Father's Day

I have not heard from him in months; he must be busy with his own affairs fucking around with guys I used to share my life experiences with.

He doesn't even know my birthday has passed just a few weeks ago.

I have completely emancipated myself from him.

The Market

Chemistry. I must study for Chemistry. Mid semester test is coming up in a few days and I hardly know anything about reaction mechanisms and those bloody energy profiles. My scholarship provider will not be too happy to know I’ve been wasting my time alternating between spending their money on things I hardly need and going to The Peel.

My friends call it discipline but I call it guilt. I planned up a whole regime for the weekend in response to guilt. Chemistry followed by Genetics and snippets of Geology. I will stay home tonight. I will sleep early. I will study and learn the things I need to know and I will score for my exams.

Buzz. Buzz. H calls me on my mobile to invite me for a sleepover.

H had a raspy voice over the phone perhaps from all the alcohol he had been drinking. Sore throat, he says. He must have had more alcohol than I had in seven months; clearly his eyes were blood red and his acne worsening. Intoxicated. He has been partying since Tuesday; every night going out with a different group of friends to celebrate his birthday. Pretty busy schedule, pretty high alcohol levels.

In his car I could smell the faint odour of smokes. He must have been having ciggies in the car again. Bad boy. Landing a kiss on the cheek, I smell more smokes. Sexy.

Phonecall. He's being invited out for another party. Asks me if I would go along.

Yes.

Chemistry seems a long way away when you compare it with heavy music in the backgroud, flashing lights, cute topless boys, carcinogens floating in the air attacking your respiratory system, and alcohol attacking your liver and kidney.

I've never stepped into The Market before. The only two places I've been to in Melbourne are the Xchange and The Peel, the latter being the majority. I can only recount going to the Xchange once. Didn't really like young gay white boys screaming pretentiously around drag shows and flamboyant displays of femme behaviour. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m fussy.

Wearing his shirt, gel and perfume, I find myself walking in the bloody cold wind blowing right through my veins. I thought winter is over. Where's the warmth? Outside the venue I see two queues on either side of the doors, one for the members and the other for non-members. Apparently this is what it was like to enter The Market; the caste system is in effect. Members get priority entry and non-members, well, they’ll just have to wait. Luckily he flashed his "medallion" to the doorman. He’s a member of the pack and I get to enjoy the same privileges. Spunky.

Heavy music thumping in the background and drinks that are more expensive than The Peel. I find myself intoxicated within seconds, drowning shots of heavy liquor and slices of lemon to go with it. Few friends on the dance floor, and others hanging around in the shadows. Tired. Legs and hands grooving to the music without help from the brain.

The dance floor was filled with sweaty topless whiteys. You’d probably find the occasional Asian here and there but they were a rare species here. Hot music jamming away at the background as I take sips of Bourbon into my system. This place is not bad. Not bad at all.

Dancing with a white guy who knows one of my friends. Apparently he had sent me messages on Gaydar but I never check that account anyway. He thinks I'm flirting with him. I'll take that as a compliment. I don't have to explain myself to anyone; what you see is what you get. And I've never considered dancing with friends a form of flirtation. Good fun. Besides H won't mind. We're not attached anyway.

Bed before the sun rises and up just before it begins to set. I've made his bed smell of smokes and Bourbon. I don't remember climbing in without showering.

Bacon and egg "breakfast" at 7pm with slices of pineapple for dessert.

I should do this more often.

Spend Spend Spend

I've been working so hard that I can already see the scars on my fingers. My brain is partially fried and my reflexes are that of an 80 year old man.

I cannot walk in a straight line in the morning, and I fall asleep almost instantly. I don't have any trouble sleeping; just a pillow under my head and I'm up in snoozes.

I mean, what's the point. I'm earning hundreds and hundreds of dollars and I don't have the capacity to spend it. It’s locked up away in the bank, churning up dollars in interest, but I'm suffering physically and mentally from the stress associated with work. And I hardly reward myself at all.

Though my income has gone up, my instinct to save has not worn off. I am still buying cheap food and being weary of buying drinks at clubs because it’s almost inbuilt in me. I just can't bear to spend the money. But then lo-behold one fine day I woke up to the sound of money. I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to spend it. Spend it all.

What better place is there in the world to spend absurd amounts of cash other than a boutique buying horrendously expensive clothes to fit you?

