Did That Just Really Fucking Happen?!?! Moment #1: Stop Photography

In my fourth year at Island School I quickly grew a quick affinity to photography. We wound our own film, took our own photos, and developed our own pictures. I loved getting inspired by black and white photos by Herb Ritts, Ansel Adams, Steven Meisel.

I started spending a lot of time in the dark room at school. My new hobby started invading time with my squash lessons, swim training, and everything else I loved. Photography became my new love. I was at every school event with my Canon 50mm. I caught photos of couples making out; slam dunks on the basketball court; special guests at our school assemblies.

It was no wonder that when it came time for our school Athletics Day I was asked to help take photos for the school yearbook. I was eager to step up to the plate to provide the year’s best photos.

Athletics day was a time when all six Houses at Island School competed in track and field events. Each year, Island School would rent an entire sports arena for Atheltics Day to host each House to compete with each other. The entire school had the day off so each year could cheer for their respective House.

There was a lot of House pride at Island School. Each house wanted bragging rights to be the best house at the end of each school year. If you watched Harry Potter, you’d get an idea of the Inter-House competitiveness. Every student wanted an opportunity to throw the discus the furthest; arch their back the highest in the high-jump; or speed through another record on a track event.

That year, Athletics Day couldn’t be brighter, nor sunnier. The stadium was filled with orange, purple, red, blue, green, and yellow jerseys that represented the Houses: Da Vinci, Einstein, Fleming, Nansen, Rutherford, and Wilberforce, respectively.

Our team of photographers had our own game plan. We separated into small groups to make sure we hit all our own targets: the cheering crowds and teetering teenage girls rooting for the jocks; all field events, judges and medal handlers; the commentators and announcers up in the press box; and of course, the most coveted track events that were always the most exciting events to watch. Miss Higgins, my House Mistress for Fleming, as well as school PE teacher gave me a wink and I was responsible for the track event photos.

The day was going well. I started at one side of the track where I got some great shots of racers in their crouched start positions for the shorter track races, and then switched sides to get some amazing shots of tight finishes. Eventually it was time to prepare for the longer track events where the racers had to loop several laps of the 400m track.

I met with the other two photographers so we could figure out who was taking what. We decided that because runners would lap the track several times we could make it a free for all and go wherever we pleased.

The announcers in the press box started gathering the runners for the 1600m to the starting line.

“It’s been an exciting Athletics Day today, but there are still a few races left for each House to win more points to be number one. Mr Adams here, asking all runners for the 1600m to get ready…” No one could see Mr Adams on the track, but his distinctively squeaky voice filled the air from the stadium speakers.

“Harry, I’ll make sure I get the shot of you coming in first place,” I yelled to my classmate who was running for our House, Fleming.

Harry looked back at me, gave me the thumbs up and then posed for the camera like the race was in the bag. Harry was easily one of the top contenders for this race as he’d been running cross-country breaking records each year.

“On your marks,” Mr Adams continued, “get set…”

Bang! A judge by the starting line pulled the pistol trigger and the runners were off on their way. The electronic timer began counting the seconds and the crowd went wild as they cheered for the runner representing their respective House.

Being on the field during the race is quite surreal as you see people cheering at you even though they weren’t cheering for you. I felt obligated to snap away. I took photos of everything: the crowd, the runners, the other photographers taking photographs; I felt like I was running my own race!

Harry was far in the lead. The runners had already completed several races and I knew I had to get to the finish line so I could get that winning photo of Harry. The timer on the leader board continued counting.

“It looks like Harry from Fleming could be setting a new record this year,” Mr Adams announced from the press box.

I finally got to the finish line and turned around so I could catch Harry face-on as he crossed the finish line.

“And, yes! Harry has done it again and has a new record!” squeeked Mr Adams.

I was looking through my camera and madly snapping pictures and waited for Harry to enter my photos frames. A few seconds passed and he never came. I turned to look back at the huge leader board timer and the clock had in fact stopped. So where was Harry? I turned again and saw Harry running breathless toward me and the finish line.

DTJRFH?!?!?!

I quickly realised I had run through the finish line sensor and stopped the clock on the leader board! My heart plopped into my liver. I looked beyond Harry and saw Miss Higgins screaming at me.

“Ch’ien! What have you done you ignorant boy?!” Miss Higgins was turning blue in the face.

