Well, the pink bachelor is back. But is now happily attached for 1 full year. It is amazing how a decision to go out for a booty call instead of moping around at home on a pre-holiday evening.

We just celebrated with jiaozi made by yours truly and a bottle of Botega Champagne I’d previously won in a media event.



Here you go. Cheers!

Disturbing Signs

Posted: July 28, 2013 in Book, Life, Love, Man, Poetry, writing
Tags: , , , , ,

Disturbing Signs

There are the other warnings,
I should have already seen
in the morning 3am,
on the brink of a drunken amen

dashed against the pavement
in a feathered decompose
an angel and the rusty splatter
of its bare, red halo

a city-garden gated
with chains of dark-red iron
under ‘no Trespassing or we shoot’.
the silhouetted ‘Cain and Abel’

and growing roots so soundlessly,
over the rot of yesterday,
the infamously Poisonous Pong-pong tree
masquerading the Tree of Life

‘Come in, come in’ the voices say
‘Step through our opened gates
In the netherworld of 3am
Cover charge? There ain’t any.

‘Come rest your tired face
against our soothing grass
while the cobra sips soundlessly
— from your thirsty eager ear’

So should I go or should I not
My feet unsteady and wavering
For all the warning signs
that glare at me

on the drunken brink
— I luxuriate


What is it about Men’s ass that turns me on


It is round, vulnerable, soft mostly unless tensed up in pain or arousal.

Sexless? well, it appears to be since whether one is a man or a woman, they share the same ass.


Yet even for the most macho guy whose testosterone level is way off the charts, his ass is usually still a cool Venusian mound of soft flesh that parts in ecstasy when you lick the square center of it.

And as the buttock muscles eases, lengthens, softens and soothes itself out to be receptive while the man moans in near-divine ecstasy, the line between what we conceive to be male and what is female is blurred ever so slightly. Because in the realm of the ass, everyone is a soft, moaning receptive female.

Don’t believe? Just imagine a tough guy like Daniel Craig, with slabs and slabs of very male muscles stretched taut over his sweaty naked frame.

And imagine, a warm wet tongue darting along the inner cheeks of his bare, naked and vulnerable ass…


Poetry Writing

Posted: July 19, 2013 in Book, Poetry, writing
Tags: , ,



I fish in quiet places

Preferably from a desk

sea-wearied with scribbled notepads

and flotsams of Pencil shavings


My eyeball hangs from the hook

Descending into

The still white surface

that sticky, stubborn — impermeable even:



Beneath the waters

the eye must look.

the eye must scour


Better yet,

the eye must plumb deeper

Where whale carcasses conspire

To sing insidious black whispers

out of tune with the ghosts

Of drowned sirens


The eye must gather:

The eye must bring up

The eye must remember


And then the work begins




The Pink Bachelor, aka yours truly, is lounging by the rather neon plastic-coloured beach chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a psychedelic kindergarten on a Sunday afternoon wearing nothing more than:

1)      banana boat sun tan lotion, and

2)      a skimpy baby blue aussie bum speedos 1 size too small


The Dutch Captain, because he used to be a naval Captain (I kid you not), picked up another bottle of Savignon Blanc or Chardonnay or just another one of the many bottles we have drank over our sporadic meet ups and and hooks ups, and downed it through his very impossible handsome dutch lips.



Granted that my luck with the previous Dutch was quite very very average, to say the least, when I first heard he was Dutch, I honestly didn’t have any high hope. But I like to believe that the patron saint of Holland has decided to compensate me for the rather poor delivery in the last dutch encounter that he decided to ‘gift’ me something better.


Flashback a few moment ago earlier in the afternoon. I arrived at his apartment in a spanking new location just a little off the aptly named Holland village (a rather upmarket area in Singapore) with the customary bottle of white wine in one hand and a stalk of white Lily in the other.

His doors are never locked. I step in, set down my stuff (I always have stuff and makes a mental note to reduce my literal baggage), struts in a gives him a huge Pink Bachelor hug – and kiss on his thick, manly lips.


He is usually either reading some deeply pretentious coffee-table book for the barely literate or playing his never-ending game of Aircraft flying and landing.  


