Sunday, April 23, 2006

Love YA

“I have to go soon Baby. I have a big day tomorrow,” he says. I glance at the time on my mobile. It is 1:30 a.m.

“Sure no problem, sorry for keeping you up. Have a good sleep in the suite!”

“I will Baby. Gotta go. Love ya,” he says cheerfully.

“Oh. Alright…” There is a split-second pause. “Ok. G’night!” I hang up awkwardly.

And instead of going to sleep, predictably I lie in bed tossing and turning.

Love ya. Love YA? Love Ya?

Is Ya even a word in the dictionary? If so, then it must come with ketchup, a smiley face, and possibly a stoned hippie attached to the end of it.

I know, I know. We’re in the age of snappy soundbites, rampant SMS and 30-second attention spans, where “C u tonite”, “thx” and “hot 4 u” are regarded as acceptable forms of communication. It seems that nothing in the English vernacular is sacred anymore, especially not statements of affection:

Want ya, miss ya, need ya, love ya!

God, the last thing we want in this day and age is to sound genuine or worse, emotionally committed.

Love ya is just another one of those ambiguous turns of phrase that help us fulfil our superficial destinies. It says everything and nothing at the same time. It is so airily casual, so shamelessly daft, so nauseatingly sappy…so extremely (dare I say) Paris Hilton-esque that it would certainly qualify as a useful nugget for inspiring lifelong devotion between you and 350 of your closest “friends”.

To be fair, there are a few occasions I can think of where the usage of a truncated Love YA is absolutely appropriate, nay even inspired, such as:

1. Band camp. (Love ya, mean it. Really? Really really. How really? Really REALLY.)

2. Gay men saying goodbye. (Love ya! And love the Prada glasses, you sexy beast!)

3. Bryan Adams song lyrics. (Love ya yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah)

But there is a time and place for every phrase. And you can be sure that when Adam first met his perfect helpmate Eve, he didn’t convey his gratitude and affection with an underwhelming Love YA. Devotees of Aphrodite who reverently visited her temple in Delphi to win favour would never have accompanied their votive offerings to the goddess with a Love YA.

And horrors, had Elizabeth Barrett Browning penned the lines “How do I love YA, let me count the ways…” she would have been categorically banned from the reading list at O-Levels.

Fine, I admit I might have used the occasional Love ya myself - but only in the most innocuous and benevolent situations - with my friends, my surfie brother, and possibly tacked on as a slightly embellished afterthought to the back of a note before running out of a man’s apartment.

So I get it. It’s karma. All the Love ya-s that have gone around, have finally come around.

Frankly, I really wouldn’t mind the term so much if I knew what it actually meant. Is it like? Is it
love? Is it just a nice thing people say to each other? Most importantly, does this mean you won’t stick your cock up my ass and call me a horny bitch in bed any longer? What? A girl needs to know these things, ok.

Also, the sheer ambiguity of the expression leaves me fumbling for an appropriate response. This is not acceptable. I hate fumbling. It makes me feel like I’ve left the house with the wrong pair of shoes and take it from someone with a shoe collection they don’t build cupboards big enough to accommodate, I never leave the house with the wrong pair of shoes.

But I’ve brainstormed this with my girlfriend and we came up with a list of possible Love ya responses, none of which are quite right given the reasons I have stated below for your amusement:

1. Love YA too – I'm agreeable to the general sentiment, but it just doesn’t have a good ring to it.

2. Me too / Ditto – only possible if one fancies bowl haircuts, high-waisted trousers, and the idea that pottery is up there with the Kamasutra in terms of erotic technique.

3. What did you just say? Huh? Huh? Huh? – maybe if I was a neurotic 47 year old child-woman-spinster undergoing regression therapy to understand why she’s about to name her 5th cat “All men are putz”, then ok. Give me another 20 years and we’ll see.

4. Right back atcha Baby! – my personal favourite, but I’m thinking of saving this gem for a time when I can execute it properly with a cocked trigger-finger and cowboy wink.

Given these flawed options and the possibility of committing a monumental emotional faux-pas, is it any wonder that I engaged in evasive tactics Curtis LeMay would have been proud of. Ok. G’night! – bland, inoffensive but militarily effective.
If you can’t say the right thing, don’t say anything at all. This is the Asian way. See, I’m applying cultural lessons here, people.