I instantly jumped into sister-mode and went rummaging for a shirt. After hours of toil and days of unrest, I finally spotted a shirt hanging off one of the racks in Myer that caught my eye.

I don’t really shop at Myer. I think the place is a rip-off because it overcharges people on everything and anything. We’re talking about $200 bed sheets and $99 toasters here, people.

But this was the exception because I knew it the instant I saw it, that I had to have it. Pressing my nose against it, I could smell the freshness of the fabric. The seams that ran across the cloth were flawless and the pattern, a bluish-green array of stripes descending from the top to the bottom was flaunting yet conservative. The style: tight fitting and crease-free.

The hips fitted perfectly; I could feel it tight around my waist and loose around my chest. Long sleeves tuck away my underdeveloped hands and the collar crisp and ironed such that no creases were visible.

I knew that very moment that this was it. This was mine.

Instinct kicked in again and I went into withdrawal mode. I kept pacing around the area in which the shirt was sold trying to look for cheaper alternatives. You will understand when you are in Australia that nothing decent is cheap. Even a simple T-shirt can cost anywhere between $50 and $200. Shirts that fit me (i.e. have XS or S sizes) are almost always more than $70, and a majority of them have hideous looking designs that someone like me would cringe at the thought of wearing such atrocious looking monstrosities.

But I am a picky person, and a stingy one at that. I ended up in Collins St, walking into all the boutiques that still had winter sales trying to find a better buy but again, no size for me, no patterns I like.

More than 20 shops later, I find myself standing on Bourke St once more. Skimming through the large array of clothes in David Jones, I found nothing that caught my eye. Everything was either too radical or too simple, or too expensive for the brand that it carries. Herringbone. Who the hell has heard of that brand??? And to pay $200 for a shirt that nobody knows of is a disgrace.

When you think Gucci and LV, you think screaming. Outward proclamation that your item belongs to the elite. You don't pay $3000 for a handbag that doesn't have LV plastered all over it, even if it is in hideous looking colours.

Melbourne Central and Saba makes me sigh. Awful looking summer line with ridiculously expensive price tags. And Marcs; everybody can afford their shirt. Everybody can wear it. Commonplace. Simple.

Waste of money.

I walk past Myer three more times more before deciding to put it on EFTPOS. That gut wrenching feeling you get when you spend a million dollars; that's how I felt as I walked out with a tiny bag.

Two weeks of work in that bag.

When I got home, I couldn’t stop touching the shirt. I must have been insane. Mad. Possessed. This is what you get when you work too hard. You become crazy.

And it was at that moment I noticed on the tag that the shirt was made in Malaysia. Hmmmm.

And funnily though, today I wore the shirt to a cocktail party and I instantly realised it was worth more expensive than the COMBINED price of the coat, pants and shoes I had on.

I'm very happy with my Hugo. And everybody seems happy too.

Rain

It's one of those days again; rain over Greater Melbourne. I can hear the rain outside my window. Cold air running through my feet, making me shiver.

I'm not ready to sleep. I'm not ready to say goodnight.

Relapse - Part 2

Headache from the previous day’s drinking. I can feel the throbbing sensation in my temples radiating across my forehead. The alcohol must have made is way into my brain cells. I am going to die a young and horrible death.

I smell the stench of cigarettes on my fingers. Have I been smoking? I can’t remember. I am lying in an empty bed with my CK’s, comforter draped over me and the midday sun shining into my face. It’s time to get up now, lazy bum.

I hear the turn of the doorknob and the clanking of plates. He’s home. I get a quick glance of the clock beside the bed and I realise it’s a quarter past 3.

Fresh boiled prawns in lettuce, cucumber and tomato with a dressing of balsamic vinegar and thousand island sauce. I offer to slowly peel off the prawn shells for him and he gently obliges me feeding him. Bliss. I am reminded of happier days with my ex.

I gulp down the whole prawn without peeling it. I like the skeleton; It’s crunchy and has a twang to it. He prefers it skinned because he reckons the shell is nasty. I can agree by saying that the head is disgusting if you focus on the fact that some orange goo comes out of it when you squeeze against the sides of the poor prawn’s head. A goo that was once the “brain” of this not-so-intelligent crustacean.

Forks to scoop up the salad and feed one another. The sour taste of Thousand Island gives the salad a very nice kick to it, and the fresh prawns help to mediate the strong taste of vinegar and tomatoes. He’s very good with mixing different types of food together to make one big dish. He has to be; he’s studying it at TAFE level.

