Vulcan, on Earth

A typical Vulcan's scenery

The biggest surprise for me, while watching J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek, was not the sight of Winona Ryder as an old and wrinkles woman, but when looking at a glance of the Vulcan scenery (right before we could see Amanda Grayson and her beloved son, Spock, in a hallway).

The infamous Ryugyong Hotel

Boy, it sure reminded me of one of a few photographs of Ryugyong Hotel, and Pyongyang in a typical hot and dry summer days.

A typical summer in Pyongyang, viewed from Juche Tower.
Photograph courtesy of Adrian Tute.

Unlike Others

“Do you like my cock?”

David asks me for what seems like the millionth time since we slept together for the very first time. And it was only four months ago. Tonight is no difference from our previous dates.

He stands in front of the ceiling-to-floor mirror, admiring his lean-and-chiseled looks. The body of a professional surfer; which he’s everything but.
While I am lying on the bed, stripped down from my formal dinner wear to my birthday suit. Cuddling a fluffy white pillow, half-covering my lower part, looking at his arse.

“Hhmm ...,” is my only response, before trying to change the subject by asking, “Don’t you think this room is too cold?”

David took me to his penthouse in City Central after having dinner at The Bistro with the Smith-Kleins. The look of this unit really fit in with his bachelor lifestyle.
The impressionist paintings, the handwoven foreign-made rugs, the personal gym-corner, his large two one-seater couches – a couple of Lazy Boys, my guess – facing this huge plasma TV. His home theatre set.
I simply could not imagine him living in a nice house in suburb with a family of his own. He just does not fit in for such picture.

What I think does not match with this whole picture of his bachelor style apartment is, surprisingly, ... his bed. It surely feels comfortable enough to lie all day and cuddle with him on it. It’s the linens that keep bothering my mind. As if he borrowed them from any expensive hotels around town. Have you ever noticed that all hotel linens are always bleached white, no matter where you go?

“No. It’s just fine with me. You know well I can’t stand heat.”

“But it’s just last weekend we went to the beach and there you were soaking yourself under the sun.”

“Well, that’s different. What else you’re gonna do on sunny beaches?”

“Hhmm ...,” is the only voice comes out of my mouth.

“You haven’t answered my question, dear. Do you like it? Do you like my cock?”
His left hand touching his lower part.

“Oh, yes,” I whispered in such a low voice, yet adding some adjectives to please him. “It’s so straight and beautiful and pink and warm in my hand.”

“You want it, don’t you? You know it can give you pleasure, don’t you think?”
He walks closer to bed. I almost feel like he intentionally wants to shove his cock in front of my face. So I raise my head, now supporting it on my left hand. My head tilt a bit lower and I smile.

I want to shake him out of his consciousness. I want to stare him straight in the eyes and ask: Why do you always ask that question? Why do you need, constantly, of my approval? You’re a successful businessman. You have the power to move millions with a single phonecall. You are one of the most sought after bachelor in this state. Why, then, is my opinion of your penis so important that you must ask me about it twelve times in half an hour?

“Oh, yes. That’ll be fantastic.” My hands start to become busy giving him the job, something that David said I have a talent of.

What talent? Can you say jacking off someone until he comes is talent?
Ask any teenage boy. He would definitely laugh at the mere thought of it.

“You know my thick warm cock would feel so good inside you, fucking you for hours, until I cum on you,” his breath is getting harsh, which is a good sign for me. I’m hoping for speed on this one, simply so that we can be done with all the cock-talk, and I can finally rest. The dinner we had hours ago somehow drained me out of vitality. Must be because all of the political pep-talks.

He reaches and pulls me upward. He has this habit of pulling me way to close as he gets excited, so that it feels like he breathes on my face. Somehow, the way he does it, always exarcebates my irritation. “Oh you know damn well I’d fuck you for hours.”

Splendid!
I believe he surely thinks that’s the only thing I want in this world right now.

“Oh, yes. That would feel so great,” I say, starting to calculate how long will it take for me to get up, get dress, take the elevator down to the lobby, and ask the concierge to get me a cab and leave, once this is all said and done. But it’s Friday night. It should take him longer to hail a cab for me. The concierge, not David.

“Slow down, darl. I don’t wanna come yet …”

Damn!
“Oh, no. I don’t want you to come yet, either. Your cock feels so good …”

The hands of the clock on his bedside table show it’s almost midnight. How time flies!

David and I have seen each other for about four months or so now. And each time what he did overwhelmed me. We go out to dinner at least once a week at some fancy restaurants and then up to his plush penthouse. Even though I’m not into him physically, the conversations and experiences are enjoyable enough that overall I’m glad to be in his company.
It’s a pretty interesting, consistent, house-free free gig. Besides, David seems pretty serious about “taking care of my future”, whatever that means to him.
But on the contrary, I am not greedy enough to accept such a thing, even if I could. However, when he keeps looking deeply into my eyes, telling me how smart and talented I am, I realize that I’m falling into the pattern of seeing him as a walking ATM rather than a person. And how I hate that.
Deep down, I know that at least part of my irritation with him is really irritation with the person I’m becoming when I’m around him.

