A Babe In Toyland...

Social Media Capitulation

2009-12-05T13:11:00.005+08:00

I know, I know I don't write enough. Well here's an excuse: social media is making me dumb and lazy. For those of you who want to see me try my hand at producing irrelevant sound-bites within 140 characters - find me here.

P.S. I'm not that interesting, so you have been warned.

Rain

2009-07-19T03:22:00.008+08:00

It was a dark and stormy night… No, seriously! Nowhere else does ‘dark and stormy’ as wonderfully as Hong Kong. I wrote this a while ago in the context of a Typhoon 3 warning, lots of rain and great winds culminating in a dramatic Typhoon 8 in the end.

Hong Kong has the best storms. I love the sheer theatre of them. The sky gets dark in seconds as if someone flipped heaven’s lightswitch. Then, the windy howl rising up against the windows – a ghostly audience waiting impatiently for the show to begin.

And what a show it is!

Not the stingy, chronic, low-budget productions characteristic of temperate climes. It’s practically a character-driven circus. First, the thunderous fanfare. Then craaaaak, the lightning crack of the ringmaster’s whip. And finally, the main event – the rain that spews, pisses, and spurts, blanketing a thirsty city with wet.

The bauhinia trees stuck in cement, the muggy slopes of the mid-levels, the faded building facades with their years of perpetual grime, I feel them rejoicing in the torrent. They wash. They drink. And when they are satiated, they create puddles and rivulets of their own.

Not everyone loves the rain though. All around us, Hong Kongers with their fancy leather shoes and diamante-studded umbrellas, are scurrying and hurrying. They crouch under little shop verandahs, expressing their fury with the elements with frantic text messages. "T1, T3, T8, Amber, Red, Black" – the lingo of the storm that I have to come to know well.

No taxis! No shopping! No high-tea appointment! Aiya!

********

We’re lucky. One of us (or rather, him) has had the foresight to bring an umbrella to dinner, but it never really stood a chance against the T3. We start off optimistic. Then suddenly, needles of rain bear down at us from an angle and we’re drenched. The umbrella turns itself inside-out, spokes all awry, and flies merrily down the street.

So we decide the best option is to kick up our heels (or in my case, kick off my heels) and make a wild, unco-ordinated dash for it. Numerous happy-splashes and a quick fumble for the keys later, we’re home.

We peel our clothes off, eagerly discarding them in a wilted heap. I fling open the windows and look out onto a landscape that glistens and gleams in the night-light. It’s beautiful. A wonderful peaty, mossy smell fills the apartment.

Then, we fuck steadily to the rhythm of the rain, my moans lost to the whistling wind.

********

“I love fucking you when it’s raining,” I say, somewhere between my sixth and seventh orgasm. “It feels sexy…and somehow, so right.”

“You know what I’d really love to do…is fuck you in the rain.” He thrusts himself deep into my core as he speaks, for effect.

I look out the window, observing the tempest. Things are hurtling down the street. I see a bin cover, the odd branch and plastic bag. It is bucketing down so hard if I close my eyes it sounds like I could be next to a waterfall. It is beginning to flood.

Then a sudden gust blows in, and the blinds fly up. I sneeze – it must be a sign.

“I think you’ve picked the wrong girl to say that too. Come on get your boxers on…” There is an unmistakable glint in my eye, a look he knows too well.

“Oh no. N-O. What, like right now?”

********

We’re outside by the stairs of the house – him in his boxers and t-shirt, me in my cocktail dress… or what is left of my cocktail dress. I’m not sure why, but one of us (or rather, him) even brings along an umbrella.

We are two drowned rats going at it. I can barely open my eyelids wide enough to see clearly, the relentless downpour running off us in sheets. I begin to bend over, but he grabs a gob of my wet hair and forces my face to the sky. I clamp down on the instinct to sputter, as he enters me fiercely.

I come – an outpouring of my liquid, steaming and pissing down his thigh – three times in quick succession. Although I think he only notices on the third time. After which... he marches me, umbrella et al, back home for a hot shower and a dry cuddle.

"Remind me to keep my big mouth shut next time," he murmers heavily, into my neck, as the storm begins to pass.

Change - or be Changed?

2008-06-03T09:02:00.002+08:00

“Oh my god! It’s so weird to hear you, of all people, say you have a boyfriend!”

I was having drinks with an old friend from Singapore – someone who was familiar with the younger, more imprudent me, and whom I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” I said, glancing away quickly. “Weird. To be fair, I only started calling him my boyfriend slightly more than a year ago. Before that, he was just my…”

“Fuckbuddy?”

“Um, no, not really. Stopover fuck’s more like it.”

“Is that higher or lower than a fuckbuddy in the grand scheme of things?”

“I’m not sure. He was never a ‘buddy’ – I never really wanted him to just be my friend. I think he was in a special category all by himself.”

“Ok, so when did he become your boyfriend then?”

I thought for a long while. It’s hard to say exactly when A first became my boyfriend, in both name and spirit. There was no one momentous occasion with bells ringing and birds chirping, but rather, as these things tend to go, a culmination of gestures and intimations that seemed so natural at the time, I never once stopped to think what they all meant.

Was it when he first said “I love you”? Was it when he stopped sleeping with other people – or was it when I did? Or maybe it was the moment I gave him the key to my apartment, asking that he call it his own. Or could it have been the numerous little epiphanies that I got along the way writing about him on this blog?

Maybe the truth lies in the truly mundane. I mean how many times can a girl read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read a single text message? (Without losing her eyesight, that is.) Well in my case, a fair estimate might be…more than a few dozen? And I still smile too. I have over a hundred of his texts saved in my phone, and my favourite one dates from as far back as July 2006.

I tried hard to remember when I said my first “I love you”. Because surely that would have given me the answer to my friend’s question. But I couldn’t. (Admittedly my excuse is that I was highly intoxicated at the time.) But I’ve said it too many times to count since. And besides, I probably meant, showed and indicated it in a myriad of ways before my tongue got into the act of forming the actual words.

In that way, I think sometimes the body is wiser than the mind. Even from the first time, I marveled at how my body fit into his. How he took my hand to cross the road while we were walking back to the hotel and how I smiled, and curled my fingers around his without breaking stride. Or into a cold sweat.

How after sex, I knew exactly how to curl up him like a limpet, resting my head along the crook between his collarbone and chest, and letting our post-coital smells spontaneously mingle.

And how we kissed. Oh, how we kissed. We only started doing this later on in the relationship, him having never been too big on ‘the kissing thing’ when he was with other women. But the first time he decided to take me in his arms, using his lips to smother, suckle and caress me with wild abandon, I was lost.

More importantly, my body had stopped enjoying sex with other people way before my mind cared to concede. In fact, it took me a streak of rather unenjoyable encounters – including one where I had to literally sneak out of someone’s apartment like a thief while he was sleeping (leaving no note, and definitely no number!) – to make me sit up and think…

Waitaminute. Whatthehelljusthappened? That used to be fun.

So where does all this leave us? I suppose with the old adage that change happens – even to the unlikeliest candidate of us all. And the best kind of change feels natural, and organic, and not impelled by anyone else but yourself. The funny thing with change of course, is that it’s only when somebody shines a ‘blast from the past’ spotlight on you, that you realise it’s actually happened.

Otherwise, you’d just think you were being you.

Ever heard the phrase, “I love you, but I love me more?” It’s a phrase that maybe Sash would have used. Or anyone with a strong, uncompromising sense of self. And in all my previous relationships, I had always felt this epic tussle between the real me and the ‘me’ that the other person wanted me to be.

It never felt quite right.

Because how much can you truly change about yourself on behalf of someone else? A lot of people pretend, all their lives even, whilst scurrying away to hide their dirty secrets from prying eyes. But I never wanted to pretend. And I never wanted to compromise. And maybe that’s why it took me such a long time, and such a lot of tries to get it right.

Because finally, I’ve found someone that I can just be me with. Kinky, quirky, funny soulful me.

And that’s what changed. I’ve found my home, my family, my anchor and my truth in another person. And I suppose, for the first time, after 2 years and 9 months, I can finally say, with some degree of certainty, that I’m content in a way that comes from knowing indeed, there is someone out there for me. Yes, for even ‘difficult cases’ like me. So there’s hope for all.

Maybe that’s why I stopped blogging – because in a way, I’ve stopped searching. I’m still me but I can’t be Sash anymore. Not in the way you know me anyhow. Ferociously hunting for the next man, the next high, the next hedonistic adventure, the next blogworthy anecdote. Just because I could. And also because in a way, playing the game and exerting my sexual power had become my heroin.

But now, I’ve realised that it’s not the end of the world when I can’t get laid with that super-handsome, well-dressed, alpha-male of a man that’s looking sideways at me across the bar…

So you see, there is simply no more sexual pathos. Or so it seems for now, anyway.

Because when I do go out looking for sexual adventure – which still happens, mind you, pretty often – I go out looking in tandem. And boy is it fun to hunt in a pack. I know I have the best wingman I could ever ask for by my side, and the best fall-back plan if things don’t work out.

Someone who makes me laugh till my sides ache, fucks the living bejesus out of me, snuggles up in the morning when its cold, and treats me with the utmost patience, respect and forgiveness on days leading up to my period.

He is my biggest adventure. And even till this day, there’s a sense of newness to our relationship. Perhaps because every day with him is a revelation of the depth and nuance of feeling that I am capable of with him.

But I can’t risk boring you with any more details. Really, the last thing the world needs is yet another rosy-eyed romantic grandiosely espousing the life-changing power of love. And please, I beg of you not to put me in that category.

I don’t believe in happy endings, but there’s something to be said for happy beginnings, and middles.

Because they’re just wonderful. :)

P.S. And that pesky monogamy thing? We have a deal that I’ll stay faithful as long as he makes sure that I always have the most mind-blowing sex a girl like me could possibly want and have. And also, that he brings home guys for the occasional dp. ;)

P.P.S. To my beloved, thank you and happy 40th.

Top 10 Reasons why Sash is Rubbish at Relationships

2007-07-10T16:44:00.000+08:00

Status: I love my life (absolutely), I love my man (madly) and I love my relationship (usually...um, marginally?...more than my singleserves lifestyle).

Sighs. Is it just me? Don't get me wrong. The guy is great, truly great, but this girlfriend-boyfriend thing is H-A-R-D!

I mean, I'm a reasonably good trophy. I have nice shoes and a pedicure every month. I get along socially with basically anyone who isn't a bigot about their earning power or an embittered expat housewife (or rather, they don't get along with me). And it has been said, that I can come across as rather witty and clever when I don't confuse my ozone with my CFCs.

So what's wrong? Why can't I make a graceful exit from the meat-market in a poof of romantic bliss? Why am I still writing?

Because sometimes, I just get this nagging feeling at the back of my head, a bit like a hangover, that I'm not quite the cat's pyjamas as a girlfriend. I really am trying my best, but there are a few things about me that are so fundamentally Sash, and that I can't (and won't) change, I'm not sure they quite fit in any relationship, let alone this one.

And really, the boyfriend, also occasionally known as 'the boyfwen' bless his heart, is so patient and accommodating about all my quirks (especially if they're the pouty-lipped, D-cup variety) it's as if he actually loves me!

Ha. Which makes it all so much worse, really.

It's not like me to be plagued with self-doubt but there are days when all I can do is think that I'm just wasting his time and one day the scales will fall from his eyes and my inner monster will be revealed in all its grubby glory. I can tell you right now I'd be gutted if that happened. Absolutely gutted.

You may or may not agree, but in no particular order, here are my top 10 reasons why maybe I'm just not cut out for this relationship thing. And yes, you have permission to laugh.

1. I am a monogamist's nightmare. I look at, and openly lust, after other women. And men. Black men. The ones with pecs the size of canned ham, metal-detector abs and thick, long um, johns. Preferably 2 of them at a time... But mainly, I try to keep it to women. Ahem...

2. If he gets jealous about my lust habit (see #1), my usual response is: "Don't be. I'd never do it behind your back. Don't you know that if I fucked someone else, you'd be the first person to know? Especially if the sex was really REALLY good? Maybe we can invite him over! Or give the guy a t-shirt that says 'I made Sash squirt' or something..."

3. If I get jealous...? Hmm, actually I don't get jealous. Why get jealous when you can get even? And his best friend told me once that he's hung like a coat hanger. So I'll just have to find out...

4. I prefer to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. In fact, the last time I asked for permission was maybe in Secondary 4 when I asked my parents if I could stay over at my then-boyfriend's house, to which they said no. I then went and did so anyway (but I swear we didn't have sex Mom!). On the plus side, I'm very good at feeling sorry and I bake a mean humble pie, with real chocolate chips and vanilla. Hungry, anyone?

5. I have a sordid past. And I can still bump into most of it at Attica on a Saturday night. (Note: this is after leaving Singapore for 2 years.) And no, that guy did not have that double chin / spare tire / withered look / cold sore on his lip when I was fucking him...

6. I don't listen very well. Nor can I read maps or follow instructions. Unless I'm being slapped around in a schoolgirl uniform, that is...

7. I admit, I'm a bit of an adoration junkie. (Everybody is, aren't they?) And I rather miss my bevy of besotted admirers who used to strew shoes, watches, jewelry, skincare and the odd laptop as tokens of affection at my feet. In fact, I still have their numbers, and we keep in touch from time to time. And if they insist on plying me with gifts in a transparent and shameless bid to buy their way into my heart, what can I do but accept? I'm just being polite...

8. I need a lot of sex. And I need it now. And no, we can't stop until after I've had 10 orgasms. If you have a headache, then go take a Viagra. I guarantee it'll make the headache worse, but you'll have wood and I can give you hand jobs for the rest of the night...

9. I'm sexually up for anything and I'll try anything once. Which is fine when I'm luring beautiful women home for some fun. But not so fine when I also suggest we try our hand at bukkake, bisexual boys, strap-ons, knives, rape fantasy, the odd enema and of course my lifelong altar fetish (don't ask, I can't explain it except to say that I have a seriously twisted imagination). You never know, it could be really fun...

10. I don't suddenly want babies. Or an HDB flat. I don't cook dinner every night. I don't call everyday (he calls, usually) even though I have been known to send a squealy text once ever so often. And I'm still awfully footloose and fancyfree. In fact, currently I'm thinking wouldn't it be a fantastic adventure to transfer to New York for a few months...

So there, the prosecution rests. Is there any hope for me at all?

Coming (Or Not)

2007-06-22T21:55:00.000+08:00

Three whimsical little vignettes about the joys and perils of that physical phenomenon we call, coming.

I have finally(long story!) decided to go on the pill. And for the first time ever, tonight, A will leave a tide of his cum unobstructed and uninterrupted inside my pussy.

The most basic act between a man and woman, and the purest, yet it’s been years since I’ve felt open and committed enough with anyone to allow it. But now, I am longing for it, something deeply fundamental inside me aches for it. I am a blank canvas, an empty cup waiting to be fucked, filled. Finished.

Never have I been so excited by a man’s orgasm.

It will be over quickly, I estimate half an hour tops. My hands are gripping his back while he rides me. Each thrust is determined, deliberate. His climax is the raison d’etre of our lovemaking tonight.

I love watching his cock, plunging into my depths only to resurface moments later wet but triumphant. I follow the metronome rhythm of his thrusts and my moans rise in syncopated chorus – Yes. Now. Soon. Oh. God.

The veins on his neck swell and his face crumples with concentration. There’s no holding back now. I’m melting. His hips are grinding to the finish, and his head is next to mine now. The hairs on the side of my ear vibrate with his whispers:

“Do you know, what I’m giving…you? My life. My essence…I’m pumping you full of my sperm. I want you to feel it on your cervix, in your womb… I’m giving myself to you.”

He is gasping between breaths now, shuddering, his handsome face crumpled with concentration. “All I have…Baby, everything…do you want it?”

“Yes, I do.”

********************

A little while later, when I can no longer feel his tremors, he rests his nose on the side of my cheek and speaks into my lips: “I thought we were going to come together, Baby.”

“We are.”

“But you didn’t…?”

“Are you sure of that?” I give my clitoris a hard rub and propel myself off his detumescent cock, a clear unfettered stream of fluid surges forth and hits the carpet. It is followed by the more gelatinous drip of his ejaculate, sluggishly creeping down my thigh.

“See? Told you we’d come together.” I grin while he joyfully scrambles for a nearby towel.

********************

There’s an insistent stabbing at my lower back and I surface, momentarily, from sleep. I can tell from the milky way that light is streaming through my blinds, it’s early. Or at least earlier than my rightful wake-up time, which on most weekends I like to delay to as late as possible.

“Mmffphmmmff?” Obviously, a rhetorical question.

“Morning Baby!” comes the chirpy reply. I groan inwardly. Why is he awake? Why is he so energetic? We had only switched off the lights 3 hours before and I was feeling it.

“Go back too schlweep…” I mumble, the side of my cheek cracking slightly to accommodate the movement of my lips. I wade back under the shroud of nothingness.

Then, again. Jab. Jab. Jab. Lower this time, just grazing the skin above my arsehole.

He tries to pull me into a cuddle, or perhaps maneuver a better strategic position. But I curl up into a ball facing the wall, my body language clearly saying ‘GO AWAY OR ELSE’. It seems to work.

For a few minutes, the Morning Glory and Human Pincushion call it a truce, but not for long. “Baby, are you horny?” comes his voice, a mere few minutes later, pleading this time.

More pleading and prodding. There is no denying it. His cock is rock-hard, and dying to be emptied of its contents. Well that’s because the poor man has held himself back for an entire night of lovemaking with you, I think to myself, my sympathies rising momentarily to the surface.

God knows I don’t hold back. I never do. The bed is still wet with my juice, so much so that moisture has soaked through the industrial-size towels we laid down on it before going to sleep. I can never come up with a reasonable explanation when visiting friends ask, why a girl living alone has 25 towels in her closet.

“I’m not really in the mood,” I say in a small voice, half-muffled by the pillow. I don’t want to be uncharitable but it’s physically difficult for me to get aroused in the morning. Actually, it’s physically difficult for me to do just about anything in the morning except lie still and snore.

Not that this seems to deter him in the slightest. “That’s ok! Just turn around and open your legs slightly,” he says.

I do so, angling my butt towards him. I hear him uncapping the little blue bottle of lube and smearing some on his cock. Then the air whooshes out of my lungs as he plunges suddenly into me.

“Ohhhh, uhhhh,” I moan. His pace is ferocious, and I feel him chafing away at the tender skin of my perineum. My lower body starts to tingle and awaken, my pussy beginning to open and silken. I can feel the sprigs of pleasure growing through my blood.

“I’m coming,” he pants.

“No!” I scream in protest. But it is too late.

He makes a funny sound in his throat, half-groan half-splutter, as if he is suddenly drowning in his own spit. Everything grinds to a halt. He holds himself rigid for a few seconds, a look of astonishment on his face. I think maybe, just maybe, he might have caught himself in time, until I feel a weakening pressure against the walls of my pussy and his wetness leaking away.

“I can’t believe it! You just used me like a cum-bucket!” I turn to face him accusingly, my pussy feeling a familiar ache. I only get helpless laughter in return. “Now I’m horny!”

P.S. See You Later

2007-06-03T23:42:00.000+08:00

I suck at goodbyes. I really do, which is why often I prefer to put on my running shoes and do a 400m dash, or in this particular case, a 3-month marathon. I know it's not the mature thing to do nor is it the kind thing to do, but it's compulsive, this need to put the world in a box and stare at it from a distance. If only to understand it better.

Besides you'd laugh if I told you that I took 2 months to compose the words to this post, to get them to look, sound and feel exactly right. But I did. Of course, the last month I spent just sitting around eating haw flake biscuits from the tin. But in the productivity stakes, 2 out of 3 ain't bad!

So to those of you who are still loitering on this site (I'm not sure how many there are left), but especially to those who started loitering right from the beginning, here is a little explanation for my absence, my metamorphosis from this creature called Sash and my eventual departure from this blog.

It starts with being in love. There, I said it.

And well, I'm not sure how or exactly when or why or even if I should or shouldn't be, but I just am.

Love is a state of being, and I defy people who reduce it to a feeling, a mere wisp of emotion. There is a strong, real difference between just feeling love and being actively involved in the process, even though it took me a long time to recognize it.

I suppose I've had a bad experience with love. (Hasn't everyone?) I've mistaken it for many things – for infatuation, for companionship, for obsession with an ideal. And I've mocked it, belittled it for being mundane, and for being weak.

Strongly independent women don't do love. It's beneath them, it destroys their character – I had made up all these strange rules for myself. One set to govern my pussy, and another entirely different set to govern my heart. It made sense for a long time to keep them strictly apart.

I secretly despised those who could only have sex with people who meant something to them. They were fragile little porcelain flowers who bore the burden of being unenlightened, the ones who cloistered themselves and held out their quivering, virginal quims for a statistical improbability.

I, on the other hand, was invincible. But hard in places I couldn't see. I struggled a long time with what seems in retrospect now to be my destiny.

I was torn in several different directions. I loved a man, but I loved my freedom more. I loved a man, but I did not love the situation we were in. I loved a man but in a self-protected, self-obsessed way, the only way I knew how, I loved him only if he loved me more.

It was difficult for me to reconcile these conflicts and the more I tried to resolve them, the more I made a hash of things. At times broody and sensitive, at other times spiteful and hurtful, I was self-sabotaging my chances for happiness because I was too scared of being disappointed.

For some reason, I thought that an emotional bogeyman dogged my steps, and that his chief aim was to gobble up my joy and turn it to despair.

It was only at the beginning of this year that I learned to stop worrying, and to just follow my heart.

And despite evidence to the contrary, I have one. You can imagine this comes as a surprise to me as much as it does to you.

I'm not a romantic, and I've known firsthand enough dysfunctional, destructive relationships to ever be one. So I'm not about to say that being in love has made my life better – I enjoyed a fantastic singleserves lifestyle with no regrets – but it has changed me.

It has helped me live deeper and richer. I experience life with an under-current of passion, generosity and groundedness that I never had before.

And in this way, I think I needed to fall in love. Or have a meteorite strike my building. Either way, I needed that epiphany; that it is possible for someone to be in love with me, kinks and all. And that I have the spiritual capacity to reciprocate in kind, when I honestly thought I had forgotten how.

Thus, I am endlessly comforted and inspired by this new phase in my life. Sometimes I think of it like a little red thread running through my arteries, holding otherwise random pieces of me together.

At other times, it's a mirror, and it illuminates my actions and quirks from the perspective and context of another person. In a funny way, I see more of me now than I ever did before.

Sometimes, I even surprise myself.

I remain remarkably stoic about my prospects though. I don't put much stock in the happy ending. Love ebbs and flows. In fact, it seems the more desperately one tries to hold onto it, the faster it pours away. And deep down, I know that this little mad ecstasy of my heart, as with all things, too shall pass.

But for now, I'm enjoying it.

I've never laughed so much in my life, for instance. I've never been as silly and goofy – having a made-up baby-vernacular with words like ‘Schmoops’, ‘Babby’ and ‘Wuv’ in it is not something to crow about, but well, us Singaporeans have made it a national habit to mangle the English language.

I've never been so open with someone – even telling my darkest, guiltiest secrets – and had it be alright. I've never been such an instigator of fun and sexual spontaneity. No public corridor is safe, no piece of furniture spared and no beautiful stranger unmolested.

Which all sounds very sweet and slightly nauseating, but what has all this got to do with blogging, you wonder?

Well here's the nub – I've changed. And in ways that aren't quite Sash anymore. I wouldn't say she's gone completely. She can still be counted on for things like, modeling lingerie in front of 200 lesbians, dancing with abandon on a podium at old haunts, persuading beautiful girls to be bisexual, having mad sex with multiple partners (except now it tends to be in the presence of a certain someone).

That's still me. But there are other parts to me now that need recognition. And to tell the truth, every time I have tried to post the latest developments of my life on this blog, I've felt constrained by the all-pervading themed persona I created. Even the tone and style doesn't fit anymore.

I'm still writing though. I will always write, it's who I am, it's just that for now I am trying to move my thoughts into another medium. So it's not a farewell, I sincerely hope it's a see you later.

Thank you for all your encouragement, well-wishes and loyal readership. It has given me confidence and has helped me find my courage when it comes to writing.

At its best, I hope this blog provided you with a dash of inspiration, some information, and plenty of wank-fodder while encouraging you to embrace your sexual side. Remember, your kink is what makes you special. Explore it, nurture it and don't be afraid to share it with somebody one day. I did, and still do. If anything, it makes for very interesting dinner conversations.

I will be leaving the archives up here for your reading pleasure. But before I hang up my stiletto on a shingle for good, I will be trying to finish and polish up a few orphaned Sash posts that I still have left on my computer. I will put these up at arbitrary intervals, as the spirit moves me, so expect the story mill to trickle down and dry up as opposed to grinding to a complete halt here in Sashville.

Questions or personal anecdotes, if any, are welcome in the comment box. Usual rules apply. If you leave your email address, I might respond personally.

All said and done, I had a wonderful, madcap time y'all. And again, thanks for being such a supportive audience. Now go forth and fuck your brains out. That's all for now, folks. :)

Tied Up

2007-02-15T12:35:00.000+08:00

I wonder how long he's going to leave me here.

The wall is cold against my cheek and the bulb of the reading light incubates the side of my forehead. It casts large, distorted shadows around the room. A flickering candle becomes a beating heart, a stack of pillows become giant Lego-bricks and my own head is a clotted nest of writhing anemone.

