The Potato Queen
I met the potato queen at a bar while he was casually cruising amidst the crowd of older white men. With a gin-and-tonic in his left hand and straw in the other, his eyes were fixated at the group of white men staring at him and waving their ugly buttocks at him. Too busy to be bothered, he didn’t notice that I was looking at him. Or perhaps that’s what my little sick mind hoped he was thinking; he could have very well noticed but not cared to look and face in my direction.
It was only after I had been introduced did I get to know him. Then again, I think I must have been a prick who was prodding him for all the finer details because he always answered me nonchalantly like he had more important things to do (which later I figured, would have to be looking at his face in the bloody pocket mirror he always carried).
The potato queen has a fetish for his mobile phone. Often he swishes it out from his pocket and launches into a heated conversation in his local Vietnamese dialect. I wonder who calls him all the time. They are loud speakers, because I can hear their voices from his phone when he talks to them.
The potato queen is stout and tanned. He is probably looking at a long and suffering old-age life as a cancer patient because of the number of hours he spends under the blazing hot sun, trying to tan himself.
To him, it is immaculately important to remove whatever hair that isn't desirable. Desirable to the potato, that is. Pluck the eyebrows. Wax the chest. Shave the legs. Trim the pubes. Truth be told, he has an elaborate grooming kit with contents including, but not limited to, nail clippers of all sizes, a nail file, tweezers, razors, and possibly the odd bottle of lavender oil to soothe the abused skin on his calves from over shaving.
He is very careful with what he eats. Often, his meal comprises of a fuckload of cellulose, probably from the local supermarket. He eats like a horse; not in the vulgar sense of the word, but he literally stuffs himself with a ton of grass with every meal. The world revolves around organic food and the benefits of chewing green stuff. Farmers who use cow dung will be very happy to know that they have a staunch supporter.
The gym is his second home; he can be seen pumping iron and making all sorts of noises that remind you of men getting something really big up their rear ends in a porn movie. Pain is not an obstacle to looking good; he must have huge muscles clinging on his tiny little frame before he can sleep soundly at night.
His biceps/triceps and leg muscles are amazingly big. Whatever he ingests after workouts has the word "whey" or "protein" in it, and often it is taken in huge doses. Perhaps, 6 raw eggs. Perhaps an avocado milk shake with added whey protein. Perhaps, a fuckload of soy milk with enriched protein powder. The stuff to build big fat guns that look like bazookas.
Oh and because he has such huge chests, often his nipples are on high beam. Ting! Another added bonus to a long workout at the gym.
Occasionally after gym workouts he will reward himself with chunks of meat. Fat removed, grilled meat. Chicken breasts, perhaps. Everything in the name of muscle building, even if it means no salt no sugar, less sauce less taste. Yummy.
The potato queen has regular visits to the salon. Often you will see him reading the latest edition of Cosmopolitan while some equally gay looking guy works away at his fronds. A $150 haircut is not too much to pay for three weeks of beauty. After all, with the amount of hair products that he uses, L'oreal is able to pay its workers.
The gelling is the most important process in the potato queen's daily routine; he may take anywhere between 10 minutes to an hour making sure that every lock of hair fits into place, that every frond is carefully shaped and styled. Using the comb, he puts Clark Kent to shame, with his ridiculously gelled hair and carefully shaped side-parting. Sometimes, the potato queen adopts a military style hair cut to further enhance his value, suggesting a certain degree of masculinity to hide his soft vulnerable Paris Hilton personality. This however, reflects badly on him because of his head shape, so he will adorn elaborate headgear that includes, but is not limited to, caps, hats, visors or scarves. These headgear may not be worn unless it complements the clothes that he wears.
His wardrobe will have the usual clothes of any other funky person (quote Gucci and Armani), except that it will be ten sizes smaller. A Barbie Doll would feel comfortable in the tank tops that he wears. Some of his jeans have huge holes in them to air the fuck out of his balls (possibly to ease the rash that comes from the friction that he experiences due to the lack of hair down there) He is not shy to show off his hairless skin to the world. The ripple-effect that he causes by wearing clothes big enough for a toddler resonates wherever he walks. People turn and look at him, admire him, mentally undress him, and think dirty thoughts about him. He realises this, and he loves the attention, pushing himself harder by wearing even smaller clothes. I reckon the tension in the fabric would send any apparatus used to measure it into the scrap bin.
His taste for men, well, only the old and ugly. And they must be blond, they must be white, they must be blue eyed. It doesn't matter if the person is balding or has wrinkles. I'm not sure if the ability to perform is a criteria, though I highly doubt it after seeing the men he's dated. They must be very committed purchasers of Sildenafil.
The potato queen will do anything to keep his old white man happy; even if it means wearing a size 8 when he's really a 9-and-a-half. The potato queen is oblivious to whatever the white man fantasizes; he is the receptive bottom and doesn't need to worry about such details.
Occasionally the potato queen comes across a white man who is so dazzled by his appearance and looks that the potato queen reciprocates the feelings and the two become inseparable fuck buddies, each feeding off each other's infatuations. And occasionally, the potato queen understands the need to move on, which he does with no fuss at all, because to him there's always going to be someone out there to pick him up.
After all, with his gorgeous looks and charming smile, who wouldn't?
Then again, he'll only choose the white ones, because that's all he will stomach.
It was only after I had been introduced did I get to know him. Then again, I think I must have been a prick who was prodding him for all the finer details because he always answered me nonchalantly like he had more important things to do (which later I figured, would have to be looking at his face in the bloody pocket mirror he always carried).