Almost an hour later.
I stand at the window looking down at the scenery. The city lights always impress me, who spent earlier childhood at backwater area. Noting how different the City looks from way up here, as if I’m in a different city. This place of skyscrapers, grouping into close proximities, almost like competing to dominate each other. Or like the pecking order I often saw back then in grandma’s farm.

This City of orderly lined skyscrapers of endless white linens. The one I learn to love. Which is a hard task.
It’s David’s city, and of people not unlike him, a city of the kind of money that I can’t even imagine that they throw around like that they throw around like Monopoly’s money.
Looking down at their City, and feel like a complete crap that is trying to climb the social ladder. Or mountaineering, as once I and David heard of being in use in that period movie, when an old English lady referred to Becky Sharp.

David gets a bit fussy when I gather my things and starting to leave. But I really need to get out of here.
The last time we had a quarrel about me refusing to stay over, I ended up spending the next two following nights at his place. Which turned out ugly, as I barely sleep when he’s around. And when I’m staying at his place, he simply refuses to leave the unit, choosing to work from home.
That was a mistake. For me.
It made me feel trapped in a golden cage. And now when he expects me to do it again, I back out, giving him hundreds of excuses.
Staying over is not something I plan on repeating often.

After one single moment of fussiness though, David walks me to the elevator door. He kisses my cheek, whispers, “You know I’m going to Paris this weekend. But I’m going nuts thinking that I might leave you behind.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a wide smile. “I can wait.”
The elevator entrance tinged open, I stepped in.

“See you soon, darling.”

The Picnic Picture

There was an old photograph on your refrigerator pinned with a magnetic pineapple
Its colors turned to yellowish, a sure sign of years it has gone through
When I first looked at it, I thought it was the picture of Jesus and His disciples having a picnic under a big leafy tree
Because everyone in it had thick shaggy beards long wavy hair and wore some kind of long dresses
Like the robes they used to wear back then in the early years of Our Lord

But when I first saw the photograph, it was not because of what it depicted
It was because I had to divert my gaze from the kitchen window overlooking your backyard
Since I saw you getting steamy with another guy, not far from the pool we once made love inside

I know you’re no longer mine, but hey
Was it wrong if I feel jealousy looking at that scene with my very own eyes?

Menikmati Secangkir Teh Prancis

“I can’t understand any French movies. Probably, they’re just not my cup of tea ...”


Sahabatku Bradley pernah bersumpah bahwa dia tak akan pernah lagi mau membuang waktunya untuk menonton film Prancis manapun. Aku tak tahu apakah Francophone movies termasuk dalam kategori sumpahnya itu, yang jelas sepanjang pengetahuanku sejak dia mengucap sumpah itu usai menonton salah satu film produksi Prancis dalam ajang Festival Sinema Prancis tiga tahun silam, tak pernah sekalipun dia menonton lagi film dari negara mode itu.

Sumpah Bradley terujar bukan karena kala itu dia dipaksa – dan setengah diseret menuju bioskop – oleh salah satu teman dekatnya yang kebetulan juga kukenal untuk menemaninya menonton, tapi lebih karena menurutnya menonton film Prancis merupakan pengalaman traumatis yang menyiksa. Dia tak bisa mengerti dimana bagusnya film Prancis manapun yang pernah dia lihat, dan dia tidak terlalu terkesan dengan kenyataan betapa mudahnya aktor-aktris Prancis tampil polos tanpa malu seperti bayi baru dilahirkan di layar lebar untuk dipelototi dan dikonsumsi dengan rakus oleh mata para penonton. Padahal bagiku dulu waktu baru mulai memasuki usia puber, justru inilah alasan satu-satunya aku bertahan dan membetahkan diri menonton TV5 Monde.

Pada masa-masa awal ketika aku tahu tentang sumpah Bradley ini, entah mengapa aku berusaha membuat Bradley mengubah pikirannya. Alasanku waktu itu, it’s going to be his loss kalau menolak menonton film-film yang bagus dan bermutu dari negara moyangnya sinema dunia itu. Ketika dia bertanya balik setengah mendesak, apakah aku bisa menyebutkan film Prancis apa yang telah dia lewatkan sehingga akan membuat dia menyesali keputusannya itu, giliran aku yang terdiam.

Aku nyaris menyebut “Léon The Professional”, lalu aku teringat bahwa Jean Reno memang aktor Prancis dan Luc Besson adalah sutradara kondang Prancis, tapi film itu diproduksi oleh Sony Pictures dan juga dibintangi oleh Natalie Portman dan Gary Oldman yang notabene berstempel “Made in Hollywood”. So it is not a pure French movie, in a ‘traditional’ sense. (By the way while I’m still on this subject, can someone tell me why oh why Monsieur Reno agreed to act in such a stupid monster movie, “Godzilla”?)

