I've been wrapping up my life here in Singapore for the past few weeks. If you must know, I'm packing my bags and moving to a slightly bigger, grittier, less sanitised puddle. For now.
Yes, I think I've outgrown Singapore a little. The last straw came when I quite innocently (I swear!) shagged 3 guys at separate intervals, only to find out accidentally one vodka-addled night at Velvet that they were best friends and all trying their darnedest to pull me, completely unaware that their 2 friends had already poked their fingers in the same honeypot - but that story for another post.
Back to the point, Singapore makes six degrees of separation look like a ham sandwich (no lettuce).
Don't worry I won't be hanging up my whips and fluffy cuffs anytime soon. I'm sure I'll find an eager audience for them where I'm going. You'll be the first to know. I leave at the end of the month and have been spending time tying up loose ends here in Singapore. And untying them one more time, just for old time's sake.
Some of the men I've been with have gotten hitched, grown facial hair, developed double chins, grown up, achieved nirvana etc. but I'm doing a good job of tracking down the leftovers. It's been nice catching up and letting them know that I actually like them, you know, as people. The ones to which I can still vaguely put names to, of course. Some of them have even become good friends - all the more reason to keep this blog a secret.
Of course there is one man - fate decrees there is always ONE, the quintessial 'one that got away', let's call him JP, that I can't quite bring myself to call. Not even to say goodbye. We haven't spoken for close to 2 years. I want to get in touch (not least because I am morbidly curious) but I've been putting it off for weeks. I make the best excuses for him: Maybe he's out of the country. Maybe he's changed his number. Maybe he's got a wasting disease. Maybe he's making friends with the natives in Sierra Leone. The possibilities are endless.
Obviously I find the situation completely ironic. I'm usually glued to my mobile phone and press the 'dial' symbol with nary a breath. I may even have interrupted a CEO or two by calling them mid-meeting and announcing breathlessly "Slut on the menu tonight". And if you follow this blog, you'll know I am not what you would describe as a 'shrinking violet'.
Nevertheless, here I am taunted by a string of 8 digits, frozen out by the mere thought of calling JP. It may have even crossed my mind (but I will deny this strenuously to my grave) to call him from an unlisted public phone - that way if he picks up, all fine and good, but if he doesn't, he wouldn't know I tried to call. A cunning plan, agree? Nice to know I'll always have the finely-tuned mind of an organised criminal to fall back on, in case the professional career doesn't work out.
So what's the story? I'm not the typical Singaporean chick that has sex under the blankie and falls in love every 24 hours, right? Say yes. But maybe about 4 years ago, I might have (sort of) fallen 'in like' with JP, which is bad enough.
JP and I discovered and re-discovered each other once every month or so. This went on for about 2 years. They were 2 years of the best one-night stands in my life. I had a goosebump named for each time we met. As one of Asia's most well-known cameramen, JP courted danger for a living. He hung upside-down from helicopters, bore bullet scars with pride and swallowed bugs for dinner. I hung naked from his roof rafters, bore whore-bruises with pride and swallowed cum for dessert - so we were meant for each other.
Alas, we had far too much in common. That meant he was laid back, kind, wise, soulful, superb in bed, generous to a fault and had a side-splitting sense of humour. It also meant he was fiercely guarded, emotionally reticent, highly individualistic, commitment-phobic and non-confrontational. Oh you know, just your everyday garden-variety neuroses.
We were defined by our passion - which scared the shit out of us, to say the least - and ultimately we failed because we were unable to tether that nebulous attribute to something sane or sustainable. We each realised a real relationship would only have been a disappointment. So one day, with minimal drama, he disappeared on one of his trips and I never bothered to call back.
I've always thought Closure was what single, neurotic Sex In The City women called their cats. I'm not that sentimental (obviously because I don't spend half my paycheck in therapy trying to 'actualise' my inner self). But I would be lying if I said I didn't think about JP from time to time. Not in a check-25-times-if I've-left-the-stove-on-or-my-face-twitches kind of way. But in a big-fat-juicy-loose-end kind of way. I guess he's the itch I never quite scratched.
So now you know the whole story - thanks for listening - it's time for the anticlimax: that's right, I'm off to Attica.
I think I might call him tomorrow, after entering a few more permutations of his name, country of origin, date of birth, residential address into Google. Surely, this is what unemployed people do, no? Besides telling all their friends about Jesus...which is exactly what I'm thinking of doing right now, of course. Heh.
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