I’m a little bit afraid to write a poem for you,
I’m afraid by putting it on paper (even if virtual),
will make it real,
Like how history is real, a fact,
carvings on stones.
If I just leave it as mental memories,
It would just be beautiful stories,
Shared by you and me.
The hegemony of heterosexual patriarchal history,
Will never need to know,
Nor fling stones,
At our earthly hearts that has beat for each other,
Irreverent of our reproductive nature,
So they tell us.

After a year in Brighton,
A year of meeting outrageous, generous, and most of all, proud,
Proud queer women,
Who really live out loud.
Of conferencing on Lesbians Lives, feministing or just baking scones,
Culminating (although this is hardly the end),
In yesterday’s Pride celebration,
Where everywhere I turn,
Women in all shapes, colours and sizes,
Were happy to hold, to be and to love.
They were not afraid to draw on the banner,
Sing out their desires on guitar strings,
Carve herstory on all the stones on the beach,
For all to see, touch, walk on, throw into the sea,
And to just keep doing it,
Until every single stones on the beach,
And those that get wash up,
Become memories, history, nature.

But I am from Malaysia,
A place where even heterosexual love can be abhorred,
The wrong place, the wrong god, the wrong color.
How dare I speak of desiring same sex and gender?
a woman, how dare I speak of desire?

So now, trembling a little,
I write this,
In attempt to redeem some pride,
And to honor the stories,
Of the women I loved and who loved me.

The first girl I slept with,
(I don’t know if she remembers me now),
Was dark like black chocolate,
With a strong body that shows off,
Her 10 laps in the pool each day.
I was nervous and curious,
Lying on the floor,
In the dark of her room,
I remember asking her,
‘how do girls have sex?’
She answered,
‘get on the bed and I’ll show you.’
She was a very good teacher,
And when morning came,
I submitted an A paper.

My first girlfriend,
(I’m not sure if I could call her that,
Seeing how unsure we both were
At what was going on,
But poetic licence permit),
Anyway, we had
Long conversations into the night,
And under the sheets.
And when she tried to sweep the floor,
I would take her hand and dance,
She was taller,
It was not easy to twirl her,
But I was so jealous of the moments when her hand was not in mine.
Housework was impossible,
Hell, eating was a troublesome,
all my lips and tongue wanted to do was to make her come.
We lived in a cocoon,
A balloon, a bubble no one else knew.
And soon reality caught up,
What a prick!
Me still basking in the discovery,
Of my new found sexuality,
And also being somewhat of a dick,
I wasn’t sure I could cap it all in for one person.
Especially for a girl that was so straight,
(Until our first date)
She told me since young she planned her wedding,
And the theme was going to be green.
Green was not my favourite color.
and so it ended in disaster,
For me at least.
I think she moved on faster.
But anyway, I thank her.

Then, there was the one that got away.
(There must always be one that got away eh?)
And her name is…
Well, it rhymes with way,
But without divulging too much,
I must say,
In the stormy weather,
she was my shining ray.
she was the cliché,
The puzzle that match,
All my friends thought she was such a good catch!
If the one before was mostly sexual instinct,
This one was clearly an emotional and mental thing.
The politics of Kuala Lumpur traffic jam,
The philosophy of architecture and Pan Mee,
We could talk about anything!
We would talked about the house we would build together,
We would fill it with furniture made of ramin, nyatoh and merbau.
big, strong, tropical trees that would age with us,
becoming thick, dense rainforest,
filled with rambutans, sang kancil and the silly monyet,
that we have carved out from our flesh,
watered it with tears and sweat each day,
guarding it from land-grabbing developers each night…
This story might have end in happily ever after.
Especially since I even had beer with her father!
(that is always a good sign isn’t it?)
I know you’re all wondering,
What is it that went wrong?
and this will sound insufficient,
but the answer that is efficient,
or else we’ll be here all night,
discussing the ‘what if’ equations,
is that the problem lies not in chemistry,
as you can see, we had aplenty,
it was Java Sea, Timor Sea and the Indian Ocean,
that made us stop brewing the love potion.

So there it is,
Three stories out of many,
Of the wonderful, amazing women I’ve loved.
Whenever I should shiver in fear,
Of anyone accusing I’m queer,
I shall remember these women,
And all our stories,
And I will tell it with pride.

‘My friend is here, at the bus stop, can you pick him up?’ says Effa. She meant go to the bus stop and bring him here, to her apartment. The phone rings, she picks up and a string of Arabic words float in the air. Somewhere amidst the musical notes Shobee detected ‘black jacket’ and ‘girl playing guitar’ and realized Effa was taking about her Ani Difranco shirt and the jacket she has on. She nodded, wave a little ‘see ya’, closed the door to Effa’s apartment while Effa was still on the phone, and walk towards the bus stop.