I quickly rushed off the track and entirely missed Harry running through the finish line. Thankfully Third Year students were asked to be manual timers in the event there was a timer malfunction, which came in handy for when an idiot might run through the finish line even though he wasn’t in the race…

Miss Higgins let me off with a slap on the wrist while my classmates just thought my error was utterly hilarious. There wasn’t really any lesson I learned from this situation, except that I almost made it down in the books for the best 1600m time with my 50mm in hand…

Flying High, Over Seas

I'm not really sure what it means to be overseas anymore. I spent most of my adolescent years in Hong Kong, so coming to the US and then later traveling to Europe were my experiences, at the time, for traveling overseas.

Traveling without my parents really forced me to grow up and see the world with a new pair of eyes. I had to be smart and watch my own back. In my first year at BU, I got to fly to Montreal, Detroit, New York, London, and Amsterdam; all of which were pretty large and intense cities. My five senses were really challenged as I saw, touched, heard, smelled, and tasted brand new things. However, in all of my overseas travels, there was often one consistent thing I experienced: getting high.

I love being high. Wait. Don't be too quick to judge. I'm currently an employee at a top healthclub teaching indoor cycling and group fitness and get high on adrenalin and working out! All right. If you really know me, you'd know this wasn't always the case...

When I left Hong Kong in 1994 to fly to Boston, I was very well protected from the world of hard drugs. Aside from cigarettes and alcohol I really hadn't tried anything else. I had been very well educated about the consequences of drug use and I knew I would never meddle with such terrible substances. When I got to America, I quickly realised I was terribly wrong.

During my freshman year at BU, I remember working on group projects and pulling all nighters. One girl from Switzerland, Emily, pulled out some yellow pills one night and offered them to our group.

"What are they?" I asked.
"Oh nothing crazy. It's just Vivarin. Who wants some? It's two in the morning and we have seven more hours until our presentation," Emily replied.

I passed on the pills and secretly judged the others while they took a pill in their mouth and washed it down their throats with a shot of vodka. Not to be out-cooled by my group, I joined them with the shot of vodka and swallowed the hot liquid down my throat while wondering what had happened to good old fashioned coffee?

By 7AM we were almost done with our project and I was starting to get tired. That, or the effects of sipping vodka cranberries were finally taking its toll...

"Oh my God... Two more hours..." Emily moaned.

She got up from the floor where the rest of the group were huddled, scribbling away at our notes, and proceeded to work on another project at her desk. When I started to hear scratching noises, I peeked up and saw that Emily was crushing something. I looked closer and found emily cutting lines of Vivarin!

"Who wants a line?" Emily turned to the rest of the group and revealed a mirror with streaks of yellow powder. I thought she had lost her mind and gone completely mad.

"How do you do it?" asked a groupie.

Emily skillfully rolled a dollar bill and snorted a line. Two others followed.

"You guys are nuts!" I chuckled. But the peer pressure was too over whelming and I ended up opting to orally ingest 2 Vivarin pills.

By the time we got to our 9am class, I felt alive! We sat at the front of the auditorium and eagerly waited for our group name to be called out to give our presentation. I crossed my legs and pulled out my notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and laid it on my lap. As I started to take notes on the other group presentations, I noticed that I found it very difficult to write notes with a steady hand. I looked down at my chicken scratch and wondered why my handwriting looked like doodles? My hands felt fine and I started to feel a small sense of panic. I lifted my notepad and found my foot that was crossed over my grounded leg was shaking, on its own! I uncrossed that leg and grounded both feet. I took a deep breath and suddenly heard my heart thumping like it wanted to explode from my chest like an ingested alien.

I looked over to Emily and she looked like it was just another day except for the fact she had the glazed look of a Stepford Wife. I found the rest of my group and gasped when I realised they too, had turned.

When my group was finally called up to share our presentation with the rest of the class, we somehow managed to do so without a hitch. The class ended and all I wanted to do was head straight back to my dorm room where I could ditch the Stepford Wives and be alone.

I chain-smoked all the way back to the Myles Standish dorm room. Thankfully neither my room mate nor my suite mates were home so I could strip myself of my sweat drenched clothes and get under the covers of my bed. I tried to sleep but my heart was still thumping and I was wide awake. I cursed Emily for giving me Vivarin. Then I cursed myself for allowing myself to be peer pressured into taking those damned pills. And then I just wondered if I was going to survive this crazy heart palpitation. I did. And I later found out that we got an A for our group presentation.

*****

Looking back, I think it is sad to say that Vivarin, of all things, was probably my gateway drug. A couple weeks later I reconnected with Emily from our winter break and she invited me to her dorm room for a treat. She opened her desk drawer and revealed a slew of baggies that were each filled with weed or hash.

