Tuesday, September 19, 2006


I love you all – very very much. And I’m really REALLY hoping the feeling is mutual because guys, I’ll say it straight – I’m an idiot. And a bit of a fraud. No no no, the group sex and raging bisexual bits are all true. But the morbid pathos and death-becomes-her bits expressed in my last post ("Have You Ever") aren't.

Or at least, not anymore.

It’s turned out to be a complete misunderstanding. And after a weekend of stewing in my own muck, I decided to let the respective people involved know why I was behaving so oddly i.e. going to the gym, donating to charity, wearing comfortable shoes around the house, and suppressing the urge to howl every time Someone’s name was mentioned.

Piece by piece the entire picture emerged. That he said she said I said. And she said he said I said. And of course, nobody really said anything or meant anything the way they did. In fact it turned out that the original message (completely garbled and misinterpreted by alcohol and good intentions) was really quite sweet. Hopelessly, utterly and truly sweet, to be precise. And ironically enough, he was worried that I was pissed off at him for declaring it.

Which leaves me with a hastily glued back together heart, a relationship that has reverted to status quo and err, a rather embarrassing situation on this blog.

I would have taken down my last post completely and tried to sweep everything under the carpet – because my therapist says I’m good at that – but there were so many comments on it already, I thought you all deserved better by way of an apology and an explanation.

So guys and gals reading this, from the bottom of my heart, I am really sorry to have misled you all. I can tell you that it feels much worse than misleading myself, which I do quite regularly without the least bit of remorse. And I hate the idea that I've cried wolf and the blog continues to elicit sympathy on a now defunct premise. If you must shower compassion on anything, then may I suggest something more worthy. Like Iraq. Or ozone depletion. Or the fact that I’ve been so wretched I haven’t wanked once all weekend.

Jokes aside, I must thank you though, for all the comments I received in the past 2 days, even the ones that called me a self-indulgent little schmuck with a flair for minor theatrics (ok so you were right – just this once!). It's really a long story not worth retelling but trust me, the situation when it first presented itself was extraordinarily upsetting (or so I thought). And I was genuinely very very hurt over it.

But having you all out there – reading, responding and commiserating – really helped. It surprised me. I suppose that’s the power of blogging. And it still amazes me how this space has evolved from nothing more than a prurient piece of entertainment chronicling my sex life for a handful of close friends to a forum for expression that is really potent and vital to who I am and what I do.

So thanks for that. You guys are great, you really are. :)

Well now then, in the spirit of doing penance and being a better blogger, I’ve decided to open up the comment box on this post for you to ask me questions about the things that interest you. I’ll try my best to accommodate everyone – within reason – but I won’t answer any personal questions.

This being the blog that it is though, anything from orgies to rimming to why Singaporean schoolchildren excel in Math and Science is fair game.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Have You Ever...

…been hurt so bad it feels like dying.

No, really. This is what it must feel like to go. And actually, it is rather pleasant.

It’s more like a release. The final 'fuck-it'. A complete and utter surrender to a higher power outside your control. Like drowning in a river. You struggle at first. But then, people say there is a moment of euphoria as your lungs learn how to breathe water instead of spit air. You have reverted to man’s pre-evolutionary state and ironically, you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your entire sorry land-locked lifetime.

You float. Then you sink into oblivion.

And the best part of the transition is the peace. Nothing can touch it or take it from you – it is six feet below. Profound. Exquisite. Deep. It consumes you. And you are left with nothing but the metaphysical conviction that everything in this topsy-turvy world is now as it should be.

Finally, you have done something right.

You always knew it was coming. Death and taxes, as they say. The only thing you could never pinpoint was how or when. All you knew was that it would be too soon.

Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Nobody ever really wants to go. Even the most reckless maniac with a death-wish wants to live – even if it is by the skin of her teeth. She may flirt with her mortality but ultimately all she wants is to be pulled back from the brink. To live another five minutes. To scrape by.

