ma fan jai

This column should probably begin with a warning. The story I am about to tell is rather graphic in nature – not to be gratuitous or to needlessly titillate – but solely because it needs to be to accurately describe what happened. So, if you are of a sensitive disposition or easily offended by frank discussion of female anatomy, you should probably skip back a few pages and check out the listings or food reviews, as things here are about to get a little blue.

A couple of weeks ago I was confronted by a peculiar quandary and honestly had no idea what to do about it. The evening had started reasonably enough – drinks at a beachside restaurant on one of Hong Kong’s many outlying islands, followed by one of the more important games of the World Cup in a suitably boisterous Wan Chai watering hole. A few hours later and I was stomping more familiar territory and met a young lady, full of energy, forthcoming with banter and rather attractive in a kooky kind of way. She was friendly and funny and it didn’t take too much playful conversation or witty wordplay before I soon found myself back at her serviced apartment.

My young hostess wasted no time in getting down to business and a merry old time was had by both of us – until I noticed something, or rather felt something, that in my previous experience I had understood ladies didn’t normally possess. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but, no, she wasn’t a ladyboy – that’s a box I have yet to tick – what I found here was rather more puzzling.

Forgive me in advance if I lack the necessary tact to describe the following act appropriately, but let’s just say I was using my fingers to hopefully provide her with a modicum of enjoyment, when I felt something. Deep inside her, the tip of my finger brushed against something. I did my best not to break my rhythm or give the impression that my focus had now shifted from mimicking John Holmes to playing Indiana Jones, but I was eager to cop a better feel of this foreign body. So I pushed a little deeper and I felt it again. Thin, light, yet rigid, there was definitely something there. But what was it?

My mind instantly raced through dozens of possibilities but nothing seemed particularly plausible. What it felt like was one of those long white strips of plastic that clothing stores use to attach their labels to garments. You know the type I mean – two or three inches long, with a T-shape at either end. What I could feel was exactly like that, so much so that I convinced myself that’s what it was. Somehow an errant plastic tag had found its way there (trust me, I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I was a little drunk at the time); perhaps it had been attached to a sex toy and she hadn’t noticed. What I was sure of, though, was that this girl was totally unaware that she had this piece of plastic inside her and it was my gentlemanly duty to remove it, without her noticing. After all, how could I bring up such a topic without utterly embarrassing her? At best she would be mortified, but at worst she could get upset, scared or even lose all self-confidence for the foreseeable future. Bizarrely, I really was thinking all these things as she lay there in the dark, moaning.

If I could pinch it between two fingers I could tug it out and chuck it on the floor, hopefully with her none the wiser. I tried for ages, but the more enthusiastic I became and the deeper I went, the more she seemed to enjoy it and writhe around on the bed. Eventually, well, let’s just say she had her fill and pushed my hands away. She pulled me close and held me tight and all I could do was lie there and take the praise, desperately unsatisfied – and if I’m honest, more than a little concerned.

So, what was it? It has been nagging at me ever since. It certainly wasn’t the tip of a forgotten tampon, of that much I was sure. Could it be the pull-chain of a diaphragm, or some kind of coil? Do girls even use things like that these days? Or was it, as I feared, simply an errant piece of plastic, lost and abandoned. Surely, if that was the case there was risk of damage or injury, not just to her, but perhaps a future, more well-endowed partner, or even a baby in years to come! The whole event has me haunted, yet unable to contact her – after all, how does one tactfully ask, ‘Just what was that inside your vagina?’

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email the troublesome boy – mafanjai@bcmagazine.net,
follow him on twitter – @mafanjai

Dating requires patience. All too often your nice dinner or night on the town is as much about biding your time as it is about sizing the other person up. Guys are probably the more eager of the two to move things swiftly along from small talk to suggestive groping, but making a move too early on can screw things up and scare off an inquisitive yet cautious would-be playmate. But how long must I be content with chewing my food with my mouth closed and listening intently to banal stories about people I’ve never heard of before going in, tongue blazing? Or more importantly, how many times am I prepared to see this girl and take her out, getting nothing in return, before admitting defeat? If she fails to put out on the first date, does she deserve a second chance? Or should I respect and appreciate the kind of woman who demands a little more than a hot meal before jumping in the sack?