As she approaches the bus stop, she sees that there is only one man there. ‘Only one way to find out’ she thought. She waves at him. He waves back. She gestures for him to come towards her. And he did. ‘Not bad’ she thought after getting a good look at him. But then again, she usually thinks quite well of people until proven otherwise. ‘Are you Effa’s friend?’ she asked. ‘yes, I’m Ariff.’ He extended his hand.

There is a lot of hair on the back of his hand, she touches it and traces the hair, with her finger, all the way up to his shoulder where it becomes a jungle. She smiles to herself ‘you are the hairiest man I’ve been with’. ‘Just not at right place’ he said. He meant not on his head. Distribution of hair can be pretty arbitrary. He chuckled, lean his head towards the small opening of the window and blow out smokes from his cigarette. ‘That must be the 3rd stick in the last hour.’ She thought. She sat herself on his lap and started smoking him.

She knocks on Effa’s door. Effa open, and was very delighted to see her friend and fellow countrymen, and the pieces of chicken he brought. Shobee was then submerged in pools of Arabic conversations for the next hour, sprinkled with instructions in English to wash the chicken or clean the dishes. The few times she asks Ariff questions, he will then answer in Arabic, passing it on to effa to translate.

‘Look, look. Their movement is err, very precise. They can only move a certain way.’ He meant the actors’ movement were choreographed. ‘yes, it’s very beautiful’, she wanted to say ‘poignant’ but that might be hard to explain. She leans back into him, staring at the people on his laptop, trying very hard to follow their precise movement while being extremely aware of his hand gently caressing her bare shoulder. She indulges in the teasing for as long as she could, then she turn and look at him, ‘we should stop the movie.’

More knockings on the door. More people have arrived. Kamariah, Sheryl, Clarice and James came with bottles of wine, boxes of sweets and bags of chatter. Kamariah dives into the pools of Arabic conversations, leaving the rest of us chattering away in the English, courtesy of the colonial master. Once, Shobee heard someone said in respond to why there are so many ‘third world’ people coming to the West and specifically England, ‘because you were there.’ Effa took out her dish from the oven, turn over on a big white plate and declare ‘this is upside-down dish’.

Down on the floor, up on the table, in the single bed, every corner of her room that could be used, were used, throughout last night. She has not shared a single bed with anyone for a long time, especially with a big hairy man, especially with a naked big hairy man. She look under the cover and gently touches the hair on his chest. ‘are you ok?’ he asked, meaning if it’s comfortable for her to sleep. ‘yes’ she lies, she could never sleep in such a small space but she shall attempt it anyway. What are pleasures without a little challenge? Anyway, it would be too difficult to explain the history of why she couldn’t share a single bed in a few simple English terms, especially when she is thus mentally and physically exhausted. Anyway, it’s ok to lie for a good cause. This is a good cause as any.

Davina and Khai arrive. The little apartment is packed. After eating her fill, she steals off into the study room with a bottle of wine, gossiping with Davina and Khai, and was soon joined by Sheryl. Group photos were taken, photos of the food were taken, music was played, and conversations ran its course, people just knew it’s time to leave, like how the dolphins knew when to migrate to warmer oceans. Shobee gets up from the study room, bumped into a slightly tipsy Ariff who gave her a big hug accompanied by ‘are you ok?’ meaning are you enjoying the dinner party? ‘Yes!’ she said, meaning she enjoyed the hug.

The hand-holding in the streets of London, the not-so stolen kisses in the bus in front of a granny, the touches at all the wrong (meaning ‘right’) places of the body in public spaces; she can’t stop smiling. ‘The keys, you can take his key and we can go to their place first.’ He said. Shobee was a little confounded ‘why? My friend can take my bag to his place later; we can go meet your friend now.’ He explain, ‘no one is at your friend’s place now, we can go there.’ He holds her a little tighter, look intensely into her eyes, willing her to understand. ‘OHHHHH…’ yes, his house is empty. It sinks in, finally. Shobee went back to find her friend, ask him for the keys, then they stroll, a little too eagerly, to her friend’s house. True enough, the house was empty. They went up to the attic, where she is to put up for the few nights in London. It was a sun shiny afternoon, and the view from the attic has never been more poignant. She meant beautiful.

Everyone has left, leaving only Ariff, James and her at Effa’s place. Someone suggests watching movies. They all huddle together on Effa’s single bed, it happens that Shobee sat next to Ariff and since the laptop was in between them, on their lap, her right hand and his left hand had to rest underneath the laptop, together. Someone’s fingers move, the other fingers respond and soon the fingers were swimming under the laptop. Shobee had no idea how that happens, usually she would be the one to consciously initiate a flirt…but this story has a life of its own.

So does the pair of scissors in his hand, chop chop, the hairs fall, creating puddles of black on her kitchen floor. No one knows how it’s going to end, not even the person wielding the scissors. ‘Thanks for the trust’ he said at long last. ‘I love it,’ said Shobee touching her new hairdo, meaning an ocean of meanings. She wonders if he understands. Then she thought, the magic of the deep blue is precisely because we could never fully understand it.

