This post is part of Lilu’s awesomely bad TMI Thursdays. Click her link for more good stories.
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So in the Philippines, there is a delicacy called balut that is a fertilized duck egg with embryo. That is to say: baby duck fetus. Say it with me one more time, boys and girls!
BABY DUCK FETUS!
Like, zOMG!!!1
How the heck do you EAT that thing!? I show you how in three easy steps! Look below for answers! Keep in mind that everyone was watching me as I made this video (and by everyone I mean my tito, tita (uncle, aunt) neighbor boy, cousins and a girl that works with my family), and it was a little embarrassing but what can I say, I have no shame! And I’m a good sport. Now, who wants to hire me for the Amazing Race? Which may or may not have anything to do with this video, because I’m unfamiliar with the format of the show (I don’t watch much TV, ok? Even in America.) and have no idea if they eat gross things as part of their challenges but I know it has to do with foreign cultures, and that’s kind of cool, and terrifying.
Third time’s the charm, right!? *bats eyelashes*
Or, I’m just charming?
So, what was my secret in swallowing this thing? Most people would probably try to think of their favorite food and how yummy it is to get past the mental block. Nope. Not me. I think of the grossest thing possible. Something I enjoy swallowing that I have on rare occasion (balut IS a delicacy after all!). I think of swallowing cum. Male semen. Cum in my mouth. Swallow!
Lets look at the similarities shall we?
Both are excellent sources of protein. Who needs a protein shake when you have _________? [Fill in the blank with BALUT or CUM]
Both have interesting textures. Just get OVER it!
Both are swallowed, and not chewed. Technically, you can chew balut, but I swallow!
The appreciation for both cum and balut is very subjective. Both are an acquired taste!
There’s a whole technique for eating it. I’ve likely made up my own technique but… That’s what she said!
Both are gross, but satisfying! Seriously. I love me some cum in my mouth. Oops, did I type that out loud? At least I know I’m not a lesbian. I love cock too much.
For the record, my family does not eat balut. So the fact that I did, and on more than one occasion, really tickled them! All the weird faces I was making as I stared into the poor bird’s face and made gross faces at the clearly distinct skeletal vertebrae… lets just say they were laughing in front of my face and NOT behind my back!
In all seriousness, I DID think of cum to get past the mental road block. I think it’s the only way I could have swallowed that shit. It’s the grossest thing I could think of; but I LOVE it!
I wonder what boys would think if I chased their stuff with Coke? That’s what I want to know!
I’ve got a penchant for you and a penchant for sake. So sake to me. I mean, lets be honest here. When I’m feeling kinda tipsy, I like to talk about sex, do you concur? When do I NOT like talking about sex, though, really? Other than spirituality, the two are my favorite topics. Scrumptious. Like you. Like me. How’s that apple tasting? Juicy, I hope.
Oh, about that sex thing. I would, with you. Lets be honest. I’m attracted to you. You’re the hottest thing since sliced bread. I want to butter you up and then taste you. Is that chheesy? is that bad? Sorry for the drunken heart-t0heart. I don’twant to cheapen our conversation. But it’s truth. The things I would do to you. We’ll wrestle on the white beach sand and get dirty. so dirty. Dirty enough to take off all our clothes and go skinny dipping. /oops, did I say that out loud? Well, I’ve got to cross that off my bucket list someday, somehow. I’m still a virgin, in that regard. Will you help devirginize me? Sorry. I’m not so eloquent with my sake. Uno mas!