I was pursuing one particular young lady recently who gave me cause to ask myself these questions. I invited her out to a classic mid-week dinner and a movie date the other week and although the film wasn’t anything particularly special the conversation was relaxed and entertaining. She was taking the MTR home, so I walked her into the station where she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and off she went, with a mile, a wave and a promise to grab a drink in a few days’ time. Cut to the following week and we meet up for a drink. She takes me to a cool bar she knows in Jordan where he used to drink as a student and we spent the next few hours entertaining each other with those greatest hits stories everyone has that you can tell in your sleep and all your friends have heard a dozen times.

It was getting pretty late when we left the bar, and again it was a school night and we were heading in opposite directions.  Again I accompanied her to the taxi rank and with a couple of drinks in both of us, I was confident that I could make a move and she would reciprocate. However, no sooner had we stopped close – but not too close – to the taxis, I went in for the snog only to be firmly given the cheek upon which to plant my lips. Not cool. Again, big smile, big wave and she hopped into a cab and sped away. It was a bitter pill to swallow but as I headed home I accepted the fact that perhaps this girl wasn’t interested. Perhaps she only wanted to be – shudder – friends. So I didn’t call her again and other than following up on an administrative favour I’d offered to do for her she didn’t contact me either.

Cut to a couple of weeks later and I’m out with another new girl and the same thing happens again! Pleasant evening, good conversation, smiles all round, only to again get nothing but a momentarily damp cheek for my troubles. Second date, same deal, but this time I was convinced she was just taking it slow and had yet to solidify her opinion of me. When she asked me out for a drink on Friday night, of course I accepted her invitation. I had already been in Soho with some friends so it was easy enough to pop down to Lan Kwai Fong and meet up. When I get there, however, she’s with some guy, apparently a former colleague. A few moments later, another fella turns up and I’m starting to feel like contestant number two in some twisted reality dating show.

Still, I stayed and we all enjoyed a couple of drinks and lots of healthy World Cup-related banter. In fact, I got on with these two guys so well that by half time we’d all but forgotten the girl was there at all. After the game we all headed home our separate ways and I was more confused than ever. Was she interested and hoping to get a guys’ opinion of me before she got involved? Was she some kind of sick sadistic tease hoping to see three potential suitors duke it out in a night of cock-blocking for her amusement and titillation? Or was she simply an enthusiastic football fan who had failed to find any like-minded girlfriends to watch the game with? At this moment I have no idea, but I’ll give her one last chance to impress me or it’s time to break out the Rohypnol again – and that stuff ain’t cheap!

read mafanjai at www.mafanjai.bcmagazine.net,
email the troublesome boy – mafanjai@bcmagazine.net,
follow him on twitter – @mafanjai

Although you wouldn’t know it, judging by the deplorable weather we’ve been having lately, summer is fast approaching and that means it’s beach and junk season. It’s time to tone up and slip into your skimpies – and it’s probably a good idea to indulge in a little personal grooming as well. I had been under the assumption that in this day and age, girls were pretty much universally shaving their legs and underarms on a regular basis – but sadly this does not always appear to be the case. On more than one occasion I have found myself face to face with large plumes of armpit hair or legs sporting more fuzz than my own. I understand that over-shaving can lead to thicker, harder hair growing back, but I had no idea that there were girls out there willing to let it get so out of hand. And this is not a lifestyle choice, it’s just laziness, as the next time I’ve ventured into the woods, the same girls are smoother than a baby’s bum – and no, I hadn’t commented!

