Tuesday, May 16, 2006


I wish I could say I was one of those sweet, saintly characters you see frequently in Chinese drama serials here - the ideal of feminine beauty with fair skin, liquid half-crescent eyes and almost always dressed in flowy cotton dresses.

She is the filial daughter who forgives her father after he has gambled away the family fortune and makes him realise the error of his ways. She is the faithful newlywed wife who gives up her career so that she can take care of her paraplegic husband full-time. She is the lowly-born servant girl who falls in love with a prince she cannot marry and sacrifices her life for him.

There is almost always one in every series. She is the moral touchstone for the entire show, the angel of light and virtue. On-screen, her character is beset by various trials and tribulations, but she bears what life throws her with such serene grace and fortitude that you can’t help but fall in love with her. (Most times, the producers ensure that she also dies halfway into the series, but I digress.)

Needless to say, if I met her in real life, I would find her extremely irritating. You see, people like her make me look bad. I am not a good sufferer. I am not a good Job. I am a fretful, unloveable and whingey beast when things don't quite go my way. And I am quite capable of spewing my bile on the nearest victim.

When life throws me a curve-ball, I like to throw a pocketbook of credit cards and a mouthful of profanity back. And then some.

Recently, I have been getting acquainted with my inner demons. Readers, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Pettiness. Suspicion. Greed. Selfishness. Jealousy. Cynicism. And yes, they're pleased to meet you too.

Don't mistake my irreverence for flippancy. I know these are not particularly admirable or loveable qualities. And it is unworthy of me to own up to feeling them, but I do.

I wish I could use the excuse that it is the unconventional arrangement of my current relationship that forces these demons upon me, but that would be both unfair and untrue (even though the situation does play a part in strengthening their hold on me). Because I have felt them before and under conventional circumstances. They live inside me - as permanent residents, not squatters - they just have been asleep for a long time.

I do not underestimate their power and their capability to consume me. They are dark, suffocating passions with vice-like grips that all the girly lunches and retail therapy cannot shake. They are afflictions with the ability to eat me up from the inside.

They are adversaries of the night. They need to be fought, exorcised, beaten off with the fiery stick of courage and conviction. If not to preserve the dynamics of my relationship, then for my sanity.

So my life of late has become a bit of a battleground of good versus evil. The combatants are all me. The sanguine me versus the choleric me. The phlegmatic me versus the melancholic me. And so far, the line has held fast. After all, the key to winning is not to gain new ground but rather to push back the enemy.

In this case, the triumphs of omission are more significant and meaningful than all the front-line campaigns of commission put together.

They are the questions I don't ask because I know the answers would not satisfy either of us. They are the things I don't say because it would prematurely lead us down the path to destruction. They are the calls I don't make because I know it would be difficult for him to talk. They are the tears I don't shed because I choose to be the carefree, skippy-la-la girl he adores, the one who can cheer him up at a moment's notice even though she is crying inside.

These unsung, uncelebrated victories provide the invisible glue that hold our fragile union together.

And the spoils of each internal battle, I let him plunder. I entrust him the secret treasures of my heart and let him into my life, little by little. With each intimate confidence I share and each story I tell, I give him parts of myself that cannot be taken back.

I let my lotus heart unfurl for him, even as he runs his knife through it. His presence is a natural anaesthetic. I bleed, but I laugh. Because for those glorious moments, I feel so intensely alive. It is only when I am alone, sobering up to grim unforgiving reality, that I realize how deep the wounds go and how much it will take to heal.

I have sacrificed the plateau of comfort and security that comes with standard monogamous relationships for the bipolar-battle of emotional peaks and troughs that this blog is fast becoming testament to. I apologise for that. But until I can definitively emerge the champion of my crusade, you will just have to come along for the ride.

It was only last weekend that we took ourselves off to a place where no one would find us. Or us, them. And for the first time I was actually at peace. It was a sublime feeling and so precious because for once, I didn't have to share.
It was the best birthday present.

I luxuriated in every single textbook-bliss moment. I wore my temporary tranquility as a cloak. I floated. I head-waggled. I jeted and pirouetted.

And I stored up anecdotes and memories, as many as my brain-bank would accomodate. Little rays of sunshine that would take me through the darkness of the days to follow. The flash of his sea-green eyes in the light. His protective hand on my lap whilst we drove around the island. The postcard setting. The stories. The laughter. The playing. Even the morning sex.

It was a much-needed respite from the tortured passions of the past month. A pitstop for us to refuel and reflect - before rejoining the mad rush of the race.

I knew though, that the weekend would extract its own pound of flesh in return. The higher I reach, the lower I fall – that is the contract I have signed with the devil-legion inside myself.