I’m slightly bashful when it comes to affection in living areas. I’ve never grown up in a house where affection was the norm so kissing another person in the living room is equivalent to sin sin sin. I must go for confession soon.

Two DVD’s and heaps of cashew nuts to chew on. We have amalgamated on the sofa such that we are no longer two distinguishable separate entities. Tied up in a knot of hugs, I sense a feeling I’ve not felt in many months.

The feeling of wanting to be with another person.

Tuna sandwich for dinner. Or rather, CANNED tuna sandwich. I’m pretty sure I’ll like it, there’s even a Made In Malaysia sign on the tin of tuna. Familiar food from a familiar country.

Slicing the lettuce and tomatoes, I notice how sharp his knife is. He politely says that the knife is a blunt one; he has sharper. I’m amazed at his sense of perfection when it comes to cooking. He won’t even let me flip the omelet over on the pan because apparently a spatula is a much more civilized way of cooking.

Bloody cats are still around. His housemate loves cats and he has set out to populate the house with them. They must be very hungry because they keep meow-ing at me as I feast on the fat huge sandwich that lay before me. I can tell they are jealous. I’m getting all the attention and they are being ignored. One tabby cat climbs the window sill and sends a disapproving look darting across the room to me but I take no notice of it. Come on. They’re just cats. What do they know about love and attention.

Delicious sandwich prepared with all the love it can possibly have. Over discussions about meaningless topics such as hobbies and sins-of-the-past, I find myself gently discovering more and more about this fascinating person whom I’ve known for barely a week. I slowly gain a sense of his emotions, his thoughts, his ideals, little by little.

The Witches is being aired on the telly. I can tell he’s slowly drowsing off now; he must be very tired from yesterday’s dancing. Carrying him in my arms, we climb the staircase towards his bedroom and he lights a candle to illuminate the room. Playing soft relaxing music from his computer, I am lulled back into that dreamy world I was in not too long ago the previous day…

He falls asleep on my shoulder and I find myself kissing his forehead spontaneously.

I could get used to this.

Relapse

Getting out of work early, I try to sneak away with a few soft drinks but my manager notices. Damn. Scurrying home, I take a quick glance at my watch. Five past. I’m late by 20 minutes and counting.

Scrubbing hard in the shower, I notice how the hands on my skin have hardened with all the washing in the kitchen. I no longer have femme fingers; they are all rugged and bruised from the manual labour. I jump into decent clothing I bought at a bargain and drench myself in Issey to rid the stench of oil and grime that has accumulated on my skin after four hours of work at the grill.

It’s been getting warmer lately such that I forget to slip on my coat on the way out. Strong gusts of wind blow through my thin cotton shirt; I thought I could get away with unbuttoning the shirt all the way down but after 10 minutes of unbearable late-winter chill I give up and finally concede towards adopting a more conservative display of my underdeveloped physique.

Again, hopping on the tram with the whole intention of evading fares. Tram inspectors are no where in sight; tonight I’ll get away with another free ride on the tram. A few Goths huddle together at the back of the tram, littering the floor with the chips that they are happily munching away. A quick phone call to a friend to tell him how mortified I am to be unable to join him for a drink; I am running late and have no time to spare for a bourbon-coke, not even with the closest friend I have come to know in this part of the world.

China Bar, he says, and I promptly turn up in front of the restaurant. The smell of roasted duck and pork fill the air as the man behind the glass window chops away at some duck carcass albeit the noisy crowd happily munching away at the remains of butchered animals. I stare into the lard-stained glass window and strain my neck to get a good glimpse of the patrons inside. He is nowhere in sight.

A few phone calls and many bone chilling minutes later, I see him walking towards me from across the street. He's at the traffic light, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Windswept hair and V-neck grey top albeit casual worn-look jeans, I instantly feel a shrill of excitement creep up my spine. He’s finally here.

Buzz. Buzz. No answer. Bloody friend of mine must be in the shower. We had walked over to one of my friend's apartments in the city, hoping to get free tea and a ride to the club but as we stand in front of the glass door that leads to the lobby, nobody picks up the intercom on the other side to let us in. I am slightly flustered by the looks on his face. He seems almost calm, nonchalant. He must be dealing with it smoothly, or perhaps not dealing with it at all. I on the other hand am a walking tempest concealed behind a misleading smile; cautious to keep the beast caged, I do not display the raging emotions within me though I can feel the pressure to let it out.