When it comes to the “bathing suit area” there’s plenty of scope for imagination and variety and in my time I’ve come across everything from diamonds and love hearts to Mohawks and full Brazilians. There’s no right or wrong in my book, providing enough trimming has been done so we can see what we’re doing and she doesn’t look like a prepubescent schoolgirl. Each style suits some girls better than others, although keeping it short is always preferable. In all honesty this advice goes for the guys too. I can’t imagine a huge bush being an attractive proposition for any young lady to negotiate, while the occasional spot of manscaping can not only make the prospect of her going down on you more appealing, it also makes you look bigger – and let’s face it, we could all live with gaining an extra inch.

Another phenomenon that occasionally rears its ugly head – and, yes, I do mean ugly – is the discovery of unsightly rogue hairs in the wrong places! I met one girl a while back who suffered from this problem – and was seemingly totally unaware of it. She was cute, intelligent, funny and up for having some fun. Everything was going well until she took off her bra and there they were! Surrounding each of her nipples were three or four long black hairs, just hanging there like tassels on a cheap stripper. I tried to ignore them, but just couldn’t. Something about them sent a shiver down my spine and it killed the mood completely. What was I to do? I tried my best to ignore them and work around the problem but sooner or later, there they were in front of me – long, black and wirey. She must have seen them, right? Girls took good care of their bodies, or so I thought, and frequently spent hours examining any spot or blemish they discovered. Surely she had seen these hairs, and knew them to be unattractive. Could they not be plucked easily enough? Sure there’d be a moment of pain, but no more so than having her bikini line waxed – and as I could confirm, she’d certainly had that attended to.

As I lay there, trying desperately to avoid her wispy nips, I contemplated broaching the topic, and scoured my mental good manners guide for a sensitive and tactful way of suggesting she might want to get rid of them. But nothing came to mind. Soon enough she left and I was able to relax again. In fact I composed myself so much that I actually asked her out again, dismissing my reservations as being petty, superficial and getting between me and an otherwise really cool and attractive girl. Perhaps she had been caught unawares, was as embarrassed as I had been, and had raced home to deal with the hairs immediately. So I saw her again and again we ended up in a state of undress, but there they were – and there went my libido! I gave up after that and let her slip through my fingers, but to this day it makes me recoil in disgust, even as I lament my own pettiness. Is it my own personal failing? Of course, but what was I supposed to do? All I can say is that, ladies, next time you get dumped inexplicably, instead of spending hours dissecting every little thing he said and did and trying hopelessly to uncover the emotional truth behind what went wrong, just remember men are cripplingly superficial. Something as insignificant as a single hair in the wrong place can sometimes be enough to throw the whole thing off track. As the old expression goes – hair today, gone tomorrow.

read mafanjai at www.mafanjai.bcmagazine.net,
email the troublesome boy – mafanjai@bcmagazine.net,
follow him on twitter – @mafanjai

Every time there is a general election, referendum or other opportunity for politicians to gain a foothold with the general public, it’s always the same issues that crop up: the economy, healthcare, education, foreign policy, or the ever-controversial immigration. Regardless of whether you live in the UK, the US or here in Hong Kong, the decision over who to let in and who to keep out of the country is always divisive and can all too often bring out the worst arguments in the best people.

Whether they complain about immigrants sponging off the government, taking our jobs, not paying taxes or destabilizing our sense of national identity, it’s an issue every leader is forced to face and deal with as effectively as possible. One possible solution to keep tabs on the people on your patch of land is the introduction of ID cards. Many countries don’t have them and are fiercely opposed to the idea of having to prove who they are at all times. They are reluctant to hand over their personal information to the authorities and regard the whole concept as a violation of their civil liberties and invasion of their privacy. I, however, love the idea.