"What do you want? I have stuff from France, Armenia, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Holland, and some stuff that's homegrown," she explained.

From pot and hash, my explorations with drugs quickly escalated to acid the next week.

The acid dealer was the usual 'friend of a friend of a friend.' He sold his tabs that were all very carefully wrapped in foil. My American friend, Brenda, and I decided we'd try it out one night at a house party. Brenda also lived in Myles Standish Hall and when we met in the smoking lounge we quickly got along. She's originally from Connecticut but went to an American high school in Tokyo. We pretty much hit it off from the get go and we were both also extremely studious and never settled for anything but 'As.' I think her parents would die if they ever knew she meddled with drugs...

The night of 'the party,' we started drinking in her dorm room. What didn't we have? We started doing shots of Sambuca, vodka, Bailey's, and the list went on. We were finally ready for the final shot: acid. We carefully unwrapped the foil and on three, took a tab of acid each. We gathered our stuff and called our friends to meet us in the smoking lounge downstairs for a quick smoke before we went to the party.

At the smoking lounge, I swear I saw the tables and chairs start to breathe. They were literally pulsating. I vaguely recall seeing a two foot purple elephant run across the smoking lounge, too. Brenda and I were in hysterics! She was the only other person that saw the same things I did.

The party was a blast. Friends, cigarettes, alcohol, and pot. It's what every college student would want to find at a party. Except Brenda and I were also experiencing bursts of wild colours, dragons flying in rooms, and magical gnomes hiding from us.

"Brenda, this is insane! Wanna do another hit?" I offered?
"Sure!" Brenda replied.
"Okay, get them ready in the other room," I continued, "I'm just going to go to the toilet real quick."

When I finished my business I quickly rushed into the other room to meet Brenda. I found her sitting in the Lotus position with a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

"What took you so long, Ch'ien?" she mumbled.

I noticed she already had the tabs of acid out of the foil, and had a tab between her thumb and index finger in each hand!

"Brenda! What are you doing?" I squeeled, "You're absorbing the acid through the pores of your fingers right now!"

I charged at her and threw the cigarette that was in her mouth into the closest ashtray. I instructed her to immediately take one tab, and as she did, I headed mouth first into her other hand and swallowed the other tab. Sadly, I didn't stop there. I continued by sucking on all four fingers that had been holding each tab...

Around 4 or 5AM, we decided to head home back to our dorms at Myles Standish. I don't know what happened, but I started crying uncontrollably. It wasn't just a sniffle or a sob; I was full-out bawling!

My friends carried me to my room. Once in my suite, they were thankful to see my suite mate's lights on and they continued into his room.

"What the fuck happened, Ch'ien?" Deniz asked.

Deniz was from Turkey. He turned out to be one of my best friends while at BU. We moved into a condo in Kenmore square together for our Junior and Senior years. Friends described us as Euro-Asian Trash brothers. We went through so much together during our four years at BU, and tonight was one of his first tests to see if he would want to keep me as a friend.

My friends explained to Deniz that we had been at a party, drinking, smoking, and of course, that I did acid. Deniz exploded. I was pathetically choking and sobbing out his window.

"Do you have any of the acid left?" Deniz demanded.

Brenda confessed I still had a couple tabs left in my back jean pocket. Deniz wrestled me and stole the remaining tabs of acid and threw them out the open window.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" I screeched like a mother might have done if a stranger had slapped her child.

I ran out the suite and just remember waking up in Brenda's bed. I went into her bathroom to clean up. I looked into the mirror and saw a stranger staring back at me. I had cracked tears on my face and huge, sunken bags under my eyes. I later learned that what I had experienced was a "bad trip" coming down. I apologised to Deniz later that day and confessed that I had learned my lesson. For now...


*****

After my bad trip with LSD, I reverted back to pot and hash. But before graduating BU, I had also experimented with out-of-body experiences with opium and a fresh experience with the magical world of mushrooms. Oh, the mushrooms...

Mushrooms were like acid, but all natural. My favourite form of ingestion was brewing them in a pot of tea. I remember my friends and I would sip some Earl Grey Mushroom tea and then take a walk to look at the fairy lights, that were actually the headlights of passing cars.

Everything was always so beautiful except for the night we decided to head back to my friend's house to watch Taxi Driver. Robert DeNiro's hair turned into horns while he transformed into the devil. My friend's Godfather poster of Brando's side profile also turned into the devil; as did Brandon Lee in his "Crow" poster. I distinctly recall seeing him fly out of the poster toward me... Perhaps that was another sign telling me to stop with the drugs.

