Romance At The Movies…

So I met someone.

To a regular reader who knows about my man-search, this is a hell of a breakthrough.

I won’t waste your time then, here’s what happened…

***

…It was a hot and hazy Summer’s night, so naturally we found ourselves…hiding indoors.

Our latest refuge: the movies.

Walking through the doors was like having Mr. Freeze ejaculate all over you.  Cold.  In alternative terms (ejaculation analogies are not for everyone), it was almost like standing in a meat locker, and oh my god was it stacked with meat.  There were fleshy humans in every size, parading around in various states of undress.  I wondered where all the evaporating sweat from our foreheads was disappearing to…was it floating off into the theatre air?  Was I breathing in (other people’s) dried up sweat?  Sometimes science scares me.

I headed on over to the automated booth, to get myself some tickets for “The Happening” [sidenote: though this contradicts what 10 million critics will tell you, "The Happening" is a very enjoyable flick.  I'm not being sarcastic, nor am I clinically insane.  I simply found myself entertained by this 90-minute morbid creep-fest.  I don't care what else it failed to be, it was gross and creepy and FUN! Okay, getting off the soap-box now...].

I handed two tickets to my friend and her boyfriend (just call me “3rd wheel” Romi), and off we went to find the best seats.

We snagged the back row of the theatre, which was easy enough since most of the seats were empty.  As I buried my face in a mile-high bag of popcorn, I was blind to the fact that someone had landed next to me.

It was a crew of someones actually, a team of 3.

Though it was dark I could tell they were dudes, a fact I determined from their husky voices, as well as the sweet combination of natural musk and Axe bodyspray (so they were young…or pretending to be). 

Thinking nothing more of the man to my left, I proceeded to watch the previews.  Before they were even over, I felt the strangest sensation…on my foot.  The feeling circled my ankle, setting my body awash with all things “horny”.

(the dude was playing footsies!).

Since when do people do that to total strangers?  It was a bold and daring move, but I supported the assertiveness.

Feeling too nervous to respond in kind, my foot sat frozen as the rest of me trembled.

The movie was about a third of the way through, and footsie-man was having a field day with my lower half. 

I felt it was time to respond to his advances, and so our war of the lower extremities began.

It was fun, it was secretive, and it was even a little romantic.

(does this mean I have a boyfriend now?)

As the credits rolled and the lights came up, it was time to sort things out with my brand new man.

I tapped him on the shoulder and smiled suggestively.

He turned to me, looking a little bewildered.

(oh what, the lights are on and suddenly you’re shy?  Silly you…)

I whispered something sexy in his ear, and that’s when he pushed me away, stating that he had a girlfriend (and that his brother was a police officer).

I stood there feeling 50% confused and 50% mortified.

Had I imagined the entire romance?

That’s when I felt the familiar circular move on my ankle.

My eyes darted downwards, where I found a foot protuding from under the seat.

(?)

I bent down cautiously, frightened and excited for what I would find.

It was…a troll.

(??)

Well either it was literally a troll, or I’m being very insulting to an unattractive “little person”.  Anyway he looked like this, and naturally I asked him what the hell he’d been doing groping my feet.

He explained that he’d been fired from the circus a few weeks prior (apparently the “bearded lady” is a bigger draw), and finding himself homeless, he’d taken up residence at the movies.  Living under the seats had been his greatest chance at survival (due to the variety of snack-scraps to feed on).  It had also been a while since he’d been with a woman, hence the active “foot play”.

I pondered his predicament.

I was sad that I didn’t have a brand new boyfriend, but pleased with his skills in the realm of romancing the foot.  Knowing that it might be a while ’till I find an actual man, I scrawled by number on his forearm.  After the 7th digit I ran out of room (he’s small), and completed my number on forearm #2.

And why did I give him the number?

Well I’m certainly not a charity-case (no you can’t live with me troll-boy), but if he’s feeling blue and he gives me a call (and if my own “foot-on-foot” play doesn’t cut it), maybe I’ll invite him over.

So like I said, I met someone.

Yup, a pretty good night…

Mid-Week Ego Boost

Who doesn’t love a good ego boost?