We have ID cards here in Hong Kong and personally I think they work fantastically well. They contain just enough information to prove beyond any doubt you are who you claim to be without sharing so much information that anybody who finds yours lying around would be able to steal your identity, money, personal belongings (other than your ID card of course) or anything else. It has your photograph, your fingerprints and a few other tasty tidbits (like an embarrassing photo and real date of birth!) and in my opinion is the single biggest reason why the streets of Hong Kong are some of the safest in the world. Drunk single women can stumble home all alone without having to worry about bumping into anybody worse than me loitering in a dark alleyway.

If I had been in any way unconvinced about the power of my ID card, those lingering reservations were forever evaporated last Wednesday night in Wan Chai. My ID card got me laid. I had met up with an old friend and a few of his colleagues after work, for a couple of quiet drinks. Foolishly we embarked on a couple of rounds of a bizarre but rather enjoyable drinking game, armed with an entire extra table full of Jaeger bombs, to be necked each time one of us lost a round. It’s difficult to say exactly how many rounds we played or how much we drunk, but before my drunken self shifted completely into autopilot I distinctly remember someone suggesting we investigated Ladies night.

A little while later and we are in one of my favoured watering holes along Lockhart Road and I spied a young lady, sitting at a corner table with a slightly bemused look on her face. Beside her was a couple of increasingly advancing years with the same perplexed expression on their faces. I caught the young lady’s eye momentarily and tried to mouth the question: “Are they your parents?” but either she was unable to hear me, lip read effectively through a crowd of drunken sweaty businessmen or simply didn’t care, but she failed to respond and quickly turned away. This I read as my signal to approach the table.

I strode over confidently, half a dozen Jaegermeister & Red Bulls silencing any voices in my head, be they nervous doubts or snippets of sensible advice, and asked her again, “Are these your parents you are out with?” This time she smiled and gave me a slightly embarrassed nod, as if she hadn’t quite understood the nature of the establishment before bringing them in and it was now too late to leave, as they had ordered drinks.

“So they’re in town visiting you?” I asked. But she quickly replied that they were all here on holiday, passing through on their way home from a tour round China.

“And where’s home?” I enquired and she replied: Newport Beach, California.

“Oh, like in The O.C.?” I said, before thinking about just how dumb this made me look, but she smiled and nodded and turned to face me. I’ve read somewhere that this is a good sign.

I then proceeded to introduce myself to her parents, welcome them warmly to “my town” and spend a good 20 minutes or so telling them about all the places they wouldn’t have time to visit in Hong Kong during their brief visit. Now, this girl was nice. Tall, elegant, good teeth, nice figure – in fact she screamed All-American Republican from every pore. Everything that Hong Kong girls aren’t and quite frankly I was rather taken by her. My friends left and it was just me and my newfound guests, but before long her parents began making noises about returning to the hotel. I asked her if she wanted to stay out for a while longer, but she said I would have to ask her parents’ permission. So that’s exactly what I did.

I stood up straight, enunciated in my polished Home Counties accent as best I could and wondered if it would be at all possible if their lovely daughter might be allowed to stay out a little while longer and I’d ensure she got back to the hotel safely before the night was through. Her father hesitated, understandably so, after all, for all any of them know I could have her roofied and on the next boat to China for all they knew where I’d have her lab dancing for civil servants in some remote province by the end of the week.

“Why don’t you give me your cell phone number,” he suggested, but the last thing I wanted was him calling me up at an inopportune moment and demanding his little girl come back immediately. Noticing his digital camera on the table, I was suddenly struck by a momentous idea. I took out my ID card and snapped a photo of it for him. “There you go,” I announced proudly. ”Now if you can’t find her in the morning, show that to any police officer and they’ll hunt me down in no time.” Daddy seemed more than satisfied, and with that he left his little princess in my more than capable, if not altogether responsible, hands. The system works, people, trust me – I’ve checked!

read mafanjai at www.mafanjai.bcmagazine.net,

email the troublesome boy – mafanjai@bcmagazine.net,

follow him on twitter – @mafanjai

As you read this you may well still be nursing the back end of an HK Sevens week week-long hangover, and have just about managed to work the beer out of your bloodstream and the smell of warm piss out of your hair,. buYet as I write the city is just getting into gear ahead offor its biggest, loudest, drunkest weekend of the year.