I realise that any normal girl would be thrilled to hear the word Love at some point in her life uttered by the man of her dreams. And I am no exception – thrilled, delighted, vexed and a little bit apprehensive of getting in over my head, that is. When it comes down to it, I think I just don’t want to jinx anything by being my reckless, idiotic self and putting my foot so far in my mouth I can taste my own neck (made even less palatable seeing I'm wearing the wrong pair of shoes).

I know you probably think I am making mountains out of molehills with this post – and you’d be right but it is an entertaining exercise nonetheless and it gives me something to do instead of tossing about in bed all night.

Maybe I should be focusing on the positives instead of fretting over the issues I have with the execution of this particular expression. It would probably do wonders for my insomnia.

But wait a minute. Maybe I am ascribing him too much credit.

Maybe it wasn’t Love he said…

Christ, maybe it was Luv. That would make it Luv YA. Ouch.

Please, its late -
won't somebody slip me Valium and knock me out already?

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Back To Mine

Is it possible to scrub away memories with a rag, a bottle of Quikclean and sheer upper body strength? No, but tomorrow I will try.

I’m not sure why I invited him to come and stay at my apartment in the first place. It was one of those intemperate gestures of largesse made on the spur of the moment when I was flush with endorphins and the discoloured memories of him were still freshly manifest on my inner thighs and knees. Obviously post-dirty weekend.

The invitation was intended for the weekend of the Rugby Sevens, which took place last week in Hong Kong. He was flying in with a mixture of friends and colleagues, for a long - and predictably big - weekend, of which I was to be a highlight.

He called earlier in the week to double-check the arrangements for the weekend.

“I’ll be flying in on Thursday. And I’m staying with you right? You sure that’s ok?” He had even made that line sound persuasively unsure and hesitant – bless his conniving little heart – such that any retraction on my part would put him in the category of Wronged Plaintiff and me in the category of Evil Indian Giver.

“Of course it’s ok!” I said a tad shrilly, knowing that I had now officially committed myself to delivering on my impetuous promise.

My mind was racing. Did I have enough sheets, enough towels? Did I do my laundry last week – if so, where was it? Should I tell the maid to come in on Wednesday instead of the usual Friday? Where should I store my empty shoe boxes? Was the stuff on my shelves up to snuff – did it accurately reflect my (ahem) oh-so well-rounded but eclectic tastes in literature and music? And most importantly, how the hell was I going to get my recently-bought miniature oven off the couch? Shit.

To those of you that think I was being a typical woman and making an awful fuss about nothing, I would probably have to agree.

It’s not that I have never had other people over in my apartment. No, I’ve had both visiting friends and family stay with me with nary a complaint. I’ve even had dinner parties where my friends were more than happy to sit around a coffee table placed in the middle of the floor - listening to Pink Martini, eating pasta, drinking wine and wiping their bums with Kleenex because of course, I had run out of toilet paper.

But then, since when Sash, have you even had toilet paper, they tease me affectionately.

So what then is the problem? I’ve never had a man, any man, and definitely not the man who gets me more hot and bothered than all others, in my apartment. I mean I don’t usually let most men stick around long enough, anyway. And if they do, what is wrong with their place – so I can come and go as I please – or failing that a lush designer hotel suite? Before, when I used to live in Singapore, “back to mine” was not even an option given the consideration of my parents’ continued health and longevity.

But having hopped across quite a few apartments in my time (I prefer to think of this as an efficient way of ‘house-hunting’), I know that observing a person's habitat often reveals more about their character, priorities in life and predilections in the sack without one having to explicitly ask.

If you must know, I once dumped a man who arranged his CDs in alphabetical order because predictably, he was only any good as a missionary-style fuck. Another had vats of protein and creatine supplements lined up in his kitchen instead of normal olive oil, pepper, salt and garlic. He turned out not to have a single hair on his body (and I’m talking chin, hands, pubes, armpits, toes – nothing!) and loved to fuck in the mirror.

So what sort of real estate gets me wet? I like residences with big hot tubs on the roof, well-stocked kitchens, huge libraries, coffee table books, cosy shagpile carpets, lived-in colonial furniture, houseplants, quirky designer chairs, cool audiophile sound systems, contemporary art (preferably drawn by you), the list goes on but you get the idea. These don’t have to be lavish postal code 10 or 11 addresses – just homey-homes that are clean, interesting, original, tasteful, full of character and well, you.

