlette, Lily's best friend (by the exquisite Michelle Laroque) didn't voice her suspicion that Lily's guy dumped her for his skinny coworker, lots of damage could have been avoided.

Arlette, eventually, discovers it's her man who wants Anais.

I, for one, have been contemplating avoiding rubbing off on my friends either my jadedness or giddiness; I wouldn't want to risk changing their outlook on or influencing their choices in matters of the heart.

Like Lily, I had considered winning back the last guy I loved, mainly by getting back in touch and shape. But then, I like to indulge my palate.

Must we morph into someone else for "lost love" to come back?

No!

So, I decided to cross out the guy from my head and heart.

After 10 months of waiting.

Tuesday was his birthday. I lost him in July. He lost me on Tuesday.

Terror + Civil War = No Development

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 14:42:00 +0000

9/11 did not start terrorism.

Before the NY tragedy gave global TV screens seizures, terrorism had been inking many history books in blood.

When terrorism begets war, life stops. Fear thwarts development. An entrapping mismatch between your emotional and chronological ages is born.

I was chronologically eight when terrorism ate my country alive.

Memories of besiege

I recall bombs exploding. The onion on my nose amid tear gas. A neighbor agonizing on the floor. The morning a bomb was found in my school.

Slain politicians, artists and journalists. Blown-up banks, theaters and courts. kidnappings. Houses broken into. Wives raped before their husbands.

A five o'clock curfew, to cheat insignificant death, completed the besiege.

Hey kid, stop being a kid!

Barely good at multiplication, our political inclinations were questioned. Mere partisanship rumor attracted trouble. Murder was an option.

Forget summer camp. Buses were stopped, emptied and all passengers shot because parents refused to deny their kids beach time.

No expeditions in a country with surreal history, culture and scenery. No sleepovers. No summer concerts. No youth-forging experiences. No growth.

Young, dumb and full of crumb

I went to the club the first and last time at 16 — the only advantage looking older entailed. I had no idea I was fresh meat amid a wolf pack.

Peerless, I basked in mingling with all these, at last, grownups. While they were getting a close-up preview of their prey, to decide on my price tag.

It wasn't until I caught my then-best friend pocketing money, after promising my body for so and so, that I cut ties with everybody and that milieu.

Bend over or I tell everybody you're gay

Love in all this?

• At 14, I fell hard. Like all firsts, my ribs were wood, his love fire. Five years later, I was sternly told my love wasn't reciprocal, losing custody of my 100 letters.

• At 15, a guy sodomized me bareback in my sleep. I revolted. He slapped me and boarded the only cab available at midnight. I had to walk two hours home.

• At 16, I befriended the only openly gay guy in my uptight school and town; public crucifixion ensued. Besotted with a "straight" guy, I failed high school.

Catching wind of it all, mom sentenced me to 2 years in our Guantanamo home.

P(r)ay the gay away

Classmates were paid to report my every move. People I liked. Air-kissing Judah clones. Kittens exploitative of that one occasion to roar like lions.

Reaching my critical-thinking-challenged mother, rumor was fact.

Her violence was nothing new to this punching bag. But unfair accusations and spine-tingling insults had become too redundant a meal on the menu.

I could hit back, emotionally and physically. My faith says otherwise.

Keep your amenities closer

Privy to mom's dirtiest secrets, a word to my hotblooded, honor-obsessed uncle could destroy her. But why have her killed and he imprisoned?

My only crime was reenact, as a teen, "vices" she'd committed as an adult.

I get she had to keep me on the straight and narrow. Yet pepper spray, public diary readings, police calls and prison threats were unnecessary.

Problems in bulk

Locked in. Attacked. Imploding. I, gradually, lost my zest for life.

My contagious joie de vivre ceased contaminating even me.

My Cortisol skyrocketed. My eyes dimmed. My swimmer's build ballooned. Seeing me on a rare outing, a former crush exclaimed "WTF?!?"

It's times like these you wish earth swallowed you alive.

What now?

Today, I realize I've survived my hardship share. But at what price?

At best, I feel like a fragile kid in an adult world bigger than his body.

All I know is violence hinders your emotional development. War cripples. The depletion of opportunities to shine casts a bleak veil on the future.

It seems to be too late ...

Hairy Arab Man First Armpit Shave

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 15:14:00 +0000

Manscaping. Such a hassle for a hairy man.

Unless he is chaetophobic, dating a beautician, or must be smooth at work, a guy shaving daily is a mystery.

And we're only talking scruff.

Arab men do trim/shave the "Bermuda Triangle" i.e. armpits and pubis, especially if married.

But, chest/back/sack waxing? Ouch!

I, for one, seldom invite razors to smooth over my tennis court of a face.

My beard has grown on me over the years. Literally. Being single is one more reason not to mow the lawn.

But, two days ago, shaving my armpits became a plan!