I blink. And crane my neck as far as it will go in an attempt to catch sight of him. I feel the vertebrae on my spine uncoil protestingly, crick by crick.

It doesn't exactly hurt to move. Rather, it pinches, nibbles, and throbs. I don't know what sort of knots he's used but they're tight. I guess he wasn't joking when he said he used to be a Boy Scout.

My flesh is soft and buttery against the rope.

It's futile to escape. To tug awkwardly on the left is to feel a corresponding tweak on the right. Any attempt to roll or twist would mean the risk of over-balancing and landing on the floor in a cold, crushed heap.

That doesn't make me sorry for what I've done of course. He can do what he likes, but there's no way I'll crack. Or submit. Or beg.

Or cry out his name with pleasure.

He announces his return with a few sharp tugs of the rope and my limbs flail involuntarily up and down to greet him like a marionette. He chuckles and then pulls one more time for good measure.

Prick. I look at him sullenly, mutinously but say nothing. I know a bout of hysterics will most likely be punished by a pinch to my nipple or bruising spank.

'Last chance...' his voice drips honey in my ear. His expression gives nothing away but his eyes are dancing, flanked by grooves that extend to the top of his cheek.

'I told you, you can go fuck yourself.' I say the last two words especially slowly. For emphasis, I aim at his face and spit. But he recoils and my saliva spatters darkly on the sheet between us.

He chuckles. And his cock gives an involuntary quiver.

I realise too late that I've pushed it too far. His arm snakes round to grab a fistful of hair. My head snaps back and I start to wriggle about like a hooked eel. He's leaned in close and I feel his breath caress my face. His fingers burrow between my clenched thighs, rousing the swollen nub that's peeking out between my pussy lips.

The direct stimulation makes me more and more sensitive, pushing me to the brink of pleasure and tearing discomfort. I am sweating all over. I wriggle some more to dislodge his fingers, but in doing so, invite them to slip a little deeper.

And then, without warning two of his fingers plunge straight into my boiling cavity. My body instinctively jerks but the rope holds fast. Immobile, I feel the sensations shoot straight to my head, lingering behind my eyelids. My mouth has gone dry and all I can muster is a series of small unghs at the back of my throat.

Then for a brief second, relief.

He draws his glistening fingers out and holds them near my nose. I can tell how aroused I am by my smell – it's dense and almost feline. He draws back and licks his fingers seductively. I stare at him, happy to catch my breath.

Then he invades again, this time twisting and vibrating his fingers for extra effect.

And again. This time rougher and more vigorous.

And again. My insides are thrumming, my wrists and ankles are singing with a raw, keening sweetness. My moans are forceful and voluptuous. My limbs have long ceased their futile struggle. Instead I feel every pore in my body on fire, in open rebellion. His fingers carry on with their assault, except that he's watching me intently now, deep in his own arousal.

And then the final wave comes. It's sweet and explosive, as I knew it would be. I surrender completely to it. Taking my well-deserved pleasure. Savouring it, no, demanding it. Knowing that I'm free.

The scenario described above is purely consensual. If you want to role-play this way, do it with someone you trust and make sure you establish rules beforehand. Also, always use a safe word – something unusual (i.e. NOT 'Stop' or 'Enough') but easy to remember. Mine is ‘water-based make-up’! :)

Minus Libido

2007-01-27T02:22:00.000+08:00

I wake up today and it is a relatively nice morning. We’ve been having a fair share of sunlight lately. And an unseasonably warm winter is really something that us Singaporeans can’t complain about.

I instinctively roll over to reach for my trusty vibrator, except…

Except...err Houston, we may have a problem.

I hold the implement with increasing pressure against my clit, moving it down to the lips of my pussy and then back again. Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt the mechanical pulses resonate down my intimate tissue. I writhe urgently against the sheets, my mind flitting through its archives of favourite fantasies, longing, desiring, waiting… something…

Anything…

Hello? Is there life on Venus?

Evidently not! I blame God. I blame SARS. And I blame the antibiotics.

I finally orgasm after 15 minutes. (F-I-F-T-E-E-N minutes, people.) And then, only because I'm blue in the face and my clit has been beaten into resentful submission by my vibrator’s thriller speed Rotate-Whirl-Take-Out-The-Laundry combo.

Numbed nether regions aside, I discover that life really does suck with a drug-diminished sex drive for all the following reasons:

a. No urge to wank in the morning means I actually get to work on time.

b. No urge to wank mid-day means the office toilet seats have a fighting chance of staying dry.

c. No urge to wank in the evening means I can have sensible hobbies like vacuuming and stamp collecting.

Yes, no urge to wank makes Sash a very productive human being but a very sad girl.

So. That said, while azythromycin beats the crap out of my lingering throat infection and libido, I’ll be doing up some old stories from last year that I started but didn’t get to finish for one reason or another. So forgive me if the blog’s a bit chronologically impaired but everything will catch up at some point, I promise.

Until then, happy reading!

And Now, For Some Wank Fodder...

2007-01-15T00:43:00.001+08:00

A new year, a new profile and a new perspective. At least now you get a facial.

I also wanted to customise a new look for the blog and got as far as turning everything a noxious shade of magenta before I realised the new Blogger template made all my Haloscan comments disappear. I reverted back to Missionary Minima in a huff.

Sorry to sound whiney but will somebody give this technologically-challenged girl a few clues?

Naked

2007-01-14T23:02:00.000+08:00

It takes a certain kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. For money.

And then, it takes a whole different kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of their friends (the ones they will have to make eye contact with again under sober circumstances). For free.

And enjoy it.

In my defense, I will say it was for a friend’s birthday. I was a little drunk. And there were a group of us taking our clothes off – maybe not all off, nor with as much wild abandon – but we were definitely egging each other on. So what can I say, safety in numbers.

Or so I tell myself.

The thing is, I love being naked. I love the frankness of nudity, the lack of guile, the insouciance of being able to say to the world at large here-I-am-and-here-are-my-jiggly-bits. (Note: I do try to keep in okay shape generally, just so it’s not too much of an imposition if there’s an audience involved.)

I sleep naked, I do the dishes naked, I blog naked and if I could go out naked (save a pair of Fendi boots, in case the temperature drops), I would.

It is the purest of pleasures to feel my body interact with the atoms around it – my tiny body-hairs bristling against the cold, my malleable bottom negotiating a wooden stool, my arm coming to blows with an unexpected corner, leaving a stain.

It feels authentic, elemental, natural. Like I am having a conversation with the universe.

I suppose some part of this philosophy translates into a fierce aversion to all things underwear. I don’t understand the need for tights, pantyhose or pieces of string obstructing the flow of air to vital body parts that need to stay fresh and spontaneous. Who knows when or where I might desire a quick poke? Or a surreptitious wank? Or just a bracing gust of wind between my cheeks, for that matter.

It’s a compromise really, but my reasoning is this: if I have to wear clothes for the sake of everyone else’s sanity, I will be as naked as possible underneath them. For myself.

Granted, I would freeze my arse off – literally – in a city that had a real winter i.e. Chicago, New York, London, Tokyo. But thankfully, here in Hong Kong everyone just likes to pretend. So they can wear minks. And eat cake. And sniff in disdain at those of us who wear cardigans from Giordano.

I was not always such a self-actualised naturist. I grew up with the typical brand of Singaporean propriety forced down my throat. My BeeDees bras were cotton, my uniforms below the knee, my buttons done up to my collarbone. Nudity was shameful and my dad would berate my mom frequently for just walking to the kitchen to get a drink in her t-shirt and underwear.

What will the children think, he would scold.

Of course, all my brother and I thought was, oh there’s Mom in her t-shirt and underwear getting a drink. My parents were about 15 years into their marriage at that point so Mom’s underwear didn’t quite consist of a blood-red garter and an Agent Provocateur thong, if you know what I mean.

Anyway the risk of censure didn’t stop me from rolling myself up in a carpet without a stitch when I was ten or regularly kicking off my pyjama bottoms in the middle of the night when I was twelve or once, standing outside in a storm until my clothes soaked through and stuck to me like a second skin.

But it took years of active defiance to get over all that social conditioning. And I can’t say I’ve looked back since.

Which brings us to a neon-lighted stage in an undisclosed Wanchai location with my tits hanging out, I suppose. It’s a slow night. We have the bar to ourselves, save the mamasan and a few working girls, who are all avidly watching or participating anyway. My Brazilian Girls CD is playing and I’m watching another friend en deshabille spanking one of the bargirls with a star-shaped riding crop.

We’re all laughing. The liberal vodka shots have just begun to hit, we’re flushed, we can barely walk straight, we’re happy and now, we’re best of friends.

Funny how a bit of tits and arse will do that for people.

Sash's Greatest Hits 2006

2007-01-01T11:52:00.000+08:00

I know I know, I don’t post frequently enough.

But it’s difficult to when you have an Asian work ethic (last 2 months have been hectic), an earthquake (HK’s Internet lines are still patchy), unseasonably balmy weather (my summer party dresses are enjoying a good December run) and visiting family to contend with. Wanking hours have been cut down to a minimum and restricted to the office toilet. And of late, I’ve even been caught eating real cereal i.e. not Coco-Pops for breakfast.

So life’s a little topsy-turvy in Sashville at the moment (not that I’m complaining).

That said, it’s the first post of the year folks, and I’ve had a real blast. I really haven’t felt so completely blissed-out with life for a long while. Thanks for sticking with me through the various lascivious and lustful updates of 2006. I can’t ask for a more patient and loyal audience to put up with my sporadic spurts of inspired filth than you.

So before I throw myself madly into 2007, I’ve been feeling a tad sentimental bidding farewell to 2006. And I wanted to do a quick round-up of things / people / events that have made the last 12 months so special for me.

This is a pretty personal list so not all of it can be found in the archives. But bear with me, if not for commemoration’s sake than for just a tiny glimpse of what makes your favourite Singaporean sex-blogger twitch…

*****

Three words – Some will say I capitulated, but really, I took a deep breath and jumped. Plunged, rather. Into the abyss with the sexiest, naughtiest, most wonderful man I’ve known (and I can statistically say I’ve known a fair share). Together we’ve embarked on a journey of iniquity that I couldn’t have traveled on my own.

Best of all, long-time readers, I owe you the scoop. You know him too. He is mentioned throughout this blog under the moniker that starts with A. And you’ve been wanking to our adventures for a while now. See if you can spot him!

*****

Girls girls girls – My bisexual quotient kicked off at maybe 20% in 2005 but has risen faster than the price of oil in 2006. I love women and everything about them. Their silky skin, their musical moans, their sensuality.

And the challenge of getting bi-curiosity to kill the cat? Priceless. There’s cock involved in all this somewhere, but I can’t remember.

*****

Groups – Love me, love my friends. Yes, in doggy-position with your hand tight around their wrists, please.

Over 2006, I managed to persuade a good number of my friends to join me in some manner of group activity, moi presiding (champagne and riding crop in hand). Even if they were just directing a documentary or fucking on the same bed or attacking me in a 69, there were always laughs, orgasms and the memorable anecdotes all round.

*****

Toys – The greatest funnel for my disposable income – over and above Manolo Blahniks – has been my burgeoning toy collection. And it’s obvious I don’t mean Barbie. It’s gotten to the point where it’s now a little difficult to know where to put them all. Just so my neighbours don’t think I live in a dungeon. Unsuspecting customs officials beware.

*****

Exhibitions – My reasonably easygoing attitude towards underwear i.e. the less the better resulted a few unusual crotch appearances, generally to wide acclaim, or so I like to think. This included a pearl thong parade in front of 25 lesbians and straddling a pole in a Wanchai strip club.

I blame the Brazilian in me.

*****

CrazySexy People – The diversity of people I’ve met this year who have enriched my sexual perspective has been just wonderful. I give Hong Kong a lot of credit for this. Not that these people don’t exist in Singapore, they’re just further under the radar and from my personal experience, less likely to walk down the street wearing a t-shirt saying “I’m bisexual, kinky and polyamorous, but I’m still not sleeping with you”.

So just a big shout out to my peeps. (Ha!) Everyone from Hong Kong’s favourite sexologist, sexperts, swingers, strippers, sex toy designers, fetishists, MILFs and just generally open-minded uninhibited individuals.

And last but not least, to you. Thanks for sticking around, boys and girls. I’ll do you proud, I promise.

Happy 2007. Have a squirting one – on me. :)

Enlightenment

2006-12-01T11:39:00.000+08:00

Ah! We all need a little help joining the dots sometimes. Thanks Edie.

Just a little postscript on the topic. I watched some porn the other day where a woman lifted one of her breasts to her mouth and lapped at it happily. What a nifty trick! You have to be at least a D-cup though, C gets you as far as your chin.

I should know.

Minister Mentor

2006-11-30T16:09:00.000+08:00

Obviously, someone has too much time on his hands and not enough imagination to know what to do with it.

As a few of you may or may not have noticed recently, a dysfunctional individual has insisted on flooding my comment box with remarks that are vulgar and offensive. Never mind that I have a ban list as long as my arm or an inbox of complaints from friendly readers, but I broke a nail whilst pressing 'delete' to one of the comments in question and I'm annoyed now.

There's simply no excuse for bad manners or ruining my manicure. Unless there's a safe-word in place.

Ok so, we need to talk.

I'm not here to win a popularity contest, I blog as a form of personal expression and because I need something (else) to keep my fingers busy. I'll be the first to admit that what I write may not be to everyone's taste, and I'm happy to recieve both positive and negative responses as long as you articulate them thoughtfully.

But I'm bored of the same old same old. Put some creative consideration into calling me a slut already. Otherwise, go away. And take your poodle with you.

Frankly, I'm not so much perturbed by the content of these comments as much as the effect it has on the other people of Sashville. These pervy pacifists come from all over the world to the blog to play, wank, laugh, commiserate etc. in comforting anonymity. Having them gird up their lions and lob weapons of (m)ass destruction at my detractors is not horny. In fact, it lowers the tone of the entire site.

And secretly, I hate it when someone else gets more attention than I do. Heh.

So enough. Rather than close the comment box altogether, I've decided to use moderation for now, which just means that it will take a little longer for your comments to be registered in the box but they will get there eventually I promise. Please don't let this defeat you from saying what you want to say though. I enjoy reading what you think, especially if there's cum involved.

That said, I have deleted the offensive comments in question as well as those that have been mounted in defense of me - thanks :) but I like my way better - hope you understand.

Love XOXO,
Your Minister Mentor

Puppies

2006-11-20T11:39:00.000+08:00

“You have to meet Carrie. She’s got great puppies,” he says, gesturing with both hands cupped around his chest.

Puppies? I look skeptical.

I wonder about the origins of the term ‘puppies’. Tits (from titillate, teats) I understand. Or jugs (milk-bearing vessels) even. Rack (hanging frame, medieval torture device) a little less so, but British people say this a lot and since they claim to be an authority in the English language, I’ll let it slide just this once. God love that (ex-) colony mindset.

But back to puppies – Daschund or Shar-pei, is there even a difference – the term suggests a certain vulnerable quality, does it not? However when Carrie’s puppies are duly presented in front of me for inspection, there is nothing at all vulnerable about them.

Springing from her chest in two smooth, perfectly-symmetrical orbs and barely encased by a skimpy lace top, the puppies are armed. And very dangerous.

“A ‘Warning: Do Not Feed’ label would have been more appropriate don’t you think”, I mutter to my friend under my breath, jabbing him in the side with my elbow.

But for all my ungraciousness, even I have to admit that the reviews are spot-on. Attached human notwithstanding, the puppies are exquisite – slightly-raised mounds on top, subtle swellings that peek out from the side and a shaded valley down the middle that appears tantalising soft.

It’s not difficult to pinpoint the tight little buttons of arousal underneath the merciless fabric and I am helpless to tear my eyes away. Its Darwinian - the long-term survival and reproductive well-bring of our species depends on puppies like these.

Of course as I barely know Carrie, etiquette dictates that I only ogle at her chest when she is not looking. When we do engage in actual conversation, I make sure to plumb the portals of her eyes and make engaging noises about her outfit and uh, intellect.

In truth, all I'm really thinking is how those puppies really need a good toilet training. A hard pinch when they've been bad, an affectionate squeeze when they've been good and voluminous squirts of cum for everything in between.

So I'll come clean. You know how there are ass-men, ab-girls and the odd stiletto-fetishist, well I am a true-blue tit-girl, which means to say I love breasts and everything about them. Always have, always will.

What variety, you ask? Unlike the male philosophy of 'bigger is better', I'm more along the lines of 'size is nice'. Carrie must have been a D at least and you don't see me complaining. But you know what they say - anything more than a handful is a waste. (Replace 'handful' with 'mouthful' depending on which you use more often of course.)

Well my take is this: I have a C-cup hand, a B-cup mouth and people are starving in Somalia. So I'm much more likely to value subtle curvature and defiance to gravity over a set of trophies from Cathay Bowlerama. I like to think so anyway.

I have an equal opportunity policy about breasts – like most people I’m usually more pleased to be granted access than anything else – but naturally, I have personal preferences: I like perky tits that spring to the touch. And I do enjoy cupping the fullness of tear-shaped tits from the side and lifting them from the bottom. Nipples, I prefer to be lightly rouged and pointing straight or slightly upwards with a little plumpness around the areolae. Cleavage should be subtle and inviting, but nothing a mamasan could lose her handkerchief in.

Perhaps what I like most of all is mobility – breasts that bounce, wiggle, attack, sway to the music and nipples that point, twist, brace and spring to attention. I want to be inspired by bouncing balls, swaying pendulums and ripening papayas...

Anyway...

These thoughts bring me back sharply to the specimens in front of me. Yes, the puppies. We are in a club now and it’s dark so it’s legal to look for as long and hard as I like. On closer observation, I notice that the puppies maintain a remarkable sang-froid while Carrie stomps up a storm in her precarious high heels and Dior hot pants.

I turn to my friend suddenly, catching him off-guard with my suspicions. It is only then that he admits – a tad guiltily – he’s known all along that the puppies are surgically enhanced, if not completely manufactured.

“They’re not great puppies if they’re fake!” I whisper, outraged. We’re on holiday far from home but coming from the continent of confident, natural small-breasted women, the Asian in me is not impressed.

"But you’d still fuck her, right…” he asks hopefully.

I shoot him a look through narrowed eyes. We head back to the hotel and say no more on the subject.

On Kissing

2006-11-07T12:31:00.000+08:00

'Kiss me’, I whispered.

I had timed my request perfectly. Anthony’s eyes, amber in the light, burned into me. My knees were pushed close to my chest, my pussy soaked with the juice of my earlier orgasms and his cock nudged insistently at my arse. Usually by this point I’d be yelling for him to ‘give it to me deep!’ and bracing for impact.

Yet tonight, I stilled the shudders coursing through my body and offered my face up towards him. A light sheen of sweat coated my features, yet my mouth felt dry, a result of significant fluid loss (we had been fucking for a while now). My tongue moved slovenly across my lips.

He started with little papery kisses, our lips merely flirting with each other. Yet the minute he saw my neck begin to arch and my eyes flutter closed, he broke contact. At this sudden disruption, my eyes would pop open like an antique doll held suddenly upright.

He began to alternate the onslaught of his kisses with his cock, which began to probe and pressure my arse to yield. I gasped repeatedly. And as I fought for air, he smothered me with kiss after kiss. Caught between twisting my face away to breathe and returning his kisses, I made small cries of frustration at the back of my throat.

He let the kisses deepen, his tongue chasing mine into my mouth and then retreating just as quickly. The game was exhilarating and for a while, I forgot all else, including the fact that I was still being held in a very vulnerable position.

Then with his lips held against me, he fucked me. His cock slid right up the canal in a smooth motion and stayed there. My head thrashed helplessly from side to side, every nerve ending on fire. And as my arse struggled to adjust to the intrusion, he rained tender kisses on my forehead and my neck.

Steady, relax, I’m here, it’s ok, his kisses seemed to say whilst his cock bullied me mercilessly into submission. The juxtaposition of rough and gentle sensations sent me deeper and deeper into paroxysms of ecstasy.

Let’s get this straight. Most women like to be kissed. I for one, love to be kissed and will volunteer myself for the activity almost anytime, anywhere. Airports, taxis, bars, educational instutions, moving platforms. I draw the line at my parent’s bedroom though – especially if they’re sitting a few feet away watching the Discovery Channel.

Most men on the other hand, are ambivalent about the concept. Often, it is just a means to an end. After all, a kiss is the most socially acceptable demonstration of interest and less likely to get you criminally convicted than say, flashing your pubes in a crowded club. (Although a girl like me would probably give you more respect for the latter approach. Then go home with your best friend. Of course.) The prevailing logic seems to be that the further men ram their tongues down your throat, the more they idiomatically – and you, literally – are gagging for it.

There is a rule, or more like a general correlation, that people who kiss well, fuck well. Still, I must say that it’s rare to find a man who kisses and fucks well. At the same time. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve met in the past that have used kissing as a crucial part of the pick-up and as a prelude to sex but not during the actual sex itself.

What gives? Is it too difficult to multi-task? Men, take note. If you really want to show a woman a good time – fuck her like a whore and kiss her like a princess. Not just once, but at frequent intervals. Yes, like you actually mean it.

Never underestimate the power of a good kiss. It’s a versatile little weapon to have in your arsenal – it can be casual, intimate, erotic, sensual, sexy, dirty, passionate – and pack enough punch to decimate a small village of beautiful, bloodthirsty Amazonian women. Or that'd be the plan anyway.

All the usual characteristics – fresh breath, adequate saliva, nifty tongue-work – notwithstanding, here are a few more things that really work for me:

1. Kiss Chic – A kiss isn’t just a kiss. It’s an overall look to be worn with your best 3-inch Manolos. I like kisses that include hands (caressing back of head, side of cheek, spine), neck (arched and exposed), eyes (half-lidded or completely closed), thighs (entwined), hair (messy), clothes (torn at seams), lungs (approaching asphyxiation). And are followed by a sultry strut along the pavement.

2. Sense of timing – A good kiss should be like an orchestral performance with an introduction, a climax, and a coda. It has its own rhythm. Nothing should feel rushed or contrived. I like to be steered effortlessly from zero to panting on the nearby pool table without realising how I got there.

3. Accessories – Lips and tongue are great, but my most memorable kisses have been accessorised with half-melted chocolate, Fisherman’s Friend, ice-cubes, secondhand cigarette smoke, fingers, toes and even the odd wedding ring thrown in for good measure. The less sanitary the better.

It’s sad to say but Hong Kong does not provide a conducive public environment for kissing, good or otherwise. Maybe it’s the fear of becoming roadkill. Or catching SARS. Or reducing ROI. Whatever the reason, I’ve been here more than a year and have yet to see anybody – lovesick teenagers on the Star Ferry included – actually lock lips and have a decent snog. There’s a lot of insincere bisous-bisous going on, which even the guy from my neighbourhood kebab shop dishes out (yech), but that doesn’t count.

Come to think of it. I’ve administered a blow-job in full view of passing traffic on an alleyway in SoHo but I’ve never been properly and publicly kissed in this city. How radical. I must try it sometime. When I’m feeling brave enough.

Takers anyone? :)

Video

2006-10-24T21:43:00.000+08:00

Everyone should be a porn star at least once in their lives. It is healthy to actually see oneself immersed in the process of fucking, to discover through an objective medium exactly how and why people enjoy fucking you, and vice versa.

For best results, I prefer to have an external cinematographer present. Better angles. Better direction. And oh, here's a blowjob for all your trouble. However, filming each other can be a really rewarding and intimate experience as well.

He has brought a friend’s videocam with him and I am anxious to use it. We start in the afternoon when there is good light. It is a horny exercise being filmed. I am loathe to admit it but I have Paris Hilton syndrome – I am a camera-whore. I pout my lips and wiggle my bum trying doing my best to look suitably depraved and come-hither-esque.

We shoot for a bit and then review the footage. Ok so presumably my graceful cat-arch on all fours makes me look 5 months pregnant (and this is with me sucking my stomach in). And sadly, my bum isn't quite as perky as I think it is. But God bless him, he doesn't seem to notice.

Still, for all my over-acting and flouncing about, the on-screen result seems rather tame. My breast-palpation scene turns out well, nice in a bovine kind of way and documenting the journey of his lone follicled finger in and around the crevices of my pussy doesn't exactly lift the human spirit like we want it to. But hey, we're working on it.

We agree to move on to fucking, starting off with me lying on my back. He half-kneels, half-sits in between my legs, pumping his cock hard into my body. He zooms in on my breasts which bounce in response to the shock of each thrust. He then shifts the focus to my face. I have crazy half-slits for eyes, my hair is in knots, my mouth is contorted into a grimace of sorts, I grip hard into the side of the pillow, my fingers leaving compressions in the stuffing.

He then holds the camera behind his back to do a close-up of the actual entry. The curtain-lips of my pussy flank his cock and you can see them gleam as they vibrate energetically to accomodate him. His balls are tight against his body and make gratifying slaps against me as he thrusts.

Then I begin to cum and he shifts the lens back to observe the changes in my body as I hit my peak. I give it all I've got. The tightening of my stomach, the flush around my neck, the beads of sweat on my upper lip - these are things I do not or cannot see by myself but the camera doesn’t miss a thing.

We do a few more positions and then finally, tired of all the twisting and stretching to get a good shot, our inner narcissists call it a day. Or ahem, 'a wrap' for all you MTV-types.

