Bloodhound Knocks

On my off days - when I'm not tracking down the rest of my Blue List like a soulless bloodhound - I usually spend it lounging on my Balinese teak daybed scrounging through the internet for news of interest - and occasionally numerous *ahem* bodies of interest. Despite the titillating reports, sometimes the sheer ennui does get to me and I do find myself nodding off.

Of course till the past few days I've never actually known what life in blissfully contented suburbia would mean - and exactly what the desperate housewives have to contend with in the lazy afternoons. Just as I was about to fall into the blessed arms of Somnus, I heard a shrill cry that jolted me half awake. The sheer din of my ringing doorbell was only outdone by the volume of his voice as the man at my door literally yelled down the rafters. You'd be forgiven for thinking that my handsome prince had finally arrived to whisk me off to his fabulously appointed apartment in Bangsar ( filled with lovely antiques and knick knacks from all around the world ).

It was a fucking door-to-door salesman. And before you gay boys can ask, yeah, yeah, incredibly dark ( like he'd fallen headfirst into a freaking tanning pool! ) due to the endless sun exposure and somewhat good-looking - the kind you'd take home for tomorrow's breakfast if the pickings weren't all that good that night. Just before I could ward him off with a nasty threatening scowl, he was already off and running with his cheap smarmy spiel.

Still, the boy was heavily enthusiastic with such wild, manic energy vibrating in his brown eyes that I felt like smacking him around and dragging him to the hospital for a blood checkup. Hell, he looked as if he was on an ecstasy high, stammering away desperately about his products in rapidfire Mandarin - which obviously left me straggling desperately in the dust. Obviously taking me for a naive rube - instead of the bitter cynic that I am, he started enthusing about the miracles of his product and all the special deals he's about to offer me since I'm so special.

Still I was kinda sedated myself so I allowed him to ramble on about his stupendous products that was guaranteed to turn me into studly heartmelting Chris Evans while I checked out his sweaty chest. Or was he talking about an electrical appliance?

After the spittle had dried on his sweat-dripping face ( and on mine ), I told him to go down on me before I'd buy anything. Well, of course I didn't do any such thing - especially since I'm aiming for a cleaner, more PG-rated Paul - though I actually wish I had. Perhaps it would deter the rest of the hot young salesmen from haunting my gates and waking me up with meaningless babble. Trust me, only good way to be woken up in the morning is with a French kiss from a hot guy. Anything else is a poor second best.

Instead I gave him a soft drink, patted him on the head like a good little boy and told him to bug my crazed karaoke freak of a neighbour. Let her try to drown him out.

Revenge is best served cold.