Saturday, May 28, 2005

To hair or not to hair

I was having a conversation with some girlfriends yesterday about pubic hair. (Yes, I have girlfriends. Yes, they are all beautiful and refreshingly open-minded. No, you cannot tie them up or watch us having sex. BUT we will contemplate licking Valhrona chocolate off each other’s parts for an immodest sum of money. Ok, so I digress.) Anyway, a group of us got together over a delicious Vietnamese meal and we were waxing lyrical about well, waxing…and other forms of hair removal.

But before I start, let me state this upfront since most of you who read this blog will probably be wondering anyway. I have pubic hair. In fact, pubic hair is my friend. I’ve done the shaved pussy thing before but for some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right to me. It destroys the sense of mystery and ambience to the whole area in general. And I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be twelve and fulfilling somebody’s twisted Lolita fantasy.

So currently, I keep my pubic hair in a landing strip format. (Boring, sorry.) But I have to admit that the length, breadth and general housekeeping of this strip fluctuates with time, mood and the number of ‘planes’ I expect to be landing on it at any one time. If I’m not doing any regular shagging, I do frequent maintenance below. It’s always better to be prepared, in my opinion. First impressions do count. Second, third, fourth impressions can jolly well deal with regrowth.

I know some girls who are of the exact opposite persuasion, and more power to them. It’s a matter of individual preferences, really. And special requests.

Sometimes, I am quite happy to take requests. They give me an excuse to indulge in a variety of pubic coifs that I know will find an appreciative audience. In fact for a long time, I was the proud owner of luxuriant vaginal vegetation because Adam, a very special regular, would love to bury his nose in it and just nestle. (This behaviour must be derived from the same gene that makes some men go crazy for the smell of musty armpits during sex. I should have paid more attention in biology class!) Anyway, since I really liked Adam as a friend and a partner, I promised not to let anyone take a razor or pot of wax to my pubic bush for a long time.

Basically I have a very opportunistic mindset about this. If you’re a good lover and having my pubic hair completely grown out (or removed or dyed red and shaped in your initials) makes you lavish greater attention on my pussy with your eyes, lips, tongue, fingers, silicone vibrating objects, then you got it.

I also know men who absolutely cannot bear the idea of going down on a pussy with any hair on it. (Although pubic hair in the tonsils isn’t listed as a life-threatening medical condition, I’ve checked) With JP, I would often find myself seated absolutely still on a toilet seat, legs splayed wide open, watching as each confident shick of his Mach3 chastised my errant pussy of its wildebeest ways. JP and I only hooked up very occasionally, but it became a bit of a ritual between us. And I have to say, the tingle of mint shaving cream combined with the intimacy of being shaved by someone else, not to mention the anticipation of fun-and-games to follow is an absolute turn-on. But obviously don’t try this if you’re both stone drunk or with a man that’s on asthma medication / just got eliminated from Survivor.

Female circumcision is listed as a medical condition, and let’s just say, it’s not something you want for Christmas.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Laughter is an Aphrodisiac

As selective and superficial as I aspire to be with men, I will admit to this one nagging weakness: I can be laughed into bed. And I have been…by fat men. Short men. Gimpy men. Bald men. Of course there are limits (i.e. I do not find Moses Lim the least bit attractive) and exceptions (i.e. if you’re Hugh Jackman and work in a mortuary, I would still shag you.) But I find it such a rare luxury to be naked shagging and laughing the night carelessly away.

There is plenty of humour I enjoy, but the one thing that really gets me hot is the slightly insolent, presumptuous kind of banter that only a very confident man who doesn’t take himself too seriously can get away with. (Otherwise they become louts and wankers and it’s a turn-off.)

See the brief exchange I had with Akhil over the phone today.

“Hello Lisa / Sonia / Spyder / whatever you call yourself,” he introduces himself. “So you free tomorrow? Are we hooking up or not?”
“Could you possibly ask me that in a more gracious manner?” I laugh.
“Where’s your house?”
“I live in outer space, remember. Besides, why is that important?”
“So that we can have drinks near your place.”
“Why can’t it be your place? Why even have drinks at all?”
“You mean just come over and start shagging?” Brief pause.
“Hmm...good idea, but maybe we should have that drink.” We laugh.
“Just in case you’re bad in bed, at least there’s some redemptive value to the evening if I was at least able to get drunk,” I add.
“Ok fine, now that you’ve agreed to meet me, I guess you can fuck off.”
“Yup, I wouldn't waste any time making conversation if I were you. I’m not interested in you for your brain anyway.”