If you are there at his place you will notice an apartment in pristine Pantone white with bit of brown (only and very strictly walnut wood) furniture and the occasional impossibly chic and outrageously expensive sculptures (oh my god! Who owns sculptures these days? Who?) in choice locations. If you would just amble down the long corridors of the horrendously huge apartment and into the ‘rectory’ where he keeps all his linens and gentlemanly ‘unmentionables’, you will see stacks of perfectly folded underwears, towers and underwears folded like abstract origami structures in an IKEA catalogue. 





With the customary manly and skilful flick of his hand, he grabbed an rainbow-striped beach towel (from IKEA) in a perfect swing and said, “The weather is good. Wanna go to the pool?” He smirks his impossibly handsome and chiseled features at me. 





“This book is shite,” he said. The book, in question, as I am deeply ashamed to admit, is a Chinese horoscope book by Lillian Too on the annual forecast for any of the Chinese Zodiac Animal sign you happen to be born in. As usual, as it had been for several years running, my yearly horoscope is full of work, so-so health and no love. No love whatsoever. Forget it kid!


He had grabbed the book while I was reading it and flipped into the pairing page. He already knew my ‘animal’ horoscope already. There was clearly no love lost with Lillian when she stated (in the book) clearly that both the Dutch Captain and I have nothing in common to talk about and two people of our signs can only at best, have a cordial business & transactions relationship. Preferably with him as the superior and me as the subordinate. I am not sure what kinky master-slave relational book Lillian has been reading but I kind of think she should really check her reading list these days.


“What does it mean, we have such a good thing going on here,” he said obviously alluding to the more than one happily drunken moments with me.

“Shut up. It only means I will have to start charging you for coming here,” I retorted in jest.


He leaned over and poured yet another glass of wine down his impossibly handsome lips. It’s only when he is not looking at me that I can inspect him with a cool disinterested eye. What does he look like?



He has a good mix of David Gandy’s chiseled features and height plus the genteel non-chalance of Colin Firth. With a light buzz of unshaven 5 o’clock shadow over his cheeks, he looks like an older and sexier Henry Cavill. He once said that he was mistaken for Ricky Martin in a bar. I said that was nearly as bad as being mistakened for Justin Bieber in the nineties, read: not very complimentary. He didn’t quite enjoy the remark as much as I did.

After at least an hour of sun tanning, in the course of which, we finished at least 2 bottles of wine, swore at three kids who got over to our beach chair and tried tickling our feet while we slept, and had a few moments of soul-baring chats we couldn’t remember 5 minutes later, we packed up and got back to his apartment. Sun was beginning to ebb. Blood’s warm and swimming in alcohol. Skin’s burning with the scent of the sun and more than a little whiff of chlorine. A potent combination for a little more action than just swimming in his Olympic sized pool. He laced his bed carefully with a white dark towel with OCD-precision and pulled me over. And he pulled down his, always impeccably, branded trunks to reveal…(drumrolls)



… to call such a thing a penis is a COLOSSAL understatement. It is so monstrously huge and engorged with blood, this creature of his defies definition. It is not a cock. It is another appendage that he produces like in a magical show: hey presto, another leg! *Clap clap*


And now, Leg with Elephantiasis! *Clap clap clap*


And now let’s see how many clowns can fit into this – proceeds to spit clowns out of this amazing appendage that has pilgrims coming from far corners of the world to view in awe…



That organ of his slams large and heavy against my lips and threatens to dislocate my jaws whenever I try to do a blow job on it. It is so gargantuan in terms of girth and height, it is more like a vestigial limb than a tool of procreation — and recreation. Like the albatross in the Ancient Mariner (since we are on the nautical theme), his penis weights upon me every time we meet – clothed or otherwise.



Very carefully, as he leans over me with his huge organ hanging over my head, occupying my field of vision while my mouth opens ajar in fear, I took out my trusty Superslyde® lubricant like a priest wielding holy water before a possessed child.


With a little boy (speaking in euphemism less for decency but more for good taste’s sake), he can’t really wreck much damage even if he tries.


But with a huge guy, especially for anal sex, I have to be in control both in speed and in the depth of penetration. The ass, upon pain, will close up even tighter. Not the best thing on your (back) side, especially when faced with a juggernaut. And also not the best thing when having a juggernaut inside you. I know it is not rather politically correct to say this but it is a delicate maneuver best done when you are slightly drunk so that any pain will be filtered out by the drunken haze.