It makes me sick that I have to restrain myself from letting him know what I really meant when I sent him hugs in the form of text-messages; from telling him how I really feel.

Especially when he lands a peck on my cheek.

Buzz. Buzz. My other friend finally picks up the handset from his apartment and speaks through the intercom. He’s in his P-J’s. Lazy to get out of bed, he says. I knowingly land another peck on the guy standing next to me in full view of the tiny camera that stares at the both of us standing in front of the glass doors. My other friend gets a good view of the kiss and asks us to get a room. Bitch.

Golden Monkey again. Friends from a ski trip whom I've slowly got to familiarise myself with, and a few other strangers whom I've never seen or met before. The place is as lucid as when I last came here; candle lights, screens separating the tables, soft cushions to support your back... Across me, a Caucasian man whom nobody in the group seems to know or acknowledge, happily chatting away with some of the people in the group as though he was one of us. Well who the f*** are you. Seems as though he just found a comfortable spot among this huge group of eligible cute handsome young Asian bachelors and decided that it was only proper to intrude our privacy and hope we didn't mind while he worked his way into "hoping" that he would have a pants to crawl into tonight.

Well guess what. I'm not particularly approving, especially when half of the time your eyes are fixated on me. Ugh.

Puke.

Sake being served in cute ornate trays and tiny porcelain cups. I however choose to go with Riesling, and he goes with a Sauv Blanc. Amazing how he and I share the same taste for whites. Not many people do anyway.

The group is splitting up to fit into the three cars so that everybody can go to Lotus to have a good time. I however am picky; Lotus is not good enough for me. In my head, I see noodles and rice. I am hungry. I ask him to take me somewhere to eat. Anything to take me away from the group and into his private company. Walking down Lonsdale St. I hear a familiar voice behind me, asking me to "get over it" when he sees me holding hands with the person walking next to me. It’s that whitey who was sitting with us in Golden Monkey. He seems to be walking home alone.

Home cooked food for me, he says. How can I bear to say no to him.

Collins St. is deserted at this time of the day. 25 minutes at the tram stop and we finally conclude that the tram isn’t going to come. Bloody money sucking taxis are the only alternative, though I can tell he doesn’t really mind climbing into the back of one. It must come natural for him; I am more of a miser when it comes to splurging on transport. Read “fare evader”.

Noodles in mince pork and chili flakes making its way down my throat into my hungry stomach. I can almost taste the love that was put into making the noodles; God they are delicious. Three cats crawl around my legs hoping for a quick bite from my bowl. They must be able to smell the sweet scent of pork from a mile away.

A friend picks us up and we are heading towards the Peel. Then again, there wasn’t anywhere else to go to, nor anything else to do.

Blurry. I wake up in a bed that is not my own. Dozens of bourbon-cokes later and a slight memory about jumping into a cab after being dragged in by a friend, I can’t remember what I had been doing or the sequence of events that led me here. I feel an arm across my chest, gently holding me in an embrace. Noticing the soft sound of air bubbles from a nearby fish tank and a tight band of moonlight streaming through blinds, I find my tired eyes shutting themselves and beckoning me to call it a day. Gently tugging at the sheets and embracing the person that lays beside me, I let out a sigh of relief that the day turned out to be more than I could ever have had imagined it to be.

Blackout. I am asleep within seconds.

Blog

I received an email with comments about my blog:

hey. my name's [[*censored]]. i just read through your blogspot and the way you put your thoughts together is amazing. it's like reading what's running through someone's head at that very moment - and making total sense but at the same time i'd never think to say it.

sorry if i just seem like another ugly white guy making a pass. just wanted to leave you with a compliment.

and the last track on miss furtado's newest album, all good things come to an end, is my favourite.

Does my blog do that to you? Does it make you feel like you're running through my thoughts and feelings?

Do give me your feedback. I'd love to know.

Especially since my posts are mostly jargon (-_-)"

Golden Monkey and Peel

Wallpaper with Chinese storks as its motif, with traditional Chinese PaKua symbols the main feature of the intricate wood carvings used as partitions for individual chambers of patrons. Candle lights illuminate the otherwise dim atmosphere and the loud chatter coming from the crowd exudes energy from the pores of drunk, happy, or make-believe happy people.