The best part to filming one's own porn movie is then being cuddled next to him post-shoot, watching the finished product. Like film critics, we point out the parts we like and the parts that maybe need a little editing or improvement. Its interesting to see what he likes about me and what I like about him. And overall, we agree we're pretty hot. Predictably this little exercise gets me throbbing wet all over again.

Can I help it if I turn myself on? (Don't answer that.) My fingers stray towards my pussy and I begin to have a fiddle. I notice his cock is hard as well.

Then we both spontaneously realise the added benefit of filming ourselves - it is remarkably gratifying (not to mention, economical - and if you're in Singapore, legal) to wank off to one’s own porn. And the actors fuck in the exact way you want them to do. Fancy that.

We lay back contentedly in our cosy little hotel room pleasuring ourselves until the evening before heading out for dinner. I make sure to burn a CD for myself before deleting it off the videocam. Might make a nice Christmas present for Mom.

Countdown - Five

2006-10-07T19:41:00.000+08:00

Even though the events described all happened in the span of one very l-o-n-g night, I will post this series in parts to make it easier to read – and less intimidating for me to write! Here’s Part Number 1.

First there were five.

Two grown men, Anthony (yes, my Anthony) and Jon, bound to the chairs they were sitting on, facing the bed. They were our watchers and with their hands tied behind them, we had rendered them completely helpless, even to themselves.

My friend Bee, also in restraints, had her wrists strapped to the opposing sides of the bed, her torso laid bare for the plundering. She had clamped her legs shut though. If only she knew how beautiful she looked with her alabaster flesh registering ripple after ripple of miniature defiance. Or how her nipples presented themselves to our eyes like perfect little peas balanced precariously on satin pillows.

Then there was Jen, Bee’s friend and Jon’s girlfriend, whom I had met earlier that evening. I would soon find out that she was just as feisty naked as she was clothed. But for now, she looked extremely composed with her lithe compact body bent over the bed like a flower-stalk. Her head, a drooping blossom weighed down by a lush cornucopia of hair, was positioned precisely to plunder our birthday captive’s reluctantly-proffered bounty.

And finally there was me, standing around self-importantly pouring champagne, double-checking the restraints, making sure everyone was comfortable or well, as comfortable as they could be strapped to pieces of furniture.

It had been my idea after all, to get some bisexual girls together under the auspices of a surprise birthday party for Bee. And I suppose I felt somewhat responsible for everyone having a good time. The party itself had been a big hit. And we had pulled off the charade to every last choreographed detail. The entire event along with Bee’s completely unscripted 60-second scream and us getting warned at the bar for our ‘disrespectful behaviour’ would definitely go down in the annals of girly history.

We had dinner, drinks and some dancing but the sexual tension between five of us was increasingly palpable. The girls couldn’t keep their hands off each other. And as hands and tongues strayed, Jon and Anthony looked on protectively.

By the time we got to Jon’s apartment, we were all extremely giggly. Perhaps from the champagne but more likely from the absurdity of the entire situation. You try asking 4 of your friends – two of whom, recent acquaintances – to sit still whilst you tie them up in their birthday suits and you see that you all don’t end up laughing.

Once everyone was suitably secured and positioned, you could feel the air change. It was as if the atmospheric molecules carrying high-pitched laughter and silly banter automatically rearranged themselves into dense, vaporous clouds that settled around everyone’s parted lips.

The men stopped fidgeting and held their breaths, concentrating now as the scene unfolded before them. I could hear Jen exhaling noisily as she began to lick and nibble on her captive in earnest. Bee was gasping quietly, taking shorter and quicker gulps of air as if she was running out.

“I won’t run away…let me go…let me go,” Bee pleaded insistently. She looked adorable as she struggled, her head tossing from side to side, casting her tangled net of hair wide over the white cotton sheets.

“No, you’re the birthday girl and this is for you.” I rained kisses on her from her lips down to her shaved mound. I ran my hands along the inside of her thighs. They parted with less resistance than I expected.

Her mons was flushed and her intimate petals were glossy with promise. From the numerous explicit discussions we’d had over the course of our friendship, I already knew what to do. I angled my fingers on each side of her clitoris, pulling the hood back and zoomed in on her favourite spot with my tongue, flicking it lightly but rapidly just the way she liked it. Soon I had her sighing and moaning in ecstasy.

“Bitty bittee bitteee…!!” Jen exclaimed with satisfaction as she moved down the bed and sucked hard on Bee’s toes, pulling each little manicured member out of her mouth with a little ‘pop’.
“Come onnn…let me to play too,” Bee groaned out of frustration. Her body was really convulsing now and I could see the restraints beginning to get in the way of her enjoyment. I motioned to Jen to release the Velcro on one of the straps.

As if to make up for lost time, Bee attacked me with her fingers, burying the length of them deep in my wet cunt all at once. I gasped involuntarily and stopped what I was doing. Jen, seeing me momentarily incapacitated, wrestled me down and sat triumphantly on my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the bed.

I suppose I had it coming.

“Yea! You go Jen!” cheered Jon. And then turned to his fellow spectator remarking: “Nothing beats a bit of lesbian bondage.”

I had almost forgotten about the men. They had somehow untied themselves (ok so I’m a girl, I don’t tie very good knots) and were now the absolute picture of bohemian decadence – naked with champage flute in one hand, cigarette in the other and jaded, lustful looks in both eyes.

I heard Anthony yell out from his seat. “Baby, are you going to let her do that to you?”

“No! But well, it's a bit err, difficult,” I said helplessly. I was torn between the conflicting urges of breaking free of Jen’s submission-hold and regaining control of the situation, lying there and letting Bee’s fingers continue working their magic, or persuading Jen to move upwards and sit on my face.

I picked the third option. And eventually all three of us rearranged ourselves into a triangle of pleasure, such that wherever there was a pussy there was a mouth or a finger (or occasionally both).

We began to make sex noises in unison. And I discovered that there was nothing more appealing than the collective sound of girls moaning, grunting, squealing. I could have closed my eyes and listened for a long time.

But before I could get too carried away, it was time for Bee to go. And as we scuttled about getting our clothes together, I nestled my face in her hair and whispered: “So did you have a Happy Birthday?”

“It was wonderful! I love you so much,” she said with a big, beautiful Bee smile and then was gone.

Rugby

2006-10-03T00:26:00.001+08:00

“How many men have you had in bed with you at any one time?” one of them challenged, pinching my right nipple through my bikini. I had another one trying to give me a hicky on my left breast, another one stroking the crack of my arse, and the rest were circling hungrily.

“Two.”

“We could break that record tonight.” I believed them. And I suspected it wouldn’t have been their first time to do so either. They were half a professional rugby team from the UK and there was an easy familiarity (hugs, high-fives, back-slaps) between them that had probably developed from sharing the same locker-room as well as not a few women.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, laughing casually in their faces.

And I’ll admit that for a few moments, I did think about it. They were young, mostly my age or below, but they would have been quick, strong fucks with top quality, alpha sperm. Yum.

It was difficult to ignore the bukkake bells that had begun ringing madly in my head. I was imagining S-A-S-H sprayed repeatedly in cursive all over my face. I was projecting Jackson Pollock…in a harem…squirting mayonnaise…on a huge salami sandwich…Help, Dr. Freud!

I was getting horny and more than a little carried away. I looked them over. They were prime tenderloin – everything you’d want from a cut of meat and more – with solid six-packs, broad deltoids, good stamina and from what I could feel, bulging packages beneath their trunks.

Who better to lose one’s gang-bang virginity with?

And as I pondered, they tried their best to persuade me – hoisting me up, spinning me, dunking me and then fingering me in the water whilst I shrieked with mock-indignation. I even lost my bikini bottom to the pool at one point, but all annoyance shamelessly melted away when the perpetrator, who bore an uncanny resemblance to David Beckham, sidled up next to me and said “sorry, I love you” whilst feeling up my bare arse.

All the attention was very flattering of course. To start with, there was nothing that felt more helplessly feminine than being manhandled by a team of big, burly guys. My ‘me-Jane’ complex (read: oh throw me over your shoulder, if you must) was asserting itself in full force and I grew more and more embarrassingly giggly as the evening wore on.

Ordinarily they wouldn’t have been my type - too young, too obvious. But for someone who grew up reasonably nerdy in Singapore i.e. straight As, braces, drama club, scraped through 2.4 – enough said, the idea that I had a team of seven well-conditioned jocks eating out of my hand (and pussy – underwater) was doing a good job of exorcising every single adolescent insecurity I ever had about boys, especially the ones that played ‘Sports’.

Oh yes, I was enjoying getting the last laugh.

That was until one of them asked me, in his thickest Brummie accent: “Can I rub my love-butter all over your tits?” And I fell from my newfound pedestal of social posturing back to earth.

Because I realised that while in my wildest fantasies The Seven Studs would have been legendary lovers who treated me with respect and dedicated themselves to my pleasure i.e. made me cum as many times as they did, the reality would be very different.

I had always felt empowered by my sexual encounters even if they were only one-night stands. Everything was conducted in the name of fun and mutually-gratifying good times. But the empowerment in this situation started when the guys flocked around propositioning me in the pool and stopped when it was clear I would just be an ejaculation device for Mr Love-Butter and Co.

And I guess I had reached a point in my life where it was ok to say No. Not so much No to sleeping with seven guys but No to myself; No to my animalistic urge to act on every impulse without any regard for consequences, No to jumping on every sexual bandwagon for the hell of it, simply because I could and especially No to waking up the next morning feeling absolutely shit for sleeping with guys nicknamed Weasel, Curly and I-kid-you-not Poodle who I never really fancied in the first place.

Because dear readers, I can finally say with conviction, that I have been there and done (a lot of) that. And I don’t need to prove to anyone, least of all myself, what a dirty chick I am. I am a dirty chick. And christ, this is a dirty blog.

This doesn’t mean that there aren’t tons of areas in the sexual landscape that I am not dying to explore – having barely touched the surface of being bisexual, threesomes, orgies, toys, bondage, role-play etc. – but I think I have just developed better judgment on which ones are worth the effort.

And you know, it feels kinda comforting to know that even *I* have my limits. Even though, I did manage to store seven phone numbers in my phone before going home to wank furiously.

What? Just in case it's all a phase! ;)

Oops

2006-09-19T12:43:00.000+08:00

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.

Have You Ever...

2006-09-17T13:45:00.000+08:00

…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.

The First Threesome

2006-09-02T23:10:00.000+08:00

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.

Alas.

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.

Bi-curious? Get Bisexual

2006-08-01T00:05:00.000+08:00

If the road to hell is paved with nubile bisexual girls, then I’m on it.

This Friday I shall be having dinner with 3 girls of the aforementioned persuasion, all recommended by various sources and screened by yours truly. This means that not just do these girls possess a quotient of physical attractiveness, more importantly they have demonstrated the actual aptitude and enthusiasm required to nibble nipples and eat pussy. All references have been double-checked.

A few men have been invited – really just to pay for dinner, perform the requisite gleeful rubbing together of the hands and provide the possibility of cock, if so required. But all other spectator tickets have been sold out.

One of the girls is a really good friend of mine celebrating her birthday (and what better way to celebrate, really) and the rest of the dinner participants are partners, or friends-of-friends, or ex-shags, or first cousins that I will be meeting for the first time. I’m joking about the first cousins, but you get the drift – everyone at dinner is connected by at least 2 degrees of DNA.

I made the decision to pull this party together because firstly, I thought it’d be a lot of fun to see what trouble a bunch of attractive, open-minded bisexual girls could get up to in a party setting. I’m not expecting a full-blown orgy or anything like that, but I’d be happy to see some gentle pawing and sexual friction.

At least for the first course.

Secondly, I am so so tired of meeting these sexy bi-curious women who work me up to a fever-pitch in a club and then balk at coming home to seal the deal i.e. eat my pussy whilst my man watches (and participates, but only if you want him to).

I mean seriously girls, to be a cocktease is one thing – but being a pussy-tease is like letting the side down, its betrayal. And may the heels of your Manolo Blahniks fall off.

Yes Dinh or whatever your name is, Ms Seductress I met in Saigon, I’m talking about you. I would like to submit for consideration that when you put your foot under my skirt and pulse it against my bare, wet pussy in time with the music, a girl like me gets the wrong idea. But in my defence, those semi-orgasmic squeals of pleasure you make as you grind your crotch into mine do not help matters one bit.

You broke my heart Missy. And I’m dedicating Friday’s dinner party to you and your kind. Because I know that you’d be a full-blown bisexual if you would just help me help you. I used to be like that too. And I can tell you wholeheartedly, life away from the straight and narrow is so much more fun. Really. You will never look back. I promise.

Don’t make me beg.

Sighs. These would-be / could-be / should-be bisexual girls have been the bane of my life of late. They seem to be everywhere, tapping their feet against my pussy and taunting me to pop their bi-curious cherries with my tongue. Or fingers. Or the six-inch strap-on I have in my closet (but I digress).

It must be because the whole idea of bisexuality has never been more fashionable. After all, if Madonna, Britney and Christina – the role models for the Y generation – are simulating it on MTV, then surely it must be cool. Like Pilates. Or dreadlocks. Or finding yourself an obscure mystic religion.

In a recent survey in the U.S., up to 63% of women admitted to wanting to sexually experiment with other women. I don’t know what the statistics are in Asia, but if the number of adolescent girls who developed crushes on Mrs Chan back in convent school are anything to go by, then I’d say that that we’re pretty up there.

However, the propensity to dabble doesn’t make a girl bisexual, just bi-curious. The difference between which – six drinks, as they say – is really quite slippery.

If I had to take a stab at defining the terms, I would say that being bisexual is an orientation, behaviour as well as a means of self-identification, whilst being bi-curious usually fulfills only one or two of the criteria. To illustrate - bi-curious women could be attracted to women (orientation), take a muff-dive off one in a club or swimming pool (behaviour), but still go home with their boyfriends at the end of the night (self-identify as straight).

Here’s another way to think about it. Bi-curious women are could-be bisexuals. They could easily also decide, after a stint of experimentation with other women, that they are rather-be heterosexuals. And it’s that ambiguity, that idea that 'I’m still exploring' which lends itself to the term bi-curious.

I know firsthand that despite the diminished risk of social censure, there are many things that hold back a bi-curious female from becoming an active, actualised bisexual. I myself might never have traversed the sexuality spectrum had I not had the rightful impetus.

However, I realise now that there are plenty of benefits to being a full-fledged, bisexual, besides doubling your chances of a date on a Friday night. To start with, girls are nice to have in bed. They smell nice, they look great, they’re less hairy – and they never cum too quickly.

Being bisexual is also one of the best things you can do for your sex life, and oh I suppose your partner too. Possibilities for threesomes, foursomes and more-somes abound. Checking out girls with my man and saying “ooh, I could so fuck her” has now become one of my favourite ways to spend an evening. Competing with him in terms of who makes first contact comes a close second.

Ironically enough, being bisexual also makes it a breeze to get the attention of the opposite sex. Just get on the dancefloor, find some other girl to make out with and voila, instant lust from the rest of the room. This works if you’re bi-curious as well, I suppose. But take my earlier anecdote as a cautionary tale if you will, nobody likes a pussy-tease.

So if you’re considering it girls, my advice – do it right and do it now. Find someone who knows what they’re doing. A hot couple preferably, that way you have the option of straight sex to fall back on. And put your heart into it – not just your foot. You might just love it, like me.

And if you don’t, you’ll find that girls are the gentlest, un-pushiest creatures when it comes to dealing another girl’s sexuality. Tell them you’re not comfortable with something and they’re more than happy to lend you one of their sex toys or give you a little tub of Haagen-Dazs whilst you watch them finish up with the guy they’re with. They'll just have a little rant on their blog and organize a sexy party with 3 other fully-fledged bisexual girls to make up for it later.

I would anyway.

Three Words

2006-07-10T10:39:00.000+08:00

Oh my god.

Can it be?

He loves me!

No erms or ahs, no luv-s or ya-s this time. It was so unexpected. We can talk about anything and everything but in our terms of engagement, there are certain invisible barriers we will not cross, and hot-spots we will not touch - lest we erupt and blow away in a plume of sulphur. It is a precarious balancing act, but one we have learned to navigate.

Besides, why show your hand if there aren’t any aces? Sometimes the kindest things we could have said were spoken only with our eyes.

I told him never to make me a promise he couldn’t keep. Promises were luxuries that we could not afford – they were niceties that could only be fulfilled with the extravagance of time, by people who had a future (boy did I despise that word). We were here-and-now people, always planning the next trip or the next fairy-dust adventure but no more than that. In many ways, it was intense and always interesting. In others, painful and perennially frustrating.

So far we had treated each other with due consideration – the only emotional disclosure we did came closely accompanied with guarded confessions, qualified caveats and irony in spades.

It was rare for us to speak plainly. Even though through intuition and the general reading of the tea-leaves, I suppose I should have known what was coming. But I didn’t ask – I never ask – and thus would never have received direct confirmation, except that he decided to sit me down on that anonymous hotel bed at 4 o'clock in the morning and tell me in the most direct possible way where our ridiculous roller-coaster journey had taken him.

He looked unflinchingly into my eyes as he said it – it wasn’t a spontaneous slip – rather he had been thinking of telling me for a while and biding his time. He knew I wouldn’t have appreciated it any other way.

He chose his moment well. I was ready to hear those words spoken from his lips. Any earlier and I might have scoffed or made a wry face, given my skepticism towards the entire concept. But over the past few months, I guess I had grown to believe in him. Or maybe I had grown to recognize how much more convenient it would be for us to be together without those three words, how things could have been much more sane, much more efficient.

Yes, the grubby Singaporean in me knew firsthand how much those three words cost him, and how they could function as much of a curse as a blessing. What underlay those words was not merely bland, self-congratulatory sentiment, but difficult, often uphill effort. For us, it would never be a case of just saying those words, it would be a matter of sweating them and squeezing them from a stone. Only then could they be true.

“How many people have you been in love with?” I asked curiously. I suppose it was a mini-test, to give me a benchmark of where I stood in his affections and maybe subconsciously, to size up the competition. “Its ok, just be honest.” I placed a reassuring hand on his chest.

He hesitated, as if searching for the right answer. “Three. Two of whom are my children.”

“Ah.” I paused and smiled wanly into the darkness. It wasn’t his answer that grazed me, but how he had said it, his voice stripped bare of any artifice. It was so truthful, it seemed as if I could see right to the bottom of his heart.

We looked at each other for a long time. “Baby, I’m not saying this to hurt you,” he touched me tenderly.

“I know.” And I wasn’t really hurt. Not at that moment, anyway. I didn’t feel the usual selfishness or jealousy, just a twinge of quiet resignation to the way things were. I gave a little shrug to dispel it. Then, I felt the odd sensation of a little soap-bubble rising up from deep inside me and popping somewhere behind my eyes. And another, and another. They left fizzy pinpricks all over my body. It was then that I realized I was really happy.

Tell me again, I demanded, suddenly serious. This time I wanted to make sure I was really ready for it. He did so, and the three words tipped over his lips one after another so naturally that I suddenly couldn’t imagine how we had gone on for so long without saying them before. Because suddenly they seemed so self-evident, almost obvious, like rough diamonds hiding in plain sight.

The words hovered in the air for a few seconds, serenading us together with the graceful sounds of Henry Mancini, a soundtrack I had in an act of prescience put on earlier that night. And as I internalised them, they swelled and became voluptuous, billowing through the fibres of my entire being.

I surrendered myself to them.

It was as if I had become atomised, and particles of my element were being pulled in discrete directions to fill all four corners of the room. I lay back in bed airborne and lissome on the wings of that enchanted expression, drunk with delight.

It was a natural high, a metaphysical fullness from another realm. So much so that I must confess the idea of making love to his naked form didn't even cross my mind. A physical joining would have seemed so ordinary and so earth-bound, compared to how I was feeling.

Perhaps because I have always perceived sex as a kind of desire as opposed to a grand finale. And for those moments, I desired nothing. I was pi, a perfect number that went on for infinity, neverending yet complete.

Yet from my giddy cloud of contentment, I could feel the tangential fragments of my heart coalesce and settle like a kaleidoscope in my chest; my joy, exhilaration, fear and absolute wretchedness creating stark but dynamic patterns of demented beauty.

The words were so simple. And once they were said, they could not be un-said. But the implications were so intricate and densely complex, that I didn’t quite know where or how to start processing it all. And I didn’t want to. What I wanted was for those taffy-pulled moments that night to last forever.

Tell me again, and again. And again! I laughed with daft delight as he complied. The repetition of those words and his reassuring embrace were enough to hold my dark thoughts at bay, as I raced towards that blissful oblivion that was the sun.

Ok enough, I ordered gently touching a finger to his lips. I didn’t want him to dilute the magic of those words by saying them too often. Just the knowledge that they were out there, and they existed as an explicit part of the world’s collective verbal consciousness was enough. They were accessible and yet they were mine. I could draw strength from that.

I would need it. I knew an Icarus moment awaited tomorrow.

Need for Speed

2006-06-30T15:50:00.000+08:00

Every fast car needs a fast woman – and I am as fast and racy as they come. There is something about being in a vehicle hurtling along a street at 200 mph that stirs my loins and brings out the sexual beast in me.

My need for speed started off in the U.S. where I learned how to drive along 5-lane freeways and park in lots the size of hangars. I loved driving – and it seemed that the beautiful Californian indian summers and my general teenage bravado conspired to make me drive like a fiend everywhere I went.

Even 10-minute grocery runs in the suburbs would be executed at hazardous speeds, sometimes with nothing but my raised knee on the steering wheel and a very short skirt. After all I reasoned, one free hand was required to snap my fingers in time to my Missy Elliot CD whilst the other fiddled with my clitoris. (Dude, was I cool or what.)

It wouldn’t have been entirely accurate to say that I drove like a typical chick – more like a typical chick with a personal vendetta against pedestrians and a possible death-wish. Two totalled cars, countless tickets and a massive insurance premium hike later, I realized reluctantly that driving was better left to the experts – or at least the spatially-competent – and not to me.

I was heartbroken. And since then, I’ve constantly had to find men to fill the void and feed my speed addiction. Have a gut and mid-life crisis? A spanking new Ferrari? Let’s go to your place. Have a Ducati? Red? Let’s go to mine. I was the stuff that global marketer’s wet dreams were made of.

Alas, I quickly discovered that in Singapore as well as in Hong Kong, there is an inverse correlation between the price of a man’s automobile and the number of kilometers he does an hour. Tell me people, what is the point of buying a sports car with high-performance torque and even higher-performance bragging potential, and then granny-shifting it in and out of second gear?

Might as well buy an automatic. Better still, take a cab. Don’t mind me, I’ll just walk home in my 3-inch Jimmy Choos, thank you very much.

Suffice to say, I find the ability to drive well and drive fast, a very desirable quality in a man. I’ve always reasoned that if you can go full throttle in a vehicle, it would be likely that you uphold an equally no-holds-barred policy in the sack. And if you can power-shift like a pro, then surely you can bring me from a purr to a roar with a similar amount of finesse.

In that way women aren’t that different from automobiles – we’re all finely tuned machines that have a brake, a clutch, an accelerator, several gears that will bring us from 0 to 160, and damn can we make you look good when you rev us at the lights.

Adam was living proof of my hell-on-wheels-heaven-in-bed theory. He was one of those ‘good bad-boy’ (or is it ‘bad good-boy’) types that I just can’t help but have a complete weakness for.

A lawyer by trade, he used to race motorbikes in Australia before foot injuries compelled him to stop, and had that easy, effortless way of assuming control of any situation. You know, the sort that would instantly know what to do in any form of ‘crisis’ – say a friend in need, a brawl on the street or a sexy stranger offering him a blowjob in a cab. Needless to say, I was instantly infatuated. And he turned out of course to have his own excellent methods of shall we say, maneuvering his way around my gearbox.

I hadn’t seen Adam for a while, but as fate would have it we would be at the same place at the same time. A little beach destination off the Andaman. He promised to pick me up from the airport. And I promised to give him something that would alter his perception of commuting. Forever.

He pulled up in the parking lot in a rather innocuous Honda Jazz – with tinted windows. Chicken, I said under my breath as I pulled my legs up onto the seat and shut the car door behind me.

“You smell of sex,” he informed me, with a crooked eyebrow, perusing me lazily through his shades. His hands rested gently on the steering wheel, looking tanned and relaxed, the loosely-rolled up cuffs of his white shirt shone brightly in the sun.

“Well it was a 3 hour plane ride. I had to get started without you…” I retorted unapologetically. I rifled through my suitcase with deliberate nonchalance and inserted a CD – Gotan Project’s latest album, Lunatico - into the car stereo.

However, even I couldn’t ignore how the heavy muskiness of my pheromones, diffused with the spicy woodiness of his cologne, was filling the car with an unmistakeably rich, pungent scent. Compelled to inhale this vaporous concoction, we grew imperceptibly intoxicated. The car was transformed by our olfactory senses into a clandestine alcove, and it was as if we were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde plotting something dangerous, something forbidden.

“Skip to Track 3. Now, drive,” I said, giving him a challenging look.

As we languorously pulled out of the parking lot, I began to fiddle about with the buckle of my left shoe. Oh fuck it, I muttered and lifted my legs, spreading them out on the dashboard. The husky, passion-drenched female voice that emanated out of the car speakers exhorted me to hike my skirt up even further and run my fingers lightly across my clit.

Thus, with my head pressed into the seat, my chunky heels making marks on the passenger-side windscreen and my freshly-waxed pussy wantonly exposed to the gaze of oncoming traffic, I began to work myself up the ladder of arousal.