The potato queen has a fetish for his mobile phone. Often he swishes it out from his pocket and launches into a heated conversation in his local Vietnamese dialect. I wonder who calls him all the time. They are loud speakers, because I can hear their voices from his phone when he talks to them.
The potato queen is stout and tanned. He is probably looking at a long and suffering old-age life as a cancer patient because of the number of hours he spends under the blazing hot sun, trying to tan himself.
To him, it is immaculately important to remove whatever hair that isn't desirable. Desirable to the potato, that is. Pluck the eyebrows. Wax the chest. Shave the legs. Trim the pubes. Truth be told, he has an elaborate grooming kit with contents including, but not limited to, nail clippers of all sizes, a nail file, tweezers, razors, and possibly the odd bottle of lavender oil to soothe the abused skin on his calves from over shaving.
He is very careful with what he eats. Often, his meal comprises of a fuckload of cellulose, probably from the local supermarket. He eats like a horse; not in the vulgar sense of the word, but he literally stuffs himself with a ton of grass with every meal. The world revolves around organic food and the benefits of chewing green stuff. Farmers who use cow dung will be very happy to know that they have a staunch supporter.
The gym is his second home; he can be seen pumping iron and making all sorts of noises that remind you of men getting something really big up their rear ends in a porn movie. Pain is not an obstacle to looking good; he must have huge muscles clinging on his tiny little frame before he can sleep soundly at night.
His biceps/triceps and leg muscles are amazingly big. Whatever he ingests after workouts has the word "whey" or "protein" in it, and often it is taken in huge doses. Perhaps, 6 raw eggs. Perhaps an avocado milk shake with added whey protein. Perhaps, a fuckload of soy milk with enriched protein powder. The stuff to build big fat guns that look like bazookas.
Oh and because he has such huge chests, often his nipples are on high beam. Ting! Another added bonus to a long workout at the gym.
Occasionally after gym workouts he will reward himself with chunks of meat. Fat removed, grilled meat. Chicken breasts, perhaps. Everything in the name of muscle building, even if it means no salt no sugar, less sauce less taste. Yummy.
The potato queen has regular visits to the salon. Often you will see him reading the latest edition of Cosmopolitan while some equally gay looking guy works away at his fronds. A $150 haircut is not too much to pay for three weeks of beauty. After all, with the amount of hair products that he uses, L'oreal is able to pay its workers.
The gelling is the most important process in the potato queen's daily routine; he may take anywhere between 10 minutes to an hour making sure that every lock of hair fits into place, that every frond is carefully shaped and styled. Using the comb, he puts Clark Kent to shame, with his ridiculously gelled hair and carefully shaped side-parting. Sometimes, the potato queen adopts a military style hair cut to further enhance his value, suggesting a certain degree of masculinity to hide his soft vulnerable Paris Hilton personality. This however, reflects badly on him because of his head shape, so he will adorn elaborate headgear that includes, but is not limited to, caps, hats, visors or scarves. These headgear may not be worn unless it complements the clothes that he wears.
His wardrobe will have the usual clothes of any other funky person (quote Gucci and Armani), except that it will be ten sizes smaller. A Barbie Doll would feel comfortable in the tank tops that he wears. Some of his jeans have huge holes in them to air the fuck out of his balls (possibly to ease the rash that comes from the friction that he experiences due to the lack of hair down there) He is not shy to show off his hairless skin to the world. The ripple-effect that he causes by wearing clothes big enough for a toddler resonates wherever he walks. People turn and look at him, admire him, mentally undress him, and think dirty thoughts about him. He realises this, and he loves the attention, pushing himself harder by wearing even smaller clothes. I reckon the tension in the fabric would send any apparatus used to measure it into the scrap bin.
His taste for men, well, only the old and ugly. And they must be blond, they must be white, they must be blue eyed. It doesn't matter if the person is balding or has wrinkles. I'm not sure if the ability to perform is a criteria, though I highly doubt it after seeing the men he's dated. They must be very committed purchasers of Sildenafil.
The potato queen will do anything to keep his old white man happy; even if it means wearing a size 8 when he's really a 9-and-a-half. The potato queen is oblivious to whatever the white man fantasizes; he is the receptive bottom and doesn't need to worry about such details.
Occasionally the potato queen comes across a white man who is so dazzled by his appearance and looks that the potato queen reciprocates the feelings and the two become inseparable fuck buddies, each feeding off each other's infatuations. And occasionally, the potato queen understands the need to move on, which he does with no fuss at all, because to him there's always going to be someone out there to pick him up.
After all, with his gorgeous looks and charming smile, who wouldn't?
Then again, he'll only choose the white ones, because that's all he will stomach.
Fell from the sky at 12:34 AM
5 Comments:
ouch. this is so much nastier than the rice queen entry. observed with more distance and closer detail. i guess i'd wanna ask this guy: when did you give up on self-respect, and decide to settle for whatever you could get, and at whatever it would cost?
Hey there
The rice queen entry is quite accurate, I suppose. It makes me wonder how can ppl play and manipulate emotions like that, like they don't mean anything.
If you can post this, I believe you have learnt and moved on.
All the best to you!
Thanks for presenting both views babe, it highlights the ritato conundrum.
Although it also presents an opportunity. Are these two negative personas you present not prefect for each other?
I just wonder if there are a few other sterotype you have not captured in this space? The Sticky GAM? Or the mixed salad? I would be intrigued by your view on these....
thanks for your accurate description of these two species of human gaykind, i couldn't help but laughing out loud and feeling sad at the same time. i thought i was the only one who was thinking like this...
another potato queen
very interesting
lol, ur writing is filled with hatred lol
anyway i think i'm a potato queen, but i don't go to that extreme and i avoid the sun (asians are so easily tanned, ugh)
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