Usually with superslyde, the intense pain of an anal gag reflex will die down after first few seconds, and then begins the quick slippery slide to being a loose skanky hole – and where sex is actually pleasurable. And this time is no exception.



In a nutshell: In what poor little experience I have had of huge boys, the missionary position is one sure way of tearing my insides out faster than saying Vlad the Impaler. The last thing you should possibly do, is to give him full control of your body, and ass. But once it is inside, the feeling of a hot rod inside you is unspeakably enjoyable.


He closes his heroic and manly sculpted features in deep intense concentration as his body rock and pound his way into me. Finally after a while, he lets out an ecstasy ‘ahhhhh’ in an operatic rising crescendo as he kneels over my body and:

1)      pulls his huge princely appendage out

2)      yanks out the condom

3)      Sprays his hot milky cum all over me.

Exhausted, he slumps over my body and slips into deep sleep.


Outside, as if time remembered to flow, the sky fades from golden evening, to blue dusk and then to the pitch dark of night. I see it all while he murmured in his sleep sometimes in Dutch, sometimes in English and sometimes in an incomprehensible language. But even in sleep, he looks regal and handsome. Sometimes I would kiss him and then lean against his oddly clean body, devoid not just of any body odour, but of any smell itself. Just like every part of this very clean, very white apartment that is scrubbed in an OCD fervor.


We wake up usually before ten pm because the parking fees at his condominium is exorbitant and the real world beckons aka I have to get up early the next morning for work.


“Okay, keep in touch ah,” he would say, sounding like he meant it.

“Sure,” I would reply, sounding like I mean it.

But he is a proud person and he really will not actively ask me to stay the night, or the nights and days after. And so am I. And we have been playing the field too long and playing our cards so close to our chest that our hearts are closed, not out of anything, but fear. Fear that we destroy this much of a good thing between us. And what is that?

Just another of this long, endless, sunny Sunday afternoon where the Sun takes forever to set, in paradise.


And that’s all there is.






Whoever said the ‘winter of discontent’ obviously got it wrong. I have never been the type to get sad during Christmases or the New Years. Alone on those nights? Go out and party till the wee hours with friends. Hell, it even gives you the excuse to drink more.
But Valentine’s Day?

You don’t even have the luxury of calling out friends to dispel the despairing loneliness that grips you like the mean reds of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany. You just try. Most of them would be holding the day, thanks to their anal-retentive boyfriends/girlfriends, sacrosanct.
On Valentine’s Day, all those who are happily attached and unhappily attached are the enemies on the other side of the dating divide. Mention valentine’s day plans with these people and they will abuse you with dreamy sighs and vacant complaints like, “…and he told me that he wants to bring me to the dinner at the very expensive michelin-star restaurant in the multi-star hotel in a location so exotic I can’t find it on google maps. And I don’t know what to wear? And if that’s not bad enough, he has to propose last night with a diamond ring that is so heavy that I am developing biceps on my finger. I am so unfortunate. Seriously… [waves diamond in the air].”
Meanwhile, the single ones would already be organizing lonely hearts clubs, swinging and single parties, desperate diva dinings …etc (you know the usual) where you get dinners of forced hilarities and (in between courses) wistful sighs of romantic dinners with a very sexy significant others in said exotic and gps-unlocatable locales while settling a bill so heavy it is enough to feed a third world nation for a month.
And that’s for most people. For me?
For those familiar with the Madam White Snake’s legend [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legend_of_the_White_Snake], there is one day in which the beautiful snake spirit is vulnerable to all attempts to subdue her. And for me, it’s the deeply dreaded valentine’s day. Like a day of plague, I have to slink home in fear of being confronted by familiar friends or, much much worse, ex-boyfriends with their current boyfriends in tow asking me, “ Why tonight alone?” to push me further from quiet wrist-slitting depression and to very spectacular suicide depression.
For that reason, and a strong sense of self-preservation, on the 13 Feb 2013, I was sending up multiple messages to multiple men I am seeing to see what my prospects are for 14 Feb 2013. Even did up a mental excel spreadsheet to chart my sms-marketing performance.
Dutch Foreman: Busy with business manager who has had the good sense to come to Singapore on Valentine’s Day. Kiss kiss kiss my beauty-prince.