I would sing a song for you on rooftop of the tallest building in the city.
But I am tone deaf and afraid of heights.

I would make films for you.
But you do not watch films.

I would write stories for you.
But you do not read.

And so I wrote you this poem
And when you reach the end of this
When you’re face to face with the onslaught of my intensity
You would probably turn the other way
And I do not expect I would hear from you again
Because you have warn me of this impending doom
When you said you only wanted to be friends
And yet still I walk down this path
Because you and I don’t really need another friend
But mostly we can’t help what we feel
I want someone to sing, make films and write stories for
You want to be left alone.

If I’ve disturb your peace of mind
I am not sorry
For the short durian express ride and the dream of chocolate palace
Will also be haunting me for a while.

She was getting over it. She was getting over him. Then, she saw an email, from facebook, saying that other woman, his other woman, the woman he left her for, has sent her a message. Her heart let out a quiet 'oh no.'

she click on the message, that opened up another browser, into her facebook account inbox. She read it, three times. The woman had just found out accidentally and admit to not knowing she was dating him when the woman met him. She felt that it was unfair for both of them and gave her phone number, asking for a chat. It was tempting. To call up and say 'padan muka, now you know the pain I felt and how hard it was for me to refrain myself from making a scene when I saw you and him last week at the marketplace together.' she felt relief 'it is, he is, no longer my problem now. It is and he is your problem now.' she felt sympathy 'sorry you had the mishap of starting something with someone that wasn't honest with you from the start.' she felt a connection 'no, I wouldn't wish this upon any other fellow women or person and may new year be better for us all.'

she didn't call the woman. After calling up her good friend to discuss best course of action, She wrote a message back, asking the woman to speak to him first and offered her phone number if the woman wants to chat with her after that. She was being mature and kind, acting her age, which is unusual, just when she was about to turn 27 the next day. 'This has to happen on my birthday.' she thought to herself.

3 months ago, they plan to celebrate her birthday together. It would be the first time she celebrates it with a lover. She already had a present in mind that he was going to give her on this day. She is the kind the girl that knew what she wanted beforehand. Even for her friends, she had kindly ask one of them to get them all to share and buy her a gift she had been wanting. She always knew what she wants and work towards it. Except for that time.

The day she got back from Cape Town, Africa. She had been away for 3 weeks. She thought she would be easily swayed by the many interesting women she met there. She thought she would be the one philandering first. But she didn't. Surprisingly, she didn't find it hard to keep her pants on once she told herself she was attached. She had met many people she like and will keep as friends. She had miss him dearly, yet she also had time to reflect about this recent relationship that she had embarked on. She knows that there are many things she couldn't share with him, like the human rights and feminist work she does. She could tell him but he wouldn't get it, the way some of her good friends would get, they would get all excited about listening and they would respond and they would have a lively debate on the relevance of feminist reinterpretation of religions to the cause. The first and last time she discussed his religion with him, he got all angry and defensive. He apologized afterwards, which was nice but which does not mean that he could discuss his faith critically. So much for progressive leanings, she had thought at that time. But yes, back to the day she got back. It was a good day. He showered her much affection as she had hope and expected. But it was also pregnant with something. She didn't know what then. But she found out soon enough.

Like the calm before the storm, the next day he confided, that he likes (actually he used the word 'love' but seeing how he has taken it's meaning in vain, he probably could only grasps the word 'like' and not the magically potent battle-pacifying universe enveloping 'love') another woman. Immediately she knew which other woman he was referring to, as the weeks before she left, he had been talking about this person whom he had been rehearsing his last play with. Oh, he also used the word 'too', implying that he likes she and her just as much. He couldn't choose, he said. 'coward.' she thinks back. She felt intense sadness for a few minutes, then great relief. Maybe the universe has made a decision for her that she wasn't really sure about. She thought they could go back to being friends with benefits. She thought wrong. The next few days and weeks were filled with unsureness. She was ok for one minute, happily being single again and she would be crying on the phone asking him to come over the next. She knew they could never be together again, and it would be for the better, she just wish her heart would keep up to where her mind has arrived. This unsureness really stab at the core of her self as an activist and feminist, the self that is filled with decisiveness and determination. There were many times when life was tough, but rarely does she felt so out of control and ...weak.

This part was where friends are of world-saving importance. They kept her occupied, they kept her sane, they let her finish their tissue when she cried and took her on road trips. Every night, she could find herself a friend to accompany her for dinner and sometimes to stay over watching tv. By and by, a month has gone by since they broke up.

She was getting over it. She was getting over him. Then, she saw an email, from facebook.

please come back.
you don't know how much i yearn for you to come to my door and ask me to get back with you, and the answer i've been imagining inside my head is a 'yes.' although 'no' would be the right thing to do.
and i know if that happens, i would hate myself, my friends would be angry at me albeit sympathetic.
so please don't come back, cos i won't have the strength to say no...