Meeting with a few close friends in the Golden Monkey for my birthday was spontaneous and didn't have a flow of events to it. Initially I dreaded going out because I had a 4 hour shift of flipping burgers and getting the oil all up my hair and skin, and when you think about it flipping burgers for four hours doesn't seem to set you in the mood for a party. It was only because someone had come to pick me up from my work place and offered to drive me around for the day. Without his strength and enthusiasm I would have sunken into the low mood of an overworked and over-lonely International student in a foreign country.

I've never been a good organiser of birthday parties. Usually I attend parties but I've never actually organised my own because the word "logistics" doesn't seem to exist in my book. Besides I'm not a whole fan of birthday cakes, presents and smiling people. In fact, I can't even remember the last time I had a birthday cake, or the last time people sang me the cheesy Happy Birthday song. My parent's stopped throwing elaborate kids parties by the time I was in primary school. I was too grown up then, for party hats and streamers, for clown masks and paper plates to pass the biscuits and cakes around.

So there was no way this party was going to be of that sort. Alcohol. Finger food. More alcohol. You get the idea.

Xiao Loong Bao on the menu, my favourite. Reminds me of my ex and the first lunch I had with him and his mother in Singapore. A few other dishes from dumplings to beef rolls and of course lots of alcohol. Alcohol from the people who bought them for me. Bourbon and Coke. Bourbon and Coke. Bourbon and Coke. It is the only drink my friends know I have an affinity for.

Bad music in The Peel doesn't dampen spirits. A whole gang of people whom I know by names and faces hiding in the shadows gyrating to the music. I've never known much about these people other than the fact that The Peel is their second home. I've never been invited out for outings, nor parties, nor events organised by them. They know me by my name and that's about as far as it goes. Dancing together under the cover of darkness and cigarette smoke, I feel all grown up now, being 20. I can no longer use the "I'm-just-a-teenager" excuse to get myself out of situations, and I have to start being responsible for my actions. I have to be prim and proper. I have to know how to distinguish a salad knife from a steak knife. I must speak in grammatical jargon and in weird tones to express my sophistification to other ancient people like myself. I have to be an adult now.

Then again fuck it, I still feel like a kid and will continue to act like one :)

I've never done a pick-up in a night club before. Perhaps, prior to yesterday there was little need to experiment in this whole different realm of getting to know "the others". I'm very shy when it comes to approaching people and I get lock-jaw syndrome when trying to regurgitate my feelings for someone I find attractive.

I'm a hopeless romantic, and noisy techno music doesn't get me into the I-need-to-know-that-person-dancing-over-there mood.

But I did manage to pick up someone, and it is amazing how I did, because I remember being slightly high at that time and unable to stand still in one spot albeit being intoxicated by trashy music and nonchalant about ugly white men who try to take a pass at me.

But that's another story for another day.

For the first time since I came to Melbourne, I felt as though I could call this city “Home”.

Happy 20th Birthday to me.

Denial

My refrigerator has been empty for the past week and I have not bothered to stock it up due to procrastination and pure laziness. Also, the last thing I want to do after a long day at work is to go to the supermarket and carry home a truck full of stuff I’ll probably chuck out after I forget about them and their expiry dates lapse.

I have become very kiasu ever since I started using the Aussie currency. Every cent saved adds up to a dollar earned, and I make sure I buy the cheapest everything even if it means spending 1 hour at the pasta aisle comparing the prices of Penne and Fettuccini against Macaroni and Tortellini. Soy milk on special today; $1.79 per 1L carton. Smoked salmon at $5.58 per 200g. Beef risottos at $3.50 per 750g. Mars bars on special, 99c per bar, down from $1.79.

Asians everywhere in the bloody supermarket, jingling their ugly handbags and waving their funky hairstyle in your faces. This place must be where one of the largest congregations of International students can be found, after Bourke St. and Melbourne Uni Tram Stop. People from all four corners of Asia in sight, though a few Arabs and Whiteys can be seen browsing through the shelves amidst their olive skinned pointed eyed Asian counterparts.

Girlfriends holding the hands of their boyfriends. Boyfriends holding the hips of their girlfriends. It amazes me how these people stick together. Beautiful girls running after scandalous punk looking boys, and handsome men running after whore look-alikes. Who am I to judge.