Dutch Captain: (Made plans to meet on Sunday and he doesn’t have a single romantic bone in this body).

Plus, he isn’t the type to have relationships with. Every instinct says no.
Married Ex-boyfriend: Sorry dear. Going to eat dinner alone with mother.

Good try.
Mr Aussie: I am so tired &broke from my recent trip to Bali. You want to bring me out?

No. And sex with him is spectacularly bad. So, no again.


Americano: Happy V-day. So glad that semester is ending cos I am dying. No energy at all.

[Didn’t want to really see him but I texted him only to get my lubricant back and because I was quickly getting to the advanced stage of drunk texting on a day before V-day]. No reply till today and I hope he is dead.

French Scientist: No, I didn’t say I am not meeting you tmr. But I don’t believe in these Valentine’s Day crap and all the attempts to exploit your feelings.
There were two other men but because I only made their acquaintance recently, I didn’t want to pressure them by arranging a meet up on the big V-day.

So what is a single gay guy with too many guys but no mr.Right to do but to pick the lowest bough and hope for the best. I went out with Mr French Scientist (see below)


I would like to say that he proposed a romantic candle-lit dinner in a cable-car with steak and wine and lots of sweet nothings and meaningful glances while the stars shine merrily outside.

Actually, we met in at a mall close to his home and we wandered from restaurants to restaurants while looking at the valentine’s day menus which leaves you no choices while slapping you with a hefty price tag. While he was making up his mind in the usual French and fastidious manner, I promised myself that if he was going to suggest a food court (like a canteen), I would up and leave.
“It’s all so expensive! I rather make dinner at home,” he exclaimed as if he read my mind.
As always, he sunk to depth I have never thought possible. I moodily agreed while hoping he would at least make cheese steak or at the very least, risotto.
Turned out, his idea of making of dinner consisting of looking at frozen dinners in the hypermart. Imagine: two of us, standing in front of frozen fish fingers and pies and the harsh artic lights of the freezing compartment with an empty basket in front of me. It was like a hideous haiku or a scene in Little Britain.

“It’s quite depressing to have frozen dinners on Valentine’s.” I sighed in quiet desperation.

I bought some fresh vegetables, egg plant and a can of tuna for sharing I told him.
We bought the stuff. I saw him rush to the counter to pay separately. It was tremendously cheap I thought and kind of awkward – but as always, I was not too surprised. I paid for myself too. Was contemplating getting a bottle of wine but I figured that I was depressed enough in the evening and drinking alone would make things worse.
We brought the shopping back to his place. He was in a foul mood as he walked really briskly, as fast as his fat little legs could carry him while I languished at the back. He stopped at various junctures to wait for me. When I get a bit closer, he carried on. Between Starvista and his place is a little dark lane through forested growths and colonial houses that are empty and dilapidated now, and in the dark with their hollowed out windows, resembled skulls with missing teeth.
The dinner was extremely depressing with him cooking his stuff in the oven and me steaming my vegetables with his steamer. I am generally not a calculative person and so I split half of whatever I made with him. On the other hand, he simply cooked his own frozen dinner and ate it all by himself without offering any of it to me. So much for pretending to have a good valentine’s day dinner. I was getting more and more resentful by the minute and was contemplating rushing home.
“Shall we watch a movie, you choose for me?” he said.
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt maybe because he was having a bad week or valentine’s day gave him bad memories.

Anyway, I was in a substantially more pro-life mood, as opposed to a more chain-saw massacre state, after dinner.

I switched to some pay-for-tv channel and we watched some thai comedy called ATM while I sat beside him with his wandering hands grubbily touching me. It was funny and elicited a few laughs from the rather sterile environment we were in. It was good to laugh and break the air of hostility between us.
Eventually we decided to bathe and have some sex. Sex was pretty good as always and while we were barely making the attempt to be nice to each other, we were much kinder to each other during sex. He came into me from the back while I bend over backwards to be met with his gasping kisses.

It was nice to be touched and caressed and loved on a valentine’s day night.