We laugh and hang up. But it really made my day. Oh dear…there must be some medication I can take for this.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

It's Raining Men

And I'm all wet. Damian. Lenny. Ed. Quinn. And possibly Akhil (if I allow myself to return his calls). Damn. Between work, friends and making time for these men, I barely have time for myself i.e. its eating into my gym time. Now there's a tragedy. Contrast this to a few months ago where the Rabbit is my best friend and I actually (very) mildly contemplate visiting one of Singapore's mega-churches with the full intention to meet someone 'nice'. Or shag an ex...just for the sake of research! (Thankfully, I resist.)

Such is the curious ebb and flow of men in my life. Well I'm not complaining. Even if it means that I currently have to do a skanky marathon of getting up in A's bed in the morning, winding up in B's at night and then hopping over to C's the next afternoon, if its a weekend. With lots of showers in between. Not to mention, a big overnight bag with a full change of clothes, including a different set of accessories, shoes and perfume for each new day. All this so that men don't ever see me in the same outfit. And also to escape detection by a particularly sharp-eyed colleague in the office. Hey, its hard work being a sexual athlete.

As for y'all, it means I have lots more stories to tell. And less time to write! But stay tuned anyway... it should be lots of fun.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Making love

As much as I will always be unbearably excited by men smacking me and calling me a bitch as they ejaculate all over my breasts, there is quite an entirely different sort of satisfaction when a guy looks into my eyes, strokes my hair and then paces himself so that we can come together. Damian makes love to me (his term not mine) and it’s like I’m a different person when I’m with him. I am beautiful, not hot, not sexy, not fabulous. I am a person, not a horny slut, not a vixen, not a goddess (although all of them are compliments graciously given in their own way. Thanks, you know who you all are).

I curl up on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I wake up in the middle of the night and sleepily call him “sweetie”. But don’t worry I’m not getting soft in my 26 year old dotage even though I know this is sounds like a really sappy post.

The point is, I don’t often “make love” and admittedly, I’m quite enjoying the novelty of it. An overdose of Mills & Boon novels in my lusty adolescence has made me slightly allergic to the concept -- making love is what married people do, its light-off sex and is so…so absolutely pedestrian. I’ve debated this with Damian, about why we make love instead of just fuck. We haven’t quite reached any sort of concrete conclusion, but maybe it’s because we keep having these discussions late at night when his dick’s inside me and (naturally) it’s quite hard to concentrate.

Anyway, it’s just nice to know that I am still capable of gentle, tender physical behaviour towards another living creature that isn’t my cat. Maybe I’ve come full circle and have become jaded by too many gratuitous flings. Now meaningful, communicative sex has become sexy. (Gasp!) I hope this doesn’t mean I’m on the slippery slope towards becoming a Desperate Housewife. Maybe I should start baking muffins and reading the Bible for cheap thrills.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

The Trouble with Airline Snogs that they think they're airline shags. I had to get rid of Angelo. (Big Fluorescent Post-it to Self: Never give a one-flight snog your mobile number.) I was in London recently on holiday and he flew from Venice to have dinner with me. To set this up, he called me. And IMed me. And emailed me. (“I would do any acrobatics for an evening of your life while you are in Europe”). Nobody speaks like that in real life. Not even in Italy. I know I’m a good snog – and I have the most moist, luscious lips – but this was verging on the ridiculous.

Dinner was at a very mediocre place in Covent Garden that he must have thought was 'quirky' and 'charming'. Look, I have no objections to 'quirky' or 'charming' (although I personally would exchange it for an overpriced cut of sashimi at Nobu any day) but anyone will tell you that Morrocan-Egyptian-Tunisian fusion cuisine is a bit of a risk to start with. And when what I ordered turned up looking like prison slop, I dutifully ate a few mouthfuls and declared defeat. Just looking at my plate gave me flatulence.

The conversation would also have been better had I not been so busy pretending that I was sorrowful and morose over some life misfortune. This was my excuse for ending dinner early and begging to be allowed home. Usually I’m not so deceitful, but I just knew that a mundane headache or “I’m really tired” would never have worked. It had to be…*dramatic pause*…Heartbreak. Grief. Terminal illness. Only a personal misfortune of Tolstoy-ian proportions could counteract Angelo’s all-consuming passion. He insisted on sending me back in a taxi. Not before he stole another kiss in a random phone booth that reeked of English beer and piss.

“I want you to know that meeting you has given me more joy, smiles, food for thought and material for my book of life.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you too – if only all my flights are so eventful,” I laugh awkwardly and squirm out of his grasp. And then thankfully, the night is over.

I should have told Angelo then and there that I couldn’t see him again but it would have been difficult face-to-face. You know...I’m Asian, he's Italian; I’m Cantonese opera, he's Commedia dell'Arte; I use nuances, he uses hyperbole; but one can't really hide behind the multitude of cultural excuses forever. Truth is, I'm not a very confrontational person, and I find it so much easier to just go on 'holiday' and never come back. Also I could tell that with Angelo, it would have taken some serious effort to shake him off, and I wasn't quite ready to give him marching orders in person. I know this is irresponsible and ultimately more hurtful in the long run, especially since I'm the one who usually starts things up in the first place (read: keep away from me on airplanes) but have been warned!