Standing alone at the cashier I sense a prolonged feeling of bachelorhood. The last time I shopped together with a partner was in Liang Court, and even then it was for after-10pm sushi at $1.50 a box. With a half full basket in one hand and the 99c Mars bar in the other, I ooze jealousy at these yuppies standing in front of me. I fall in the ranks of single unemployed and uneducated men, albeit grudgingly.

The girl at the cashier seems to have pity on me as I lay my groceries on the conveyer belt. Her smiles give me comfort for 5 seconds, at the most. I couldn’t even be bothered to take the receipt. I just leave after swiping EFTPOS and keying my PIN.

Mars bars taste better when you don’t have another person to share it with. Having the whole bar to myself I instinctively evade tram fares on the way home, chewing slowly at the nutty bits and indulging in the million-calorie treat.

I’m in denial.

Yeah well. So what.

Flirt

[[[ POST CENSORED ]]]

All Good Things Come To An End

Honestly what will become of me
Don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is daily
We are what we don't see
Missed everything daydreaming

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Traveling I only stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets in and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Well the dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could
Dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could
Die die die die die

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Well the dogs were barking at a new moon
Whistling a new tune
Hoping it would come soon
And the sun was wondering if it should stay away for a day til the feeling went away
And the sky was falling on the clouds were dropping and
the rain forgot how to bring salvation
the dogs were barking at the new moon
Whistling a new tune
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die

Falls Creek

Skiing was fun fun fun

Bench

Standing before the bench laid out before me, I sense a form of sadistic demeanour oozing from my friend's lucid smile. The iron bars look dirty, as though they've been used several times and nobody had bothered to wipe off the sweat stains visible under the glaring spotlight from the ceiling.

The leather bench has sweat stains on it and a funky smell, presumably from the previous user. My friend has always been a fan of leather. He doesn't know that I secretly enjoy the whole sado-machoistic aura of this place albeit the cringing anticipation of pain and discomfort.

He pushes me onto the bench and proceeds to wipe the bar with disinfectant. He must have done this a thousand times before; I can't claim credit to be more experienced even though he's one year my junior and had only recently came out to the whole gay-scene lifestyle.

He stretches my legs apart and I feel slightly shy as he gets a good look at me from where he's standing, and though I try my best to hide my feelings he senses that I'm uncomfortable. That unforgiving smirk he returns in reply sends shivers down my spine.

He tells me to not arch my back so that it won't hurt too much and I gently oblige... I am breathing very fast now. I can't help myself.

He tells me to relax and take deep breaths and I do as I'm told... but I trust him all the way. He's really good at this. I feel relaxed.

He leans over me and I get a whiff of his deodorant. Nothing expensive, could even have come from a 7-Eleven store but nonetheless suits his natural body odour perfectly. I can hear his fast paced breath as he finishes off adjusting the bench; he must be getting very excited.

I can now see beads of sweat on his brow and on his chest, and he casually wipes it away with his forearm sending droplets of sweat against the floor. I throw him a grunt of disgust only to realise that I myself am sweating from head to toe. My heart is beating fast and I can feel the blood in my veins...

Gripping my arms forcefully, he places them onto the bars and straps them on. Towering above me, I feel dominated and powerless. He lets out a smile, presumably in response to my cowardly facial expression.

He readies the bar and I groan in disbelief; voicing out my concerns to him doesn’t seem to make him budge. He simply persuades me to give it a shot and kisses my cheek. With persistence and adrenaline pumping through my blood, I resist the temptation to scream for help as I grab the bars and lift the 60kgs off the rests...

1... 2... 3...

My chest begins to hurt as the weights eat into my energy. He stands over me reassuringly, ready to grab the bar from me should I be unable to hold on to it, but I know I want to be able to do this...

5... 6... 7...

I realise that I've been slacking all this while; I've not been training on the bench for more than 4 weeks so even the tiniest of weights seem like a hundred kilos to me.

8... 9... 10...

One set down. Three more to go.

I feel my arm muscles tighten after the bench press and he gives me a smile of content. There's still a long way to go; past the leg press, seated dumbbell extension, bench dumbbell press, prone holds and lat-pulldown and I'll be ready to gorge on that "delicious" protein and egg shake.

Pump it up!

Help

I don't think I can cope

I don't think I can go on without enough sleep

I don't think I understand my lectures, or even bother listening

I don't think I want to work anymore

I just am not up to it

I just am not up to it

I just am not up to it

I feel like my body is giving way