Now regardless of whether you’re you’re a fan of the increasingly ropey-looking Kukri girls or not, the Sevens is a fantastic opportunity for bird watching and hooking up. Pray to the rain gods that the rain stays away and you’re you’re guaranteed an eyeful of scantily clad Viking chicks, mermaids, flight attendants and schoolgirls, all getting steadily more and more drunk and less and less clothed. And that’s that’s just the guys.

One year I managed to talk a Japanese chick into lending me her the poodle costume she was wearing right there in the Ssouth Standstand. Or at least that’s that’s what the steady stream of tagged Facebook photos informed me of over the course of the following week. The details themselves were are sketchy at best, the progress made with said Japanese chick unclear at the time of writing, although on closer inspection of the pictures, let’s let’s hope there’s not ano memory lurking that will resurface later and to incurably scar me.

If you don’t don’t have any luck in the stands, a cracking after-hours spot is the corner of Fenwick Street and Lockhart Road, where Typhoon and Swindlers spill out into the traffic and within easy reach of 7-eleven, is a cracking after-hours spot, where Typhoon and Swindlers spill out into the traffic and within easy reach of 7-eleven. A couple of years ago, clad in little more than a grubby, damp set of angel wings I had procured from godGod-only-knows where, I found myself talking to this British-Chinese girl dressed as a nurse. (now Now I remember why I was talking to her!)

She seemed to think she could convince me that she didn’t didn’t know how to talk to guys, was too shy, and needed a bit of schooling. With my know-it-all hat perched firmly on my receding brow I quickly swallowed this flimsy line in chat and promptly marched her off to the nearest public park to… um… watch the Nepalese kids play basketball. Soon enough I found myself back at her Mid-Levels serviced apartment, where she proceeded to take my temperature and check my blood pressure and generally give me the full once over.

Then around 6am I was rather rudely awakened by a sharp, jabbing pain in my ribs. It took me a few moments to remember where I was, or who she was, but I got there eventually. She was sat sitting upright in bed next to me with a kind but forthright expression on her face, and her finger deep in my side.

“”I’’m really sorry,”” she blurted out. “”I’’ve been trying to ignore it for hours now but I really can’t can’t handle it any longer.””

I mumbled something fairly incoherent with a question mark at the end.

“”Your snoring! It’’s terrible. I haven’’t had any sleep at all.”” This was a first. “”I’’m sorry, but you’’re going to have to leave.””

“”Really? Now?”” I lived a long way from there.

“”Yes, I’’m afraid so.”” And that was it, I was out on my ear. I shouldn’’t be too ungrateful, it relieved me of making any half-baked excuses later on, but I sure could have used a few more hours sleep before heading back to Hong Kong Stadium to do it all over again. So I did the only thing that made sense. I called the girl I had enjoyed a couple of encounters with a month or so back. She lived on the escalator and was often out late. Surely at 6am on the Sunday morning of Hong Kong’’s premiere party weekend, she’’d be around. And as luck would have it, – she answered!

“”Hey! Where are you? Still out?”” was the first thing she said, and I could hear from her end she was somewhere quiet.

“”Yeah, I just left my friend’’s place in Mid-Levels and was wondering if you were around.””

“”Yeah, I just got home. Come on over!”” and even though I missed most of the day’’s games, it still ranks as one of my favourite Sevens Weekends weekends ever. Hope this year’’s carnage put a smile on your face, or you, at least, were able to put one on someone else’’s.

read mafanjai at www.mafanjai.bcmagazine.net,
email the troublesome boy – mafanjai@bcmagazine.net,
follow him on twitter – @mafanjai