Saturday, January 28, 2006

Nate Part 2

Put a dog in the same room with a bone. Tell him firmly he is not supposed to touch the bone. Lock the door. Observe the dog.

First, he goes over to the bone and gives it a suspicious sniff. He walks back to his corner and contemplates. Seems just like a normal bone. He sits. He waits. He then goes over and gives the bone a tentative lick. Immediately he springs back, cautious that he has done something his owner has expressly forbidden him to do. He surveys the room. No one seems to have noticed. He sits. He waits. He assesses the situation with his canine faculties – he seems to have gotten away with his last little infraction.

He then walks over to the bone and circles it warily, still relatively alert should his owner suddenly appear. Finally, he can stand it no longer. He settles on his haunches and starts gnawing away at the bone. As time passes though, he grows careless. Soon he is lying flat on his stomach, ravishing the bone with his jaws, sucking the marrow to his heart’s content.

At some point, he even attempts to shag the bone. And the bone is experiencing new parts of the dog that no bone has ever experienced before. It is in the middle of our dog’s pleasuring, when you choose to walk back into the room. Guilt and shame overwhelm the dog. His tail hangs between his legs and he refuses to make eye contact. He sits. He waits. You make no move to forgive him. And the dog rationalizes to himself that it was you who created the situation and put him in the same room as the bone anyway. It’s your fault. Offence is the best defense. He denies all knowledge of the bone. Instead, he snarls and barks and threatens to pounce on you if you don’t go away.

Note: This experiment may work on other domesticated mammals. (But hey, it’s Chinese New Year and year of the Dog at that, so I’m just being festive.)

And so it did with Nate (see "Searching for Soul") from two posts ago. And if don’t know who Nate is because you’ve been watching too much American Idol, you don’t deserve to be reading this entry.

If you remember, Nate and I formally agreed to call a truce in our relationship. Or rather, I had told Nate that I wouldn’t make things “difficult” for him so on my part, I was going to exercise some rusty self-restraint in the situation. Yes, meet Sash, the Protectorate of Man’s Soul. Heh. I
n all seriousness though, I did my best to abide by my promise.

The minute I told Nate I was not going to make / respond to any more sexual advances, he looked slightly provoked. “Why would you do that?” he asked slightly petulantly. Dog, meet Bone.

I looked askance at him. But we were met by another colleague at that point and couldn’t carry on the conversation any further.

We moved over to the client’s office for a meeting. I was sitting next to Nate and talking seriously to the client when I felt Nate’s fingers sensuously brush up against my leg under the table. I repressed the urge to smile and carried on talking. A little while later, I felt an errant hand sweep across my ass as I stood and leaned over the table to point out something to the client. Dog sniffs bone.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to Nate in the taxi back to the office. He shrugged and gave me an angelic look that denied all wrongdoing.

We were tied up working for the rest of the day so nothing else really happened. But the next day, we picked up where we left off. At every opportunity, Nate would try his best to turn me on. Either by saying provocative things to me (“No underwear…?”) or by touching me surreptitiously (“Definitely no underwear…”). At one point, he even stood behind me in the Starbucks queue and blatantly pressed his bulge into my arse – with our colleagues sitting at a table literally feet away.

I know I should have gotten into a moral huff and sniffed virtuously at Nate and the whole situation. And things would have ended differently.

Unfortunately, I found myself getting increasingly wet as the day wore on. I’m not trying to make excuses but what else could one expect from me? I was single and sexed up. The only thing keeping me from fucking this man right there on the conference room table was good intentions. And we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So I know where I’m headed. Dog licks bone.

At some point, I began to respond to all this teasing with some of my own. “No underwear and a soaking wet pussy, you forgot to mention darl,” I leaned over to whisper and casually flick my tongue against his earlobe.