Okay, that’s probably the same as saying to a group of pigs: “who doesn’t love a good mud bath?”, so without further delay…

…Ego boosts are chameleon in nature; not only are they versatile, but their importance varies by mood, person, and social situation.

As for me, a single girl in her late 20′s (who starts each day by checking if things got “saggier” from the night before), there are certain ego boosts that I just can’t do without:

#1: Dudes on the subway grazing my butt accidentally on purpose (which tells my brain I have an awesome “graze-able” butt)

#2: Dudes looking down my shirt (which tells my brain that the push-up bra with the uncomfortable “wiring” is doing its work)

#3: Getting dirty looks from random chicks (my brain automatically interprets these “soiled-up” stares as jealousy, and what’s more fun than that?)

You can see why I love my top 3 “boosts”, but there’s times when I need a little something extra.

I recently got myself an “extra” (it’s probably not what you’re expecting, but allow me to explain)…

…Picture a fair Spring morning in the snootier part of Toronto (“snootier” as in surrounded by designer shops and expensive restaurants). 

There I was in the midst of the opulence, strolling along in a casual manner.  I didn’t have a purpose, destination or objective in mind, but “random strolling” is one of my favourite hobbies (and the “rich people” neighbourhood is chock full of trees, nooks, and cobbled sidewalks…I dig that).

About midway through my stroll, I glanced to my right, and caught my reflection in a storefront window.

I was sort of…captivated.

I wasn’t wearing anything special, nor had I combed my hair, but there was something about me, and it made my heart skip a beat. 

My self-captivation is all well and good, but like any proper narcissist, I need to describe my outfit:

-I was clad in a pair of bum-hugging (and almost pelvis-crushing) jeans, so the bottom half was doing alright. 

-As for the top half, it was a bit of a bohemian mess: a printed long t-shirt and my favourite cropped jean jacket, all topped off with a scarf, worn 100% for vanity and 0% for warmth (translation: it was thin like a city-whore’s see-through top and completely incapable of warmth…but hey, it was glittered, so “yay ME!”). 

Now when I say “bohemian mess”, I don’t actually mean it in a bad way.  What I mean is, nothing I was wearing really matched, but it didn’t really clash either.  It’s like how celebrities get photographed looking all caught off guard in their “street wear”, but somehow they still look good.

That’s how I looked in the storefront window reflection, like a cool celebrity (especiallly when you factored-in my dark “don’t look me in the eye” pair of shades).

This had all the makings of a wonderful ego boost, but much to my surprise it got even better…

…Following my momentary “reflection”, I felt a little swagger in my step; it was completely involuntary, but it was there, and the people around me were taking notice.  This came to a head when I passed the Four Seasons.  I noticed some valet-dudes on their morning break, and they gave me the ‘ol “Oooh, where do I know that chick from?  Is she on the TV?”-type look.  It was the sort of situation where I should’ve smiled at their acknowledgement, but instead of smiling I frowned, and kind of, sort of….pouted.  I don’t even know why I did that, but it felt so right.

The more I emphasized my slightly bitchy (but awesome) expression, the more and more attention I got.  By a certain point, I had customers at patio cafes doing double-takes, homeless people craning their necks to catch a glimpse of me from their sleeping bags, and pigeons stopping their relentless shitting just so they could check me out.

What a glorious morning.

Feeling so high off this gradual (but significant) ego boost, I decided to embrace the imaginary fame even more, and so, for the first time in my life, I walked into a Gucci store.

I fully expected the sales girl to confuse me with a Bollywood Starlet.

She didn’t.

Realizing that the sales girl had zero knowledge of “Bollywood starlets”, I ignored the slight, and started to browse the collection of purses.

I picked up a purse that was $2200. 

(!)

Almost instantaneously, I pooed in my pants (just a little spotting, nothing explosive).  The poop was a direct result of “sticker-shock” (“sticker shock” is the #1 reason why grown-ups poo in their pants…closely followed by Indian food).