So follow your own advice, girl. Don’t fall in love.

Because in doing so, you will have signed a warrant for your own execution. In effect, you will have planted a knife in your heart – so deeply and so cleanly you don’t even feel it going in. Except when someone twists and pulls it out.

You wait. A year flies by – the best year of your life. Nothing happens. You grow careless. You begin to make modest little plans and dream modest little dreams, you have a little celebration to congraulate yourself on defying the odds. But in reality, all you are doing is looking forward to a future that isn’t yours and committing yourself to a person that can never fully reciprocate.

You fool.

Yet, you continue to laugh in the face of your own destruction. You court it. You jeer at it. And when it doesn’t come, you begin to trust in the myth of your own invincibility. You believe your own lies.

You forget you are on borrowed time.

And you are in such a mood when the knife is casually drawn from you, so swiftly that you lose your breath and immediately start to fall. You feel like you should resist or retaliate, do what all women do and cry even, but there is no point. The deed is already done. It is your time to go, not with a bang, but with a forced smile and a whimper.

The house always wins.

You turn to face your killer. Her features swim into view and somehow you think you have seen that face before. Your tongue moves out of its own accord and it is your voice you recognise being discharged from your throat. Congratulations, you’re a muppet on your own show. If life wasn’t ebbing away from you, you would find it terribly amusing.

“That…hurts me,” you mutter softly, resignedly, to no one in particular. It is all a bit of an anti-climax.

After all, the culprit is no evil priestess. She is your best friend, your confidante, your protector – against whom you are utterly defenceless. She comes bearing good intentions and takes you at your least aware – when you are sitting around tittering over something superficial, feeling reasonably content with life.

A moment which for her will just be another moment.

But for you, will be an eternity.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

The First Threesome

I don’t mean to be a tease but I’ve been ridiculously busy at work which has (very sadly) eaten way into my writing time. This looks set to continue for at least another week or so but please bear with me. I have not abandoned you. Normal posting frequencies will resume when the sun breaks through the clouds.

Here’s a backdated entry to tide you over for now.

So I lost my threesome virginity. I can eat pussy. I presently tip the scales at 35% bisexual (from my former 20 – 30%). I absolutely adore women, in fact now more so than before. And I’m beginning to think I could adopt threesomes as a lifestyle choice. More on that later.

The thing is, I promised to write about my first FFM threesome experience a very long time ago but I know I have been endlessly procrastinating and pussyfooting around the topic. So here is the reason, which I submit – quite humbly – to you, faithful readers:

My first threesome didn’t quite turn out to be the incendiary, inspiring orgiastic encounter of my lifetime. Actually, it was just ok. I know I know, bran cornflakes are just ok. Giordano jeans are just ok. 5 inch cocks are just ok.

But threesomes are frenzied, Sapphic, porn fantasies! Uncharted sexual territory! Twice the pussy, three times the fun! They aren’t supposed to be just ok.


If I must be honest, I suppose I was partly to blame for the undistinguished turn of events. Because whilst I can navigate my way around a twosome with a blindfold and handcuffs on, threesomes as you can imagine, are a whole different ballgame. And my lack of familiarity with the dynamic meant that I became quite passive and hesitant in bed; all very uncharacteristic for me.

But let me tell you the entire story in all its pedestrian glory, from start to finish, since you have waited so long for it.

It begins with a bright Sunday afternoon. And that should already be reasonably telling with regards to the context that it occurred. Lesson #1 my friends, first-time threesomes are best conducted in the wee hours of the morning of a Friday or Saturday, when everyone is sufficiently – but not overly – intoxicated and lubed up after a night of merrymaking.

This is the Singaporean in me speaking– but Sunday afternoons are really best left for that dining tradition we call brunch.

Anyway back to the event, Sunday afternoon notwithstanding. I was in bed with Felix. Sunlight was streaming into the room from a crack in the curtains. I groggily estimated it was about noon and pulled the covers defiantly back over my head in an attempt to chase whatever dream I had been having.