“I’m creamy today,” I announced and languorously reached over to draw my soiled fingers across his lips.

Adam’s eyes strayed from the road frequently. I could see the tension tugging at the corners of his eyes and sides of the mouth every time I moaned. Occasionally, he would take a hand off the wheel to push my skirt up and give himself better access to my swollen opening.

I looked over at the speedometer. “60? That’s below the speed limit! Drive. Come on, show me what you can do.”

He did not reply except to make a slightly scornful sound and apply more pressure on the accelerator. 80 – 100 – 120 kmh. I leaned my body over, unzipped his jeans and found his already erect cock with my tongue. As I sucked away, my mouth gripped and loosened according to the humps and holes of the uneven island road.

130 – 140 – 150 kmh. My throat began to swallow his cock at a feverish pace and I could feel it swelling between my cheeks. Droplets of my spit splattered on the inside of his jeans as my fingers, tongue and mouth raced up and down the length of hiim. He made sounds low in his throat as he fought for control over both his body’s impulses and the oncoming traffic.

155 kmh and I removed my mouth sharply from its endeavours. His eyes were glued to the road but I knew that they would have registered momentary surprise and possible relief. I took off my seatbelt and motioned for him to reach over on his side for the lever that pushed his seat back. He complied willingly.

“You need to lose this timber truck up front,” I said matter-of-factly. Traffic was not heavy just irregular, but it required a certain amount of concentration for us to maintain the speed we were going at. I could still see his cock, red and veined, poking out from between the fly of his pants.

160 kmh and we were driving on the wrong side of the road, overtaking the truck. My erogenous zones were humming with the adrenaline of velocity. I took one of his hands off the wheel and slid over the transmission in a smooth motion to sit on him, blocking his line of vision momentarily. The car veered to the right, I could feel the crunch of gravel underneath us. He cursed and swung his head to the side to get a better view of the road, abruptly steering us back to our own lane.

I whooped. I had the best seat in the house; I had bent my body in such a way so as not to obstruct his line of sight and my head was pressed against the corner of the windscreen such that I looked out at all the action at extremely close-range. His hands were positioned around me on each side of the steering wheel and I could feel his breath hot on my back.

Then, I lowered my pussy onto his lap, coating his cock with my proprietary brand of creamy perfume and grinding away with my hips.

We fucked as we dodged slower-moving potential roadkill. Scooters, bicycles, trucks, animals, pedestrians flew by Daytona-style. I was not especially bothered. I had faith in his driving abilities and having sex at high speeds had made me embrace a new level of recklessness. Besides, I reasoned that our fellow commuters would have the common sense to just make way for the speedaholic weaving maniacally in and out of traffic and the woman in heat fucking him on the front seat. (I mean, who wouldn’t?)

We arrived at the hotel in one piece - suitably stirred (not at all shaken) and in superbly high spirits. His fly had been re-buttoned, my dress had been pulled down demurely to my knees and I smoothed my hair. We looked like any other respectable couple on a leisure getaway. There was nary a trace of bad behaviour.

Except the car reeked of sex.

The heady fumes of our bodily emissions (cum, sweat, pheromones) and respective fragrances (Issey on him, Agent Provocateur on me) had been recycled countless times by the rental car air-conditioning and soaked up by the upholstery. We realised this too late, as we were pulling up into the lobby. And no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t dispel the odoriferous cloud that we had built up with our misconduct.

The door staff stepped up to welcome us. A porter efficiently took our bags and an unsuspecting valet waited expectantly. Adam and I exchanged wry looks. He shrugged and dropped our keys into the valet’s outstretched gloved hand as I bent over double, convulsed in laughter.

Period Delay

2006-06-22T17:03:00.000+08:00

In many ways I am very much a product of the 21st century. I understand why French women don’t get fat, I have 50 Cent on my iPod, I know the name of Brangelina’s new baby, I eke out a good work-life balance, my house has good fengshui and so on.

But there is a certain time in every month where all that gets thrown out of the window and I am reduced to being a hopelessly cranky, whingey, tetchy female. Like my generations of sisters before me.

The monthly curse, eumenorrhea, the menstrual period – call it what you will, its just one of these things that we women have to put up with on a regular basis. And spare us the scorn and pity guys, I’ve heard pattern baldness starts as early as 30, so why don’t you let that keep you busy.

Anyway, after mopping up more than 100 periods, I am thoroughly fed up with the concept. More pressingly, I am threatening to turn into a walking faucet right smack in the middle of one of my lover’s sponsored getaways (this time to Saigon), which is simply unacceptable.

I am not on the pill. And my half-hearted attempts at a few hokey old-wives’ methods to trigger / delay my period – from exercising violently in spurts to eating pineapples – predictably don’t work. Mars and Venus will not align. And I am fast approaching my 28 day deadline.

So I do what every self-respecting modern woman does. Stride into her GP’s office and offer herself up to the vagaries of medical science. I say I am ready to embed a microchip in my ovaries if it will solve the problem.

My GP assures me that my sacrifice, whilst noble, is a tad melodramatic and completely unnecessary. She is surprisingly sympathetic to my plight and calmly prescribes me a round of hormone pills (northisterone) to take 3 times a day, starting 3 days before my scheduled period.

And this is how I learn I can delay my period for restricted lengths of time. Just until after that much-anticipated birthday or that special holiday or that secret rendezvous or whatever. I feel incredibly liberated.

No more will I be a slave to plugs on strings, maxi pads with wings and extra-absorbent hydrogel! There is nothing sexy about having your man watch you waddle to the toilet once every few hours to stick a wad of cotton between your legs. Not to mention the little adjustments we have to constantly make to the offending pad with our legs crossed, our bums shifting imperceptibly on the seat, and the occasional hand down the back of our pants.

And no more will I swear violence on the fair-faced talent in tampon commercials that prance around in tight white shorts and wiggle their asses tauntingly at the camera. I’m sorry but one Vivienne Westwood skirt ruined, twice shy. Those innocent Tampex girls just annoy me.

Some of you profound types might scoff at using medical means to delay a period for the sole purpose of enjoying a holiday or more spontaneous sex with one’s lover, finding me both shallow and self-obsessed (and who am I to argue otherwise). And some of you traditionalists might think doing this subverts God’s master plan for a woman to bleed every month.

But it is now widely accepted that women don’t need to have monthly menstrual periods. In fact modern women endure up to nine times more periods than their great-grandmothers, who began menstruating later, married young and naturally suppressed periods for years while they were pregnant or breast-feeding.

Frankly, what this all means is that monthly periods are not necessarily by Nature's design. Rather it seems to be a means of punishing women of our evolutionary ilk for shirking our baby-making responsibilities - and we can get away with a lot fewer. And there is nothing to stop us from demanding 'period holidays' from our bodies. This is what has partially driven the popularity of contraceptive pills like the newly-FDA approved Seasonale.

So I am happy to see that nowadays menstruation is becoming optional, if not downright obsolete. As I, for one will not miss it. At this point, I’m still happy to bleed but only when I want to and not when I don’t want to.

Actually, it is not the bleeding I object to so much. Rather it is all the other nuisances that come with my period I detest – let’s call it Beached Whale syndrome – the bloat, the cramps, the occasional migraine.

Not to mention, that mistimed first gush. The most gauche of which would be in a man’s mouth as he is eating my pussy out hungrily. And oh yes, I’ve been there. It wasn't pretty.

I’m not squeamish at all about the idea of fucking with the flow – it’s a surefire way to alleviate cramps after all. But it sure is hell on the sheets. And blood just isn’t a very good lubricant for long periods of intense fucking. It dries out too quickly and naturally I’m not quite prepared to use the full faculties of my mouth or tongue to re-lubricate. Also, much as I adore giving head, a girl gets tired of doing it without any possibilities of reciprocation.

Now armed with my period-delay-in-a-packet, I’m off to Saigon.

To go commando under my linen mini-skirt, my neon bikini and my skimpy little fuck-me-here-and-now dress. To wank furtively in taxis and planes and feel my cum-juice trickle down my leg. To cream my guy’s cock in a public place and wipe it off with the underside of his fresh, white shirt. To have his best friend worm his fingers under my skirt and make me cum publicly on the barstool in front of an appreciative audience.

Ah. Bless thee Northisterone, you have made a 21st century woman of me.

Nature Takes Its Course

2006-06-08T13:28:00.000+08:00

“Let me look at this…” he says taking the plastic object from my hands and examining it closely. “So this is what they look like. I always thought that they were these weird, nasty things that came with five tubes and a bag or something to put your shit in.”

I laugh. “Well there is that kind of enema, but those are, ahem, an acquired taste. Not for beginners like you. I prefer these, a bit more civilized, medically safe and readily available from your neighbourhood pharmacy. Clears you out and the best bit? No bags of shit to tote around!”

“So you just stick them in and it all comes out?”

“Yup! I’ll show you! In fact, you are going to do one with me!” I pronounce smugly. “That will be the rule from now on ok? If I do one, you do one – for solidarity! C’mon it’ll be fun! These are the things you do with someone you feel completely and absolutely comfortable with. The things you don’t see in porn!”

“For good reason…” he mutters under his breath.

I see him hesitate - caught between curiousity and dismay - and ruthlessly press my advantage. “Pwease? Pwetty pwetty pwease? Friends for life, right? And besides, it’s my birthdaaay…” Faced with all the earnest and enthusiastic cajoling, he knows his only option is to gamely capitulate.

I make him lie back and tell him playfully – and quite unnecessarily – to “just relax”. I lube up the tip of the plastic tube with my forefinger before carefully and tenderly inserting it into him, subsequently pulling it out in exactly the same fashion.

“See? Easy-peasy! Now you do the same on me!” I squeal, reclining horizontal on the bed and positioning my buttocks at an angle to give him the best access. He obediently returns the favour and looks suitably serious whilst admistering it.

“So now we wait.”

We stretch out on the king-sized bed next to each other. And wait. And giggle. And wait some more. It gives me great amusement to see him just lying there looking somewhat uncertain and vulnerable, anticipating what will happen next.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “This is a real bonding experience huh, waiting with somebody to shit!” he exclaims with great amusement. “Actually I could feel it working the minute you inserted it, like my insides were relaxing. Matter of time Baby, matter of time…”

The urge hits me first and I run off to let nature take its course, forgetting in my haste that he is still lying in bed a few feet away. My body begins to release and induced by the enema, I begin to make some reasonably loud and explosive bathroom sounds (subtext: farts that echo throughout the entire villa).

Suddenly I hear a loud yell of encouragement: “YOU GO Baaaby! YEAAAA. Giiiive it to me. C’mon, LOOOUUD! Just the way I like it!”

“FUCK OFF!” I shriek back in laughter, helpless to stop my body from completing the course of its natural functions. “I’m sooo fucking going to sit outside the toilet when you gooo!”

“Ok ok, I’ll switch on the TV,” he says, as a concession. I hear the sounds of the tube and I recognize the drone of a newscaster reading the news.

Great, I muse. Just great. Now I’m shitting to the sounds of car bombs detonating in Iraq. Poetry in motion indeed. I vow silently to feed his innards to the flies when I finish.

When I finally wander out of the toilet, he is nowhere to be found and I conclude (correctly) that it must be his time. Out of general politeness and the reluctance to intrude, I sit on the bed idly flipping channels, looking for something remotely inspiring on the small screen.

It doesn’t last long – my half-hearted attempt at courtesy and self-control - and after a few moments, I run over to the other room and press my ear to the glass door of the toilet. “Knock knock! How’s it going?”

“Good. The miracles of science are…miraculous! Everything’s coming out in a rush!”

“I don’t hear anything! Where are the fucking sound effects?”

I arrange myself cross-legged on the floor outside and wait patiently but receive no audio gratification for my efforts. I must have mis-timed it. Drats. He emerges from the cubicle a little while later, careful to shut the door firmly behind him. He chuckles when he sees me sitting outside. And this sets me off on yet another round of mirthful spasms.

“What will you say to the people who ask what you did on your birthday, Sash? Sat outside the toilet and listened to a guy shit,” he teases me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop it! For your birthday next month, I’m going to make you carry a 2 gallon bag of shit around. You best not shoot your mouth off, buster!” I gasp out a warning, wiping the wetness of hilarity from my eyes and holding my sides tightly.

Thus, with our bowels so unceremoniously emptied, we have set the scene for an all-night session of hot, heavy backdoor action later on (subtext: no mess, no embarrassment and no need to call the hygiene police, people!) Just thinking about it gives me a quick pucker from anticipation and arousal.

But for the immediate moment, first things first – we head out for lunch. Chocolate fondant is predictably not on the menu.

Animal Sex

2006-06-02T13:51:00.000+08:00

"Play with me," I commanded softly, pushing a leg against his chest as he attempted to move closer to me on the bed.

We were naked in our secluded little villa. It was a full moon that night. Everything was still around us except for the voices of various night creatures – the deep-throated hiccup of the frogs and the restless buzz of the mosquitos in particular - that made the night-air thrum with an expectant energy.

He looked at me curiously, trying to discern what mood I was in. I had been sick earlier in the night – something I ate – and he had patiently held my hair back as my guts made mutiny against me. When I had finished, he had laid down with me in bed, stroking my tummy as I laughingly railed against the indignity of retching in front of another human being.

Apparently though, I had recovered. “Come on, play with me.” I kicked again, harder this time. I taunted him from between the part of my hair, a challenge bright in my eyes.

He pushed at my shoulder, tentatively at first, trying to gauge my reaction. I landed another kick, this time on the side of his pelvis, close to his already hardening cock.

A split-second feint, and he had my arms pinioned to my side, the body weight of his chest crushed me to the bed.

"So this is how you want to play, huh?" he whispered huskily, his hot breath tickled my cheek. I growled at him from the back of my throat.

"Is this how you get all your women to sleep with you, old man?" I bucked my body against his, struggling to pull myself free. "You can't even get your limp excuse for a cock anywhere near my pussy."

"Why would you think I even want to sleep with you, you cheap slut?"

"I don't know and you know what, I don't fucking care," I hissed contemptuously. "But I've seen the way you look at me. You want me. But then we all want what we can't get."

We circled each other on the bed, panting and sweating. The blood was pounding in my head and my body flushed from the combination of physical exertion and sexual agitation. I could see the dilated pools in his green eyes and his stiff, red member standing rigidly between his legs.

I lunged at him, taking him by surprise. And as I impaled my pussy onto his cock, I gushed cum all over him.

He let me savour my presumptuous victory for a few precious moments. Then with one swift movement, he flipped me over expertly like a croupier with a full deck. He pressed my knees down such that I was forced spreadeagled onto the bed, naked and vulnerable. I gasped.

And then he did the unthinkable. He raised himself cobra-style between my legs and spat. A white projectile flew out of his mouth and landed squarely – warm and viscous – on the folds of my labia.

"That's what I think of your cunt," he sneered dismissively.

"Fuck you!" I screeched in outrage. I wet the back of my throat and before he could duck for cover, I expectorated back. Huge beads of my saliva splattered across his face and he flinched instinctively.

"Now we're even. Not feeling so great anymore, are we?" I said with as much scorn as I could muster.

Without warning, he plunged himself into me. Over and over again. Deep, hard thrusts that scraped my core as I shrieked for more. It seemed the more we hurled abuse at each other, the more savagely we fucked.

In fact, fucking was a barely adequate description for what we did. Homosapiens with opposable thumbs fucked. We on the other hand, tore into each other like savage animals that night – a wolf and a wildcat – driven by nothing but a frenzied, feral sixth sense.

We coupled. We mated. We bred.

I had never uttered so many epithets in my life. We called each other names that the respectable gentlemen Merriam and Webster would have thrown a conniption fit at. We battled on all levels. Physically, we bit, clawed, bruised each other for mastery. Sexually, we exploded over and over again – each time scaling new heights of ferocious intensity.

But the heart of the engagement was 100% mental – ultimately, the individual who had the most colourful vocabulary and who could strike the lowest (and most inventive) verbal blow won the day. Too late, I discovered that for someone reasonably well-mannered in real life, he was a surprisingly adept trash talker and indeed a worthy adversary.

And therein lay the illicit thrill of our little game – acute provocation as the stimulus with completely uninhibited animal sex as the stipulated response.

Even though he was bigger and stronger than me, I never felt like I was in any actual danger. I knew that he would never ever have hurt me. Even whilst we played, he always ensured that we were evenly matched and that he never brought his full physical advantage to bear upon me.

The verbal slurs we exchanged were never hurtful because they were underlaid with a fundamental understanding of the way we felt for each other. The idea that I was his "whore" and his "slut" was sacred because I knew no one else was, or could be.

There was also a raw, stripped down intimacy to the way we transformed into absolute beasts that night. It was so completely removed from the way we usually treated each other. Yet it felt entirely natural, as if we had each unlocked our rightful soul-creatures and set them free.

We continued to work each other over in this manner for an hour or more. It was only when the mattress threatened to topple off the bed that we stopped, slightly reluctantly, for breath. We gazed at each other warily for a second. And then I broke the spell – with a barely-suppressed giggle.

"Well that's a first," I said, my face luminous with a combination of mirth and incredulity as I mentally registered what we had just done. "Have you fucked like that before?"

"No only with you, you crazy nut," he shot me a crooked smile and we winked simultaneously.

He added: "I think I've never heard you make so much noise. And you squirted all over. I could feel your juice running down to my ankle!”

We ran our hands over the sheets, tacitly congratulating ourselves whenever we came across significant wet patches. I tidied up whilst he went to take a quick shower. The sheets had been half-pulled off and most of the bed was indeed, soaked. We would have to leave a big tip for housekeeping tomorrow.

I joined him a few minutes later, leaning lazily on the doorframe of the bathroom as I watched him dry off, his alpha-animal qualities sheathed partially in a fluffy white towel.

"Want some?" I asked, handing him a bottle from the mini bar. He walked over, took a swig and... artfully - ejected - a - big - mouthful - of - icy - Evian - all - over - my - breasts.

I stood rooted to the spot, dripping, my eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He grinned, amber devils dancing in his eyes. I continued to stare at him dumbly for a few more seconds. And then, a fire ignited in between my legs and blazed through my whole body with a blistering, defiant heat.

"You asshole!" I screamed and immediately sprung into action. "Fuck me. NOW." I put my hands on his shoulders and yanked him towards me sharply, intending to force his cock into me. He pulled away abruptly.

"Fucking's too good for you right now," he snarled. So instead of giving into my desire for penetration, he started to slap the length of his cock vigorously against my pussy. Huge, forceful smacks that only increased in vigour and velocity. I howled my frustration and arousal.

I had positioned myself on the nearby dressing table because it was the nearest platform available that could hold my body weight. And I half-sat, half-squatted on the varnished wood as a frog would if it were held upright with its soft underbelly exposed. In that position,the lips of my fully-bared pussy swelled and grew a dull red. My clit constricted up and down in time to the contact.

The sounds changed as his cock encountered a wetter and wetter surface – from tight, precise slaps to deeper, more mature cuffs. Then suddenly, I flooded the table with my essence. He entered my pussy as it was still contracting. A few deep thrusts later, he joined me in release.

Lathered and gorged on our own juices, finally we were still. We had acted out the horniest of our fantasies, plumbed the depths of desire for each other, unleashed our inner brutes and all that was left was just an incredible feeling of tenderness.

He brushed away strands of my tangled hair away and caressed my cheek gently, as if I had suddenly become a fragile flower. I smiled. This time, there was no need for words. The silence enfolded us like a warm fuzzy blanket. It bound us with a temporary truce and sang of our hard-won peace, honouring our efforts.

We ran our fingers over each other lightly and just lay there for a long while - completely immobilised and utterly satiated. It was close to morning when I climbed on top of him like a limpet and fell asleep.

Crusade

2006-05-16T18:59:00.000+08:00

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.

Stop. Start. Squirt.

2006-05-05T01:28:00.000+08:00

“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.

Love YA

2006-04-23T05:12:00.000+08:00

“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?

Back To Mine

2006-04-11T11:05:00.000+08:00

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.

P & T

2006-04-06T13:20:00.000+08:00

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...

You know you're Mindfucked when...

2006-03-16T14:27:00.000+08:00

...you fantasise more or less about the same person every time you touch your pussy. (And it's not Brad Pitt.)

...you notice and delight in the charming minutiae about him. The way he spells Baby with a capital B in his texts. The way the freckles are sprinkled like party confetti over his back. The way his thighs involuntarily shudder when you run your fingers up his spine as he's sleeping. The way he pokes his head round the shower curtain to watch you pee.

...you find yourself only halfheartedly contemplating the idea that you could get laid when you’re out at Lan Kwai because sex with him is so much better than anyone else. You just have an instinctive sense of each other's bodies and are dedicated to bringing each other the most amount of pleasure. Everytime you wander elsewhere to test the market, it just validates this hypothesis.

...following on from the previous point, it takes six drinks, two Luftansa pilots and the promise of a good 'man-wich' to finally coax you into bed. And then only if your girlfriend agrees to watch.

...every time he fucks you, he bites and bruises you in places that mark you as his sexual property for the next week or so. Instead of being annoyed with this, you luxuriate in the fact that you look like a week-old apple and then cheerfully proceed to give him a long bloody scratch down the middle of his chest.

...you save all his messages and read them over periodically, especially the one that says: "Some things are strange that I want to tell you but it's hard. When I see you Baby. You're killing me. Just make sure you are ok."

...you tell your girlfriends over dim sum that you "really like this one guy" and relate the details of the relationship. They look slightly worried. You even tell your best fuckbuddy in Hong Kong about him. He looks amused and now keeps asking to be allowed to watch you fuck.

Nauseous? I don't blame you. I write this feeling a bit like a postmodern Emperor parading about in new clothes, nevertheless I can't stop myself. And please, I am already anticipating the jeering comments from you to that effect, so spare me.

Over the past few months, you have been privy to my reasonably casual take on sex and relationships. I can - and do - fuck like a man. You know this. I know this. Even my mom knows this and has pretty much given up on my marriage prospects.

In fact, I have spent 4 years earning my stripes in terms of relationship independence and invulnerability. To mentally inure myself from the situations I find myself reluctantly describing above. So I'm not sure why the system is turning all Bridget Jones on me suddenly.

I will not reveal much more of my paramour's identity than to say that he is certifiably a naughty boy. A devastating flirt. A charming alpha male. He plays my game. He flaunts his virility in front of me and tries to persuade various other women to come back with us. But he treats me well, he pleasures me in all the right ways and we have incredibly tender moments. Of course, he is unavailable in every single way except sexually.

And yes - you knew this was coming - I like him, and in a bad way. Or if one is to be technical about it, I am hopelessly mindfucked about him.

A mindfuck is a device that when applied, leaves one feeling shocked and disoriented. It’s what passes off as entertainment nowadays to us been-there-done-that types and is a curious thing. It works in an insidious way, allowing you to feel mastery over your sense of perceived reality until that pivotal 'a-ha' revelation where everything tips out of balance and you are forced to re-interpret past events with the filter of subjective enlightenment.

I'm pretty sure he started it. But in these scenarios of star-crossed inevitability, it doesn't really matter does it.

We met through mutual friends and the original pretext of the meeting was really to have a bit of fun. We had an intense sexual chemistry and within 20 minutes, I was sucking him off in a cab quite happily back to his hotel. However, since he doesn't live in Hong Kong I was quite happy in my role as a stopover fuck.

We would exchange text messages every few days, usually relating within 160 characters or less sexual scenarios to each other. And then as we built more equity into our real-life encounters, the tone of the messages become more witty banter and less horny fantasy. I hit it off with his friends, he hit it off with mine. But I pretty much led my life, and he led his, save for the incidental jealous thought (him) or sentimental text (me).

And still I thought - rather misguidedly - that things were above board except now I fancied myself as having a slightly elevated position as his favourite stopover fuckfriend.

Then somehow someone changed the reel of my life without asking. On one of his trips to Hong Kong, he casually said "I have something important to tell you but I'm going to wait till the time is right." I could feel the hairs on my arms prickle. I knew, of course. Like every intuitive woman knows these things. And I could have bugged him to tell me, but I wasn't ready to plunge into the depths of altered reality. Yet.

So I just gave him a long look, shook my head imperceptibly and dismissed it, cloaking myself as well as I could in a shroud of reasonable doubt and plausible deniability.

It would be two months later over our first aborted attempt to have a dirty weekend that he told me how I affected him. And within the 160 character limit, no less. He then delivered the same message in person last weekend. I told him I knew already. And that he had just put words to what I thought but was unwilling to say.

It goes without saying, I had a fantastic weekend with him. With truth and context held at bay, we played together with the desperate carelessness of the damned. He was a man in his element and I was the perfect aphrodisiac. For that stolen slice of time, we allowed ourselves to be as the Immortals were, masters of our universe and savouring every minute.

But now with more than a hundred hours and two countries between us, the mindfuck begins. He has become a splinter embedded in the rabbit-hole of my altered consciousness. I reminisce. I daydream. I wonder. It irritates me. And if he is to be believed with his messages in the wee hours of the night, I have infiltrated his subconscious. It scares him. And I'm glad.

The thing is, I - of all people - should know better and believe me, I smell the deja vu in this situation, as do you. You'd think that age and experience would keep me from making the same mistakes. But alas, it contends with the sheer obstinacy of the human temperament and I must be biologically hard-wired to behave in the same impulsive, foolhardy way that I have since birth.