Background story: water pipes are being fixed in my neighborhood. That means no access to tap water for two weeks in such scorching heat. Having found no alcohol-free deodorant, shaving seemed the thing to do.

I chanced upon a hair removal cream tube of my mother's.

There was no spatula or expiry date on, but I suspected the thing to be 3+ years old. The cream looked like toothpaste and smelled like gutter water.

I proceeded to slather the cream all over my armpits. The burn!

I, then, sat arms arched like an eagle's wings, resisting the urge to rub my slightly burning eyes for fear of losing my eyelashes.

Ten minutes later, smarty pants thought mere water splashes would make the uprooted armpit hair slide down the drain.

Big mistake!

Unable to lay my hands on a spatula, I flipped the toothpaste tube, but it was too limp for the job. Next was a broken comb. A Missouri fridge magnet.

To no avail.

Having chemicals on longer than recommended made me panic. When I panic, common sense exits. So, I frantically scrapped with anything I found.

Result?

My armpits look like a cat sharpened its claws on them.

And that smell! Nobody told me I was to smell like the sewers for the next 48 hours! And I can't even spray deodorant or use soap?

Women, how in the world d'ya do it?

Sexually Abused as a Child ... and I Liked It

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 20:44:00 +0000

Growing up in a house devoid of affection was more traumatic than being molested as a child.

When touch warms up a boy's cold existence, the deed's immorality is virtually insignificant. At least to him.

Whether habit makes him return for more is debatable.

After 27 years of inner turmoil, silence and grudges, my precocious sexualization is becoming less of an issue.

Mother battered and devalorized me cruelly at home. At least, my molesters used no violence or awfully-crude language. Non-violent, feel-good, physical contact was welcome change. That was my logic as a child.

Gratitude in this context can shock, but I feel lucky.

Truth is, my experience with sexual abuse was benign compared to others'. I was touched more than anything, with futile anal intercourse attempts. That's why, to this day, I struggle calling the culprits 'abusers'.

Is "illicit source of physical closeness" a better appellation?

Most culprits were teens from our poor, delinquent and illiterate ghetto. Many came from large families cramped in one-room apartments. In the absence of room, they vented their sexual frustration outside.

Except my nanny's teenage son. His plaything lived right next door.

Mom caught us right after the act, one afternoon. But, since she respected his father, she said nothing. Instead, she cowardly had me break the embarrassing news to the guy's sister -- my then-best friend.

Am I wrong for hurting more over mom's inaction?

I'm an optimist. I, thus, can tune out outside issues if a loving home awaits. But, when you are abused, find nobody home to console you, you're lost. It's worse when you have an absentee parent in whom you can't confide.

The incident that scarred me the most was courtesy of a babysitter.

The personal assistant to one of mom's "friends". I was often left alone with him while everybody partied until the wee hours of the morning elsewhere. Knowing his intentions, I'd sternly watch cartoons to resist falling asleep.

Being only five, and after a grueling day at school, I always dozed off. I'd open my eyes to find myself on his lap, his tobacco-stinking mouth devouring my face and his loins frantically rubbing against my body.

One evening, I complained about that in graphic detail to mom. I begged not to be taken there. She promised to have him replaced. Countless nights after, I found myself alone with him again, sleepily succumbing to his urges.

Face to face. Butt to loins. Childhood helplessness to adult lust. A feeling of betrayal to a feeling of lucking out. A justified grudge to bestial insensitivity.

To this day, she swears I never told her about it ...

Precious and Mary Jones Lived Here

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 21:50:00 +0000

No eye shall remain dry, promised Precious.

A story of finding self-worth and triumph over hardships.

Based on the book of the same title, by Sapphire, the movie left me unmoved. Not for lack of domestic violence or incest scenes; abuse is just all too familiar.

I have been Precious.

Mary Jones is my mother. Unlike Mary, however, my mother didn't have her boyfriend desert her to rape and impregnate her daughter.

Mother is educated, independent and always had men at her feet. Granted, she did not take advantage of the opportunities life had sent her way, but she had virtually no reason to be physically and verbally abusive at home.

She had no right to turn me into Precious.

If my back could talk, it'd scream the pain of that whip, torn twice lashing it. My wrist would show you the big kitchen knife cutting it, that one night.

My sweet 16 remembers the pepper spray under the covers.

Much like Precious, I escaped into a dream world as soon as my body and soul were yet again being polluted. I created a world where I had a loving father, an affectionate mother and fun siblings.

That dream felt so real, I made part of its characters to my classmates. A fertile imagination came in handy for this boy when he found himself in those awkward moments when all his peers showed off their families.

The only break from physical abuse I used to get was when mom and I had company. Just like Mary Jones acted all kind and gentle with the social worker, mom changed masks in the presence of people.

