Searching for Soul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you think I have a soul?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cocktease

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I want you now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stalker

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

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

Absolutely nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porn Does Not Make Me Horny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy in Love

“Al and I are crazy in love!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Recovery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missed Opportunities

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

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

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

He replied:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He SMSed the next day:

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

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

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

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

Sexually deviant, moi?

The Travails of a Serial Non-Dater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in New Territories

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because I think you have a heart.”

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

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

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

“What if I don’t want to be protected? I have some say in this too you know. I’ve been hurt before. So what? It doesn’t make me want to stop trying to be with somebody,” he said. He nuzzled his upturned face right below my collarbone as we descended the escalator, and I rubbed his hair absently. “Besides, I think I can make you happy.”

A one-night stand had become a whole weekend without me realizing it. Ryan made the world feel safe and a little fuzzy round the edges – 375 degrees fuzzy in both eyes to be exact. It was funny how we realized that we were both equally blind without our contacts on. We heard the thunder roll in through the sunshine and watched the rain from his window in short-sighted fascination. And I felt like someone had sprinkled fairydust all over me.

We wandered the streets, like two fresh, well-mannered 26 year-olds, the type of couple that warms the cockles of withered grannies’ hearts. He carried the umbrella and I fitted my body close to him, happy to be the perfect elbow accessory.

Ryan lived in the New Territories, near to his job, near to the hills, and far away from the gritty quagmire of Central where I lived. He was a tennis coach who loved kids – and wasn’t afraid to admit it. I shouldn’t have stayed with him so long but besides not quite knowing how to get home, that weekend in the NT was a respite from Central, a respite from me.

I longed to tell him it was my Doppelganger in a black cocktail dress that had helped him clean his house that weekend, that had sat in the bath with him, that had massaged his injured lower back and kissed it so the pain would go away.

But all weekend, I just dodged any sort of serious conversation and I postponed exchanging numbers. And now on a Sunday evening, as he was seeing me back home to Central, he had broached the topic.

“Look, I don’t know if we’re going to last 2 days, 2 months or 2 years. But I want to see you again, to find out. If you hurt me then it’s my choice. Besides why should you care?” he asked.

Well I just do, I thought. I wanted to tell Ryan the stories of my life, but had not the words nor the context. I care that I’ve broken trust. I care that I’ve hurt people. I care that I’ve lost friends. I care that things never work out, invariably because of me. Most of all, I care that I am mutely accused of never having cared at all.

Because I warned them, as I did Ryan. But they made their own self-professed free-will decisions, lured by that same big heart and anime eyes. And I being much more careless and naïve then, had let them.

“No…sweetie. Please. I care, I do. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. I’m not what you’re looking for. And I have to go back home to what I know, to what I’m good at. But I really had a great time with you this weekend,” I said. And I meant it.

“So did I. I just want to see you again.” But he saw how I smiled at him – with my chin down, cheeks raised but my eyes steady and uncrinkled. So he half-shrugged and said: “Look, I’m going to give you my number because I know you don’t like guys bugging you. If you want to call me, call me. I’ll take the risk.”

I put his number in my phone and prayed I wouldn’t use it in a moment of weakness. He only turned back once – his thumb and pinkie of his right hand outstretched near his ear mouthing the words ‘call me’ - before disappearing into the cocooning gutter of the Central MTR underground.

I waved back, before curling my fingers into a ball and clutching the side of my dress, my hand hot with moisture. I turned and walked quickly away.

Hits & Messes

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Welcome to the Circle of Champions

So, Hong Kong. City of Life and newly-christened Home of Mickey.

Lots of people ask me why I moved. And I always reply, “Oh I got sick of Singapore” which is the over-simplistic answer one gives at frivolous dinner parties – accompanied by the careless shrug and toss of the head – to people I intend never to see again. But of course, you faithful reader, don’t fall in that category.

I moved because of a variety of factors – most of them are boring and not worth dwelling on (office politics, professional opportunities etc.). But chiefly, I moved because it was time for a Change. A big 3-60. Up the ass. No lube.

Living in Singapore for the past few years has felt like a bit of a Faustian bargain. An insidious sacrifice of my soul on the altar of casual familiarity, comforting conformity and grand middle-class lucre. Don’t get me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute. And most likely I will return one day, a harried tai tai with 3 squawking children in tow, ready to discuss PSLEs and charity fundraisers with much aplomb.

But for now, there’s Hong Kong. And Ms Sash van Winkle needs to make up for lost time. To feel alive. To reinvent. To live dangerously. And yes, to have better sex. (And more frequently, yes please.)

In that respect, things started off auspiciously. My phone beeped a few hours after I touched down in Hong Kong. It was Matt, one of the most charismatic (and naughtiest) men you would ever meet, and a favourite shag of mine from more than a year ago. He now lived in Switzerland and we kept in touch occasionally.

Matt: “R u in hk?”

Me: “Yes. Sitting in the middle of suitcases and contemplating the meaning of life. Why? What’s up?”

Matt: “My friend Anthony will ph u in 5 mins and invite u for a drink! He’s a champ.”

Me: “Wait, this isn’t the self-same Anthony from our last encounter?”

I didn’t know Anthony. Save that he had a honeyed Aussie-accented voice and loved to talk dirty. Also he must have known Matt reasonably well. Because he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Matt called him mid-shag, switched to speaker phone and then had me describe to Anthony exactly how I was being pleasured in breathy, graphic detail.

Matt: “Yep! He’s in HK and will meet u either at Dragon-I or Carnegies to start!”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. It was that Anthony. And that Anthony wanted to meet me on my first night in Hong Kong. I hadn’t even unpacked a toothbrush and already I was being set up to meet a complete stranger whom I had phone sex with for drinks. Exactly what the doctor ordered, I guess. I figured it was only good fengshui to accept.