So here I am now, locked away in the abyss of my apartment, paying the price for my time in the sun. Thinking that maybe the thundering sounds of Maria Callas might drown out that uncontrollable craving to hear his voice. Or that forcing my leaden fingers to slug this entry out on my computer might exorcise the fiends of my spirit. Or that watching a funny DVD might keep my eyes dry for more than five minutes.

I check my mobile constantly – each glance at the bright blue LCD a sub-conscious test to see if he could have sensed the subliminal SOS signals I was sending him. Nothing.

Yet I am paralysed to pick up the phone and dial his number. To start with, I never call. And if I did call, I know I wouldn't be able to disguise my nakedness – the sadness, the pain, the jealousy that he is having fun without me. It would concern him and impair the enjoyment of his holiday. It would be inconvenient. And it would not be appropriate.

You see, I have sworn never to be a burden. Or worse, a liability. That is not my role to play in this particular piece of twisted theatre. The victims have already been cast, and I am not one of them.

I am the wildcat. I am the agent provocateur. I am the id – his pleasure principle - the part of him he indulges and gratifies to the oblivion of grown-up considerations like Consequences or Responsibility. And for once, I need to stick to the script.

So I bite my lip and force my carcass out to Lan Kwai Fong to lose myself in being gay, in partying, in flirting. But my heart is not in it. My heart is not in anything. It has retracted so far and so deep inside the upper left cavity of my chest that I know it will require slow, tedious efforts to excavate it later.

Sometimes I think it is my karma to make up for the pain I have, and probably continue, to inflict on others. It is my punishment. At other times, I think that it is a bitter medicine – a lesson –to force me to grow up, to be a bigger, better person than what I actually am.

It is a difficult process, learning how to be selfless. And I am a reluctant and dull student. I cling stubbornly to my childhood vices of possessiveness and jealousy. They are comforting in a strange way. After all, most people suffer from them too. Why struggle to give them up when they are so convenient, so conventional? Why wish and accommodate someone else's happiness to the detriment of your own? Why not just aim for the 21st century Anthony-Robbins ideal of having it all?

Maybe because I want to test myself. To see if I can overcome my emotional cowardice and take the path less trodden. To know exactly what I am capable of - the possibilities and the restraints of my temperament. Maybe because he is worth it, and I am slowly discovering a much greater joy in making someone else happy than myself.

Whatever it is, we all pick our battles, and I have picked this one. It is a living-will choice to reject the lithium of common sense and pragmatism for now. And though the black madness rages about me, I will stand by that decision.

Of course the constant skirmishes take a toll. There is the sheer exhaustion of it all. When sometimes I dearly wish I had time enough and breath–to sit and be still, to un-think and un-feel, to Zen. But I am afraid of the mallet of truths that might hit me in those moments. That in a moment of weakness, I might give into mean-spiritedness and despair. And simply give up.

So instead I fill my life with frenetic activity, with deadlines and appointments and parties and events and hobbies. I need distractions like a junkie needs a quick fix. Will I wear myself out this way, only time can tell.

Even more sinister sometimes, is the feeling in my core that my life-essence is being leached out from under me. Like the petrification of a beautiful forest, I am turning to stone in the places where I should be richly bursting with life. But there is no one to tend to me and turn me towards the sun.

I don't want to become hard -
no, that would mean points for the other side. But one can be habituated into wearing emotional armour after doing it for a long period of time. And inadvertently, it blocks out love as well as hate, joy as well as sadness, optimism as well as cynicism.

I do realize though that it is important to constantly recognize and evaluate the boundaries of my little character-building crusade. There is a shifting line in the sand between courage and stupidity. Between faith and fundamentalism. Between half-full and half-empty.

So when will I stop fighting the good fight? I like to think that it will be when I have learned all that I have to learn and I can move onto the next stage of enlightenment. But more likely, it will be when I begin to lose the upper hand–when winning the battle is no more important because I am losing the war. When I can barely keep the petty, vindictive harpies at bay and they crowd around choking me and threatening to scratch his face.

Make no mistake, I am no deserter. But I would rather quit whilst I'm ahead, than pass the point of no return and have total destruction all around me. That is still a fair distance away.
So until then, I soldier on and hope for the best.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Stop. Start. Squirt.

“God can you hurry up, I really need to fuck something…” I pleaded with a moan. I stood propped up by the doorframe, tearing my skirt away from my waist and peeling my lace halter-top down from my shoulders.

It was a sultry Hong Kong night – the air was dense and implacable, making our clothes stick like paint to our bodies. I was glad to be the first one naked. My skin, slightly mottled and moist to the touch, was only too grateful to be liberated from its restrictive accoutrements.

“I know you’re horny, Baby. But we’re going to take you up level by level tonight –but we’ll only let you cum if you cum all over the bed.” Anthony sat at the edge of the bed still in his jeans, casually fiddling about with the battery of his video camera.