In popular culture, the way a mindfuck ends is that it usually destroys the host (a la the film "Fight Club"). And up to that point, things are just suspended in an unpredictable tangle of red herrings and ambiguity. And so I predict it will be with this particular mindfuck. It is thrilling, stimulating, exhausting and goes against every fibre of rational thought.

Do I think it will end in disaster? Yes. Do I think I will end up hurt by all this? Yes. Do I go along with it anyway? Of course. And thus I wait patiently, alongside you, like any other obedient mindfuck victim for the plot to unfold.

Dirty Weekend

2006-03-09T10:46:00.000+08:00

What does one pack for a dirty weekend...

Leopard-print 3 inch heels
Dancing shoes
L'Occitane Massage oil
Marc Jacobs satin top (his request)
Narciso Rodriguez perfume and body lotion
Assorted Condoms

Oh and Toothbrush - electric.

Yay. I'm excited.

Too much Whiskey & Champagne...

2006-03-01T17:31:00.000+08:00

...do not a turgid cock make. But is the modern self-serving woman really complaining? Not really. I had one of my best nights of sex recently with Felix, who had consumed both of the abovementioned beverages in reasonably significant quantities.

Felix and I have a running joke called "Truffle Night", which usually takes place on Thursday. Because that was the day he initially invited me over to his house on the ostensible reason of helping him consume his stash of Godiva truffles, washed down with ample amounts of champagne albeit. And we've just made a habit of it. Now he sends me text messages with the words "Truffle" or "Thursday" in them and instantly I perk up.

However this being Hong Kong, Felix and I have friends in common and we bump into each other at all the usual public entertainment venues. In these instances, we are friendly but leave the other enough breathing room to pursue fresh game as necessary. Such are the joys of a good fuckbuddy. It is an enjoyable arrangement.

It is on one of these so-called unscheduled nights - a Friday I believe - that I see Felix and instantly as he approaches to greet me, I know he wants me. Or maybe I want him. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it is the unhurried assessment we give each other the once-over from head to foot (although for him it is more accurately described as foot to chest). Or maybe it is the teasing way he whispers in my ear. Or the way I let him "accidentally" discover I am not wearing any underwear.

Whatever it is, at some point of the night he leads me to a remote area of the club and starts playing with my clit under my skirt. By the time we are in a cab, we are busily thrusting against each other and he gives the driver an extra tip for being so "quiet and discreet" about the frenzied punishment being borne by his back seat. There is no question that Felix is incredibly turned on by the time we get back and I am ripping his clothes off (we find out the day after that half his shirt and belt are caught in his front door) busily sucking, kissing and licking.

Except that he has a raging non-erection. We speculate that someone might have put a pill in his drink. Or perhaps he is suffering from post-marathon fatigue. Or simply - and most likely - we have drunk too much whiskey and champagne. This is the first time his member has been so strangely uncooperative but undeterred, he flips me over and says the magic words, "its your night tonight - just let me please you".

Now boys, if there is any surefire way to make a girl your eternal love-slave say those words and really mean them. (She will thank you kindly the morning after - regardless of whether she is a morning person or not - and for as many successive mornings as you two deem necessary to work off any endorphin deficiencies.) It makes such a difference from just humping her like a piece of plywood and then slumping over her semi-consciously slurring, "God, I'm so drunk".

Oh sure I feel sorry that he didn't have a hard-on and wasn't going to be able to fuck me (not immediately anyway). There, there baby. And then as with all these little setbacks in life, I recover. I know, what resilience.

It feels great to be liberated from the preoccupation with the male erection and orgasm once in a while. It is ridiculous how much we pander to it and measure our success in the sack by it. Me included (but this isn't due to any insidious socio-anthropological gender conditioning I swear, I just love cock). It dictates the rhythm and tempo - and indeed, the start and finish - of the majority of sexual interactions between men and women. Such that, an erection is taken as an unspoken cue to start having sex. And consequent ejaculation means time to dim the lights and ask for that extra toothbruszzz...zzzz.

But true to his word, Felix was on fire that night. I showed him exactly how to nibble at my nipples with his teeth, how to stroke my g-spot with his fingers, how to flick my clit with his tongue. I never had more of an apt or willing pupil. He got so good he could get me worked up to a gasping-tear-at-the-sheets orgasm within 2 minutes.

And all the time he keeps his eyes open. Again maybe because he doesn't felt the need to hold back his orgasm (read: close his eyes and think of granny). Nor is he at all fussed with reaching his own climax (read: close his eyes and grunt with effort). We would kiss, fingers would stray, tongues would quest, and all the while, his blue eyes would drink me all in. He would watch me orgasm and lose control. And as my own eyes slowly opened and I came slowly back to earth, his chin would be propped up against the side of my thigh, and he would be watching and smiling. It was sexy as hell.

I would turn the spotlight back onto him. I know he is extremely aroused, but a non-erection is a different kettle of fish. It needs to be handled delicately. Indeed, almost deferentially. I put a glob of cold lube on my fingers and spread it over him, gently pulling back his foreskin. Slowly, sensuously, my lips lock up and down his shaft. I find it is also a good opportunity to lavish attention on his other erogeneous male parts, the underside of his balls. The rim of his arse. In the absence of an erection, he has grown extremely sensitive to me touching him. Its like being with a virgin. The feel of my teeth against his nipples sends him into shivers. When I gently ring my fingers round his cock, it drives him crazy.

And then he makes me lie back and decides to kiss and lick every single inch of me. "Like the way when we first learned how to make love." He is unbelievably gentle and takes his time with me ("lie back, you don't have to do anything") such that it becomes a complete torment. My toes start to tingle and soon enough my whole body has turned into a writhing erogeneous zone, I beg for release. He indulges me, and I surrender in a gush of desire, such that my juice drips down his chin and onto the sheets. "I love the way you taste," he says and licks his lips.

We play like that for hours. Perhaps because there is no full-on penetration, we don't get tired. There is no beginning or end. The hours merge crazily into each other until we realise the sun is rising and we laugh. One of us reluctantly checks the time. It has been almost 5 hours. I am so tired after cumming for the upteenth time, I am beginning to just lie there hoping for the curtains to fall but of course, we find we both can't sleep.

So I make him lie down facing me and stroke his hair with regular motions as one would do a restless child until I hear his breathing steady and deepen. I listen to him breathe for a good period of time and then some time later kiss him slowly to rouse him. At this point, his cock also emerges from its inebriated slumber (thank God for the humble but trusty 'morning glory'). And the rest of the story is quite predictable really. ;)

How Does It All Fit Together

2006-02-21T14:50:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, you surprised me with a wonderful SMS when I thought I'd never hear from you again. I replied in kind. I was happy that day.

And then today, you hit me again. Another SMS. Commiserating about Hong Kong and how you had told me so. Only right at the end, embedded in all that kindness and sweetness, a grenade telling me you knew about my blog and what I wrote about you.

I was apologetic. Embarrassed. Guilty. Exposed. And then Sad. Oh so sad. I offered to take down the posts about you, but to add insult to injury, you had to be gracious about it. The least you could do is be affronted. Or infantile. Or hate me. Never talk to me again. Let me off easy.

In retrospect, it was all quite inevitable. I'm pretty good at protecting the anonymity of my subjects, because it is inextricably tied to my own. But this was something I had written quite a while back - when there were 200 reading my blog daily, as opposed to 2,000 - and I had accidentally let slip a few too many distinguishing characteristics. And as things go in the world of the big bad Internet, I got found out - by your jerk colleague who probably spends his time gratuitously wanking at his desk over my blog.

I wasn't so much ashamed of what I wrote. I meant those words. And I have never lied or hidden my sexual asides from you. No, I was ashamed that you found out when I had taken so many pains in real-life to prevent you from knowing. Knowledge that would make me vulnerable. That would make me look silly. Strung along like the rag-puppet I swore I would never be again. I was protecting my pride. And whatever was left of my heart.

We never had a future together. So on that pretext, I never felt I owed you the truth. In fact, I was never even sure you cared. Might as well get on with the rest of my life and the two Italian stallions fitted the bill at the time. It would just hurt me more if you knew. Sometimes the heart needs mindless sex to chase its foolish notions out of existence. And to remember the real world it lives in.

But I never expected you to want to discuss what I wrote and ask me what I meant by this or by that. I never expected you to have so many questions I couldn't answer. I never expected you to dredge up old wounds and kindle old memories. You upset me. I thought I had healed over. I don't torture myself with the what-could-have-been. I'm just not that sort of girl. But I guess there is too much unresolved. There is too much we haven't talked about. And maybe we never will. You sent me these lines...

"The thing is...it doesn't work together at all. I would never judge your sexual preferances or desires no matter how off putting I might find them. And I know that the stuff you wrote about me came from your heart. I have always felt the same about you and you know that. But when you write heartfelt feelings about someone in one sentence and then fanciful 3 way action in the next absolutely everyone that will read this associates one with the other which puts into question and lessens the belief in anything said...But aside from all that I find it hard to believe that you honestly thought that this would be something private and personal?"

...and I was just at a loss as to how to respond. There are just too many unexorcised spirits buried in that SMS. You are too late. (And this is from someone who doesn't usually believe in 'too late'.) I am too far away. Mentally. A chasm of unanswered questions and consequent misunderstandings stand between us.

You broke my heart but never shattered it completely. And that is the cruelest thing to do to somebody. It broke into one thousand parts. So that piece by piece it flaked off. Like bad paint off a humid Hong Kong wall. Carrying off fragments of the hopeful, optimistic me that you once knew and cared about.

Maybe I was too forgiving. All I needed from you was a simple dealbreaker. Something to definitively label you a bastard and thus make me avoid you forever. The worst relationships are the ones that wear away at you by attrition. One modest disappointment after another. A neglected call. A missed dinner date. A forgotten gift. Love isn't always about grand gestures and flowery apologies. You know I'm not a needy chick. You never had to spend much time with me. And I never asked for much - just the certainty that when you said you'd call back, you would. Or that if you couldn't make it in time, you'd let me know. Simple courtesies like that.

Do you know the amount of time I spent waiting for you to call? Or keeping my fingers crossed in agony over whether you'd make it to see me? I would put my plans on hold for up to a week on the off-chance that you were in town. Of course I grew tired of waiting. But then I'd wait some more. Of course I'd tell myself that I would never let anyone else string me along this way. But when the opportunity presented itself, I'd just do it all over again. That's why I said that knowledge makes me vulnerable. Nobody but me should know that I suffered like that.

I never told you because I just wanted the few times we had together to be happy and free of these banal little irritations. I just assumed things would get better with time. I never told you because I needed to preserve my dignity. I was a strong, confident woman who didn't need anyone else in her life, who had a string of people who loved to spend time with her, who went through men like water. Why was I being over-sensitive and needy and pathetic like this? Absolutely out of character. I had to disown that part of myself.

And thus, I had to disown what I felt about you. And so I did things to sabotage our relationship. I kept the truth from you. Because that was the only thing I had control over. I had to convince myself that I didn't care. I had to numb myself to what I felt. I used other men with their tokens of affection to fill the gaping void you tore inside me.

That's how it all works together, okay? Like a bird with a broken wing. Looking out at the sky and wanting to fly but knowing it never will. And so it begins to eat away at its feathers and starve itself in despair. Knowing that the more it destroys itself, the less chances it will have to escape the cage it's in.

I wanted to respond to you today. And I began to, in a rather clumsy and inadequate way. But you see, I started crying at my phone and everyone started looking at me funny. And I had to stop myself. It's not that I wanted to shut you out. (What would be the point since you know too much already.) It's just that I can't talk about it right now. I just can't.

Maybe one day we will have a "Before Sunset" moment. Or not, as life sees fit. You asked if I thought about you. Well I do - and I did especially when I watched that movie. Sentimental me. If you want answers, come find me another day - at the right time and in the right place - and I will tell you everything.

Or maybe you will read this and you'll know. Whatever it is, until I next hear from you, take care of yourself.

Sexual Conditioning

2006-02-09T15:33:00.000+08:00

WANTED: Girl for an X-rated FFM threesome

That's right, you read it correctly. I'm on the hunt. For a special someone who can put an additional X into sex. (And ok, that chromosome thing too.)

It's not for me per se, but for a special friend who's very politely made the request. And if you have been following the riveting plot of my sex life you will know who it is - Anthony, my seminal Hong Kong shag, who planted the seed of a FFM threesome in October of last year.

Well lucky for him. His little seed has taken root. In fact, it’s sprouted like the most resilient little weed such that even when he’s not around, I’m scouting around for ways and means to fulfill his fantasy.

I am not necessarily so eager to please. And obviously I don’t indulge every man that I meet with a threesome fantasy (because that would be the majority of the population). But Anthony’s become rather a favourite of mine. I really like him as a person, he’s great company, drop-dead charming and sexy in that weathered, knowing way that only older men are. He fabricates meetings to fly to Hong Kong just to see me. He lets me flirt outrageously with all his debauched friends such that they would pledge half their tangible assets, which are reasonably considerable, for the privilege of watching us fuck. Fantastic in bed, he dedicates his cock, his fingers, his unbelievable skilful tongue to my pleasure for hours on end. He takes me on dirty holidays where we hardly leave the room. And he brings me nice gifts (which we use quite effectively until my body just can't accomodate anymore).

Given all of that, I would think a little reciprocation is in order.

However, if you remember I was much more hesitant about a FFM threesome when Anthony first brought it up. I have since changed my tune somewhat. And gratitude is not an adequate enough explanation. I think I am a victim of Sexual Conditioning. Such that now, everytime I see a beautiful girl walk past I immediately evaluate her threesome potential (before moving onto her other better qualities - like her tits and ass, of course). And it's all Anthony's fault, really.

At this point I think it is appropriate, ladies and gentlemen, that I introduce you all to the concept of Sexual Conditioning - as pioneered by Anthony. I swear it must originate from a deviant strain of Pavlovian thought. Sexual Conditioning subverts the usual stimulus and response ethic of scientific response. Rather, the stimulus is the response. In fact, fuck response, master the art of stimulus and you will have the insidious power of persuading anyone to fulfil Your. Every. Sexual. Fantasy.

Exactly. Like a mindless bitch in heat. Look at me. (Damn you Chinese calendar, I am now seeing a dog metaphor in everything.)

Curious to see how it works? I know you don't visit this blog for academic discussions of socio-psychological theory so I'll cut to the chase and give you an up-close-and-personal peek at how Anthony does it. Sexual Conditioning 101 is now in session. Observe:

"Come on top of me baby," he says. Naked and panting, we've been fucking for a while now. I've had a handful of orgasms but I'm to have a lot more before the night is done.

"Like this?"

"No, lie on top. With your back against me. Now put my cock back inside you," Anthony positions my somewhat pliant body against his.

"Mmmm that's good..." I moan as I slide his slick cock inch by inch into my ass. His fingers snake round my body to stimulate my pussy.

"I want you to make yourself cum such that your juice runs down my cock and I can feel it on my balls and soaking the sheets..." Lying as I am on top of him, I am captive to his whispered encouragement.

A little while later, I am getting predictably more turned on. My hips are working up their own rhythm along his thrusting cock.

"Good. Keep moving like that. Do you like having my cock deep in your ass this way?" he asks huskily.

"You know I do..." I barely can utter a coherent reply at this point. My fingers are working furiously at my pussy, I can barely keep my orgasm at bay and he knows it.

"Now imagine a beautiful girl eating your pussy. Right now. Her tongue would be...Right here. She would be moving her fingers deep inside you the way you're doing it now..." He illustrates how his fantasy would work out in the most vivid detail. At this point, I am beyond all logical thought and response. I have no choice but to imagine another beautiful girl in bed with us doing exactly what he describes...

Really, it's cheating. Because at the point of orgasm, one's mind is at its most vulnerable. It's completely devoid of its critical faculties and is literally a blank slate for someone to wreak mischief with. Every neural fibre is single-mindedly committed to getting the body through to the light at the end of the pleasure tunnel. And the priorities are pretty basic (in order of importance): 1. not to pass out 2. not to cry out somebody else's name by mistake and 3. to relax and have a good time.

Still, kudos to Anthony, I recognize a master manipulator when I see one. And for once, I feel like I've met a physical and mental equal in terms of sexual prowess. You are welcome to try out your own little Sexual Conditioning experiments at home and tell me about all the trouble you get into.

Anyway, it's not like I'm being clubbed over the head and forced to worship pussy. I already feel an incipient sexual attraction towards beautiful women. And if you must know, I have on occasion been known to indulge in the following activities in their presence:

1. Slow, deep, tongue-kissing when the mood so dictates with various female candidates. I have a very sweet but crazy girlfriend of mine in Bangkok who swears she would love to kiss me whilst we were both astride the cocks of our respective men on the same bed. Logistically, how that would work out, I have no idea.

2. Lifting of bikini tops and clamping my teeth lightly over wet, slippery nipples. And then having the same courtesy performed on me. This particular episode took place in the KM8 swimming pool (read: cesspit of sin) on a random Sunday evening. (Where were you when it happened?) We had all had a little too much to drink and my friends had decided to throw me fully-clothed into the pool, incidentally ruining my new mobile phone in the process. But it didn't take too long for a few amorous people in the pool (read: girls in their own bikini tops pretending to swim) to start noticing that my nipples were protruding through my then very sheer tank-top. Mutual admiration all round and well, it seemed quite fitting to the natural flow of conversation to ask: "Would you mind if I sucked on yours?"

3. Rubbing scented oil over every inch of a woman's naked body as part of a sexy massage. Yes, I know this one is a bit of a Maxim cliche but this was part of my self-discovery phase a few years when I was trying figure out exactly what percentage of bisexuality I was comfortable with. (FYI I've settled for somewhere between 20 - 30 % for now). But I feel compelled to add that the whole 2-women-1-baby-oil-bottle fantasy is not as completely testosterone-serving as I initially thought. One of the biggest turn-ons about women for me, is skin. Smooth, velvety skin that just begs to be touched and caressed. And yes, rubbed with a bit of breast.

The only mental obstacle I face is the crippling pressure of eating pussy and pleasing another woman exactly the way I would want it done. And this is not conjecture. I've tried. And I can tell you – from experience – that while I acquit myself quite admirably of any heterosexual tendencies from the waist-up, the pussy thing just makes me hanker for the blinding comfort of right-wing, Adam-Eve evangelical tradition.

Being 20-30% bisexual means I'm not attracted to all that many women. In fact, I would say I have higher standards for women than I would for men. I suppose I should be more specific about what I'm looking for. But let's not steal Anthony's Sexual Conditioning thunder, we'll leave that for a whole other blog entry. Stay tuned. I will write more on this topic.

Nate Part 2

2006-01-28T11:45:00.000+08:00

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. In 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.

Below 22

2006-01-16T09:46:00.000+08:00

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.

Goodbye Ken, Hello 2006

2006-01-03T19:04:00.000+08:00

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 cybercafé 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.

Searching for Soul

2005-12-26T14:05:00.000+08:00

“Do you believe in the soul, Nate?” I asked.

It was an innocuous enough question. But Nate looked at me curiously, wondering where the train of conversation was going. Since we met a day ago, I had surprised him with my habit of delivering casual non sequiturs with a completely straight face. He quickly surmised that dealing with me required not only his full attention, but a considerable amount of guarded guile as well. Needless to say, he was waiting for the penny to drop in this particular conversation.

I pressed on. “You must believe in the soul. Because you have one. And it’s a good one. You should keep it that way. I don’t say that about a lot of people so you might as well take it as a compliment.”

I, like the ancient Greek philosophers, believed very much in the soul – that intelligible, imperishable part of one’s spirit that wages an epic battle with the flesh. The bearer of such virtues as courage, temperance and justice, it is what makes us human. Without which, we would be craven beasts led only by our basic instincts of survival and the indescribable urge to see the world as one big sperm bank.

Nate had never thought too much about his soul before. A former wild child by his own admission, we had met for the first time the day before in Shanghai and clicked immediately. Within an hour or two we were ribbing each other like old friends.

We also had a lot of respect for each other professionally. Me – for his experience and effortless charm with clients. Him – for my talent and youthful accomplishments.

As the day wore on however, it become more and more apparent that there was an undercurrent of sexual tension between the two of us. It being a professional setting, I was keen to ignore it. However ensconced comfortably in the hotel lounge around midnight, sharing a cigar as well as all manner of scandalous corporate gossip, it was growing increasingly difficult.

“Are you seducing me?” He surprised me by asking all of a sudden.

I laughed and countered: “Are you being seduced?”

“Well I am definitely intrigued. You are probably one of the most remarkable females I have met in the past 2 decades,” he took a long sip of his drink. “If I had met you maybe 10 years ago, I would be fucking the shit out of you right now.”

But he hadn’t met me 10 years ago. Instead, 42, married with two precocious children and a wife as his best friend, Nate was most assuredly losing the battle for his soul and having to cool off by making frequent trips to the bathroom.

“Well, it’s only Day One. And it’s late. Maybe it’s time to say goodnight before we both get ourselves into trouble. I’ll see you in the morning.” I said with a gentle smile, preparing to leave.

We took the lift up to our rooms, each chastely occupying separate corners. The doors opened on the 5th floor. And closed again.

We stared at each other. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Well, goodnight then,” he said and swooped in for a goodnight peck on the cheek which turned into a goodnight kiss on the lips which turned into a goodnight grope of my ass. I could feel his erection straining through his trousers as he ground his hips into me. And then, with a loudly uttered curse, he pulled away and fled.

I touched my lips instinctively. They were ripe and swollen with forbidden pleasure. I didn’t know whether to find my encounter with Nate delightfully theatrical or terribly dangerous. All I knew was that somehow sometime someone had to pull the brakes. And my engineering skills were rusty. The lift continued up to my room in quiet contemplation.

I took my time dressing (or undressing, rather) for bed before calling Nate’s room. I decided Act 1 Scene 2 would take place from the relative safety of under the covers.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he answered gruffly.

I laughed at his discomfort. “That was interesting,” I teased. “Did you intend to do that?”

“Yes…I mean…No. Shit…your lips, your body, the way you carry yourself. You’re a walking composite of all the women I’ve fucked in my past life. You make me remember things I thought I’d forgotten about myself,” he paused. “The thing is, I can’t…I shouldn’t…do this. You’re a colleague. I’m married. And I can’t afford to fuck up my life. This is just completely out of control, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s nothing that can’t be nipped in the bud at this point,” I said, putting on my best voice of reason. “We’ve got 4 more days stuck working together so let’s take our time. We don't have to make things any more difficult than they are. I'm not about to force myself on you. We can just say goodnight and leave tonight at the door, if you want.”

“I’m half-happy you said that,” he said ruefully. “Even if my other half wants to come down to your room and put my cock into you.”

I laughed. “Well you can. But there are 3 floors, 10 rooms and a huge moral crisis in between to ensure that you don't. And we're only on Day 1. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Goodnight.”

So there we were having breakfast the next day, reasonably more sober - the animalistic instincts of the night trussed up and muffled by our dapper business suits – and attempting a metaphysical discussion over some bacon and eggs.

“Do you have a soul, my Asian seductress?” Nate asked in return.

“Yes I do, but it’s a crap one. You know, souls are rare commodities in Asia. They don’t go down too well with hard-headed pragmatism and rampant materialism.”

“Why do you think I have a soul?”

“Because of last night. Because your soul wouldn’t let you do what your cock wanted to do,” I said matter-of-factly. “That is so much more the exception than the rule here. It’s refreshing. So I’m going to respect that by being really really good over the next few days. You might as well start calling me Saint Sash.”

Last night’s encounter with Nate had indeed given me pause - in a good way. It was surprising. (And if you read this blog regularly, you will know that very little surprises me) It is not easy to stare temptation in the face and walk away with just some spit-swapping.

There is a wide chasm between the guilt-based societies of the West and the shame-based societies of the East. In the West, you’re sorry because you’ve done something horribly wrong and you need to seek forgiveness or you won’t be able to live with yourself. And none of the neighbours will speak to you again. In Asia, you’re sorry because you got caught. And the neighbours are laughing because they’re doing it too, they’ve just got thicker curtains.

Most people who grew up in the West but have lived long enough in Asia know and adhere to the precepts of this paradigm shift. In a way, I can understand the lure of this philosophy. It must be liberating for people to do as they like with complete impunity from their soul.

Who needs a soul anyway – courage, temperance, justice? In Asia, qualities like that just get in the way of getting laid with your wife’s friends from Bible study.

I had almost given up on the whole concept of soul altogether. Singapore as a place is not high on the soul-stakes to begin with. And me being me, I have the tendency to bring out the worst in men – the pre-evolutionary ape, as it were – and sometimes it is easy to forget that an alternative exists.

Or has the ability to resist, as in Nate’s case.

To struggle is to be human. Sometimes I think the worth of a man should be counted in terms of how well he fights to preserve his soul; the battle of wills, the grand game of chess, the should-I-shouldn’t-I.

As opposed to how spectacularly he fails. Because we all do, at some point.

Nate had done well so far. And I had gained a significant amount of respect and affection for this stranger of 18 hours ago. I looked over the breakfast table at him, trying to find the right words to say without sounding patronizing.

I wished I could have told him that I admired him for loving his wife and resisting temptation. I wished I could have told him how protective I felt over his soul and how seriously I took this responsibility. And I wished I could have told him that he made me believe that good, faithful men existed.

But I couldn’t find the right words to break through the barrier of pride and do justice to my own much-diminished soul. So I smiled instead and said nothing.

Cocktease

2005-12-12T13:38:00.000+08:00

“Okie, I’m going home now!” I straightened up abruptly and flipped my fingers through my hair, my voice unusually bright.