It’s a pity because I genuinely found Angelo funny, intellectual, soulful, easygoing with a great sense of irony. He writes well too, which I always have respect for. It would have been nice to have been friends with him. But Venice will have to wait for now, I guess.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Kissing at 30,000 ft

…well there are worse ways to pass the time on a business flight i.e. doing work. In the grand scheme of naughty things, kissing at altitude isn’t all that impressive really. Your legs are cramped, your mouth is dry and there’s always a passenger beside you who’s concentrating a little too hard on his newspaper.

So it’s not really with any particular sense of achievement that I say I snogged Angelo. In fact he wasn’t particularly attractive; Italian, brown-rimmed glasses (promptly removed), oversleep stubble (frequently rubbed), tatty t-shirt, ill-fitting jeans, well-worn backpack, software entrepreneur etc. You get the idea. Here are also some mitigating factors to consider. a. We had an interesting conversation about Anna Karenina – anyone who reads Russian literature can’t be so bad b. He admired my shoes c. the entertainment console at my SQ seat wasn’t working and d. we were in a plane (not walking down goddamned Orchard Road) so I figured I could snog anyone I wanted with impunity.

The flight was only 45 mins, from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore. After we touch down, the assumption is end of flight, end of hanky-panky. Except that amidst effusive compliments, his fleshy palms grip mine and he repeatedly pressures me into a “nightcap” at his hotel. Which I repeatedly refuse. Which means he repeatedly asks…in true Italian fashion.

Anyway, those of you who know me will be happy – and pleasantly surprised – to know that I didn’t cave in, even after he offered me a free trip to Venice at Carnival and an insider tour of the city. (By the way it is extremely rare to find a real Venetian anymore – the population is reckoned to be 70,000 and rapidly dropping…even though ten million tourists visited last year. So pat on my back, I sure know how to pick ‘em.)

The next day he emails…here’s an excerpt.

“Your mail was as gelid as the deep undercurrents off the coast of Sakhalin island in winter. But then - among codfish and icicles - the word 'affection' beamed and smiled at me. That implausible string of characters was there even after a second incredulous scan. And it resisted a third, more probing and analytic, reading. Well - and if you are ever to believe an Italian, believe this one - I flew from Changi to Heathrow on the wings of that single word.”

It was all so amusingly excessive. Word of advice: if you’re ever sitting next to me on a plane, keep your blanket wrapped firmly round you and hope it’s not a long-haul flight. :)

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Case Closed

Poor Archie. I had to let him down lightly of course, which means minimal truth-telling. It’s a pity that Archie is someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with, so it’s not easy to just brush him off and permanently relocate to London or something. Also as I mentioned, he thinks I am “nice”, which is such a great burden sometimes. My concocted little break-up routine goes something like this…

“Well, you know, we’ve been getting very close recently, and I feel like I’ve opened up a lot.” At this point, I attempt my most sincere look, and throw in a slightly quivering lip.

“But you know, I mentioned this break-up I went through. It’s very hard to talk about it…but I feel you need to know this because I like you even as a friend.” Note the liberal use of the word “friend” to imply a suitably righteous tone.

“I thought I was over it, but I’m getting anxiety attacks about moving too quickly into anything else. I’m only being so frank with you because I feel that we really get along…you know what I mean? I’m sorry I hesitated about telling you this. But I think it's just not fair to force my conflicts on you”

It was a piece of cake. When “breaking up” (read: telling a guy you want to stop sleeping with him but still remain friends) it’s always important to give a man the chance to be magnanimous and 'walk away' with dignity. The fact that you’re a scheming human piranha scripting every scene is beside the point really. In my experience, most adults know that there’s a clear line between sex and love, but it’s difficult not to take any sort of break-up (in any form) personally. So I try to minimise ill-will all round unless he’s done something disrespectful like come inside you without any protection…then I’d blacklist him and pee in his shampoo bottle.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Faking It

To follow up on my last post, yes, I admit I fake magnificent orgasms. Throaty moans, straining neck, eyes squeezed shut and back arches that could help me qualify for a job in the circus. (Brownie points if your pussy clamps down with a vice-like grip and conducts 3 minutes of continuous post-coital contractions) I don’t understand the half-hearted attempt to appease your partner i.e. if he asks “have you come?” and you reply “oh yes, that was wonderful” when you’ve been gritting your teeth, lying absolutely stone-still for the past 30 minutes.

