Change - or be Changed?

“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

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)

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

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. :)

Oops

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...

…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.

Three Words

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.

Crusade

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.

Love YA

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

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

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

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

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

Love ya. Love YA? Love Ya?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it wasn’t Love he said…

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

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

Back To Mine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know you're Mindfucked when...

...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.

How Does It All Fit Together

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.

Nate Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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