I woke again to the sound of Felix groaning softly. I sat up. Taking in the huge sunken crescents under his eyes and the general pallor of his complexion, I scurried to the kitchen to get him some water and Panadol.

“Samantha just called, I asked her to come over,” he murmured through sleep-crusted eyes when I returned, his head propped up reluctantly on the pillow.

I met Samantha at a party a week ago, where under the influence of some substance or other, she blurted out, “I’m bisexual and I think I’m in love with you”. So much for subtlety, but it was endearing in a semi-Tourette’s kind of way. I fell for it. And Felix, who initially introduced us, was quick to suggest that we all meet up again – under much less civilized circumstances, of course.

I opened Felix’s main door and there she was. In a pair of grey sweats and white t-shirt pulled tight over a bikini top. Her rosebud lips were still pink, and her skin baby-smooth, but her usually sparkling eyes were dull.

“Big night last night?” I asked.

“Yea…dizzy all morning. But I’m better after seeing you honey,” she said. I wasn’t particularly convinced but I gave her a hug and let her in anyway. She headed straight to the bedroom without ceremony.

“Err, give me one minute.” I rushed to the bathroom and gave my pussy a quick wash, guessing (correctly) that Samantha would prefer the scent of Satin Breeze hand-soap to Felix’s stale cock.

On emerging from the bathroom, I saw that Felix and Samantha already lay entwined on the bed, kissing. I watched them for a while. My pussy throbbed every time Felix fed his tongue to her mouth and her eyes fluttered closed in pleasurable submission.

Her bikini top had been pushed aside to reveal a set of lightly-nippled, D-cup breasts. Perfectly-shaped, they hung and quivered like dewdrops on a leaf. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
I shifted awkwardly, waiting, like a girl at her first school dance, wanting to join in the fun but not quite sure how. Or where. Or with whom. As if sensing my hesitation, Felix gestured for me to help loosen the knot of Samantha’s pants.

I did so, relieved to be of use finally. I traced my hand over Samantha’s buttocks – they were as impertinently round as her breasts. She shifted her position ever so slightly so that the cleft in between her legs winked at me.

I stroked her there. A virgin’s touch. Tentative at first, but slowly more insistent. The texture of her shaved private skin felt furry as a peach might.

She turned over on all fours and opened to me. I could see the lightly pink petals of her inner labia beckoning to me, glistening with promise. She had a pussy like a Georgia o’ Keefe flower – completely symmetrical and delicately rouged.

I suddenly felt self-conscious of my own pussy and its irregularities. How one lip hung lower than the other, how the skin folded roughly at the sides and how its vulgar redness tended towards carmine at the fringes. If she was a Georgia o’ Keefe, I felt like a Jenna Jameson.

And God help me, I had a bad case of pussy envy.

But I didn’t let it stop me. I was on a mission to get acquainted, so I positioned myself in between her legs, my mouth so close to her opening that I could smell the vapours of her excitement. I felt myself flush, perhaps with anticipation but more likely, with mild panic.

Now was the time of reckoning. It was right there. Pussy perfection. And I was determined to chow down – whether she approved or not.

The first thing I noticed was the softness. It took me by surprise. There is something about the construction and composition of a cock – its brutal erectness, its leathery sheath – that prompts a certain amount of roughness or vigour in the manner which it is handled. Think strong suction, twisting grips, pumping rhythmic movements.

Samantha’s pussy on the other hand, was unbelievably yielding and supple. As she sat on me, I felt like she almost conformed to the contours of my face. I could have burrowed into that warm crevice and stayed there happily for a long time.

As I worshipped – with my tongue passing over her like a feather, I also defiled – with my finger dipping deep into her well. But I lacked technique. And I knew it.