I wondered what my apartment said about me. But first, let me give you a little more by way of description: I do not live in a fussy apartment. In fact having moved to Hong Kong with nothing but 2 suitcases of self-belief and good intentions means my home is more sparse and unfurnished than anything else.

Second, I do not have a painfully stylish pad straight out of the pages of Vogue Living. My mother sealed its fate when she convinced me that my holding out for a Minotti-style red suede couch was plain silly and talked me into buying an infinitely more practical sofa bed instead. In the rousing shades of charcoal-grey, no less. (I still have regrets about this and will apologise for my couch’s uninspired existence given the slightest opportunity.)

Third, my apartment is definitely not in the fanciest residential district – my walk to work every day takes me along streets of antique shops and the sights and smells of the bustling wet market. It is in an old building with tiny little grey-and-red Chinese tiles and has few working modern amenities i.e. no bathtub, no washer, no oven. But it has oodles of character and is a hive-reaction from the unrelenting uniformity of peach-brown pantones foisted onto my retinas by competent Singaporean urban planners at birth.

I don’t intend to stay in this apartment forever, but when I do eventually move, I will have moulted and shed a skin.

Every possession I have in my home survived the initial journey to Hong Kong with me and I love them all like a parent loves their idiot offspring. I have my favourite CDs – and yes, Michael Jackson (who incidentally I think is a maligned musical genius) is one of them. I have the books that sustained me over the past few months in Hong Kong, my most loyal friends in a new city and my salvation when I needed respite from unforgiving reality.

And that? That over there is what one calls a shoe collection. Oh yes, the force of Imelda is strong in this one.

“They don’t build shoe cupboards big enough for 70 pairs of shoes”, I pertly informed him, as he regarded a diamante-encrusted pair curiously. He had just breached the maidenhead of my apartment and was now looming threateningly like a conquering crusader exploring the 700 square-foot spoils of territory.

“What do you eat, girl?” He had poked his head into my fridge but gave me no chance to retort or reply because he had already moved onto a different part of the room. Damn him.

“Mmm, 50 Floor Fillers! And a little bit of Michael…” he said, with a bemused laugh in his voice, which I immediately interpreted as mocking derision of course. It was all I could do to keep myself from unceremoniously ejecting him and suggesting that we check into the nearby Four Seasons.

“You are too ‘man’ for this apartment,” I wailed, somewhat self-consciously.

And he was. His tall frame had to fold up to fit into the contortionist box of my bathroom. The pinstriped Paul Smith jacket that hung hanging casually on the rack jarred with the other lacy, sparkly frippery that was the norm. We bumped into each other twice from the corridor of the living room to the kitchen and back again.

I gulped back the tension building in the back of my throat. We had to leave, but not before I reached into a small box by the door and pulled out something with a familiar clink.

“For you,” I said lightly. “In case you get lost.”

I did not want my gaze to betray the significance and intimacy of the gesture. Rather I just dangled the bunch of spare keys deftly in the space between us. It surprised him. But also pleased him inordinately. From then on and for the rest of the weekend, he would insist on beating me to my front gate just so he could grandly insert his keys into the lock and hold the door open for me.

During his stay, we broke in different parts of my apartment. First of course was the bed – on which we fucked, cuddled, slept, played, filmed and chatted on. Then, the kitchen counter table – on which I perched with my legs spread-eagled next to the microwave as he very patiently (and torturously) taught me step-by-step how to eat pussy. The bathroom – in which we washed off sweat and semen together and where I took the first leap of faith and told him about this blog(!!!). And finally, the couch – where he laid naked on top of me until daylight, alternately kissing and stroking, whilst I read aloud in a hoarse, subdued voice what I wrote about him.

My favourite activity all weekend was to watch him lazily stretch out in bed or use my computer in the living room whilst I busied myself cleaning up or getting dressed. These were Martha Stewart moments – picture-perfect pockets of comfort and normalcy – rare in a relationship like ours. And thus, all the more treasured.

Then, as quickly as he came, he is gone.