Ada “Belphegor La Phantom de Louvre”, tapi film itu standar horor a la Hollywood, ga bisa juga disebut bagus. Yang lebih buruk lagi adalah film komedi slapstick “Taxi” dan semua sekuelnya yang garing bin boring itu. Sedangkan menonton film kelas festival semacam “Baise Moi” terasa lebih seperti menonton orgy of sex (obviously!) and violence, dan “Irreversible” malah membuatku sempat beberapa kali memalingkan wajah karena ngeri saat adegan-adegan kekerasan yang (bagiku) tampak sangat nyata dan vulgar dijembreng di depan mata (adegan pemerkosaan di underground tunnel itu membuat aku mual-mual seharian).

Ada juga ”Bleu”, yang diikuti oleh sekuelnya ”Bialy” dan ”Rouge”, tapi aku belum menontonnya, jadi ga bisa juga kupakai judul-judul itu sebagai argument untuk meyakinkan Bradley mengubah pikirannya. Dari hasilku meng-googling sembari menulis this ramblings, ada beberapa judul film yang disutradarai Francois Truffaut dan Jean Luc Goddard yang sepertinya pantas disebut, tapi kasusnya sama seperti trilogi tiga warnanya Krzystof Kieslowski (yes, I have to google in order to spell his name correctly), aku ga pernah menontonnya.

Sekian tahun kemudian, ada satu film Prancis yang ketika kusaksikan di salah satu bioskop di daerah Jakarta Pusat, masih dalam ajang Festival Sinema Prancis, nyaris bikin aku tersedak kaget – dan bagi beberapa penonton perempuan membuat mereka tertawa terkikik-kikik serta penonton laki-laki mendadak gelisah dan tak nyaman – karena memperlihatkan adegan di mana sepasang pria homoseksual sedang bercinta. Ya, betul. Dalam keadaan telanjang bugil bulat. And you can see some very visibly hard cocks (I was about to say, erected penises, but opted for a less formal term instead) on the big screen. Tapi film yang tak akan kusebutkan di sini judulnya, menurut hematku bukanlah film yang bagus-bagus amat, karena plotnya yang sangat tipikal: homosexual charater(s) are doomed to meet horrible death or ugly fate in the end of the movie. Euch!

Masih dari ajang yang sama, meskipun beda tahun pelaksanaan, aku sempat menonton “Cache” dan “L’enfant” serta “La Marche de l’empereur”. Tapi dua judul pertama membuat aku menyesal membuang waktu masing-masing lebih dari dua jam untuk menontonnya, karena kembali menurut hematku pribadi, kedua judul ini ga ada bagus-bagusnya !
“Cache” berakhir dengan kebingungan dan tanda tanya besar yang sangat menyebalkan dan mengganggu (daripada jadi spoiler dengan membeberkan akhir ceritanya di sini jadi sengaja tidak diungkap), sedangkan “L’enfant” – yang sebenarnya adalah film Belgia tapi karena mereka juga bertutur dalam bahasa Prancis jadi bisalah dimasukkan dalam pembahasan kali ini – membuatku pengen melompat dari kursi dan memukuli si aktor utama saking kesalnya (I even posted a specific blog entry for this ugly feature). Sedangkan judul ketiga yang kusebutkan, adalah film documenter yang lucu dan mengharukan, rasa-rasanya malah jadi ineligible to ‘compete’ dalam kategori yang sama dengan judul-judul lainnya yang sudah kusebutkan di muka.

Dan di sinilah aku mulai kehabisan ‘amunisi’ untuk mendebat Bradley dan meminta dia mengubah pikiran serta untuk menarik / membatalkan sumpah anti-film Prancisnya. Secara film Prancis terakhir yang kutonton, “De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté”, sama sekali tidak bisa membantuku berargumentasi positif, karena aku sendiri merasa tersiksa waktu menonton film tentang perselingkuhan ini. Ugh!

Akhirnya apabila kamu yang membaca tulisan ini bertanya, what is my standpoint now on the issue of watching French movies after all those experiences, well, sadly to say, aku jadi cenderung mengikuti dan mengamini sumpah Bradley (walau tidak sampai bibir ini mengucap seperti yang ia lakukan beberapa tahun lalu).
Meskipun tentu saja, dalam beberapa kondisi khusus dan untuk beberapa judul aku mencoba membuat perkecualian, misalnya untuk film animasi hitam putih “Renaissance” yang lumayan mendebarkan, film musikal "Les choristes" yang lumayan menyentuh, the feel good romantic comedy "Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain", serta biopic “La Môme” yang membuat mata ini berkaca-kaca karena terharu (and yes, I do believe Marianne Cotillard deserved her Oscar).

Kita lihat saja apakah dalam waktu dekat aku kembali akan membuat perkecualian lainnya (termasuk untuk other Francophone titles), yang dalam istilah Bradley, “Now that’s what I call my cup of tea”.