I avoided my companion’s gaze as I casually initiated the universal pre-departure motions, as one does before leaving any party. There was a degree of ritualistic deliberation to my movements – the looking around for my bag, the checking of the time on my mobile phone, the gathering up of my personal accoutrements, dropping the unused condoms into my purse.

When I was done, I finally looked at Julian. He lay unmoving on the bed, naked with his legs splayed apart and his head propped up against the pillows. His cock still throbbed and glistened with the memory of my freshly-removed mouth. He held it in his hand, almost questioningly, like a teenager being caught out by the physical manifestation of his desire.

I grinned impudently and moved to pull the sheets over him; a mollifying Mother-Earth gesture meant to cover his nakedness and signal the end of the night’s festivities.

He resisted. “No, come here. You can’t just leave me like this.” He kicked at the sheets and pulled at my arm in an attempt to upset my balance and force me back to bed. I wiggled out of his grasp.

“You can have more of me tomorrow,” I playfully admonished, laughing at his discomfiture.

“But I want you now.”

“Well, too bad. We can’t always get what we want, dear. That’s life! Besides, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, won’t I?” I lowered my voice and ran my tongue up the outer side of his ear, simultaneously brushing my hair against his neck. “Let’s consider tonight as collateral.”

“You would see me tomorrow even if I fucked you tonight.”

“I know. But I want you to really really want me tomorrow. Tonight’s just an appetizer,” I touched the tip of his cock and it pulsed to life. “Hmm…ok here’s a little more just for you,” I licked my lips and ran them down his shaft with excruciating slowness.

I heard him exhale loudly as I pulled away a few minutes later. I adjusted my dress. His eyes slowly opened and he stared intently at me. I stroked his hair in mock-empathy.

“You don’t believe I’m really leaving, do you?”

“Actually, I am afraid…that I do. You are a good tease. I can play along. And I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Even though, I’m going to have to finish myself off after you go,” he added ruefully.

I chuckled. It had been a case study in physiognomy to watch Julian’s face run the gamut of emotions. From surprise to dismay to indignation to amusement to disbelief, all in the span of a few minutes. And now exhausted by their earlier exertions, his features seemed to have found respite in their current arrangement – a half-smile of resignation tinged with helpless bewilderment. Only his pupils, large and dark in rings of blue, defiantly registered his sexual arousal.

I looked at him fondly. “Be my guest. You should do it while things are still…fresh,” I ran my fingers sensuously down his thigh before heading for the door.

I know I know, you’ve all heard some Healthy Relationship guru state that imposing a delay on sexual gratification can invigorate an otherwise lackluster sex life. But for a single person with very different sexual needs (I lack consistency, not vigour!), an episode recounted as the one above requires a lot of self-control – not an area I usually excel at – and some amount of misplaced mischief.

It is also however, very effective. So I’m not sure why more single girls don’t use this method to get men hooked and keep them hungry. This is Asia after all, if men wanted a surefire fuck, then they would have paid for it. Instead, they’re on a date on you because ultimately you are free to leave if you want to.

So occasionally you should. Just for fun. Even if you’ve shagged before. An element of surprise always ensures that nobody can take anything for granted.

And surely, there is a sense of empowerment that comes with being a good cocktease. It usually starts with dressing the part. For me, it was a clingy, low-cut black outfit with straps that innocuously fell off the shoulder and revealed more than they should (but not nearly enough). But anything that doesn’t have small furry pom-poms all over the front and makes you look like a 12-year old girl should do the trick.

Then there’s the conversation bit over drinks or dinner. A throaty laugh (best inserted after his jokes), casual physical contact (best inserted after your jokes) and a reasonable amount of sexual innuendo are your best weapons at this stage. Also possibly, a suitable quotable quote just to show that you’re well-read and a person of depth. (In this regard, Oscar Wilde is timeless and very accessible, thanks to Google – don’t worry, the last thing this blog intends to do is force actual literature on you).

Usually the dancing occurs if it is late enough or if one is drunk enough. At this stage, give him a good show. It helps if you actually like dancing, as I do. Caress your body, brush his face with your hair, grind your ass into his lap. It is also permitted to express rampant desire at this point. A simple “God, I want your cock inside me” before moving sinuously out of reach has an admirably uplifting effect.

And then, you’re in bed. Finding a good point to pull the plug is always tricky. Too early and the night becomes a real downer (pun intended). Too late and it’s just too difficult. I have yet to find someone who can pull away in the middle of sex. If you can, you are a machine and you have my undying admiration. (This doesn’t count if you are a. married b. fucking someone you are not attracted to c. extremely drunk or d. never had an orgasm. Factors not mutually exclusive.)

Fellatius interruptus is my preferred method. There’s a certain amount of sexual intimacy and promise that comes with giving head. But it’s nice to actually stop when your jaw gets tired (as opposed to pausing on the pretext of picking hair from your teeth and then carrying on for another hour). Nothing gets between a man and his source of suction, as we say. So it’s usually a good way to ensure another meeting.

If done correctly, the sex when it does happen, is usually explosive. That is, if he doesn’t prematurely ejaculate on your leg. If done incorrectly, then you are left waiting for him to call the next day while he can’t be arsed and would rather have a beer with his mates / hooks up with another girl with a shorter skirt and an even lower-cut top who will most assuredly have sex on the first date / undergoes surgery for an emergency case of blue balls.

With Julian, it was most definitely going to be the former. He fell into the category of “old favourites”. “Old” because we had shagged before and literally, because there is something about a man in his late 30s or early 40s that makes them prefer these casual attachments that I seem to specialize in. And “favourites” because well, I enjoy fucking him. And hanging out with him. We even watched 6 years of Roberto Cavalli retrospectives on TV together, so obviously I don’t just use him for sex.

Also, he had flown into Hong Kong for a round of meetings and didn’t know all that many people save his colleagues, whom he had to maintain a reasonable level of professionalism with. So you see, I had insurance. Of course, the next night Julian and I did finish things to a satisfactory degree. And it was well worth the wait.

Stalker

2005-12-06T01:53:00.000+08:00

Surely, I am being punished for something. I just don’t know what or by whom. Let me explain.

For the past week, I have had my very own pet stalker. He (I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘he’) calls my mobile from an unlisted number in the wee hours of the morning (from 4-7 a.m.) and says nothing when I pick up.

Absolutely nothing.

Even if there was some sort of heavy breathing, I would feel comforted. At least I would know that his stalker intentions were honourable. (And maybe I could record the breath patterns and send it to the CSIs in New York for analysis.) But it’s hard to read the intentions of dead silence. It could be a cry for help. It could be cowardice. It could be loss for words. It could be anything.

The amateur sleuth in me has tried listening hard for distinguishing background noise but to no avail. Not much goes on from 4 to 7 in the morning in Hong Kong, except for the little old men who are just waking up to gum away at their dim sum and read the newspaper. But they don’t make much discernible phone noise as you can imagine.

One of my male friends has offered to pick up the phone for me and answer in his most menacing voice, which would have been a good idea except for the fact he was probably trying to win a free night in my bed.

I’ve even tried outlasting my stalker i.e. picking up and saying nothing in return but it’s a boring game to play when you’re sleepy and I hang up pretty quickly. I mean if there’s anything you can say about this guy, it’s that he’s got commitment. He wakes up at 4 in the morning every night for a whole week to call me – most people would consider that a relationship.

In fact, just for that he deserves his own name on this blog. Let’s call him Whitney - because scary stalkers don’t have names like Whitney.

Sometimes Whitney is unpredictable and will call in the middle of the day. Same modus operandi though. I’m not sure what sort of pleasure he derives from hearing me say a normal hello (the “wanton sex goddess” hellos are reserved for special friends), but obviously he gets off on it. Maybe he needs a specialist. Or a good receptionist.

Anyway, I’m pretty much of the mind that Whitney is someone I know. My Hong Kong mobile number is only 3 months old and has not been previously owned. I’ve only given my number to people I know – and maybe a few people that I would like to get to know. But in the case of the latter, surely they would call and say something – like could we go for a drink or could we shag right now or something.

In particular, I have a hypothesis that Whitney is actually a guy I know called Max. It’s just a hunch and there’s no way to prove it. But if it is Max then at least I can put a face and a cock to my tormenter.

Max was the flavour of October (and maybe early November). I met him on the Mid-level escalators. He was a performance artist and he seduced me with a series of performances that can only be described politely as bizarre. (If you’re nice, I’ll tell you the full story later.) But it piqued my interest and we had a good time shagging our brains out for a few weeks.

Until he started getting really ‘sticky’. Of course Max's wacky sense of ‘sticky’ meant telling his friends loudly at a bar that he wanted sole proprietorship rights to my armpit and giving me a little piece of bunny fur for safekeeping until further notice. And sending me SMSes filled with what he claimed were subliminal messages like “love..”, “trust…”, “blossom…”.

I kid you not. This guy was seriously loopy and after a few weeks, even the sex was past its sell-by date.

Quite fortuitously around the time this was happening, I was due to take a trip for work to Malaysia and I did the predictably cruel thing, I told him I’d call him when I got back and never did. In fact, when I got back to Hong Kong two weeks later, I intentionally missed his calls and ignored his SMSes, most of which said: “miss you…”, “come over…”, “still awake…” anyway. (Of course I was tempted to respond in kind with messages like “freedom…”, “desist…”, “no hope…” but I figured that might open a can of subliminal worms, which is not my idea of fun.)

Yes, I know it’s not a nice thing to do to somebody. And yes, I have dated guys like that and I know how it feels. A part of me feels bad about leaving him hanging. But I confess, not soo bad that I want to call and broach the matter with him like a mature adult.

The trouble with being a Chinese female is that I suck at confrontation, especially with men. I hate disappointing people. I hate scenes. And in general, we Chinese (allusion to stereotype to follow, but bear with me) tend to think that the ‘cruel-to-be-kind’ approach is just well, cruel. If something in life can be negotiated through deft manipulation or with a certain amount of charming disingenuousness then so be it.

I am never actually dishonest with people, it’s just that if I can avoid saying the words: “I don’t want a relationship with you and I’m not interested in shagging you gratuitously any more. So please stop calling” then I will for as long as possible.

Besides most of the time, in the case of flings with finite lifespans, it’s considered good etiquette not to pursue things if one party stops calling. And in all manner of half-baked righteousness, I did stop calling Max and leave other universal Go-Away clues for him to find i.e. being unfailingly too busy to meet up and taking a holiday for an indefinite period of time. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to join the dots.

On a side note: I’d actually be quite happy to be on the receiving end of this as well. I’m not a sucker for punishment and actually I would rather not be sat down in a public place, bought a sympathy lunch and then told frankly that you've grown tired / bored / sick of shagging me. If you must let me down, then at least have the courtesy to ignore me. But I digress.

So back to the original point – I think Whitney might be Max. He would just have the most to gain from calling me up in the middle of the night – like knowing I was alive. And if both are one and the same, I would understand. Really, I would. After all, who am I to throw the first stone? (See my former post "Loose Ends" for more insights into the criminal mind.)

I know a lot of you are thinking that the anonymous phonecalls are all the more incentive for me to call Max and sort things out. Except that I can’t be sure it’s him. And even if it is him, if he’s a smart stalker, he’ll have to keep up his calling habits to protect his identity. So all I can do is write about this and hope he gets tired of calling sooner or later.

Either way, my phone gets switched to Silent every night. So if you want a last-minute booty call, you’ll have to SMS. And only under those circumstances will messages like “shag tonight…”, “cum…”, “eat pussy…” be counted as acceptable forms of communication.

Porn Does Not Make Me Horny

2005-11-28T15:32:00.000+08:00

Call me Dutch but I find watching porn to be a healthy activity, if not for stimulation’s sake then for education’s.

I used to watch porn more regularly during my formative sexual years (read: 17 onwards – law-abiding Singaporean that I was) usually as an aid to having sex and would still highly recommend it to people who need a few new ideas in the sack. Or even a few extra functions for their stray vegetables.

However, I think my days of avid porn consumption are more or less over. I found some last week on a friend’s computer and decided to check out the latest in prurient entertainment. No surprises – peroxide is still very much the rage. As are DD boob jobs and long schlongs. Not to mention our mandatory money shot makes its appearance on cue regularly.

Ok granted, people tell me about the inroads made in gay porn and I hear there are lots of funky (read: freaky) possibilities with enemas but I just don’t think there has been anything particularly groundbreaking in mainstream porn for the past decade. It’s sad. It’s no wonder we’re so repressed, we have nothing good to wank off to.

I mean, is it too revolutionary to ask for a little bit of imagination with my porn? Surely the industry could benefit from a little branding. A few more Tarantino camera angles perhaps. Or something hip and stylized, like a little film-noir fucking. Or an unusual, picturesque backdrop, maybe hanging off a cliff in Kashmir. Or surely something with Elvis in it would do well…

For me, porn has lost its fantasy aspect. It’s just a lot more fun to watch a real-life couple fuck in the bed next to me. Or to lie in bed with a vibrator at my pussy and a husky voice in my ear telling me all the rude things to expect from his next trip to Hong Kong. Or to find opportunities to create porn wherever one goes – in the bathroom mirror, in an empty stairwell, on a spare pool table, with a complete stranger(s) etc.

Thus, it was with a significant amount of objectivity and amused skepticism that I went through my friend’s porn collection last week. Liberated from teenage hormones and the urgent need to wank, I was able to deconstruct some of the specific things about porn that did not make me horny. I advise you to read the following list with caution though – I don’t want to ruin an otherwise happy relationship you may have with the medium.

1. Inch-long poison-green acrylic nails are weapons. Touching your pussy with them is not pleasurable, it is life-threatening.

2. Real-life pussies are not porn-star pussies. Real women do not get off from tugging and pulling at their clits like rubber bands, or smacking their patches with repressed violence. Someone tell these porn directors that it’s social responsibility to show a little finesse.

3. Guys like to watch real breasts that bounce as they fuck. It’s no good to have a woman in a missionary wheelbarrow, ram a cock into her at 60mph, have her body thrashing wildly from side to side, and her head banging against the headboard but her breasts pointing unwaveringly north all the time.

4. Nobody in their right mind puts a vibrating dildo in their mouths unless they want to see a dentist.

5. Sweat is sexy. And an endorphin-induced flush is unbelievably erotic. But fucking vigorously for an hour under a spotlight with not a hint of moisture appearing on your fully-powdered face is well, weird. Most people I know don’t have a Barbie–Ken fetish.

6. Women cum too. It’s possible. National Geographic says so.

7. Fat Japanese salarymen do not get to poke Ayumi-type schoolgirls in the ass. Or do they? Maybe there is a vending machine for this somewhere that I don’t know about. Also I’ve yet to figure out the attraction or logic behind the Japanese child-women who scream “Idei! Idei!” (it hurts, it hurts?) when being fucked by these unbelievably tiny penises. It’s a good thing they have childbirth to look forward to.

8. I’ve fucked to Café del Mar, avante-garde jazz, the relentless sounds of Hong Kong construction even, but never will I voluntarily spread my legs to analogue synthesized porn beats that go wa-wa-wa in all the wrong places. No, not even for you, Emperor Eroticus.

9. Very few women can allow 9 inch cocks into their oesaphaguses without gagging. It’s false advertising. If you happen to meet someone who can do that in real-life, ask to see her credentials. She’s a professional.

Besides that…the rampant ass-fucking, the military positions, the wedding-cake cum on the face, the professional spanking, the Brazilian-waxed cocks, the glass dildos…all of that agrees with me. And these enjoyments aren’t too far removed from real-life either. Sometimes it’s nice to know that porn can have its bright spots of integrity.

Crazy in Love

2005-11-15T15:33:00.000+08:00

“Al and I are crazy in love!”

I caught up with May, a good girlfriend of mine the other day and it was just as she diagnosed. She was crazy in love. Incandescent with happiness. It was terminal.

May’s life had always had a loveable, moderately bonkers quality to it, but this time when I talked to her, she could barely contain her share of breathless adventures and anecdotes from the past few months. A languorous holiday just doing groceries together…A dream home in Buenos Aires…Fighting sleep so as not to lose a moment…The first argument that felt like a knife through the gut…Making up in the best possible way…Relocating for love… Shunning old lovers…Debating adult concepts like marriage…Absolute trust…

“Now I am thinking of moving to Miami and maybe starting a restaurant there! It seems so right. I don’t know why I never thought of it before! Al says I’ll love Miami. Besides, we always make friends everywhere we go!” she proclaimed excitedly, her speech a series of staccato tones.

Her enthusiasm was infectious. And I found myself hugging her and dreamily sighing along as she related her stories. I was happy for May. It had been a difficult relationship at first (I definitely had my doubts) but she worked hard at it and she deserved every single punctuation mark that came her way. I sincerely wished and hoped for the very best for her.

Still, I couldn’t help but advise caution: “Just be careful, sweets. Don’t make any life decisions based on purely emotional grounds. Give yourself some time to settle into your relationship first.” Being the voice of reason didn’t quite suit me. In fact, it made me sound like the single wet blanket galpal (the type that graduates into the tight-lipped disapproving spinster aunt that perpetually knits later in life) – not at all the tone I was striving for.

Besides, I was hardly qualified to give advice. As if I knew any better – one and a half failed relationships and a series of uninspiring ‘non-dates’ to my name – suddenly I was pretending to be an expert? Yea right.

‘Crazy in love’ is a rare commodity in the world that us jaded 21st century 20something types live in. It’s so easy for us to sit back in our favourite Eames chairs and be disparaging about relationships; quoting the rising divorce rates or the number of unhappy marriages we see held together by government subsidies and archaic tributes to “Asian values”.

Gone are the days where a girl can expect candlelight dinners, drive-in movies, chaste kisses on the forehead, breakfast in bed and living happily ever after. These days, after being surrounded by way too many cheating husbands and broken marriages, we’re a pragmatic lot. We carry our own condoms. We leave our lovers before morning. We don’t give out phone numbers. And then we sip black coffee and buy expensive shoes with our girlfriends, laughing at how our lives are so dysfunctional. Romance? Buy us a Louis Vuitton handbag and we’ll show you romance.

Despite all this concerted posturing, we never completely lose hope in the ideal state of being ‘crazy in love’. I’ve always thought that if I had to fall in love, it would be ‘crazy in love’ otherwise it just wouldn’t be worth the effort. The whole Singaporean way of finding someone to settle down and apply for an HDB flat with is not my idea of ‘crazy’ in anything. I would so much rather be single. At least that way I can settle for ‘crazy in 200 new Kamasutra sex positions’.

But once in a while, girlfriends like May show us that there is still space left in this world for grand gestures and extravagant promises. For the complete and ungrudging surrender of oneself without any sense of irony or self-preservation. For rose-tinted luff and fresh air.

It needs to be said that I admire (and possibly envy) people who can – and do – fall desperately in love. It takes a real leap of faith to believe that one’s relationship is going to pip the odds and actually work out. It takes reasonable effort and courage to unconditionally commit all your eggs to one basket without caring unduly about the need for a physical / emotional safety net. And it requires a healthy suspension of disbelief to uphold absolute concepts like Fidelity and Trust and Forever. I certainly couldn’t do it without stuffing enough socks down my mouth to make sure I kept a straight (if not otherwise puffy) face.

However, on the off chance that ‘crazy in love’ happens to land in my lap, I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to do with it. In fact, my instinctive response would probably be to hunt it down and stamp it out of existence. “Bah, don't be a sentimental idiot,” I’d chide myself. Or I’d rationalize it to death and attribute it to some quirk of human nature. Or I’d sabotage it by having meaningless, brain-numbing sex with a random someone whom I had no real attraction to. Or immediately throw down the shutters to my heart and appear completely sphinx-like at every interaction.

Because while I can gladly throw caution to the wind in almost all other aspects of my personal life, I know that if there is anything that scares the living daylights out of me – it is being ‘crazy in love’. I’ve felt it before. And it was the most beautiful and horrible thing at the same time. I did things I never thought I would ever do. I could repeat verbatim chunks of significant conversations that I kept securely locked in my memory. I made lists of what we could do as a couple so that we would never waste a second having nothing to do. I laughed / danced / screamed / wept on the street with no dignity. I could be so angry a vase would hurtle out of my hand without warning. I could be so sensitive that a mere trifle would make me whimper.

Life was eerily out of balance. I was always restless, on edge, irrational, short-tempered and exuberantly neurotic. If you knew me in real life, you would laugh in disbelief at this description. It bears absolutely no resemblance to the sash that you know and love.

But that was awfully long ago. Now look at me, pretending to be all grown up and in denial of my inner infant. It is humbling to confess that I am afraid to hope. And that I am anxious to avoid hurt at all costs. That I am terrified of disappointment. And of disappointing other people (which inevitably happens – I know this from bitter experience). And that I can’t quite reconcile myself to the nagging thought that ‘crazy in love’ just doesn’t exist for emotional cowards like me.

Do not give me platitudes of comfort, I must learn how to trust and believe again. It is an ongoing organic process. There is no overnight prescription to recover lost faith, but thanks for coming along so far. It helps to know you're reading. :)

In Recovery

2005-11-09T12:19:00.000+08:00

I love the feeling of being well and truly fucked – the state of being utterly sated and of absolute no use to anyone. It’s better than chocolate. It’s better than a new pair of Balenciaga shoes. Hell, maybe even a few pairs of Balenciaga shoes.

The thing is, nowadays sex is everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it from desperate housewives to professional relationship gurus; and everyone’s doing it from your baby sister to baby boomers on Viagra. It’s all very fashionable to be self-actualised about one’s sexual habits. And the ease and availability of getting laid in the 21st century has almost made sex into a non-event. (Unless of course one accidentally falls in love, but that gives rise to a whole host of other problems.)

I have nothing against the commodisation of sex – in fact I think it can only make the world a friendlier place – but it only serves to underscore the fact that real quality shags are hard to come by. And I’m not talking about attempting a few variations on the usual cock-pussy routine either. Anyone with a reasonable imagination and access to decent Internet erotica can shag like that.

No, I’m talking crazy, earth-shaking, spine-tingling, no-holds-barred quality fucking. As I had yesterday evening. And then again late last night. And early this morning as well.

I came so many times I lost count. Bone-shaking, mind-numbing orgasms that made me gush and squirt copious amounts of pussy juice onto the sheets. Orgasms that made me bite down hard on the fingers that were forced against my teeth to contain my moans. Orgasms that drew blood as I dug my nails into the nearest available expanse of male flesh.

“You’re going to wake the whole hotel baby,” he whispered huskily as he tugged my head back with a fistful of hair.

“So? Why don’t you stop talking and show me how a real man fucks pussy?” I taunted him, my voice part-moan part- growl.

We fought each other like wild cats. Him on top, me on top. Me hanging off the bed with no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist while he drove his cock home at a relentless pace. Him at the verge of coming with my finger at his prostrate and my mouth at his cock, begging me to stop. And when he did come, it was with enough force to hit the opposite side of the bed.

His cock stayed hard for a long time even as we lay there panting, completely spent. Our bodies pouring with sweat and our limbs interlocked, his fingers gently traced patterns up and down my calves. We said nothing, just faded in and out of consciousness as our bodies stopped quivering and our heartbeats steadied. His snores woke me up some time later and I crept to the bathroom to clean up.

I looked around. We had fucked all over our boutique Philippe Starck hotel room and it showed. Mojitos half-spilt on the carpet, stained sheets pulled off the bed, articles of clothing and condom wrappers strewn willy-nilly, magazines in the sink, cutlery on the floor. I liked the room better that way. Not so showy. Not so severe. I’m sorry, Mr Starck, but a perfectly space-maximised room just isn’t conducive to fucking like animals.

When I got home last night I slept for 12 hours straight. And then woke up today, inhaled a three-course lunch and a 500ml bottle of cranberry juice before starting to write this.

As I sit here in a crowded coffeeshop sluggishly stringing sentences together on my laptop, no one around me can tell that my inner thighs still ache from being held almost 180 degrees apart a day ago. Or that my body feels taut under my dress like its undergone traction (not too far from the truth really). Or that my knees can’t quite support my body weight with confidence.

I half-smile to myself as I shift in my seat. I can still feel the rawness of my pussy from being fucked dry and then wet again. And the tenderness of my ass from having melted ice-cubes put inside it. It would only take one careful look from a curious passer-by to spot the knots in my hair that even the most vigorous brushing couldn't defeat. And the bruises down my thighs and tell-tale marks on my back that will take days to fade.

But for now, I am too lost in my post-coital wonderland to care. I’ll mourn the moment when my body recovers and I have to resume the search for the proverbial needle in the haystack of plain vanilla sex.

Presently, I can’t contemplate contacting the assortment of overeager namby-pamby boys I’ve collected in Hong Kong who come too quickly and shag too meaningfully ever again. That's the thing with too much quality, it really spoils the market. And in this case, my shag diary for the rest of the month. Ouch.

But if anyone knows of a better way to balance quantity with quality (without offering me a CV of their bedroom abilities or eponymously labelled pictures of their cocks), let me know. Alas, my freshly-fucked bruises won't last forever.

Speaking Out

2005-11-06T02:38:00.000+08:00

Ok warning: so this is a bit of an unsalacious post, but it's important that I put it up anyway. And it also gives me a bit of a power kick - but that's beyond the point. :)

Anyway, most of you will have realised that there have been a few changes to the site, namely to the Comments section.

Yup, the penny's dropped and I've installed Haloscan.