I figure if you’re going to fake it, might as well do it well enough to sway a jury. Better to have a “magnificent” orgasm and then fall asleep with no injured looks or recriminations in the morning. A girl has to be practical about these things. There’s usually a pretty good reason if I have to fake it. I come relatively easily and I’m not shy about helping myself to an orgasm or three. So if you can’t make me come, there’s obviously a real problem. I know I’m doing the world a great disservice by faking it but most times the alternative is doing all that sexual hand-holding which frankly I have no patience for. (ref: Archie episode) If I give any lessons at all, they should be as exhilarating to the teacher as they are to the student.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

The Art of Oral

I’ve decided to be “nice” to Archie. “Nice” by the way is Archie’s favourite word. He thinks I’m “nice”. My report card in Primary 1 said I was “nice”. Evidently my personality has not evolved since then. If I had known, I would just have changed my name to Pollyanna and learned how to bake.

Anyway, against all better instincts I end up at Archie’s place again (don’t ask). But this time I am determined to teach him a thing or two. So I am sitting on his bathroom counter with my legs splayed apart, giving him a detailed breakdown of my anatomy. Basic this-is-your-friend-the-clitoris type stuff.

We then proceed to the Practical part of the lesson, which is when it got tricky.

“It works really well when you flick your tongue lightly over my clitoris…” I say.

“Rrike giss?” He responds by stretching out his tongue and wagging it side-to-side. Except he simulates this in front of my face. It’s a bit like looking into a really disturbing funhouse mirror.

“No, like this,” I delicately simulate with my tongue the proper technique. It goes back and forth like this and I daren’t even crack a smile because he’s taking it all so seriously. A for attitude, F for Aptitude.

Anyway, after I have armed him with the basic technique, he starts to administer head. Type A head. Clockwork head. Like his life depended on how fast he could lap away. Every 5 minutes or so, he comes up for air and asks for direction like, “So do you prefer more pressure?”, “Does it feel good when I do this? What about this? Or this? Or thisss…”

This goes on for a very long time. At some point I get so bored I just want it to end. So I “come” in spectacular fashion.

Look I know fake orgasms are so very un-21st century, but there was simply no other alternative. There is just something immensely unsexy about micro-managing the whole sexual process. (“aaahh, oohhhh….to the left a little…yes, YES…ok now move your tongue a little faster….and now use your fingers! aaahh…yessss”) so there was no way I was going to have a real orgasm. But unless I really showed Archie how much I was “enjoying myself”, he wasn’t going to stop. You see the dilemma.

Ok so the prosecution rests. Sorry, but no more playing “nice”. I don’t mind giving pointers here and there and I’m obviously the sort of girl that will make her preferences known in bed. But this teaching thing is a dead bore and I have no time to waste on imparting basic life skills to men who evidently have been sleeping at the wheel for a large part of their adult lives. Guys who fit that description – please don’t apply…and don’t call me “nice”!

Friday, May 06, 2005

Giving Head 101

I have just been deflowered. Now let me clarify, before all you boys start beating a line to my door to prove otherwise. I think I’ve just officially had my first, record-breaking episode of Bad Sex. I’ll be specific…it wasn’t just bad per se, and it hardly qualifies as sex, actually it was more like off-the-charts incompetence. I need to take a shower every time I think about it.

I should have seen it coming. Archie was nice, earnest, presentable – a definite departure from my usual taste in derelict men – the sort that asks you politely if you would fancy watching a DVD at his apartment and then actually bothers to pick one out when you get there.

Under most circumstances, Archie and I would get on just fine. Except that a. he thinks I’m a nice, earnest, presentable girl (he obviously doesn’t have this URL) b. I'm in his apartment and inevitably he's sexually attracted to me and c. I think he might have been an overactive chihuahua in his past life. His idea of giving head means having his tongue lave over me in random, desperate sweeps.

I am a sopping mess by the end of 10 minutes.

At which point, he lifts his curly head up and gives me a really wide and enthusiastic grin.

“Did you enjoy that?” I nod mutely. My inner thighs are quivering - not with mounting excitement.

”Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever done something like that”. Right. This is information that would have been useful to me before we started dinner.

”Would you like some more?”

I experience a moment of sexual paralysis. But I take the easy way out. I literally count the “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…” and it is over. Thank God for premature ejaculation. I roll over and pretend to fall asleep.

So now the dilemma. There is no way I can actually tell him about it; “Hi Archie, I think you're a nice guy and we get along great...but my pussy just has irreconciliable differences with your tongue.”; Oh and please pass the sugar.

In my more civic-minded moments, I feel like I should conduct some kind of Giving Head 101 class. But then if I was that charitable, I would have volunteered with the Red Cross, at least that way I could include it in my CV.