I didn't stop there either.

*****

My memories of taking drugs aren't all so bleak like those times when I came down on a bad LSD trip, or when everything turned into the devil when I was high on 'shrooms. When I graduated BU, I delved into the world of Coke and Ecstacy. It was a love-hate relationship with both drugs. The reason being that it would be a blast being high on the drug, but a total downer in the bedroom because I'd have "coke" or "E" dick (ie. I could never get it up).

When I lived with one of my best friends, Joe, we had a blast doing E together. We'd take a tab and start at Buzz (what used to be one of the hottest clubs in Boston) and then head to Rise where we'd dance till the sun rose. One time we were so bored at a house party in the South End we decided to head back to our apartment to do a booty bump so we could come back to the party with a "fresh" perspective.

We caught a taxi home and went into our drug stash and placed the tab up our butts. We had read that the flesh tissue in the rectum would absorb the drug into our blood stream a lot quicker and it worked. The two of us stopped off at a 7-11 to buy their entire stock of canned whipped cream to bring back to the party as party favours. The cabbie had to honk at us because we were finding it hard to tear ourselves from touching all the cold products in the fridge section. By the time we got back to the party we were both bouncing off walls and encouraging people do do cartwheels in the living room. Joe pulled out the cans of whipped cream and had party guests doing "whippits" where they just inhaled the nitrogen from each can.

Another great E experience came when Joe and I, along with six other friends, headed down to St John in the Caribbean. We flew there because four friends were working there for six months, and we heard there was going to be an amazing meteor shower and we wanted to see it while high on E. After a whole day of drinking on Jost Van Dyck Island on their pay-at-the-end "honorary system," we set out to a secluded beach on St John to prepare for the Shower. We all took a tab of E and started rolling around in the sand. While I was on my back, Joe lifted me up by my shins and swung me around like I was a set of helicopter blades. It felt incredible swinging in the air while I looked up at the dizzy array of stars.

When the meteor shower started it was truly magical. I was spinning without moving. The stars lapped my toes with each turn of a wave. The tiki torches we lit didn't reveal the crazed faces of the old men in the distance that had been doing this for years.

*****

All of my previous drug experiences never prepared me for the pot I smoked in Amsterdam. My ex-girlfriend from Island School, Marjon, was my link to Holland. She finished her uni years in the Netherlands since she was originally from Holland.

When we both went off to university, Marjon and I remained very close and always kept in touch. I went to Amsterdam almost every year and it was her friends that introduced me to the "coffee shops" in Amsterdam where you could by hash filled "Space Cakes" and buy weed and hash at these locations. After visiting these coffee shops I had to try my hardest not to get run down by cars and bikes on the winding streets of Amsterdam.

My ultimate experience of getting high in Amsterdam occurred when I flew there for Marjon's wedding. Screw any other drug I had before. Even all the hash and pot I tried at the Dutch coffee shops could not have prepared me for what Marjon had in store for me.

As a thank you for coming to her wedding, Marjon asked her close friends to "hook me up" with some "good shit." Claude and Yvette, who were a couple, rose to the challenge.

Two nights before Marjon's wedding, Claude and Yvette invited Marjon and I to their little "woonboot," or houseboat, on the river for a "smoke-up." It was a very cosy place, that I remember. Marjon rang the doorbell and I felt so excited I thought I was about to meet Madonna. Claude greeted us at the door and directed us into their sitting room where two other fellas sat smoking cigarettes with Yvette.

"Ch'ien!" Yvette welcomed me into the sitting room. She treated me like a bestie even though we had just met a few days earlier.

I kissed her three times on alternating cheeks like how the Dutch greet each other and sat down on the sofa beside her. Marjon sat on the other side of the coffee table with Claude. The two guys just raised their hands and waved a small hello to me. They sniggered when they heard I was visiting from Boston.

"So you want to try some real pot, huh?" Guy#1 asked me in his heavy Dutch accent. Guy#2 chuckled.

My five new friends began conversing in Dutch with a few giggles here and there. I felt myself shrinking into the couch. Wait a minute! Fuck you. I've done it all. I can handle whatever you give me. Bring it! If only I had the nerve to expressed my thoughts out loud.

"Ch'ien, are you ready to try some real Dutch pot?" offered Claude.
"Sure," I replied as I tried to keep my cool.
"Please be careful, honey," Yvette warned me.
"This pot is nothing like the shit you get in America," Guy#2 added.