But my apartment has traitorously and indelibly retained the feel of him. I smell his sweat on my towels, and the trace of Issey aftershave lingers hauntingly in my spare room. He is on the empty champagne glass, and most CSI-certifiably on my sheets. He has used a reasonable amount of my mouthwash. And I miss the unmistakable ivy-creep of masculine garments from his bag to the counter stool to the clothes rack.

Presently, I stand back, objectively surveying the damage. My apartment suddenly feels cavernous. A shabby, yellowing, old shell that was temporarily colonized and now abandoned, threatens to crumble to dust. Thanks, but no thanks.

Today I will let it grieve. I will sleep on the outer side of the bed – and imagine the full-length of him outstretched beside me in a diagonal imbibing the sounds of Hong Kong construction into our collective subconscious. I will keep his champagne glass by my bed – and think about our last night together and the peculiar visitor who came to make it special. I will keep my vibrator visible on my bedside shelf – and envy the little mauve protector-bag that somehow managed to accidentally fall into his luggage and now travels with him.

And then tomorrow - I will clean and do the laundry.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

P & T

Ok ok, I do dearly love the attention but please, stop with the vexed and concerned mothering emails already. :)

I am alive. This blog is alive. I haven't melted off into the sunset with Prince Charming (as if). I have not contracted bird flu. And I am certainly not so bored to tears that I have decided to 'end it all'.

I am just sorry I haven't written for a while. So spank me! Actually that's not accurate, I am still writing, I just haven't been posting. In fact, I have quite unexpectedly found dedicated, adoring new audiences for my writing that I am trying to accomodate at this moment. More on this later.

This doesn't mean that I am abandoning you, dear readers, especially not the ones of you who have stuck with me since the very beginning. You realised that you were onto a good thing before anyone else did - even me - and I am nothing but grateful.

But it is time for me to ask a favour of you and I feel a little shy just saying the words (or letters rather) but you know how I love to push the envelope. Ready? Well, here goes - P & T. Now, settle down folks! No, we haven't gone back to the days of high-school gyms and sweaty armpits. P & T for Private Time. Peace and Tranquility. Patience and Tolerance. Don't jump the gun, we're not breaking up. But I do need a bit of P & T on the emotional front and here's why.

I am having the time of my life right now. Personally, socially, sexually and for once, a little bit emotionally. This is unique, unusual and unexpected. And for someone with as unconventional a view of life as me, it is also extremely hard to come by. There is a lot going on that I am not ready to write about yet. Not because I am afraid of looking silly and absurd in front of you (now that is a long lost cause if ever I saw one!) but because I don't want to chase away the delicate grace-notes that are floating by and ground them into a structured orchestral opus as yet. As beautiful as that score may be, there is a time and place for everything.

And now is my time to capture the moment, to feel inspired, to think foolish thoughts and dream imprudent dreams. I am storing up nuggets in my life-bank, stashing away as much as I can for the rainy days I see ahead. And if I suffer, for now I prefer to do so in silence. I am sorry I can't be more than just annoyingly vague but I know that you will understand. And be happy for me. You know, I will reveal more with time.

So a moratorium on the personal affairs of Ms Sash for now. But where does that leave you? In your favourite ringside seat, of course! God forbid that I am so busy being mindfucked, I neglect the wonderful feelings of being bodyfucked. In that regard, I have been having way too much fun...

I have not turned monogamous on you - although quite a few of these episodes feature returning stars, one you will soon notice returns more frequently than the others - I have just been terribly backlogged. So no promises but here's a peek of some of the threads and ideas that I am in the process of spinning the next few posts on:

1. My Inner Porn Star - Call me Pam/Paris/Tammy but making a sex film with various guest directors was a strangely intimate and raunchy experience.

2. Back to Mine - Hosting the man of my dreams in my Hong Kong apartment

3. Ready, 1-2-Squirt - Learning how to time and control my hot ejaculate all over the bed, and all over my man. Please, someone say "consecutive cupfuls" to me in a husky voice and keep a bucket nearby!

4. My first FFM threesome - yes, I finally ate pussy!

5. Double Penetration - In its various permutations. Cock - fingers, cock - vibrator, cock - buttplug, and oh yes, we can't forget the ultimate cock-cock.

6. Much much more about me as the mood and inclination dictates. There will still be emotional posts of course, but please don't keep asking because I will tell when the time is right. It needs to be an organic process. But in the meantime, stay tuned. I will be writing...