I’d bite in to your flesh. Gently. Lick chocolate fondue all the way down to your naughty bits. Hot and tasty. Make your raspberry swirl. Yes, I stole that from Tori. Have you ever seen her play piano with her hands? Two-timing synths in a manage-a-tois with her in the middle? Looking all orgasmic? The things she can do with her hands… And tongue. The way she cocks her head against the microphone. Breathing into it. So close she could touch it. Open her mouth and tease. Liptstick red and ready for that palpable touch. Hot damn. Tori. Us bisexuals. We know how to party. I’d like to be HER man. Oh, where was I? Oh yes. You. And me. The whole thing seems terribly romantic. And just my style. No commitments. No promises. No expectations. I’ll trt not to mess it up with you. But I’m a hopeless romantic. You’re just hopeless. That’s Bouncing Souls. Don’t think my 90s pop culture references are just smashing redheads now. Those punk-rock boys make me wet too. Nipple piercings, shaved heads and tattoos. Take me, now. Hit me. And I mean kiss me. Show me I’m alive and breathing. Pull a punch and then pull my knickers down and ravage me. I’ll put up a good fight. Today’s a good day to die, but it’s also a good day to live. Let’s go.
As for me, all I know is that I know nothing. – Socrates
I don’t claim to have it all figured out, you know. Not a Goddamn thing. The way people are. The way love is. Communication break downs. That’s all I know. I know that the sun rises and sets and that the moon shines its moon-sun reflection on cold, wintery nights. I know that when my parents hem and haw and hover over computer screens like spacecrafts, under low voices and hushed tones while dad indulges in online affairs and mom tries to control him, that my stomach crawls on the inside and I have a harder time loving. I’m an alien here, and I want to fly away.
Once, I think I walked in on my mom masturbating; just a quick glimpse of fingers underneath silk nightgown, nothing graphic, but enough to put a scowl on my face and walk off, trying to shake the image away.
I’m a walking contradiction on most days. A cynical romantic. A slutty prude. An Agnostic that prays to God for hope. The conflicts in my life are minimal; all in my head. But they are enough to show me my mortality. No more enlightened than Buddha or Christ. I am only human after all.
So, when the topic of love comes along, I just want to hide in the recesses of my own cocoon. And whisper, I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. Entanglements of the heart by my track record leave me codependent, and hovering like spacecrafts over computer screens. Like mother like daughter, they say. The similarities sicken me. I don’t want that. I don’t want this. I’m not ready.
The way an ex lover and I said goodbye was on my hands and knees and doggy style. Backdoor. I screamed loud. The loudest I’ve ever screamed. Top of my lungs, back of my throat, guttural screams. Not because it felt so good, but because it didn’t feel like anything at all, except maybe hurt. Void of emotion. I screamed to make me feel; to make the fake seem real. Communication break downs. That’s all I know.
Despite it all, I still have Hope. Hope that I won’t end up with someone like dad, who has a tranny fetish and a penchant for porn, online relationships, escorts. Hope that there’s something better for this cynic who freezes at the thought of marriage, because why cage a freebird, but wants a life partner just like the best of them? Hope for something healthy.
In twenty-ten, I will love myself, continuing on the barrel of self improvement that was 2009. If 2009 was sworn celibacy then twenty-ten will be openness for opportunities and new experiences; a meditation on impermanence, of the sexy kind. I will unravel spirituality through sexuality by cherishing those magic moments and letting go of attachments. Like me on all fours, screaming at the top of my lungs. Letting go. One big exhale. I will unravel layers of love.
No, I don’t like casual, but I am determined to find that love doesn’t have to come in boxes; in things called “relationships” and “commitment” and “romance”. Maybe I am too broken. I don’t know. But it’s all I can handle for now and I want to learn about love. The healthy kind. Not the codependence. Not the meaningless sex, but somewhere in the middle. I’m not sure what that looks like, how far my boundaries can go. Is it merely friendship? Friends with benefits? I don’t know. Is it blow jobs and practicing deep throat and strap-ons? Is it wrestling and choke holds and martial art moves? 2am sex after an amazing day learning how to swim, hiking to hot springs, and sharing a banana leaf umbrella under tropical storms? Or maybe just a good ear, belly laughs, and mango ice cream? I don’t know.
And so I write. Write my fantasies. Write my life. Write somewhere in the middle.
I’m willing to find out. Live my conflict. Like a bohemian, changing and bending. Never set in one way. It’s all I know. That I don’t know.