For every move he made on me, I made one back – and upped his game. If he touched my leg, I’d touch his cock. If he groped my arse, I’d reach under and grope his balls. Our game grew pretty hot and heavy. And soon, we were timing our ‘toilet breaks’ to find somewhere private to kiss and grind our bodies against each other passionately. Before returning – slightly ruffled – to our colleagues.

That evening, we were having drinks at the lobby lounge and decided to share a cigar. Again. (I know, I know but can I help it if I like cigars?) He was watching me intently as I sucked on it and blew out a cloud of smoke around my lips. One by one, our colleagues left, but not before wishing us a safe journey back home the next day, leaving Nate and I alone. I looked at my watch. Past midnight.

“My flight’s at eight tomorrow,” I said.

“I guess we should go to bed. It’s pretty late.” We waited for the lift. In silence. In the lift, I hesitated and then pressed ‘6’ for my floor and ‘9’ for his. He fiddled with his pen and notebook.

“Ok, well this is me,” I said brightly. “Have a good flight tomorrow.” I lifted my hand in a cute little wave before stepping out of the lift.

There was a slight pause. And then Nate stepped out of the lift too, ostensibly to give me a hug and wish me goodnight properly. However, as we embraced he said to me huskily:

“I know what you’re going to ask me…”

“What?”

“You’re going to ask me to your room for a nightcap.”

“Well, if you want to. You’re welcome to come,” I said casually. And we walked to my room together. Dog circles bone warily.

Once in the room, he stretched out fully clothed on the bed. Shoes included. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I knew I could have just taken off all my clothes and clambered on top of him. Too easy. Too predictable. Or we could just have sat there and carried on chatting. But that would have been silly.

Absently, I had begun to take his shoes off. Soon I peeled his socks off too. And then I took the mini-bottle of moisturizer from the hotel that was (conveniently) by the bed and spread it over his bare feet, kneading it slowly into his skin. The cold cream heating in my hands, I used my thumbs to rub circles into the balls of his feet, my knuckles dug gently into his arch and my fingers firmly stroked his Achilles tendon.

His whole body reacted and he groaned. I could see his pants tightening around his crotch.

I then used my teeth to lightly nibble the top of his toes. He bucked.

My tongue slithered around his big toe. He buried his face in the pillow to keep his moans from escaping.

I closed my lips around his toe and sucked. Hard, hollowing my cheeks around his toe. He writhed on the bed and put his hand on his bulging cock, rubbing it through the fabric of his trousers.

I repeated the same sequence on his other foot. Halfway into it, he pulled me up to him and started tearing my clothes off, until I was only left with a beige camisole. He stuck his fingers roughly into my pussy and played with me until I was thoroughly wet. His passion was overwhelming. I tried to enjoy myself except that he was moving much too fast. He gave my pussy a few rapid licks. And then stuck his fingers back into me. Dog ravishes bone.

However, it wasn’t until he leaned over to kiss me that I felt there was something wrong about the situation. The wrongness emanated from his kiss. There was a sour quality to his breath, a bit like the odour of blue cheese. It was sharp and overpowering. I just couldn’t accustom myself to it. I gasped involuntarily.

I am a great believer in compatibility of breath. Air is an essential element of life and the way one’s body processes and transforms it before returning it to the environment is unique. We are defined by our breath. And I find nothing more intimate than lying on my back post-sex and willingly drawing in the sweet, sated exhalations of my partner, who is collapsed on top of me.

But there is something to be said about a person whose very breath befouls the environment that they are in. Even his saliva that dried on my lips left them cracked and fishy-smelling.

Nate continued to lap desperately at me, like a dying man to water. His eyes had rolled back into the back of his head so I could see the whites. He was writhing on top of me, the side of his belly squished against my arm. It felt spongy and yielded little resistance to pressure. He was furiously grinding himself against me. Wrong. All wrong. And all of a sudden, I felt smothered.

I tried to recoil but somewhere somehow I knew I had past the point of no return. It wasn’t because Nate had already emancipated his cock from his trousers and was beating it against the side of my face. No. Rather, it was because mentally, I had accepted that this had to happen. It was the culmination of 4 days of extended teasing, of which I had played a big part. I knew that if I had really objected to the outcome, I should have said so at any one of the turning points earlier in the story. And now, it was time to hold the peace.