Now before you run away screaming, I assure you its perfectly safe but if the hives still continue after a few days, let me know. It doesn't change the way you leave comments except that everything now appears in a pop-up window and you get to embellish your content with a range of contemporary smiley-faces. Surely that is a great value-add, no?

Haloscan does make a big difference in helping me manage this site better though. And I think as this blog increasingly attracts more traffic, it's something I need to do more diligently, just to ensure that you continue to enjoy reading this blog as much as I enjoy contributing to it.

The editorial policy (ooh, that sounds awfully self-important doesn't it?) regarding comments still remains the same i.e. love me, loathe me, say it well and you can say anything you want. I am not a fan of censorship - as we know too much of it exists in Singapore - and I am presumably confident and secure enough in my self-concocted fabulousness to take most forms of drubbings from critics. Although I like it when you are gentle as well. :)

But, and this is a big childbearing BUT...there is a fine line between having the right to freedom of speech and abusing it. I don't appreciate gratuitously vicious, abusive or profane remarks on my blog. And neither do my friends or the loyal readers who tune in to this blog regularly, many of whom have been disappointed to see the level of comments appearing on this site of late.

So this is the deal. I will not moderate or delete any comments if you promise to play fair. (I am not a control freak. I am not a control freak. I am not a control freak. Breathe, sash, breathe.) If you track the short history of this blog you'll see that I allow people to get away with pretty much bloody murder in the comments section. Because you know I love the attention and secretly (well not-so-secretly) find it all very amusing.

If you leave an email address or a URL, there is a reasonable chance that I will drop you a line or visit your site. I get enormous voyeuristic pleasure in getting to know the intimate details of my reader's lives through their blogs. And leaving a note anonymously is alright too, especially if you are high up in the corporate food chain and guiltily reading this every morning instead of spending time with your wife and children.

On that note, I also need to tell you that your old Blogspot comments have not all disappeared. They are saved and can be viewed on the individual pages of each post (just click the sidebar links). However, after installing the new software, I've had to manually cut-and-paste the old Blogspot comments into the Haloscan format, which I have done on the most recent posts but am still working on for older posts. Damn you uncompatible software platforms!

Now everyone who knows me will know that I am a reluctant techie. (Words are my thang, and HTML is not a word in my opinion.) And evidently, I use the most basic Blogger template and don't post any nude pictures of myself on this site (because a. you might recognise me and b. taking that into account, accordingly lose your lunch and c. I don't know how. Actually c. is the overriding reason. Heh.) so the rest of you can probably guess how bad I am with this thing they call technology.

There have obviously been a few extenuating circumstances that have led me to this. Chiefly, the appearance of ONE self-righteous individual who has left countless inflammatory and abusive remarks on my blog under various aliases. And also on the blogs of my friends and sites of other commenters who have linked here. I mean, that's just uncalled for. And I thank you all for putting up with it uncomplainingly, especially those who have vigorously jumped to my defence. You'll make an blushing virgin of me yet! :)

So enough of this tedious administrative business and back to some serious blogging. I promise you all a better story next time.

P.S. As for Mr IP Address 165.21.154.* (a.k.a. pope benny, frenchy, whiskas, anonymous 3:15 P.M. whatever) your ass is toast. You have been warned and banned from this site. Take your hate and anger elsewhere, fuck you very much.

Missed Opportunities

2005-10-30T14:32:00.000+08:00

Remember Anthony, my good-referral shag (ref: Sept 26)? I recently got the following text message from him:

Hey baby. Am going to be in HK on the 6th. Will you be around?

I replied in the affirmative and followed up with the somewhat obligatory reply of how I have been swooning about Hong Kong with my loins in the throes of absolute lust waiting for him to return. (A bit of an exaggeration really. At least the swooning bit - I am perfectly capable of lusting for someone without losing consciousness, thank you.)

He replied:

Great, I look forward to pleasing you soon. Can I bring a friend? She’s blonde, beautiful, German. Wants to meet you and eat pussy all night.

Greeted with this scenario, I hesitated. Instead of a resounding yes, I couldn’t quite make up my mind how to reply to Anthony, which I thought was extremely out of character.

You see, confession time: I have never actually been in a threesome with another woman and contemplating it was making me feel a little odd. I tried to put my finger on exactly why.
Was I uncomfortable with the display of another woman’s naked sexuality? Would Jesus still love me if I put my fingers up another girl’s pussy? What if she had crooked teeth or big feet – would I still be able to clamber into bed with her? Was I simply being - horror of horrors- a prude?

The thing is, I actually like other women. And not deodorant-shunning, breast-strapped, baggy-panted dykes either. It’s the lipstick-wearing delicately-perfumed women with luscious curves and supple skin that I find sexually intriguing. And just in case you were wondering…Yes, I have kissed and made out with a few. Yes, sometimes for the benefit of the general public. Yes, just like in porn.

And I have long been enamoured with the idea of being a full-fledged bisexual. It just seemed to be a position that offered the best of two worlds. Strawberry tea, afternoon cuddles and incestuous Tupperware parties with the girls. Impulsive flings, extravagant gifts, wild and crazy sex with the boys.

However, I have to admit I’m only recreationally bi. For one, I am a bit too attached to my meat – thick, fleshy, hard, pulsating, self-lubricating, hanging slightly to the left and preferably belonging to a lean mean virile male.

A buzzing vibrator, though deftly handled by another woman, just doesn’t do the trick. I mean technically it does, but ultimately, 8 inches of rubbery silicone and flashing lights does not a cock make. It doesn’t have a foreskin. You can’t tug on its balls as you rock back and forth. It doesn’t ejaculate on command (“Cum now for me baby, please…Now. Hard.”) And it’s just a little bit silly to be putting it into your mouth.

Second, I can’t quite eat pussy. I’ve tried. But well, I find it intimidating. Pussies are complicated pieces of machinery – every one is slightly different and there are lots of fiddly bits (flashlight not included). They need to be treated with a level of finesse and skills I’m not too confident I have at this point. I can just about cope with the incessant demands of mine. And the pressure and responsibility of getting it absolutely right with another woman is crushing.

If I failed to get her to orgasm (and being female, I would know the difference between a faker and a real quaker), then it would be a disaster that would strike deep into the heart of all womankind. I might have to go into therapy. And you might even have to boycott this blog. Horrors.

I’ve tried my best to be as liberal and un-Singaporean as possible about thinking through these issues but alas, I fear it is a mental barrier I can’t quite overcome right now. (I have though started learning how to tie better cherry-pip knots with my tongue. So I am working on the situation.) Maybe I am destined to spend my life just being completely straight after all. How disappointing.

All this means a FFM (2 females 1 male) threesome, whilst not completely out of the question, would be a lot less fun for everyone involved. I wouldn't be able to participate to the fullest of my abilities. And in my opinion, it would be selfish to just lie there and make the other girl do all the wetwork, so to speak.

I would like to be a team player and share my toys. Really.

I also have doubts about how sexually fulfilling a FFM scenario would be for me. I’m insatiable enough when I have dedicated attention – and quite up to the task of handling 2 men at a go. But having horny, multi-orgasmic me, multiplied by 2, in a room together demanding satisfaction? All I can think is that Anthony, capable as he was in the sack, had better have a good backup plan ready. And it better not be a movie and ice-cream either.

Misgivings aside, I was of course curious to how I would react to Anthony’s “blonde, beautiful German” in person. There was always the slim possibility that Angelina Jolie might have bleached her hair, changed her name to Olga and started working for Luftansa, incidentally scheduled to stop off in Hong Kong on the 6th. And that she might be just the person to turn me into a raging lesbian. (Really, I think it would be horribly unfair not to consider a serious lifestyle adjustment under those circumstances.)

So after much deliberation, curiosity won the day. I decided to leave my fate to the threesome gods. I sent Anthony a tentative reply:

Ok but only if you think we’ll like each other. No guarantees. And I have the right to demand a refund.

I held my breath. I had made a big leap into what sociology professors in the U.S. would have called the realm of “subverting gender stereotypes”. I was proud of myself - I would not just be another sexuality statistic. Anthony had better start taking his vitamins.

He SMSed the next day:

Just checked. She’s not around on the 6th. Dang! Trust me, she’d have loved you. Next time then. See you soon.

I felt both disappointed and relieved at the same time. So I was to be deflowered another day. Oh well. Back to my cherry pips and the comfort zone of being only 30% gay (of course it’s a spectrum, stupid).

I can just about hear the tempered rejoicing from the religious right (some of whom obviously read and comment on this blog faithfully for reasons that mystify me). As well as the collective exhalation of the Singapore government who want my fecund, heterosexual ovaries to solve its ageing population problem.

So I am fairly happy about pretending to be an upstanding citizen and pillar of our uptight lil community for a while more. But excuse me if I go to bed occasionally dreaming of Angelina.

Sexually deviant, moi?

The Travails of a Serial Non-Dater

2005-10-18T16:51:00.000+08:00

Since moving to Hong Kong for a change in scene and the promise of reinvention more than a month ago, it seems inevitable that I find myself navigating formerly uncharted waters with my personal relationships.

Yes alas, I’ve fallen into this whole dodgy business of dating.

And boy do I really suck at it. I sleep with these guys on the first date and more often than not, before the first date. I dance outrageously on bartops, flirt with all the waiters, maintain an erotic blog and don’t have any houseplants. I state truthfully that I have not been in a serious relationship for 4 years and don’t intend to start. I am not a Rules Girl by any stretch of the imagination.

But still, they keep coming (and for once, I don’t mean it in the biological sense).

And calling. And leaving meaningful voicemail messages like, “I really would like to meet you for a coffee soon to talk about us.”

I’m still trying to figure out why. Maybe because in Hong Kong, my distinctive firecracker-red passport and appalling Cantonese mark me as a dysfunctional discombobulated expat desperately looking for someone to love as opposed to a languishing local sluggishly looking for someone to share the lease.

Maybe it’s because I stay in Mid-levels in Hong Kong. I swear there are enough young, upwardly mobile, aspirational, attractive people here to put a permanent finger up Cupid’s arse as compared to other districts. Everyone does their hunting here – in fact there is a whole line of bars and restaurants dedicated to encourage this habit – and if one is to snag a special someone, then it is only to be expected that they will move to Singapore a few years later. You know, for the kids.

Or maybe I’ve just had the misfortune to meet men who really like me for my brain, (obviously no one’s told them about the Singapore school system or they wouldn’t still think I’ve got a good one) and not my body. And oh, not to forget, they really dig my personality too.

Whatever the reason, in the short space of a month there have been at least 3 serious contenders for the biggest booby prize of all; Me – in a relationship. And these guys won’t even settle for no-strings-attached sex as a consolation. Believe me, I’ve flogged it but to no avail.

I’m not against relationships or commitment per se, I’m just not ready to do it yet. And I’d rather not make some half-hearted attempt to commit to the next available guy, fight constantly, cheat on him with his maid’s uncle and then generate enough bad karma to come back as a flu-ridden chicken in my next life.

I have many fulfilling interactions with people that don’t include sex and for now that works for me. Sometimes I am emotionally intimate with the men that I shag and we end up becoming good friends i.e. we keep in touch even after we stop having sex. But none of these relationships have included me meeting Mum or signing up to cook dinner on a non-negotiable basis.

All my supposedly older, wiser friends who don’t buy apartments for their mistresses say that when I meet the right person or when I’m ready to settle down, I’ll Know with a capital K. Well so far, I haven’t discerned any sort of knee-knocking, orchestra-playing, swine-soaring moment of enlightenment in my life.

So all I Know with a capital K is that I’ve checked my biological clock and it says 6 a.m. (It’s said that for the past few years so maybe it’s broken or something. Heh.)

Which leaves me stranded on Square 1; going through the awkward and elaborate motions of dating.

I’ve been happy to ‘non-date’ for the past 4 years. ‘Non-dating’ basically means hanging out, chatting and enjoying the company of men that I also happen to be shagging. The rules are simple. Free sex, intelligent conversation and a few good laughs in exchange for the following:

1. You do NOT think I am the perfect woman and that you are sooo lucky to have met me.

2. You do NOT think that I will make a great girlfriend/wife/mother someday and that you are the only person that can tame my spirit.

3. You do NOT spend time looking deep into my eyes and dreamily contemplating what to name our children.

Dating on the other hand, involves all of those things. And so far, I have found it to be a game of sophisticated interactions where I feel duty-bound to persuade these hapless men that I am not The One (in not so many words) and really, I am not as sweet and innocent as I look. Whilst they feel honour- or ego-bound to prove otherwise.

It is an intricate dance where every little gesture (drinks vs. dinner, weeknight vs. weekend, roses vs. lilies, how many times you call vs. how many times I call etc.) takes on a much larger significance under the magnifier of unmet expectation and barely-suppressed emotion.

Some girls love the drama and dissimulation. But I find it tiresome. It just seems awfully expensive (for you) and futile (for me). Honestly, if you’re not the Armani-wearing, Sartre-spouting, Ducati-riding hellion of my dreams, then all the fancy dinners and concert tickets in the world will not suddenly transform you into that person.

(Of course now that I’ve written this, the love of my life will undoubtedly end up being some bespectacled beancounter wearing a hippie bandanna. Life is cruel and uncooperative like that, sometimes. And you, dear readers, will have the last laugh.)

So save yourself a few noble declarations. And me a few heartless rejections. I’m happy doing what I do, and I just don’t do boyfriends.

Now can’t we all just have a few gratuitous shags and get along?

Lost in New Territories

2005-10-06T13:30:00.000+08:00

“So you like to party, you love to flirt, dance on tables, take different men home and you have an erotic blog. Actually, I’m not really surprised. But why are you telling me all this now?”

“Well now that the weekend’s over. I just want to get things straight. So you know who I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. Gosh, haven’t I scared you off already?” I smiled and mischievously poked him in the arm.

“It’s not making me scared. And it doesn’t make me want you any less.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think you have a heart.”

I fell silent. I looked into his brown eyes, and loved him for that instant. And for that fleeting moment where I saw myself reflected in his irises, I saw a different person, a better person. The girl with the big heart and anime eyes. Free from ghosts and any distinguishing dysfunctions.

Alas, sweet Ryan, I so wanted to tell him, I do have a heart. But I also have a body full of wickedness. And a mind full of treachery. And ultimately, I can’t give you what you want.

“You know, I’ll just hurt you. Trust me, I’m trying to protect you.” It was true, and I had said it before to men who wouldn’t listen. I didn’t feel so bad saying it to Ryan, who was also 26. He was still fresh.

“What if I don’t want to be protected? I have some say in this too you know. I’ve been hurt before. So what? It doesn’t make me want to stop trying to be with somebody,” he said. He nuzzled his upturned face right below my collarbone as we descended the escalator, and I rubbed his hair absently. “Besides, I think I can make you happy.”

A one-night stand had become a whole weekend without me realizing it. Ryan made the world feel safe and a little fuzzy round the edges – 375 degrees fuzzy in both eyes to be exact. It was funny how we realized that we were both equally blind without our contacts on. We heard the thunder roll in through the sunshine and watched the rain from his window in short-sighted fascination. And I felt like someone had sprinkled fairydust all over me.

We wandered the streets, like two fresh, well-mannered 26 year-olds, the type of couple that warms the cockles of withered grannies’ hearts. He carried the umbrella and I fitted my body close to him, happy to be the perfect elbow accessory.

Ryan lived in the New Territories, near to his job, near to the hills, and far away from the gritty quagmire of Central where I lived. He was a tennis coach who loved kids – and wasn’t afraid to admit it. I shouldn’t have stayed with him so long but besides not quite knowing how to get home, that weekend in the NT was a respite from Central, a respite from me.

I longed to tell him it was my Doppelganger in a black cocktail dress that had helped him clean his house that weekend, that had sat in the bath with him, that had massaged his injured lower back and kissed it so the pain would go away.

But all weekend, I just dodged any sort of serious conversation and I postponed exchanging numbers. And now on a Sunday evening, as he was seeing me back home to Central, he had broached the topic.

“Look, I don’t know if we’re going to last 2 days, 2 months or 2 years. But I want to see you again, to find out. If you hurt me then it’s my choice. Besides why should you care?” he asked.

Well I just do, I thought. I wanted to tell Ryan the stories of my life, but had not the words nor the context. I care that I’ve broken trust. I care that I’ve hurt people. I care that I’ve lost friends. I care that things never work out, invariably because of me. Most of all, I care that I am mutely accused of never having cared at all.

Because I warned them, as I did Ryan. But they made their own self-professed free-will decisions, lured by that same big heart and anime eyes. And I being much more careless and naïve then, had let them.

“No…sweetie. Please. I care, I do. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. I’m not what you’re looking for. And I have to go back home to what I know, to what I’m good at. But I really had a great time with you this weekend,” I said. And I meant it.

“So did I. I just want to see you again.” But he saw how I smiled at him – with my chin down, cheeks raised but my eyes steady and uncrinkled. So he half-shrugged and said: “Look, I’m going to give you my number because I know you don’t like guys bugging you. If you want to call me, call me. I’ll take the risk.”

I put his number in my phone and prayed I wouldn’t use it in a moment of weakness. He only turned back once – his thumb and pinkie of his right hand outstretched near his ear mouthing the words ‘call me’ - before disappearing into the cocooning gutter of the Central MTR underground.

I waved back, before curling my fingers into a ball and clutching the side of my dress, my hand hot with moisture. I turned and walked quickly away.

Hits & Messes

2005-09-30T17:19:00.000+08:00

I get a lot of mail from concerned readers asking me how and why I allow myself to get entrapped in some of the more sticky sexual situations detailed on this blog. You should be more discerning, they chide. You should finetune that man-tennae. Bad sex is for teenagers – you of all people, should know better.

Yes Daddy. (Does it turn you on when I call you that?)

I should know a lot of things, but I don’t. For example, I don’t know which of the men I take home for the first time will be any good in bed. Likewise I don’t know who is going to have a small cock (feet, noses, handspan – I’ve tried looking at everything. I defy anyone who says there is a direct correlation). And I don’t know who is going to wake up the next morning next to me, declare undying love with tears in his eyes and turn into a psychotic stalker.

I try my best to be selective (Bank details and reference checks, please. No relatives) and to be upfront about what I looking for. But ultimately, I’m also the sort of person that believes curiosity to be an admirable trait; and if something looks like fun, just do it. Especially if ‘it’ has broad shoulders, a tight ass and knows the etymology of your real name.

Inevitably, not everyone’s a winner. I’m beginning to think you haven’t truly lived until you count hourlong handjobs, persistent pursuers, banker wankers, fecal fetishists as part of your repertoire.

But for every gobsucking freakshow I’ve fucked, there is always a story of a wild night I spent in a caravan off the coast of Wales with a sensitive trapeze artist. Or a yarn about getting caught in the rain with someone’s fingers up my pussy on a scooter speeding up the mountains of Southern Taiwan. Or an unbelievable one-night sexperiment with a drugged-up Armani model.

The point is: sex, as with life, is not always fluffy daffodils. And the path to sexual nirvana for the single 20something Singaporean never did run smooth. Therefore, the objective of this blog is to give you an unapologetic account of everything in between. Sex in all its pre-masticated glory. If it could happen to Adam and Eve, it could happen to you.

So don’t ask me to provide bodice-ripping soul-satisfying firecracker singleserves all the time. That just isn’t what God intended. Sometimes sex is mindblowing, but sometimes it’s just so-so. Sometimes I feel a lot for the other person (love, affection, vagina-wetting lust), but at other times I’m just bored and need a shag. Sometimes I feel cherished and special right after the experience, but on rare occasions, I feel hurt and used.

I just tell it like it is. And I trust you to be open-minded and forgiving enough to keep reading. Besides, that’s what makes me so goddamned entertaining, right? :)

Welcome to the Circle of Champions

2005-09-26T13:21:00.000+08:00

So, Hong Kong. City of Life and newly-christened Home of Mickey.

Lots of people ask me why I moved. And I always reply, “Oh I got sick of Singapore” which is the over-simplistic answer one gives at frivolous dinner parties – accompanied by the careless shrug and toss of the head – to people I intend never to see again. But of course, you faithful reader, don’t fall in that category.

I moved because of a variety of factors – most of them are boring and not worth dwelling on (office politics, professional opportunities etc.). But chiefly, I moved because it was time for a Change. A big 3-60. Up the ass. No lube.

Living in Singapore for the past few years has felt like a bit of a Faustian bargain. An insidious sacrifice of my soul on the altar of casual familiarity, comforting conformity and grand middle-class lucre. Don’t get me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute. And most likely I will return one day, a harried tai tai with 3 squawking children in tow, ready to discuss PSLEs and charity fundraisers with much aplomb.

But for now, there’s Hong Kong. And Ms Sash van Winkle needs to make up for lost time. To feel alive. To reinvent. To live dangerously. And yes, to have better sex. (And more frequently, yes please.)

In that respect, things started off auspiciously. My phone beeped a few hours after I touched down in Hong Kong. It was Matt, one of the most charismatic (and naughtiest) men you would ever meet, and a favourite shag of mine from more than a year ago. He now lived in Switzerland and we kept in touch occasionally.

Matt: “R u in hk?”

Me: “Yes. Sitting in the middle of suitcases and contemplating the meaning of life. Why? What’s up?”

Matt: “My friend Anthony will ph u in 5 mins and invite u for a drink! He’s a champ.”

Me: “Wait, this isn’t the self-same Anthony from our last encounter?”

I didn’t know Anthony. Save that he had a honeyed Aussie-accented voice and loved to talk dirty. Also he must have known Matt reasonably well. Because he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Matt called him mid-shag, switched to speaker phone and then had me describe to Anthony exactly how I was being pleasured in breathy, graphic detail.

Matt: “Yep! He’s in HK and will meet u either at Dragon-I or Carnegies to start!”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. It was that Anthony. And that Anthony wanted to meet me on my first night in Hong Kong. I hadn’t even unpacked a toothbrush and already I was being set up to meet a complete stranger whom I had phone sex with for drinks. Exactly what the doctor ordered, I guess. I figured it was only good fengshui to accept.

Anthony and I met at Dragon-i at about 11 p.m. and hit it off almost immediately. He was tall, wore a well-fitted Paul Smith suit and had an absolutely wicked sense of humour. It was a Wednesday, Dragon-i’s legendary Model’s Night, but we joked that it must have been full of hand or foot models (strange choice of career – but being currently unemployed, I’m in no position to judge) because we hadn’t seen anybody particularly attractive there.

Or maybe we just weren’t paying all that much attention. I was more intent on making Anthony work hard for my favours.

“We’re not leaving here until I say we are. Because I have rave reviews but the jury’s still out on you,” I teased. Anthony raised an eyebrow in reply, as if challenging me to test him. So I did.

First, I asked him how good he was with his fingers and his tongue – and to show me how he intended to use them. He talked me through his intentions. And I was immediately turned on - never underestimate the power of a beautiful turn of phrase and good old fashioned imagination.(“These two fingers go inside you until I hit the spot”, “My thumb stays at the top on your clit until its stiff and peaked for me”) Finally he took the fingers of my right hand, brought them to his mouth and used his tongue to dart in between them, flickering and sucking their length before nibbling softly on the skin between my knuckles. ("And I don't need to explain that one...")

“Not bad…” I murmured. My eyes watching his tongue intently. “What about if I do this?” I reached for my drink and poured a significant amount of it down the front of my low-cut top. “Oops.” I leaned in close and ran my tongue up his earlobe.

He bent his head over and followed the streams of vodka cranberry from the top of my clavicle to the centre of my cleavage, lavishing attention on the upper mounds of my breasts. I arched my back against the pillar. It was then that I decided we would get the bill and leave.

But there was a final test. We reached Anthony’s hotel room and he had with his key-card in his hand. But before he could let us in, I stood in front of him and blocked access to the keyhole. With a cheeky laugh, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside to grab his cock.

“Show me how much you want me. Right here.” I said. To my surprise, he was completely uninhibited about pinning me to the door and unzipping my satin trousers, pulling them completely to the ground. I wasn’t wearing any underwear (in accordance to my principles) so he bent over and began to lick the mound of my pussy. Right in the hotel corridor. I could feel myself get soaking wet. Convinced, I took the key from his hand and opened the door.

Anthony turned out to be great in bed. One of those men who is just naturally sensual, wild, tender, generous and passionate – and who can apply these qualities together with a healthy knowledge of sexual techniques and unfeigned attentiveness to a woman’s pleasure.

Essentially, any man who instinctively knows to rest my right leg on his shoulder, lick my toes whilst vibrating his thumb on my clitoris is a real keeper.

“I’m thirsty,” I whispered after we had finished our first session of lovemaking (there were to be 3 sessions in total before dawn).

Anthony took out a bottle of minibar-cold Evian, opened it and took a swig before kissing me deeply and pouring it into my throat. He did this a few times. He then took a big mouthful, put his lips over my pussy and shot a stream of cold water into me. As water slowly trickled out of my pussy and onto the bed, I felt him lapping it up with warm, languorous strokes of his tongue. The gesture were unexpectedly and deliciously sensual.

“Now that I’ve licked you clean, we can start all over again,” he said.

The next day, I sent a text to Matt.

Me: “Loved Anthony. Every ounce as good in real life as over the phone. Showed him the town, made sure he had a good time etc. You’ll be glad to know he didn’t let the side down.”

Matt: “Sooo pleased to hear that. Welcome to the circle of champions. 3 of us next time. Hv a great day!”

I laughed. And probably inhaled enough carbon monoxide to mess up a few internal functions, but everything was humming from the tip of my toes to the top of the clit. And then somehow I knew - viscerally - that things would be all right for me in my newly adopted home.