I’d been taken to the heights of ecstasy by some champion pussy-eaters, men who have licked / flicked / lapped / tapped / hummed / nibbled / twisted / tugged / and executed quadruple-combinations of the above techniques on my vulva and clit at the same time. But I had never taken the time to pay proper attention to the mechanics of what was being done to me. (Multiple orgasms do tend to hinder general observation and analysis, after all.) I hadn’t read any
books on the subject matter. Heck, the last time I’d even watched lesbian porn was in college. I felt inexperienced and woefully inadequate. I was a mess.

She didn’t cum. And I didn’t blame her. Nobody would have cum from the lolly-licking that had been so doggedly administered. Least of all me.

The alpha female in me was disappointed anyway. If nothing else, I have always prided myself on being reasonably skilful in the sack. And orgasms all round were taken for granted when I was with a man. (Even if I had to help myself.) Being with women though, was giving me performance anxiety. I had been so intent on eating pussy that I wasn’t particularly enjoying myself doing the things I normally did.

I turned my mouth round to shower some attention on Felix in a bid to console myself and soothe my rather-bruised ego. I relaxed as the familiar sensation of cock filled my mouth and nudged the back of my throat. It was strangely comforting – and I sucked on it contentedly like a baby with a pacifier. I realized in that instant that as much as I was attracted to women, I could never just have lesbian sex with a girl.

I would miss cock entirely too much.

Then it was Samantha’s turn to eat me out. She was just as gentle as I had been. And I didn’t detect any particular technique either. Had I set a bad precedent? Were women always this soft and tender with each other? Or was I just hard-wired for cock and nothing else? There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask.

All I knew was that whoever said women naturally and intuitively gave better head to other women better than men got it wrong. I had been lied to.

From my admittedly limited experience, girls treated other girls’ pussies with much more respect. That was a good thing but I quickly got bored of all the gentle licks and delicate fingering. I didn’t want to be treated roughly but I missed the rhythmic thrusts, well-placed nibbles and even occasional slap that usually accompanied a pussy-eating administered by a man.

Don’t forget, this is the birth canal we’re talking about here. The pussy is able to withstand, respond and appreciate much stronger pressures than most people think. Consideration and respect are nice to start off with, but to take it up a level, a pussy needs hearty stimulation, action and a certain amount of filth.

Mine did, anyway.

But before I could say anything, Felix moved to suck on my nipples. And for a few moments, I just lay there watching the top of their two heads, Felix’s dirty blond and Samantha’s jet-black, moving down my body, tasting and savouring every intimate inch of me. It felt like one big, extended session of foreplay.

I could get used to this.

How different it was from the MMF threesomes I had done. It made all that high-fiving, ambidextrous-wanking, double-penetrating and spunk-collecting look like such hard work.

My time with Felix and Samantha seemed more artistic than pornographic. Physically, she was my ideal – beautiful alabaster skin, curvy in all the right places whilst being toned and taut in others.

There was also a giggly girlishness to being in the same bed with her, like we were at a pyjama party with no pyjamas. We cooed and stroked and mutually admired each other’s breasts. I promised to bring her to get her pussy waxed after she marveled at the smoothness of mine. She wore the most beatific smile as we kissed and cuddled from the front whilst Felix fucked her from behind. And then later, we showered together and passed soap all over each other’s bodies.

Everything felt strangely chaste. All that was missing from our little tete-a-tete was some hot chocolate and ginger biscuits.

I wouldn’t say my first threesome sucked. But like losing one’s virginity, the whole experience was a little disappointing. Nobody came. And I didn’t know if it was my performance anxiety, Samantha’s boredom or Felix’s hangover, but at some point somebody wisely raised the suggestion of brunch. And we all immediately stopped what we were doing and headed for the bathrooms, stifling sighs of relief.

Still it was a rite of passage, and as a result, I have reached a new level of sexual understanding. So no turning back. Upward, onward, forward. Onto bigger and better groups err, things. I am sure the next few threesomes I do will be much more inspiring to write about. After all when it comes to sex, I am nothing but optimistic.