I looked over at him with lust-addled eyes and made a bestial sound at the back of my throat. High on an intoxicating cocktail of alcohol, sleep deprivation, dirty talk and pent-up lust, I was not in a patient mood.

But that night, I had an audience. Anthony’s friend Seth, had agreed to film us fucking. The premise / plot / raison d'etre of the video was exceptional porn-star sex. Now it only remained for me – and my pussy – to put up a good show.

“Oh she squirts, does she? I love girls who squirt. I had an ex-girlfriend who used to do that,” Seth said, increasingly relishing his role in the upcoming activities.

Besides being our cinematographer, Seth was also my designated ‘fluff-boy’ for the night. (And if you don’t know what the term ‘fluff-boy’ makes reference to, you haven’t been watching the right kinds of movies. Tsk tsk.) I undressed him whilst Anthony tested the camera.

“Put your two fingers like this and position them on each side of her clit. Just rub her up and down,” Anthony, the night’s self-appointed artistic auteur, called out directions whilst demonstrating to Seth exactly the way he wanted me touched.

Seth’s fingers began working magic on my clit, flicking back and forth, pushing the hood back and stimulating it with increasing rapidity. We were all naked by that time and Anthony sat up against the wall watching, pulling his cock away from his body and playing with it.

Under his instructions, Seth brought his tongue to play in the same fashion as his fingers. A sheer runoff of juice seeped out of my pussy, coating everything from my labial lips to the tip of Seth’s tongue with a slick, milky veneer.

“Ok, stop, stop, stop…don’t let her cum,” Anthony said as he saw my pleasure mount. Then, he turned to me: “Now calm down, and we’ll start again.”

I must have called out several colourful names as I gritted my teeth in frustration. We rested a few minutes. My throat parched, I tipped my head back and took a miscalculated swig from the bottle of cold water next to the bed, spilling a significant amount down my neck and onto my hair in the process. Stop.

Start. This time, we got to the point where Seth’s stubby fingers filled my pussy and probed tantalizingly at my g-Spot. Stop.

Start. This time, I am allowed a period of g-Spot stimulation and the tip of Seth’s tongue furiously dabs at my clit. I have worked myself up into a considerable lather by now. My body is flushed, I am soaked with sweat and I can feel the blatant heat radiating from every pore of my body. Stop.

Start. “This time I want you to use the width of your tongue and give her a long, hard lick from her pussy to her clit,” charged Anthony. He still held his cock in his hand but I could see its head was darkening with blood. Beads of fluid were forming at the tip. I stretched my body out on the bed and laid my head on his thigh. With leisurely strokes, I began to lick him off, occasionally moving my lips away such that he could see the thin trails of silvery pre-cum that clung to my chin.

At the opposite side of the bed, I ground my mound into Seth’s face, as he, like a dedicated soldier, did exactly as was instructed. My molten pussy was beginning to explode, giving out little ‘pops’ of air as its slippery walls clamped down tightly in spasms. I arched back and sat down hard on Seth’s fingers, my moans began to take on a familiar cadence.

“Take your fingers away, Seth. Now.”

My hips writhed against Seth’s fingers in defiance of the orders to stop. Seth hesitated for a split-second and that was all I needed. As he pulled his fingers away, a thin rivulet of clear juice trickled out to follow. Stop.

Start. I clambered onto Anthony’s cock. I knew I was ready. And it only took me a few minutes of rocking myself back and forth before an immense pressure within my pussy began to build up. My whole lower body felt engorged and distended – as if I had taken a deep breath and held it until I turned blue. Powerful contractions were rippling through me. I began to gasp and shudder. I cried out. I pulled myself off Anthony’s cock abruptly, thrusting my mound upwards, my body seized up taut as a bow.

And then, I erupted.

It started as an incredible wetness in between my legs, as if I was a pitcher of hot nectar tipping over. Pools of warmth diffused from my core. I looked down. A jet stream of clear fluid shot straight out of me. Even I was surprised at the distance and strength of its trajectory.

And all I could do was repeat incoherently “I’m wet I’m wet I’m wet I’m wet” to no one in particular, which given that there was a dark wet spot about the size of my palm left on the sheets was pretty much stating the obvious.

I flooded myself again and again, my body buffeted by consecutive peaks of pleasure. This time there was no letting up in the pace or pressure. Each orgasm was just a cue for Anthony to shift me to a dryer spot on the bed and pound himself harder into me.

When he finally pulled away for a quick break, I had surrendered so completely to the river inside me that I continued to gush and flow even without the need for direct penetration.

“Let me drink you up honey,” he said as his fingers flicked furiously at my clit. “Tell me when.”

“Only…if you let me…kiss you after…I want to taste myself,” my words punctuated by short staccato breaths. Within a few minutes, I felt the familiar spasms of a liquid release overcome me.

“There you are…Mmmm…Mmmm…” he murmured, rubbing his face into my mound and slaking his thirst with my juice.