So hello Hong Kong, I thought. Here I come.

Lending A Hand

2005-09-23T12:08:00.000+08:00

“How long can you do this for?” Randall looked down at my rapidly vibrating wrist on his cock.

“I don’t know. How long do you want me to do it for? I’ve never really timed myself. Maybe 10 minutes?”

“Oh, I usually need a lot longer than that,” he said, reaching over to his bedside cabinet for that ever-handy bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil and pouring some over my fingers.

(I’m sure if the abovementioned Mr Johnsons – honourable gentlemen and undoubtedly excellent fathers – knew what twisted applications their innocent, baby formula products were being put to, they would turn in their graves. And then turn back – so they could conduct more statistically significant market research.)

“Well, however long you want” I said with a smile, thinking that it would be no real hardship to maintain speed for about 20 minutes.

“I’m thinking an hour of this would be very good…” he crossed his fingers around the back of his head and lay back looking reasonably content.

I tried to keep my lower jaw stuck to my teeth. One WHOLE hour? Good grief. Even the Electronic StrokemasterTM doesn’t last that long, I thought.

But I was stuck. We were both naked on his bed. We had done some very rudimentary shagging (he like a beached whale, me like a starfish – I came once out of courtesy) before he whipped off his condom and lay back requesting to be pleasured. I felt it would have been rude and extremely unsatisfactory to just refuse and walk out abruptly. Even though I should have, on the luxury of hindsight.

In general, men don’t usually ask me for extensive handjobs. I mean that’s something you pay $30 at Orchard Towers for a well-qualified Thai dame (real name Dave) with bad breath and heavy biceps to do. I’m always happy to lend a hand or two as part of foreplay – in the shower, on a balcony overlooking a beautiful skyline or surreptitiously in a bar. I have also helped guys finish off whilst keeping my mouth nearby.

But I’m a real, live, sexy woman, for chrissakes. And I would imagine that after you’ve bought me drinks and attempted to put up at least 2 hours of decent conversation, the last thing you’d want me to do is just sit between your legs and work on perfecting my wrist action for an hour. It’s hardly an efficient use of resources for you. And dead boring for me.

Suck me, fuck me, or take me home to Mom if you must, but there are a ton of other things to do in the realm of lovemaking than having an hourlong assisted wank. Or am I missing something here.

You’d think someone from the entertainment industry would have had a bit more imagination. Randall had relocated from LA a year ago to work with “financing budding Asian talent” (am I the only one that finds that phrase side-splittingly funny?). He name-dropped for a living. (“I’m meeting Jeffrey Katzenberg next week”, “Yea me and Harrison go way back” etc.) He was 38 but mentally he seemed to be still in high-school. I should have known he’d be the sort who would want a one-hour handjob. And maybe a light-sabre fight after.

So 30 minutes in and I was beginning to feel like a professional i.e. I had settled my hands into a somewhat monotonous rhythm and was busy thinking of what to cook for dinner. That was when Randall started to give me instructions, as if he was a director on set:

“Ok now a little bit lower…aah yes, good. That feels verrry comfortable…now if you can just use your thumbs to touch my balls? Ohhh! Great. That’s it…Now long strokes. Right, looooong strokes. Up…and down….Up….and down. Let me see your face. You have a beautiful face, don’t hide behind the hair. Great…”

Admittedly, my handjob skills could have done with a little brushing up, since it’s something I hadn’t really quite bothered to master for long periods of time until now. Every guy likes to be touched a little differently. You can’t go too far wrong with a firm, straight-up pump. But some men also like long, tight strokes down their shafts. Others prefer quick, frantic rubbing around the head. I even met a guy who would vibrate the inside of his wrist directly on his frenulum. But then he also wrote poetry about dead animals – so we can assume he was a bit unorthodox.

Randall seemed to like a combination of techniques. And he let me know it, which made me feel like I was in one big, stinking B-movie. The Curse of the Infernally Pumping Hand Part Deux. A Hand In Need is A Hand Indeed. (Heh) It felt pretentious and just didn’t make up for the fact that I was cramped up in 3 different places. In fact, my right hand might have even lost sensation for a while, close to the 50 minute mark.

This is what it feels like to wank one’s arm off, I thought to myself gloomily. And then he came. I almost cried with relief and legged it out of there as fast as I could.

So Randall, and all you other would-be marathon wankers, next time you’ll have to content yourselves with talking to my face because the hand…well, it just ain’t listening.

Three's a Crowd (But we love crowds...)

2005-09-13T15:05:00.000+08:00

Before I left Singapore, I had just the sweetest threesome to remember our over-manicured Garden City by. Two Qantas stewards (one Italian – Paolo, one Maltese – Mario), too many drinks at Attica and lil’ ole me.

It started off innocently enough, as these things do, with me dirty-dancing with Paolo. Paolo fit the profile of the typical mid-40’s Italian – leather-tanned, slightly oily, shirt half-undone, abundant chest hair, mellifluous accent, oodles of enthusiasm but relatively harmless. I didn’t fancy him, and was quite relieved to have my ass groped by his younger, more well-built, suave friend Mario.

Mario and Paolo had been friends for 17 years and they had just gotten back from holidaying in Italy together. A few sweaty sandwiches on the dancefloor later, they were telling me the most entertaining stories about nude beaches (how to find them), family dinners (how to avoid them) and Italian women (how much unnecessary energy is required to bed them).

It was getting hot on the dancefloor and I pleaded for a drink. Mario led me to the bar, ordered us the perfunctory drinks and then proceeded to ravish the living daylights out of me. We must have taken quite a while because by the time Paolo came looking for us, my lips were flamingly swollen, my hair haphazardly kinked and a small bruise was beginning to form at the bottom of my neck.

“Paolo! You’re just in time to see what I’m doing to our beautiful friend here,” Mario said before breaking into a stream of fluent Italian, most of which I thought sounded highly complimentary. (But then I don’t speak Italian, so this is a highly unjustifiable opinion).

“Oh? Show me again. I want to see everry-ting,” Paolo said, wide-eyed. Mario proceeded to accede to the request, but not before I broke off halfway and eyed Paolo mischievously.

“You like to watch? This is only Chapter 1. There’s so much more that I could do your friend Mario over here. It could go on for hours. But you won’t be around to watch it all. This is only the first act. You might miss…(staged gasp) the climax.”

I cupped Paolo’s chin, and pushed a finger gently past his lips. He sucked on it greedily and I turn my head to bite Mario swiftly on the shoulder. “I think your friend likes me.” We both laughed and Mario dipped his head over the swell of my breast, lapping at it sensuously.

Paolo could hardly contain himself. “Oh show me…that’s right, tease me, tease me. I love to watch. Can I watch, please? You can tie me up so I can’t even touch myself. That way, it will be the ultimate tease. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I pretended to hesitate. “Weee-lll, I guess you can watch a little bit. If Mario is ok with it.” I turn to Mario and say in a loud whisper: “Maybe he can watch up till the part where you fuck me. Then he has to go back to his room”.

The whole scene was turning very B-movie but they seemed like the sort of men who were suckers for over-acting and a cheesy script. God bless Italians (and their neighbours).

“Paolo is like a brother to me. We’re family. Any other guy I wouldn’t be so sure. But Paolo – he gets the best. And you’re the best chick in this club, bella. So let’s all go back.” And with that affirmation, Mario got the bill and left the club.

Once we were all nicely ensconced in the Swissotel, Room 1309, Menudo and Paolo broke out more drinks while I took a shower. By the time I stepped out, they were both naked, knocking back vodka tonics and comfortably chatting. It felt like a big pyjama party (sans pajamas).

They then took a shower - together. Actually, it was rather refreshing to see two men so comfortable with their bodies and each other (even in the unlikely event of any soap-dropping). And that was what made the whole threesome absolutely enjoyable for me. There was no competition, no attempt at one-upmanship, just two men with two not unimpressive cocks, and one combined desire to please me.

We did start off by tying Paolo up with the string of the hotel bathrobe. He was just so happy to watch. But as these things go, it would have been churlish to deny him a little action. So I crawled on all fours over to him and put his cock in my mouth as I was fucked by Mario from behind. Every deep cock-thrust in my pussy was matched by the appropriate audible suck of my mouth.

There was great chemistry in the room – and at some point we couldn't deny Paolo the joy of participating. He so actively wanted to suck, and kiss, and lick every inch of me, even though I’m sure he would have been just as content as a bystander.

Really, a girl couldn't have asked for much more...

Well technically, she could. But three is such a good number in terms of what fits where at any one time, and who gives head to who, and who sucks on who whilst doing doggy, that personally I wouldn’t mess with the dynamic. I was surprised to see that they both kept their erections reasonably well. For some reason I just expected there to be a lot more cock flogging going on, but maybe I'm just woman enough for two men.

Any more than two would not be quite a turn-on. I don't find it horny to have numerous men line up patiently and flog their cocks desperately just waiting their turn to use me as a spunk-bag. We all know of Singaporeans who have launched famous careers in this fashion. But I am neither bored nor publicity-hungry enough to follow in those footsteps. (If I ever get into the Guinness Book of Records, it’ll be because I was the first woman who inhaled the longest length of string or painted the largest number of bullfrogs on a single canvas. Or something completely eccentric like that.)

Besides, threesomes should be fun, intimate and off-the-charts sensory experiences. There’s nothing desperately dirty or soul-destroying about them if everyone has the right attitude and does what they’re comfortable doing.

Occasionally, they can even feel quite uplifting and dare I say, life-affirming. After we were finished and Mario had shot a load full of cum on my face, we all laid back on the two queen beds, panting.

Paolo turned to Mario and said exultantly: “So we finally shared a woman! Tonight has sealed our 17 years of our friendship! And now no matter where we are in the world, we’ll always have our time in the Swissotel to remember. With the sexiest bella in Singapore. We’re going to talk about this one for a long time. Even when we are old and our dicks don’t work anymore.” Aww.

That old Italian penchant for hyperbole, of course. But still, I was strangely moved by that little speech. I gave them each a massage whilst they continued to regale me with little vignettes that began with “Remember the time we…” until finally we all fell asleep one by one.

And only then, did I discover the one, big drawback to sharing a room with two inebriated men whom you’ve just finished having a mindblowing threesome with – the Snoring. It was like an orchestra of the damned. Winds on the left, brass on the right, and cacophonic madness everywhere. I slipped out early the next morning with a note left at the bathroom mirror to escape from it all.

So got a threesome on the cards? Make sure you’re well prepared. Lose the inhibitions. Bring lots of condoms. And pack earplugs.

A Farewell Kiss...

2005-09-05T17:23:00.000+08:00

…that takes me by surprise.

No thrusting tongues, no heated panting, no urgent undressing. Instead, the kiss is gentle, dreamy, questioning. It lingers. My eyes hooded and half-open the whole time. Our foreheads touch and we breathe the same air for a minute, laced with silent regret and muted purpose.

I hate airports if I’m not the one leaving. But I was there to help fulfil a promise. It’s been a long time since he’s made one, even longer since he’s kept one. And we both need the practice. We don’t usually do promises – just random surprises – but maybe we’re growing up. It is important to know that we can hold some things sacred. At least, just this once.

I watch him through immigration. Our eyes search for each other through the unnavigable distance of glass and procedure. A casual wave. Another time, another airport, maybe? I smile and half-shrug my shoulders.

And it is on that note of wistful helplessness, that he is gone. With his rugged t-shirt, travel-beaten bags and 2-day stubble. Back to the world and its unpredictable meanness.

I take the last train home. In my best non-farewell outfit – a bright green sundress with beech-brown wedges and ethnic bangles. Back to my life and its ordered madness.

So it was, my last kiss here, bestowed on its rightful owner. And with it, the close of this babe’s chapter in Singapore. On a whisper. For now. No goodbyes, just a see you later.

P.S. Faithful readers, no need to reach for the Valium. This blog will continue in Hong Kong, which is a complete cesspit (meant in the very best way) I've been told. But first, I have to finish packing. Ugh. And then I have to make extra sure nothing starts ticking or vibrating in my bag.

So is she...Or isn't she?

2005-09-01T11:53:00.000+08:00

I noticed a very lively thread of discussion going on in the Comments sections of my last post. Most of it fevered speculation about whether I am a shameless SPG whoring myself on behalf of Singapore Government. Actually I found this allusion quite funny. I mean, it gives new meaning to the term “public servant”, for one. And then gives rise to a bunch of related questions. Do I have to pay CPF? Can I retire early? And will I at least be amply compensated?

I’m not about to ruin my manicure defending myself with guns and cannons blazing because a lot of my other readers have done that for me (thank you) and well, this is my blog after all, I didn’t start it to seek approval from others. What I write is meant to be provocative and I do enjoy people responding strongly to what I post, whether that is derision or delight – as long as it is well-written and reasonably amusing. But there is a fine line between amusing and irritating, so don’t push it.

I suppose though that some sort of moderated response is in order to all this – not as a means of self-justification, but more in terms of giving people additional insight into the way I think about men, sex and this whole incendiary race issue.

Let’s start by reviewing my rather “colourful” sexual history. I’ve had a Singaporean boyfriend for 5 years. (Oh dear, I suppose that had to come out at some point.) I’ve also been with the usual Caucasian suspects i.e. Brits, Americans, Italians, Aussies, Canadians; other Asians i.e. Indians, Malay, Japanese; and the occasional guy from the Middle East i.e. Iranian, Egyptian, Israeli. But South America is still largely unexplored, aside from Brazil.

Suffice to say, it would be a political catastrophe to put all the guys I have shagged into the same room together. But the world is a big place, and there just aren’t enough Singaporeans in it.

If anything, all this just makes me a Slut with a sex addiction. I can live with that. But an SPG who’s a puppet for the Government? (Gosh, now that takes talent.) I’ll leave that for you to decide, I guess. Either way, it’s not about to give me sleepless nights.

Note: For the less well-informed, the Coxford Singlish Dictionary describes SPG as a pejorative term for “sarong party girl” i.e. a Chinese chick that only goes out with Caucasians. God, how I love proper Singlish.

I don’t hold any stereotypical views about the men I shag or where they come from. (Except that all the Japanese men - ok, 2 - I’ve shagged seemed to enjoy jackhammering me to the wall. Is this a particular cultural technique that I don’t know about, someone please enlighten me.) In fact, this blog will attest that I’ve always emphasised what attracts me to a guy is his intelligence, big personality (yup, that's what they're calling it nowadays), sense of humour and how likely he is to be good in bed. These attributes aren’t race-specific.

In my experience, being a terrible lover isn’t race-specific either. And that’s something I try to avoid across the board.

Naturally, I have preferences – not prejudices – in men. For example, I find green-gray-hazel eyes that change in the light completely mesmerising in a man. And I love the look of a thick, black cock. I’m sorry that most Singaporeans I know don’t have these traits, although come to think of it…in the dark (and with the appropriate refractory index i.e. beer goggles) it hasn’t made much of a difference anyway. Heh. I also tend not to be a fan of excessive body hair and my ideal physique on a man is leanly muscled – again, certain races have more of an advantage with this than others.

But I refuse to adopt a blanket view of the world and I defy anyone who tries to force me into any sort of artificial classification borne out of ignorance. One only has to live abroad for a little while – as I have – and meet people who think that anyone Chinese is hardworking, good in Math / Science, doesn’t speak English well and works in a laundry shop to realise how irritating that is.

I know there is a lot of resentment towards the idea that expats come into Singapore to “steal our jobs” and especially, “steal our women”. But please, read a newspaper and get over it already. China’s on its way to taking over the world, or haven’t you been listening. Women of the world swoon at the thought.

People who go around with their holier-than-thou race filters and huge chips on their shoulders don’t do justice to the fact that Singapore’s one of the most integrated, cosmopolitan cities in the world and that Singaporeans (yes, us “natives”) are some of the most friendly, open and welcoming people to external influences. I’m sorry that you see this as something to be ashamed of. But it is you who gives Singapore and Singaporeans a bad name, not me. I’m just the mindless mouthpiece of the government, remember.

So please, give me – and my readers – some credit. Countless people from Singapore and around the world read this blog for a reason. And that reason is not because I’m the sort of simpering, spineless Asian female that literally tries to mate with anyone that lurks around Brix and approximates cowboy accents. And then writes about her adventures using facile, drippy descriptions.

Feel free to disagree, but the Internet is a big place. Nobody is forcing anyone to read anything. And I highly recommend you redirect your browser and any meanspirited aggression to “innocentyounglamb.blogspot.com” or any of the other 2 billion websites that produce literary content worthy of your lofty attention and interests.

I doubt it’s likely to be as riveting a read though. But it’s obvious, we were never meant to be together. Yawn. Now go on, do your worst.

Second Chances...

2005-08-28T17:29:00.000+08:00

...will have to wait till this Tuesday. Yes, my "date" (inasmuch as I believe in "dates" - which is very little) with JP has been postponed. Courtesy of the rising oil prices that could have sparked off civil unrest in Indonesia.

However, it looks like peace has prevailed, which is good (for me - since he heads back to Singapore tomorrow) and bad (for him - no story for the BBC). I can't really pretend I feel too sorry about his situation.

I'm writing this because I recieved such a massive amount of interest (thank you) in the outcome of my meeting with JP that I couldn't really reply to everyone personally. So I thought this was the best way to let everyone know what's been happening.

Since quite a bit of time has elapsed from my last post about JP, I've had time to think of all the things I will NOT do in the context of this "date". Of course the beauty of these rules and resolutions is that a. they're not legally binding and b. there's nothing like the guilty pleasure of breaking all of them, so here they are:

1. I will NOT be too crestfallen if a Nuclear Holocaust breaks out in the next couple of days, millions of people are killed and JP has to cover the story from the frontline, foregoing dinner with me.

2. I will NOT lose patience and stress out about what to wear or the massive pimple beginning to erupt on the right side of my face. But I really hope we are dining by candlelight.

3. I will NOT be silly / giggly / nauseatingly sycophantic like the last time, but will attempt my very best to be cool, calm, collected and in control of all my faculties. Even though I know there is a babbling idiot that lives within me.

4. I will NOT be presumptuous - it is only dinner. So no sexual propositions, no "your place or mine" references, and certainly no whipping out of toys I've stashed in my handbag. Of course I will carry my newly-bought condoms - better safe than sorry!

5. I will NOT commit to anything. Not a relationship. Not children. Not to building a house in the Bahamas. Not yet, anyway. Not unless he asks really really nicely. Hmm...

Okie, glad I got that out of the way! Now, wish me luck - and don't worry, this isn't going to keep me from having fun in the meantime. I'll be writing! :)

Sex Shop Shopping

2005-08-27T20:35:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, I visited the House of Condom at the basement of Lucky Plaza in Orchard Road. I’ve actually never gone to a so-called sex shop in Singapore. Usually my condom runs are frantic 7-11 stops in the middle of the night when inevitably the default option is Durex, which well, works. Just about.

Occasionally however, I have found myself in apologetic “I’m really terrible with condoms” situations, and had to nurse runaway erections with liberal tonguefuls of Nonoxynol 9. Not very gourmet.

So I went to Orchard in search of a better solution. Different smocks for different cocks, as they say. And the time had come for me to increase the size and range of my condom collection. In particular, I was on a grand quest for snug, Sheerlon Japanese-make condoms (for sensitivity junkies), comfy, ribbed Trojans (for thick dicks, long dongs, chunky monkeys - you get the picture etc.) and some adventure (for me).

I walked into the store and it was reasonably busy. But I might as well have been in a huge elevator – never before had I met a larger group of uncommunicative people trying so hard to studiously ignore each other.

There were lots of people inspecting merchandise, mostly students or early 20s. Not touching anything - oh no, God forbid they interact with the products – but just staring very hard at stuff. Slently, with their arms folded or resting at the side.

Then there were the couples huddled in their respective corners conducting serious discussions (mint vs. strawberry, ribbed vs. studded - I can only imagine) in hushed tones. Occasionally a giggle or two would escape guiltily from them, only to be hastily shushed and instantly disowned.

I was standing behind one such couple when the girl craned her head round to speak to me:

“Do you have any poly..mmm…ter…mdtthh…ane…. mdmmtermmpfthh?” she mumbled.

“What? Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that,” I said in my normal voice (i.e. 30 decibels louder than anyone else’s instore).

“Do you have any…poly…er…the….ran condoms?” she repeated in a vicious whisper.

“Oh poly-U-re-THANE condoms!” I corrected her in a flash of helpful enthusiasm, and watched a dull flush nauseously creep up her face. “Actually you’ll have to ask someone who works here, because I don’t. Maybe that girl by the counter?” I was just trying to be helpful of course but she looked like she could have put a hex on me, so I tried to get out of her way.

I can’t imagine what she (or her protective boyfriend) would have thought had she seen me at the counter 10 minutes later with my hands wrapped tightly around different vibrators, discussing the virtues of anal plugs with the salesgirl. I ended up buying 2 new toys and the condoms I was looking for. So all in all, a reasonably fruitful trip.

However, I really didn’t enjoy my visit to the House of Condom as much as I should have for a few reasons:

First, when did sex shop shopping become such a serious business? The House of Condom was at worst, a little tacky and badly-merchandised. But Singaporeans were treating it like a place of depravity, a necessary evil. Walking into the store, I felt, dirty. And there’s nothing dirty about sex. (Only when the government tries to campaign us into having more of it – but then, that’s just wrong.)

Still, the prevailing mindset of these nervous, hesitant young couples seemed to be: If we go to a sex shop that means that we have sex. Not just do we have sex, but we enjoy sex and we do it not just to procreate and support Singapore’s population. And ooh, if someone else walks into the store, we have to stay at least 5 metres away from them because they enjoy sex too. Filthy animals!

Second: I know that by law these shops are forbidden to display and sell “obscene objects and literature”. So I’m not expecting to see the silicon moulds of actual porn star pussies with their labial lips held wide open in the window. (And trust me, I don’t want to – they are shriveled, leathery looking and not at all, erotic.)

But some porn would be nice. Nothing with grannies or squirrels in it. Just some pictures - maybe an occasional video – of people who enjoy fucking. And there can’t be anything wrong watching two beautiful women suck on each other’s pussies. It’s art, surely.

Third: It wouldn’t have been such a hardship if the store was full of handsome, eligible men whom I could “accidentally” brush up against, preferably in the Trojan “Shared Sensations” section. That way, we’d already have a lot in common. Deep, meaningful conversations to follow.

Or am I just getting carried away here?

Loose Ends (Part 2)

2005-08-22T20:16:00.000+08:00

Today, in the name of self-improvement, I finally forced my chicken-hearted self to call JP.

Which one is JP? The One-that-got-away-One (Refer to my last post on "Loose Ends" for more details.)

I knew I had to call. It had been gnawing away at my insides since that last post. I even have the actual bite-marks to show for it.

Besides, I convinced myself that he would be out somewhere shooting underneath the Antartic ice floes or dodging disgruntled Israelis in Gaza so really he was unlikely to pick up or return the call. And I could leave Singapore in a self-righteous huff, my dignity intact. QED.

I even had my voicemail message all rehearsed. Written out on a flourescent green Post-It. Casual. Friendly. Noncommittal. Just called to say hi, but ooh gotta run. Take care and don't get caught by a stray bullet. Ta! (How. Neurotic. Am I.)

So ring ring - the dialtone sounded local. My heartbeat was going gangbusters. And then, he actually picked up!

For a second, none of us said anything. And then...

"That can't be you who's calling," his familiar, teasing voice filled the reciever.

"Oh my god. Okay. I can't believe you picked up," I said and promptly collapsed into convulsive laughter. Yes, Bimbo Me to the rescue.

"Of course I'd pick up the phone sweetheart. It's you."

"Yes, its funny how that happens sometimes huh. Great. Now I can't use my voicemail message that I prepared. And I thought so long about it too," I said, rather stupidly. This was definitely not turning out to be one of my finest moments.

"I thought I'd never hear from you again. I thought of calling you so many times but thought nah, maybe she hates me. Or even more likely...maybe you've met the love of your life, moved into a cottage somewhere and had 8 children or something," JP's tone was lighthearted but I could sense him testing the waters, wanting to know.

"No...come on. Hey, this is me we're talking about. I think just remembering your phone number qualifies as a commitment." I was talking too loudly, too fast. Was I sounding too flippant? Too eager? Too nervous? Breathe, breathe.

He asked me to recite my voicemail message, which I did. And he said: "Oh that's nice. Although I would have preferred. 'Hey JP, I've been thinking about you for more than a year. I can't quite get you out of my head and I was wonderin...'"

I cut in with my most sultry voice. "...and I was wonderin, aren't you lonely? I know I haven't talked to you for more than a year. But hey, let's do something crazy. Las Vegas is just 15 hours away!"

We both laughed and that put the tension was put to rest. No apologies necessary.

And then, a pause. A silent acknowledgement to do things differently this time. Not everyone gets the luxury of second chances.

So, he's only in Singapore for a few days (Man did I luck out on this one) and I'm meeting him for a quick lunch tomorrow. And then dinner on Thursday. I'm going to try my best to keep my act together - and my pants on - and do justice to the herculean mental effort involved in this silly little exercise. We will actually catch up properly, and interact like human beings - not rabid animals. No more games. No more self-destructive behaviour. Not until after dinner, at least.

Well, such is the stuff of good intentions anyway. Law of Entropy notwithstanding.

Now if only I could figure out what to wear! *flaps hands wildly*

I think I need to sit down.