I tried to enjoy myself. I really did. I had enjoyed the teasing. I had enjoyed the touching. I had especially enjoyed the toe-sucking. But alas, it was the thrill of the chase. And the prize seemed slightly disappointing.

I wasn’t inspired to fuck him. So I sucked his cock and hoped that he would cum quickly. He did. All over my face. You would think that would make a man at least somewhat grateful. Dog pleasures Bone.

Instead, once he shook the last drop of cum out of his cock, he looked at me in a mixture of shame, anger and horror. He practically leapt out of bed and hastily pulled his clothes back on. He threw me a towel and gestured for me to clean up.

“Fuck, what did you just do to me? You knew this would happen, didn’t you? What else would have happened? I’m a man alright. A MAN. I’m not a saint,” he spat accusingly.

“W-what?” I stuttered in shock. “I thought you wanted this as much as me.”

Nate ignored me and continued on his rant. “Do you know I have three little people that depend on me? I can’t afford to fuck up my life. I can’t afford to fuck up my marriage. This is fucking unacceptable!” He was angrily fastening his belt and tucking his shirt messily into his pants. He pulled his shoes back on with a vengeance, stepping on the back of the heels.

He looked in my direction. “Why are you looking at me like that for? You don’t have to worry about consequences. You don’t have someone to answer to when you get home. What the fuck do you have to be scared or worried about?” Dog goes on offensive.

Dog denies knowledge of bone. "This never happened. Do you hear? Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" I didn't respond. I felt the temptation to cry but refused to give him the gratification of seeing how much he had hurt me. So I just looked at him dully, the light completely extinguished from my eyes.

He yelled expletives all the way to the door. “Well, if I don’t see you again. Good luck to you.” The door slammed. I hadn’t moved from my spot on the bed. In fact, I sat there like a statue for a full 10 minutes. Still naked from the waist down. And then I went to the bathroom and washed my face a total of 8 times. I took a shower. I looked in the mirror.

And an accidental rapist looked back at me. I felt like the guy in college that gets led to bed by a girl, they sleep together willingly only to have her parents find out the next day and she cries rape in a bid to defend her honour. Maligned. Defiled. Misunderstood. Wrong, all wrong. I felt like shit.

There is no straightforward moral lesson here. I make no excuses for myself. I created the situation with Nate and it backfired so I don’t really expect sympathy from anyone. I was half of the mind not to write about it, because of the intensely personal and traumatic nature of the encounter. But I’m glad I did.

I know this is a long, complex entry and thanks for sticking with me if you managed to reach the end. More than anything, I write this as a painfully honest note to self. Because I need to mitigate my reckless impulse and innate knack for trouble with the sobering memory of the mistakes I have made in life (this being a BIG one) or I will one day self-destruct. And there will be no one to blame for it but me. This bone needs a conscience.

That said, I don’t want to end this on a defeated note. Because I’ve written it, you’ve read it and it’s over. It is now firmly compartmentalized under the Persian carpet of my mind. Let me assure you that I’m on the fucking warpath for the next few weeks to reaffirm my love for sex. I’ve self-prescribed a good gratuitous shag (or five) to cleanse my system. Stay with me troops because in that regard, I’m used to getting what I want.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Below 22

It's been cold in Hong Kong recently. And I'm a real tropical chick i.e. I cease to function at arctic temperatures below 22 degrees (ok, maybe 21 if you give me a leather jacket).

I've also realised that they don't heat their buildings here - so often it’s as cold inside as it is outside. What a ridiculous concept. It's bad enough that I have Eskimo status forced upon me when I'm outdoors, but is one expected to rub noses under three layers of fur indoors as well?