The anger disappeared, the civility reemerged, the joie de vivre looked natural and the torture chamber temporarily closed down.

But I did receive the cold stares, kicks and pinches under the table, which elicited a broken smile by a soul silently sending out an S.O.S.

Much like Mary Jones blamed her daughter for her lack of love and affection, I believe mom holds a grudge against me because the men she wanted to marry must have had a problem with her having children.

Mom often confessed wanting to abort me. She had had two kids from a first marriage, but they were less problematic since they lived with their dad.

Her excuse for being violent? She did not know any better.

Amelie Poulain + Pastry = My Valentine's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 07:27:00 +0000

Valentine's Day with a special someone feels good.

Even if many write off the occasion as commerce, that somebody's celebrating their love for you is endearing.

Nothing's lost if you're alone.

V-Day is not about a person; it's about the big L.

At 27, I've never had a valentine.

Last year was my only semblance of a Valentine's. A guy I liked had asked me to be his valentine via email. I was ecstatic to spend the night on Skype, listening to My Funny Valentine and watching him unscrew his bed.

As a gift, he created a PowerPoint presentation.

Each slide contained cutesy messages, accompanied by my photos and his -- pics he'd taken especially for the occasion. I was touched he had styled his incorrigibly-straight hair with gel. Cute coming from a geeky tech, ain't it?

He even inspired an impromptu Valentine's Day poem.

Then, he dumped me. Love is oh-so everlasting! *eye roll*

This year saw no successor to the valentine throne. So, the early bird that I've become got out of bed at 6 PM, wore a witness protection program coat and headed for the patisserie.

To avoid arousing neighborly suspicion of my party for one, I threw the pastry box in a black plastic bag and swung it home.

Luckily, despite the whipped cream, the pastry was solid. Once home, I slid under the blanket, a DVD into the player and gluttony began.

My favorite movie is Amelie.

The romanticism dancing in broad Parisian daylight plunges you in a worry-free world where you feel afloat — a feeling whipped cream on my pastry accentuates.

I like how Amelie, an unpretentious waitress, brings intrigue and anticipation back to the now-dull love game.

She goes on a 48-hour-do-good spree that smacks her back on the bum and drops her dream man at her door.

Amelie, and its otherwordly Yann Tiersen soundtrack, make life seem more digestible.

Enough 'bout me. Tell uncle Wilmy about your VDay.

Death of a Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 08:57:00 +0000

If a blogger dies ...

How are his blogging friends to know of his death?

Forget science's immortality aspirations, as death is inevitable.

Often feared and maligned, death is simply the epitome of a life.

It's the only thing that sees no color, no creed, no age and no social class. As such, we all sooner or later get to meet it.

And what a relief that day will be!

As bloggers, we're not immune to the coffin treatment. While the death of technology is a reason our blogs would cease existing, we could always resort back to snail mail.

But how to remedy the death of the masterminds behind blogs?

Have you thought of your blog's future in case of your passing?

Do you have a post scheduled 5 years from now?

Got someone to perpetuate your blogacy?

I hope you have someone to inform me of your death. I got no one. But you know I must have died if my blog's design looks the same for more than 3 months.

Now, let's discuss your blog's will, shall we?

A December Ago - Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:14:00 +0000

A Decembers ago ...

I wrote this poem.

A month I link to heartache.

It, thus, befits this December.

Even if this year differs.

I won't go on a quest to find romance again.

My veteran heart needs recuperation from one more jihad too many in the name of love.
______________________

A December ago, love's eyes bled
The mind's sanity fled
An ocean of tears the heart shed
And with grief, the soul wed.

A December ago, my body lost all might
My faith in men took fright
Clairvoyance lost its stitched sight
And my sunny kingdom met its twilight.

A December ago, I finally understood
I shall be hanged in the nude
On a crucifix of burning wood
For loving a heart so cruel and crude.

A December ago, December begged January
For a restful and calmer February
For heartaches in winter have become customary
Within the walls of my murky sanctuary.

A December ago, December forgot to forget
Only sorrow does sorrow beget
For another December's come to be beset
By a one-way memory lane of bitter regret.

WELCOME TO GAY ARAB GUY CLOSET

noreply@blogger.com (Wilmaryad) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 21:26:00 +0000

Gay Arab men must hide. It's not deception. It's survival.

Anonymity is called for. Even online. So, pardon my hiding my face.

Albeit living in a closet, my expression on this blog will be far from closeted.

I'm Wilmaryad de la Scala -- love child of Maria Callas and Oscar Wilde.

From Callas, I got perfectionist loneliness. From Wilde, an aesthetic flair.

On here, I will be shedding masks, shedding light on murky memory attics, and shedding burdens off of crumbling parquet shoulders.

In me sleeps magma prose sprinkled with Jean Paul Gaultier.

Your mission, if you accept it, is to partake in the exorcism of this soul.