I assured them I would be fine and that I had done plenty of strong substances already. I wasn't about to let these two Dutch bastards look down on me! One of them started rolling a thick joint. I took a big slurp of my wine to wet my throat in preparation of the hot smoke I knew I'd be inhaling. I started some small talk.

"It's a shame Farrah didn't want to join us tonight," I said to Marjon. Farrah was Marjon's best friend who flew in from London for the wedding.
"She really wasn't interested and she knows she's a light weight," Marjon replied.

A light weight? Now I'd seen Farrah get crunk with the best of them and never thought she'd consider herself a light weight. Was this Dutch pot really going to be that strong? The cigarette smoke in the sitting room was starting to burn my eyes and I excused myself.

"Yvette, sorry, where's your toilet?" I asked.
"Just go straight ahead and it's on your right," she said.

I found the rest room and locked the door latch behind me. They had such a quaint little bathroom. I noticed this was the only bathroom in their cosy houseboat. The standing sink, bathtub, and toilet fit snugly in the small space. I took a leak and reached to flush but noticed there was no flush handle. I looked around and found they really had an old fashioned toilet where the tank was above the toilet and they had one of those pull chains. So cute! I pulled the chain and was so childishly amused at the old fashioned contraption.

As I washed my hands I heard the crew laughing out loud in the sitting room.

"Ch'ien, get your shit together and put your game face on," I told myself as I dried my hands on the hand towel.

"Ch'ien, come quick, we've already gone one round without you," Yvette reached out the smoking joint in her hand.

The sitting room no longer smelled like stale cigarettes. Instead, it was filled with the sweet aroma of green. I took a seat back next to Yvette and took a long, slow drag of the Dutch pot.

"Good, right?!" Guy#1 slapped my back as I handed him the joint.
"Yeah, very smooth," I responded.
"Of course! We have the best!" added Guy#2.

In all honesty, I felt a minor anti-climax. I didn't think the pot was that special at all. But I didn't want to be ungrateful, and as I looked around the room, Claude and Yvette wore such proud smiles I couldn't find the heart to say anything negative.

The group proceeded to tell me some Dutch jokes as I sipped more of my wine. I laughed even though I didn't find the jokes terribly funny. Marjon passed the joint proudly as she was one who never got high. The joint continued to move from hand to hand and finally came back to me. I put my glass of wine down and took another long, slow drag. I held the smoke in my lungs and handed the joint over. Guy#1 sneered a comment in Dutch to Marjon.

"Ch'ien, are you okay?" questioned Marjon. "They're impressed you haven't conked out yet," she added as she pointed to the two hooligans.

I coughed the smoke out of my lungs. I gave the group a thumbs up and they cheered. I finally felt like I was being included with these guys. Finally! But my sense of triumph quickly faded as I watched the joint passed along to the next smoker. I felt my entire body grow numb. I started to hear a ringing in my ears. I saw Marjon looking back at me.

"Ch'ien, are you sure you're fine?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," I assured even though I wasn't sure at all.

When the joint got back to me for my third hit I was worried what would happen with another drag.

"Is our American friend done for the night?" Guy#1 mocked.

Not to be outdone I took the joint and took another hit. I quickly passed it along. I lost almost all my senses. I was completely immobilised.

"Ch'ien, seriously, are you okay?" Marjon's concern could no longer be held back.

I'm okay. I wanted to say. But I couldn't even speak. I blinked at her and smiled. The two Dutch hooligans gave themselves a high five and started laughing and speaking in their native tongue. Between my paralyzed state of mind and the ringing in my ears, I was left defenseless to their mocking. After much internal struggling, I finally managed a thumbs up and a wider smile. I sat there like a sad Asian wax figure. I couldn't move, yet I had never felt so relaxed.

When the blunt came back to me I couldn't even reach for it. I pathetically shook my head and looked over to Guy#1 to take it. I looked over to Marjon for help. She knew exactly what had to be done.

"Well, guys, thanks so much for having us over. Ch'ien and I should head back home because Farrah and my family are waiting for us at home for dinner," Marjon offered. I knew I loved her for a reason. "Ch'ien, are you ready?"

Yvette kindly helped me up and I instantaneously felt a shift in my stomach. I shook the guys' hands good-bye and kissed Yvette three times on alternating cheeks.

"Ch'ien, I can't believe you got so fucked up," Marjon whispered in my ear.
"I know... Sorry... Just give me two minutes okay? I need to use the toilet real quick," I replied.