When he came, I closed my eyes and imagined I was somewhere far away. I am realist enough to know that though he is not the right one for me, or that I don’t even feel an ounce of love for him, at least from a selfish point of view, I was loved and desired on valentine’s day night. And somehow, that was a huge concession that reality or God has given me.
After sex, and the regular washing up, he leaned against me in the dark and reached for my hand. I didn’t resist and neither did I reach out to hold his hand back. I just pretended to sleep.
I let him hold me to sleep while he nudged me with wet kisses from the back. Then he gave up and gave in to deep snores like a baby elephant. 

When I awoke, on the morning after Valentine’s Day, I felt a lot stronger. I left his place for work without waking him. I just felt it impossible to see him again. I think I am back to normal.


Well, let’s just call him the Dutch foreman.




When I say foreman, immediately you think of a hot, twenty-something construction hunk with six pecs, a yellow helmet, bare-bodied, nicely oiled n wearing v dirty n faded denims as he walks out from stage left. Obviously, he smells musty and manly with cigarettes, whiskey, sweat and testosterone and ready for a serious session of ‘man-drilling’.


But aside from his dusty construction boots he wears to the oil refineries in Pulau Bukom, he is nothing like it.


He is fifty-ish, with seriously sparse n reciding hairline dubiously mitigated by virtue of it being blond against his tanned leathery scalp. On a good day, he looks like the progeny should ever Tom Jones and Indiania Jones (Harrison ford) have a romp in the bushes outside the Temple of Doom. While not being grossly obese or anything, he has the portly figure of a grand daddy n smells like it too. Now that I think about it, he behaves like my Granddad. The resemblance is uncanny from the way he expresses surprise, the unique way they laugh, but most of all, he has that old man smell that my grand dad had. They even snore the same way in bed.




Okay. It’s Chinese New Year 2013 and after a full of year of estrangement, he sent out a new year greeting to me. We had an acrimonious ending circa may 2012 — mainly because I decided I had enough as he wasn’t my type for boyfriend. The fact that he still gets his ex-wife to shop for him could also have been a prompting factor.

Anyway, I thanked him for the SMS greeting and after a few exchanges, he wanted to treat me for a few glasses in tantric bar which I, being a well-brought up Chinese guy, couldn’t say no to. It’s bad luck to refuse free drinks on Chinese New Year, especially if it comes with alcohol, especially if it is free.


“Wow!! You still look so beautiful, my beauty-prince!”


Only one human being in the entire galaxy says it quite in his way. Creepily. But also vaguely, though I am not sure which obscure part of me thinks so, endearingly.


He was late n I was already ahead of him by a Cointreau Bomb n a double-shot low-grade whiskey soda. Which means that I was in a jolly mood. And if he offered more shots, so much the jollier. And that was what he did.


After being nearly choked to death in a bear hug and a whiff of the grand-daddy smell, he introduced his friend, who actually looked rather hot in an uncle-ly way, as opposed to being just uncle.


“He is so excited to meet you this evening, but he was so scared to meet you that he asked me along to come see how beautiful you are,” the Dutch Foreman’s friend confided.


The Dutch Foreman ordered a white wine soda for himself, a tiger beer for his friend n a whiskey shot for me (I was on a diet). He is probably also the only man in the entire galaxy who puts ice in wine, soda in wine and other various heinous acts to my alcohol of choice.


We chatted quite nicely mainly because he was dumbfound and staring starry-eyed at me while I talked about The Gardens by the Bay to the latest happenings in Resort World Sentosa – which they have all never been to. When they say they come to Singapore to work, they really only meant that they stayed in the hotel and they travelled to the offshore oil refineries to work – and aside from drunken nights in the bars of Clark Quay, they hadn’t been anywhere else. My kind of people.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful evening.


Over the drinks he kept asking if I were seeing anyone. And since I wasn’t seeing anyone technically as a boyfriend I said no. It was awkward for a moment because it really sounded like I was a desperate spinster and I didn’t know what to say.


His unclely-hot friend turned out to be straight. Out of universal kindness that comes with being well brought up, I suggested going to a straight bar in Clark Quay for a couple of straight drinks in a straight pub before heading straight for sex. I was quite jolly by then and he looked increasingly less like Tom Jones n more like Harrison Ford. Plus, whenever I stopped talking and conversation stalls, he keeps looking into my eyes and go ‘wow! My beauty-prince!’ or ‘tonight I look after you ah! You don’t worry! I pay everything’ – I can’t possibly leave him hanging along on the bed right?