When he came up for air, I saw his features were glistening wet. Not just his lips, but the bridge of his nose, his chin and the sides of his bristled cheeks. It was like a layer of dew all over his face. It gave me a brief animalistic thrill, to see the evidence of my emissions so blatantly mark him in such a manner. (See boys, I get the cumming on the face thing – I get it.) I lapped lovingly at the sides of his mouth as a kitten would, before pulling him down for a deep tongue-kiss.

Then completely spent – with sweat evaporating off my back, a lattice of hair matted around my face and hardly any strength left in my bones – I melted into him and slept. Stop.

In this day and age where self-help masturbation manuals become bestsellers and vibrators fly off the shelves at Watson’s, the female orgasm has become commonplace. Nobody bats an eyelid when we touch ourselves during sex or choose to spend Wednesday nights with The Rabbit instead of with our boyfriends. It is expected, nay desired, for a woman to be comfortable with her body and openly orgasmic with merely the aid of some water and Clairol shampoo.

So it is only natural that most of us who count ourselves as part of the sexual liberati aspire to – or at least express a healthy level of interest and curiosity for – the Mack daddy of orgasms, female ejaculation.

And rightly so. Female ejaculation is hot. Intensely horny. A head rush for a girl. But also an absolute ego trip for the guy she’s with. One little 5CC squirt is the most irrefutable testament of how much he pleases her in bed. It does the job of 120 decibels of screaming, a contortionist’s lifetime of writhing and entire decades of vigorous protestations. Because when it comes down to it, there is just no faking a gushing, squirting, spurting orgasm.

Having the ability to ejaculate on command is also an empowering act. And since men do it, women should be allowed to as well, if only in the name of egalitarianism. I can tell you firsthand that there is immense sexual gratification in being able to make a mess of one’s partner. To see a geyser of hot cum hit a man in the lower torso and stream down his balls is an intensely intimate and dirty experience. And the best sex always consists of a combination of these two qualities.

However aspiring to female ejaculation and achieving it are two different things. Female ejaculation is a curious phenomenon, a bit like the Loch Ness monster or that six-pack under your belly – you’ve read about it, you know it’s there and you can spend your lifetime trying but somehow you can’t quite persuade it to come out of hiding. Then one day when you least expect it, either if you’re very very lucky or very very well-behaved, it rears its head and you’re hooked.

To embrace one's inner Niagra, you first need to understand the fundamental science behind it. Female ejaculation is caused by the swelling and secretions of the urethral glands, usually during / after prolonged stimulation of the g-spot and the clitoris. The orgasms that accompany ejaculation are usually deeper and more intense because the contractions originate around the uterus, as opposed to clitoral orgasms that originate only around the pelvis.

In my experience, the best positions for hitting the g-spot jackpot and thus maximizing your chances of gushing are: doggy-style fucking, fucking with your legs help up above your head, anal penetration or dedicated manual motivation (a la fingers AND a helpful tongue on the clit). It goes without saying that sometimes, a little patience is in order and time and effort go a long way.

And if ejaculation is the Holy Grail, then one's cum-juice must be the elixir. The first night I tasted myself I was slightly salty. The next night I was sweet. The flavour of female ejaculate like all cum, depends on a woman’s time of the month, the number of prior ejaculations she’s had and how many chocolate truffles she’s eaten with dinner. It does not possess the musky, syrupy qualities of male semen. Rather, it is more akin to champagne – a burst of lightly acrid bubbly on the tongue.

There is much debate about the nature of the liquid expelled during orgasm. Female ejaculate is a clear, odorless, alkaline fluid. However seeing that it emerges from the urethra, it can sometimes contain traces of urine but there is no way to discern the exact proportions (it can vary even within a single sex session) without taking one’s soggy bedding to the medical lab. And to be honest, we all have better things to do with our time – like working on releasing that next 5cc cupful.

Besides, what's a little bit of pee between friends. There's probably more of it in a handful of bar-snacks than there is in a cupful of cum.

Now I hope you’ve enjoyed this wet and wonderful post as much as I have. If you want more information on the topic, please read more here (this one has pictures) and here. And of course, anecdotal evidence rates highly on this blog so let me know if you have any wet stories of your own to share.

I would say the only drawback to female ejaculation is that it really raises the bar in terms of what I expect from my own body in bed. This of course, translates to how I evaluate the skills of the men I shag. The poor things – as if trying to impress me in the sack wasn’t difficult enough.

Multiple orgasms, bah! Somebody tell them multiple ejaculations already.

And for all of you who think I’m going ‘soft’ or becoming boring or riding off into the sunset of coupley-bliss, please you are invited to steal my mobile phone and watch the aforementioned video. For educational purposes of course. You can be sure I’ll be demanding a generous cut from all bootlegged copies.