I found my way back into their rest room and quickly pulled my pants down and sat on the toilet. I was so high my body was so relaxed I released what I thought was the biggest turd I ever let out of my body. I could have been on that show "I Didn't Even Know I Was Pregnant."

My body was like jelly. It took every ounce of strength to lift myself off the toilet seat to wipe my butt and buckle up my pants. I reached around to pull the flush chain and was puzzled when I didn't hear a flush even though the chain was in my hand... I had pulled it so hard that I pulled the entire chain off the tank! I looked into the toilet bowl and saw what could have been three dark aborted babies. I was horrified.

I turned around and turned on the faucet and tried cupping water into the toilet bowl to make everything go away. The chocolate babies weren't going anywhere. It needed the flushing suction from the tank. I tried looking into the tank but couldn't figure out such an old contraption.

"Ch'ien! Are you okay in there?" Marjon started knocking on the door.

I quickly unlocked the door and explained the situation to Marjon and she laughed so loud the others in the sitting room could hear.

"What's going on over there?" Yvette was curious.
"Oh my god. Don't tell them!" I pleaded to Marjon.

Marjon ignored my plea and responded to Yvette in Dutch. I wanted to die.

"Oh no worries, Ch'ien," Claude yelled from the sitting room.

I rushed into the sitting room and apologised like my life depended on it. The two hooligans had already started smoking a fresh joint. Were they too stoned to understand what had just happened?

Marjon and I laughed about the whole experience on our way back to her place. My shit was sitting two meters above the Amstel Canal that would eventually lead into the North Sea... That pot was seriously like no other shit I had ever had, literally. Would it be inappropriate for me to ask Claude and Yvette for more at the wedding two days later even though I clogged their only bathroom in their houseboat?


*****

I honestly look back fondly on my days of drug use, like I was living vicariously through a younger brother I never had. I'm glad I experienced them and feel lucky I was able to move on. When I see my old coke dealer, Cupcake, out at bars, I'm proud that I no longer slide over to him to ask for a "slice of pizza."

I graduated BU Magna Cum Laude. Drugs have also never interfered with my professional life either, for the most part...

When my good friend Joe accepted the fact he was an alcoholic, it was a time for me to reflect on my own addictions and I decided to cut out the hard drugs from my life. In my travels overseas, I played with the devil by trying out all sorts of drugs. But in my travels overseas, I have also been extremely fortunate to have met so many friends who have acted as angels and guided me to a healthier lifestyle.

Now when I travel overseas, it's to find amazing hiking trails, compete in triathlons, swim in oceans, and to get high purely on adrenalin.

I still try and fly back to Amsterdam as much as I can. Marjon eventually gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Tijn, and she asked me to be his Fairy God Mother. Lady, please, Fairy God Mother's can still play in the Red Light District's coffee shops for some good ol' Space Cake!

Breakdown of a Goddess

Do you ever look at people and wonder how they got to be so beautiful? Like, it couldn’t be humanly natural to be that gorgeous?

When I was in secondary school, I got my first taste of beauty, or at least of what I thought was beauty. Enter Valeria C. She was a pretty and petite Filipino who looked a little more Spanish than Asian. She had lush, black hair and tight, tan skin. When she looked at you with her sweet eyes you were the only one that existed in the world. Her full lips were those you’d dream of kissing. She quickly learned she attracted the attentions of many boys and often played with their raging adolescent hormones to her advantage.

I was eleven and in First Form when I met Valeria. Unlike all the other boys that tried hard to woo her, I had a trump: I belonged in her inner circle. I was one of her best friends, along with Gerry D., a hardcore Cockney chick, and Ramona C., the sensible Aussie Eurasian. The four of us were our own Motley crew. We weaved in and out of every circle: the dorks, the Indians, the cool kids, the Jocks, the Goths. I’m sure many wanted to be in our circle but the four of us seemed to manage to smile off the requests and offers without offending any individual.

For the first three years of our friendship I was there for every guy crush she had, and also every guy’s heart she crushed. Including mine. She was a maneater in training.

One party night at Gerry’s, Valeria and I ended up in the same bed. We were getting off with each other and I could not believe the day had come. I was getting off with one of the hottest girls at Island School! I remember trembling when I undressed her; when I made her quiver when my tongue found her dark nipples and eventually found itself between her legs (all right faggots, stop gagging…). I remember thinking I wouldn’t stop until she came. That night I knew I became a man.