This gives rise to the following dilemma, most commonly encountered in the weekend: You've been out the night before. And have predictably drunk a bit too much. You sleep fitfully because of the alcohol and wake up the next morning abnormally early i.e. pre-10 a.m. It is freezing in your apartment and there is nothing except your down duvet protecting you from contracting hypothermia. You are also insanely hungry and slightly hungover. And you know if you don't have a stack of pancakes and hot drink at some point, your acidic stomach juices might just eat your insides out. You live in Central and you know the shop round the corner serves great takeaway breakfast. What do you do?

Brave the elements and forage for food in SoHo? Yes. That is a given. The more important question is: What does one wear? Since it is so cold in your apartment, you are already sleeping in thermal sweatpants and a green sweater from Aunt Ginny, a possible re-gift from last Christmas. Surely no one will notice if you wore this particular outfit out on your 15-minute trek to the corner shop. And even if they saw you, surely no one would recognize you. You'll don your best oversized sunglasses to complete the look. Just to be safe.

So far, I've managed to make a few incognito journeys thus attired. However I don’t know how long my luck will hold. One of these days, I know someone will see me (and invariably it will be my hunky colleague / ex-fling with his new model-esque love interest) and I will lose all traces of dignity.

This whole temperate climate business is also having a 'chilling effect' on my behaviour in bed. Small concessions have taken on monumental significance in my futile effort to keep warm. Like, socks on / socks off? Never before have I encountered such a tricky predicament.

I've even had to barter sexual favours like a stingy housewife. I will give you a blowjob, but only if you let me stay under the covers.

And by the way, you're sleeping in the wet spot tonight. Snookums.

Needless to say, I am still navigating the territory between keeping alive and keeping men interested. So far, I've decided I shall be warm but asexual (read: bundled up like a pumpkin) during the week and cold but alluring (read: mini skirts with knee-high boots) during the weekends.

I would breed for free with the person who invented boots though. They're possibly the only article in my wardrobe that does double-duty in terms of keeping my tootsies toasty and exuding sex appeal at the same time. It must also make a pretty picture to have me bent over a chair stark-naked with nothing but my boots on because I've had requests (and each one thinks they're being dreadfully original) to adopt this particular stance often enough.

If I am alone, nothing beats the incomparable luxury of wearing a scanty silk robe and warming my privates within the 1-foot radius of my ceramic heater in the bedroom.

In fact, it was in one of these intimate little bedroom moments, that I had my latest epiphany about relationships: Relationships are God's consolation for winter. It's cold and miserable outside? Ok fine, enough with the candles and petitions. Here's something to keep you company indoors – your very own 36.5 degree internally-heated, hermetically-sealed human being to cuddle up with. All batteries and bits included. Keep small parts away from children.

Yes, relationships are the handiest little things to keep you from freezing your ass off. I knew that there must have been some sort of functional aspect to explain their popularity. In fact, this explains why I haven’t had a relationship for the past 4 years in Singapore. There's simply been no need. That's right, I blame the weather.

It is just so much easier to be someone's fantasy girl in the tropics. Sexy slips, low-cut dresses, bikinis, garters et al are too impractical in the cold. So much more convenient to have a boyfriend for a few months. Who cares if the sex is sporadic and lackluster? At least you get to keep your flannel bunny suit on and avoid frostbite.

I like the way these Hong Kong girls do it. With their beautiful knee-high leather boots, dyed-fur overcoats and Hermes scarves, they keep their favourite winter accessories hanging off their arm i.e. pinched-looking boyfriends who in turn are entrusted the important responsibility of carrying last season's LV handbag.

Now that's class. Take it from me, the arbiter of style in thermal sweatpants.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Goodbye Ken, Hello 2006

Three days ago, a friend from college, Ken, killed himself by stepping in front of a train in Palo Alto. I just got the news today.