Goes with being well brought up. Plus the Chinese New Year has to start with a bang.


We got to Crazy Elephant n already there was a crowd there. He got in and shouted at the waitresses who were ignoring him and made a complete star of himself – which, given our snotty waitress, didn’t earn him any points nor less waiting time in between drinks. I had to wink, smile and tell them to get us a beer, soda adulterated white wine and double-shot whiskey soda.


“Sorry, what wine-soda? We don’t have…” She couldn’t believe her ears. Obviously.


“My friend only drinks diluted wine and soda. He says it is like champagne. But cheaper,” I said.


He smiled and agreed. When he got the glass and offered me a taste, I politely agreed that it tasted cheaper too.


There was a live band and we took our drinks to the front and listened to them. It is one of the nicest feelings in the world to feel the vibration of a live band coursing through the body while one is suitably inebriated. He must have been quite high too because he couldn’t keep his hands off me the whole evening – in a straight bar – while we were on the front row like groupies, in front of a holiday crowd. Great.


Before anyone could tell us to go get a room, he had a moment of clarity and said, “We go back hotel ah?” I saw him beaming red in love/(lust?), though it could have been just the alcohol.


The room was pleasant in the Holiday Inn.  The room was filled with the odd old man smell like my grand-dad’s bed room. His table was filled with medicine of all kinds from diabetes to high-blood pressure. His chequered shirt was on the chair and he kicked his jeans off and collapsed onto the hard five-star bed worthy of a five-star hotel.


I peeled off my tanktop and he opened his eyes to go, “Wow! My beauty-prince is back! You must promise never to leave me forever!” Involuntarily, he got up and hugged my chest so tight like the evil bond girl in Golden Eye.


Smiling, I pushed him back on the bed and laid a leg over him like one of those kinky dominatrix in bad 70s porn. I tossed my underwear onto his face and while he took it made a good show of smelling it (like Tom Jones), I laid over him and slided my body over his smooth hairless body while he shuddered in bliss.

He actually felt pretty good to cuddle with. He started rocking against my body and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He started kissing me maniacally while, in between kisses, he muttered something like “my baby”, “ahhhh” and “mmmm”.


Thinking that it was the right time, I reached down but all I could feel was just a gelatinous worm that didn’t even have the virtue of being long. And it was soft. He kept banging it powerless onto me, it was all I could do to avoid laughing.


“Ahhh… after my operation, I cannot get hard anymore.” He said. Being well brought up, it was unthinkable to explore what operation that was or make a big fuss out of it. Whatever did your mum teach you in such situations?!


Not being the type to pack up and go immediately, I proposed going inside him while he jerk off. Which proposal he accepted immediately – which was probably the only way he could ever possibly get sex in his current physical state. Yes, it was quite a pity fuck.


And we started. He was a surprising compliant bottom for such a manly mix of Tom Jones and Harrison Ford – golden curls, blue eyes and all. He moved in all the correct ways and yielded so perfectly that he has quite a lot to teach me as a bottom. Best of all, his skin is smooth like a baby and that, to the ever tactile me, is highly erotic and sensuous. The evening turned out rather well despite all my earlier reservations. Seriously.


When it was over, I picked myself up and got to the bathroom to wash off the lubricant from me – as well as the persistent smell off me. When I left, there was a hundred dollar bill on my bag and he leaned over and smiled, his blue green eyes gleaming.

“For your taxi home, my beauty-prince.”


“No… I really couldn’t. I am not that sort.” Seriously tempting a hundred dollar bill may be. Plus my bank account resembles the trade balances of a third world country ravaged by war, diseases, all manner of natural and unnatural disaster and a highly corrupt tyrant with a great predilection for impulse shopping. But I am not one of those kind of guys. I am pretty well brought up.



For some reason, even though it is the Chinese New Year and I have never been one to reject a gift offered so sincerely, I have to push the money back into his hands and smiled as I said no. It is already a good Chinese New Year for me.


I got home and, as sex always makes me ravenous hungry – whether I am top or bottom – I steamed some vegetables and ate them with cold canned sardines. And slept alone wondering if I will be luckier the next Chinese New Year but I guess the future will sort itself out. Just before I slept, I had a notion that with every guy I meet and sleep with, I am getting closer and closer to my Mr Right somewhere.


It must be right?