The next day we went out to join the others in Gerry’s living room.

“Did we have a good night, Valeria?” Ramona said in a way a bitch would mock her prey.
“Hey, leave my girl friend alone,” I defended. Valeria looked away.
“Valeria, did you just hear what Cheng called you?” Ramona hissed.

I knew I was done when Valeria grabbed Ramona’s hand instead of mine. I just became one of Valeria’s other boys. I had been in love with what I knew to be the most beautiful girl in the world for three years and in one night I became a lovesick mess. Literally: Oh em gee. I died. I cried over her for days. It’s pathetic when I look back at it now but I remember that my life was over at the time. Back then, in my mind, I forgave her every time she hooked up with numerous other guys in the weeks and months that came.

One Friday night at a school dance I couldn’t keep my eyes off Valeria. She loved music and loved dancing. Gerry and Ramona urged me to move on. How could I? She was my first love! Then all of a sudden, Valeria’s favourite song came on, George Michael’s “Freedom! ’90.” I wasn’t really that familiar with him at the time. I just knew he was one of the two queer guys from that 80’s group, Wham. And he was the one with that popular butt-waggling track, “Faith.”

Freedom was a hot fucking record. And the video! It was an orgy of the hottest Supermodels at the time. Talk about “beauty!” Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Cyndi Crawford, Christy Turlington. I became obsessed with the video and soon realised Valeria looked nothing like these beauties (but in her defense, not many people ever do!). Valeria was short and no where as graceful as these models. She also didn’t have much of a bust. Linda had such perfect and stunning features. Christy looked like a Greek Goddess wrapped in that huge sheet as she sauntered through that grand room. What an entrance! Divine. Christy also had incredible cheek bones and those eyes… And then the hottest scene ever when the two of them prick their fingers by the fire place. Hot! I wonder how many times I jerked off with that image in my head wondering when I would ever have the opportunity to meet a girl that looked as hot as Linda or Christy.

The day came 16 years later in the summer of 2005 when I was in Florence, Italy for a fashion show and I actually met the Ms. Christy Turlington. I was the Art Director for PUMA’s Black Station luxury line of footwear and apparel at the time. Christy had a partnering collaboration with PUMA of yoga inspired fashion called “nuala” (an acronym for Natural, Universal, Altruistic, Limitless, and Authentic; look, she’s a gorgeous model so let her name her line anything she wants!). You may have seen the nuala line at high end retail outlets like Bloomingdales. Other Black Station collaborators I got the privilege to work with included the teams of Neil Barrett, Alexander McQueen, Yasuhiro Mihara, Phillippe Starck, and Rudolph Dassler. This particular fashion show was a preview of the fall/winter collections of all these collaborations. But back to Christy!

She had not aged one bit! She was still stunning (even today she still is stunning!). Everyone in attendance of the Black Station fashion show eyed Ms. Christy. I’m not normally star struck but I was with her. I mean, she probably knew Madonna (my ultimate idol whom I love to hate)! I found out Christy’s agent is the same as Gwyneth Paltrow’s and Gwyneth and Madonna were besties once! Maybe all of us could go to a Coldplay concert? And swoon over Chris Martin?

Anyway, after the show, my PR girl buddies, Danielle and Lisa, quickly casually introduced Christy to me.

“Ch’ien, I look forward to working with you. I have a lot of ideas for this coming campaign,” she said. Did the Goddess just talk to me? My heart was thumping. I was screaming like a tween school girl on the inside! In my role as Art Director, I would work with the collaborators for their marketing and advertising campaigns. I looked around and noticed dozens of pairs of eyes spitting at me with jealousy at the fact that Christy spoke to me. Fuck team Edward and Team Jacob! I’m with Team Christy!

I was just a simple boy who grew up in Hong Kong. I must have gloated to my best friends as soon as I returned to my hotel room. I could never have imagined I’d meet and work with a Supermodel! It was a gay man’s dream come true (aside from being in the 14th row of a Madonna concert and almost touching her when she danced down the catwalk singing “Give It To Me!”)! Later that night when I was heading out in search of a gay bar in Florence I happened to pass by Christy and her posse off to some dinner. It looked like a photoshoot. Gorgeous people running down the cobble stone streets of Florence. Oh the glamour! I was too shy to call her name and just admired them in the shadows.

I’m not sure if I really heard anything during my first meeting with Christy at her office in the Meat Packing District in NYC. I was still in awe. She is gorgeous. And she’s still a Supermodel. Her assistant, Sascha D, and I hit it off immediately. Sascha also has a sick sense of humour and I was thrilled to know this would be a great working relationship in the year I would work with Christy and Sascha.