I didn’t know Ken very well. He was in my freshman dorm but we never kept in touch after that. He was extremely quiet. And a little odd. He always reminded me a little bit of a beautiful well-constructed robot, like Jude Law in “A.I.” He would only speak when spoken to. His room was completely spartan and impeccably neat, like he was in the military. With Ken, it was almost as if one had to constantly search for that little spark of individuality or imperfection just to reassure yourself he was human.

We would sometimes ask him out for dinner since we were friends with his roommate and also because we knew that he didn’t have any other friends. When he would join us, he would barely say anything. And he would seem uncomfortable if we tried to include him in the conversation. He always seemed to enjoy himself though, smiling as he watched us eat up to twice our body weight and talk at the top of our lungs (as college freshmen are wont to do). He never turned down our invitations.

From what I knew, Ken came from a very troubled family. His father was pretty much non-existent, his sister was a brilliant super-achiever (he pretty much lived in her shadow) and his mother was highly-controlling (she would even pick out his classes for him). He felt really unaccepted by his family and most of his peers. He also struggled with his sexual orientation. We never asked, and I think he really appreciated all of us not judging him and liking him the way he was.

The only tangible thing I have of Ken is a photo of him doing a pommel horse routine on the floor of our dorm. He was on the men’s gymnastics team and we had pleaded with him to do something vaguely acrobatic to entertain us. I remember us collapsing in a heap laughing. He laughed too. It was a great moment.

Why am I blogging about Ken? I’m not sure. I’m not trying to be morose. And I’m not shirking my duty to write about sex (I promise you the complex denouement to my Nate encounter at some point, so stay tuned). Neither is it a shameless plug to solicit reader sympathy. Rather, I was sitting at my computer trying to compose my next entry and my thoughts kept wandering to Ken. I wished I could have been more of a friend to him. So I thought I’d write a few words about Ken - a tribute, but really more of an apology - before reverting to my usual style of entry.

Two things struck me about the details of Ken’s death. First, that he chose New Year’s Day – the day of new beginnings - to depart. Maybe that was his way of celebrating his own journey. Second, that he was alone. A lifetime of building human relationships does nothing to counter the fact that we all die alone. It is an intensely solitary experience. No one comes with you or holds your hand. It’s just you and this thing they call Death, hurtling towards you at 200 mph.

Ask me how I want to live my 2006 and I will tell you: Richly. Joyfully. In vivid technicolour. With flaming passion and burning curiosity. And laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. I want to suck the marrow out of 2006. I want to ride on 2006 like a cowgirl. I want 2006 to fuck me unconscious.

Without a doubt, this blog celebrates sex. But it also celebrates life. And it will continue to do so. It is my way of resisting the black hole of depression, loneliness and apathy, things that must have plagued Ken in his final days.

I shag, therefore I live.

Sex has given me a diverse range of experiences I wouldn’t have had if I had cloistered myself off with my morals in some kind of HDB-nunnery. It has helped me make new friends including strangers on airplanes, friends-of-friends. Discover new things like threesome etiquette, Singapore sex shops, porn myths. See new places like Hotel 81, Hong Kong's New Territories. Learn new skills like how to give a handjob for an hour, how to fuck with a strap-on, how to snag a trophy shag. Unlock secrets of human behaviour from being crazy in love to fighting temptation. It has inspired me to write. And thrilled, amused, entertained me and my pussy to no end.

Yes, if it must be said, sex has been good to me.

And I’m glad to have found an audience that agrees. You do not know how the words sprout unbidden in my head, unfurling like little magical tendrils. Blog me blog me they taunt, whilst I scramble about to capture them on any available scrap (napkins, coasters, receipts, bus tickets) before they float out of reach.

For my friends. For the itinerants. For the regular readers. For you. Be it your 9 a.m. routine at your desk. Your secret wanks in the shower. Your guilty secret at the cybercaf√© next door. Your shared pleasure with your new boyfriend. I have loved being a part of your 2005 life, y’all.

Sorry Ken, I can’t do more except honour you with the trifle of a few inches on my blog. For 2006, I wish you peace.

And for the rest of you still reading, I wish you mad sex.