Feeling humbled by the incident, I left the store and ran for the “less snooty” hills (but not before finding a public bathroom, to you know…take care of stuff)…

…So the day didn’t end on a positive note, but considering the morning as a whole, it was certainly a “sum of all parts” delight for my self-esteem.  I simply felt hotter and awesomer and cooler than I had in a long time, so to celebrate, I rewarded myself with a third of a pie as an afternoon snack (which I chased with an Oh Henry chocolate bar).

(what a great way to get through the middle of the week…)

Not-So-Indian Porn…

I’m a “happy go lucky” kinda chick (as the regular readers will already know).

Right.

Despite my positive demeanour, one thing consistently pisses me off: 

-False Advertising

It’s a sore point for two main reasons:

A: I work in Advertising, and we don’t make false claims

B: I tend to be easily persuaded, hence my disappointment when “I’ve been had”

At no time was I more upset than several nights ago, when I found myself the victim of devious trickery…

***

…It was late at night, and I was feelin’ some major insomnia. 

The clock showed 1:00am, whilst I flipped through the channels looking for something to watch….

As I climbed my way to the “movie channels”, I stumbled upon “Maharaja“, a cinematic romp of the “Adults Only” variety. 

Now as a general rule, I’ve studied porn, and I’ve realized it’s not for me (no really, it creeps me out…like why is everything so big sometimes, to the point of wondering if the actors grew up near a nuclear facility, which resulted in boob/genitalia mutation? (and yeah, yeah, yeah, “big is better”, but there’s a fine line between “fun” and “why did you leave your job at the Circus?”)…And why can’t they have better background music? (like how about ”hits from the 80′s?”, or “Boys II Men”?…). 

Despite my reservations, the title “Maharaja“ spoke to me, in nothing less than a sultry native tone. 

What I mean is, “maharaja” is a word used in India, to describe a king or similar position of royalty. 

Once I made this connection, I realized something incredible: I was standing at the foot-hills of INDIAN porn!!!

I considered this a big-time win, since I’d never before been exposed to “Motherland Porn” (which is something you should ALL see once, no matter where you’re from).

So…I put down the remote, got myself comfy (uhh…whatever that means), and prepared for a hell of a show.

What I found a few seconds later, is not what I expected…

First, the characters on screen were (for lack of a better term)…”white folk”. 

I mean granted, they had dark-coloured wigs and fake-tans, but again…”white folk”.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken.

To add some insult to injury, the “actors” weren’t even wearing saris…or long braided hair…or turbans (or any of the fashion-cornerstones of Indian culture).

Instead, the women wore belly-dancing garb whilst the men donned ”puffy Aladdin pants”,  as they performed lewd acts against a backdrop of embroidered carpets.

That’s when I knew that the mofo who directed ”Maharaja” had made a colossal mistake:

-He/she had confused my “Indian” culture…with “Arabian” culture!

And now I was just plain MAD.

Like I’m sorry, but if the makers of the film went to ALL the trouble of digging up the word “maharaja”, could they not have researched further, to see that it relates to INDIAN culture!?!??!?!

I felt so cheated, you know?

It’s the same as if someone had said “Hey Romi, here’s some curry powder to put on your Cheerios”, only to hand me a bottle of Club House seasoning.

Exactly the same as that.

Needless to say, what a tease.

I wanted to file a customer complaint, but I’m not sure if porno-directors have fixed addresses, or if they’re more like nomads, who live in the barns, auto-shops, and pooled backyards where they shoot the majority of their films.

So…I did nothing (except switch the channel to Ghostbusters, where I re-kindled my crush on the venerable Bill Murray).

***

Now since my horrible experience, I can tell you today that I’m a bit more jaded, and a little less pleasant in everyday life. 

So in the spirit of a cloudy demeanour, I will close with the following thought: 

-Yes, I am Canadian (born and bred), but the spicy blood of India coarses through my veins.  Hence, if anyone wishes to relate to me on a cultural level (i.e. by offering me treats, a romantic drive through the city, and a stop at the local market), make it Indian (i.e. samosas, a taxi-ride, and a stop at a convenience store), or get the fuck out.

 

 

PS:  Sometimes I need to be stern and serious in my posts, and this was one of those times.