I watched Christy Turlington Burns grow during the following months as she was pregnant with her second child. She still worked hard during her pregnancy and boy did she glow. She was everything: wife, mother, entrepreneur. And she still looked amazing.

During one meeting, Christy, Sascha and I were huddled in Christy’s office. We were reviewing Christy’s upcoming campaign and apparel line for nuala. Sascha got up to use the ladies and dropped something. Without thinking I just reached down to help retrieve whatever she had dropped and found a tampon in my hand.

“Great! Now the gay guy knows I have my period,” Sabrina said.
We all laughed.
“Well I guess it means Ch’ien’s family now,” Christy replied, “So Sascha, you won’t mind sharing if it’s a heavy day?”
She was sharp and had a sense of humour, too! And I was now part of the “family.” When do I get to meet her sexy hubby-actor-director Ed Burns?

Months passed and I was always thrilled to take the Boston shuttle to New York every week to meet with the nuala team. We worked a lot and both Christy and Sascha introduced me to many of their favourite lunch and dinner spots. Thanks to PUMA’s expense account no expense was ever wasted!

After Christy gave birth to her boy, Finn, she still called in to our meetings while she stayed home with Finn and her girl, Grace. When the photoshoot finally arrived, Christy was determined to be there as she loved to be hands on with all her projects. When she arrived, my internal jaw dropped. She was still glowing and had already lost all the weight she gained during her pregnancy. I looked down at my own gut and noticed my booze belly was probably bigger than Christy’s and she had just given birth not too long ago!

The shoot went well. The apparel fit the ballet dancer like a dream. She slipped in and out of each look seamlessly. Her naked breasts were freely cupped by the stylist as she changed into another dress. Female nudity is very common during photoshoots and always wasted on gay men. Just my luck it wasn’t a shoot with hot male models today…

During a break, Christy’s nanny came to the set with Finn. Everyone oohed and ahhed at what a handsome baby he was. Christy, Sabrina and I moved into a private room to discuss the progress of the shoot. As suddenly as Finn had arrived, Christy’s tit was suddenly out of her dress for Finn’s baby lips to find Christy’s supermodel nipple. I felt my face turn hot. I’ve seen my fair share of breasts, but I had never seen supermodel titty! I started to fumble on my powerbook to pull up some of the digital shots we had so far.

“Ch’ien, the shoot is going great so far, isn’t it?” Christy said.
“Um, yeah. Great!” I kept my eyes on my powerbook.

We continued to chat from across the sofa until Finn was done with his feeding. I looked away so Christy could readjust herself and turned my way to Sascha.

“Christy, you have to check out some of these images!” Sascha said excitedly.
The nanny took Finn away and Christy was back to work mode and standing over my shoulder.

“So let’s see what you’ve got, Ch’ien,” Christy asked.
“Well take a look at these –” I was suddenly interrupted by something falling before I could finish.

I reached down to the floor to retrieve what Christy had dropped. I just handed a round piece of fabric back to Christy before really computing what I had in my hand.

“Oh my god,” Christy chirped, “I can’t believe you just handed me breast pad; how embarrassing!”

“It’s fine, Christy,” I said on some kind of reactive autopilot.

But was it really fine? I mean I just touched a supermodel’s breast milk drenched breast pad! As a gay man, I didn’t even know breast pads existed. I thought I was handing over some kind of damned drink coaster to Christy (goes to show all I ever think about are drinks...)!

When I told my straight buddies what had happened, the breast pad incident didn’t phase them at all. They were more concerned by the fact I didn’t photograph Christy’s bare breasts! I suppose I had Goddess Christy on such a high pedestal I never imagined humanly fluids to be secreted from any part of her body… She was afterall, Goddess Christy, Supermodel, Entrepreneur, Mother, Friend, and Human. Christy is vulnerably human, just like Valeria, and every other person I have found to be unhumanly stunning.

In August 2008, I happened to come across a shoot in W Magazine with Christy entitled Champion. It was photographed by Michael Thompson and she really "worked the warrior-goddess side of Greco-Roman influence" in this shoot. Hot! But even after viewing these beautiful images of Christy, I couldn't help but think she was a down to earth mother.
I’ve never really ever put anyone male nor female back on such a high pedestal since. I did, however, find myself to have some very special and hidden talents to add on my resume: will eat out and excellent female hygiene product retriever.