Anthony and I met at Dragon-i at about 11 p.m. and hit it off almost immediately. He was tall, wore a well-fitted Paul Smith suit and had an absolutely wicked sense of humour. It was a Wednesday, Dragon-i’s legendary Model’s Night, but we joked that it must have been full of hand or foot models (strange choice of career – but being currently unemployed, I’m in no position to judge) because we hadn’t seen anybody particularly attractive there.

Or maybe we just weren’t paying all that much attention. I was more intent on making Anthony work hard for my favours.

“We’re not leaving here until I say we are. Because I have rave reviews but the jury’s still out on you,” I teased. Anthony raised an eyebrow in reply, as if challenging me to test him. So I did.

First, I asked him how good he was with his fingers and his tongue – and to show me how he intended to use them. He talked me through his intentions. And I was immediately turned on - never underestimate the power of a beautiful turn of phrase and good old fashioned imagination.(“These two fingers go inside you until I hit the spot”, “My thumb stays at the top on your clit until its stiff and peaked for me”) Finally he took the fingers of my right hand, brought them to his mouth and used his tongue to dart in between them, flickering and sucking their length before nibbling softly on the skin between my knuckles. ("And I don't need to explain that one...")

“Not bad…” I murmured. My eyes watching his tongue intently. “What about if I do this?” I reached for my drink and poured a significant amount of it down the front of my low-cut top. “Oops.” I leaned in close and ran my tongue up his earlobe.

He bent his head over and followed the streams of vodka cranberry from the top of my clavicle to the centre of my cleavage, lavishing attention on the upper mounds of my breasts. I arched my back against the pillar. It was then that I decided we would get the bill and leave.

But there was a final test. We reached Anthony’s hotel room and he had with his key-card in his hand. But before he could let us in, I stood in front of him and blocked access to the keyhole. With a cheeky laugh, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside to grab his cock.

“Show me how much you want me. Right here.” I said. To my surprise, he was completely uninhibited about pinning me to the door and unzipping my satin trousers, pulling them completely to the ground. I wasn’t wearing any underwear (in accordance to my principles) so he bent over and began to lick the mound of my pussy. Right in the hotel corridor. I could feel myself get soaking wet. Convinced, I took the key from his hand and opened the door.

Anthony turned out to be great in bed. One of those men who is just naturally sensual, wild, tender, generous and passionate – and who can apply these qualities together with a healthy knowledge of sexual techniques and unfeigned attentiveness to a woman’s pleasure.

Essentially, any man who instinctively knows to rest my right leg on his shoulder, lick my toes whilst vibrating his thumb on my clitoris is a real keeper.

“I’m thirsty,” I whispered after we had finished our first session of lovemaking (there were to be 3 sessions in total before dawn).

Anthony took out a bottle of minibar-cold Evian, opened it and took a swig before kissing me deeply and pouring it into my throat. He did this a few times. He then took a big mouthful, put his lips over my pussy and shot a stream of cold water into me. As water slowly trickled out of my pussy and onto the bed, I felt him lapping it up with warm, languorous strokes of his tongue. The gesture were unexpectedly and deliciously sensual.

“Now that I’ve licked you clean, we can start all over again,” he said.

The next day, I sent a text to Matt.

Me: “Loved Anthony. Every ounce as good in real life as over the phone. Showed him the town, made sure he had a good time etc. You’ll be glad to know he didn’t let the side down.”

Matt: “Sooo pleased to hear that. Welcome to the circle of champions. 3 of us next time. Hv a great day!”

I laughed. And probably inhaled enough carbon monoxide to mess up a few internal functions, but everything was humming from the tip of my toes to the top of the clit. And then somehow I knew - viscerally - that things would be all right for me in my newly adopted home.

So hello Hong Kong, I thought. Here I come.

Lending A Hand

“How long can you do this for?” Randall looked down at my rapidly vibrating wrist on his cock.

“I don’t know. How long do you want me to do it for? I’ve never really timed myself. Maybe 10 minutes?”

“Oh, I usually need a lot longer than that,” he said, reaching over to his bedside cabinet for that ever-handy bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil and pouring some over my fingers.

(I’m sure if the abovementioned Mr Johnsons – honourable gentlemen and undoubtedly excellent fathers – knew what twisted applications their innocent, baby formula products were being put to, they would turn in their graves. And then turn back – so they could conduct more statistically significant market research.)

“Well, however long you want” I said with a smile, thinking that it would be no real hardship to maintain speed for about 20 minutes.

“I’m thinking an hour of this would be very good…” he crossed his fingers around the back of his head and lay back looking reasonably content.

I tried to keep my lower jaw stuck to my teeth. One WHOLE hour? Good grief. Even the Electronic StrokemasterTM doesn’t last that long, I thought.

But I was stuck. We were both naked on his bed. We had done some very rudimentary shagging (he like a beached whale, me like a starfish – I came once out of courtesy) before he whipped off his condom and lay back requesting to be pleasured. I felt it would have been rude and extremely unsatisfactory to just refuse and walk out abruptly. Even though I should have, on the luxury of hindsight.

In general, men don’t usually ask me for extensive handjobs. I mean that’s something you pay $30 at Orchard Towers for a well-qualified Thai dame (real name Dave) with bad breath and heavy biceps to do. I’m always happy to lend a hand or two as part of foreplay – in the shower, on a balcony overlooking a beautiful skyline or surreptitiously in a bar. I have also helped guys finish off whilst keeping my mouth nearby.

But I’m a real, live, sexy woman, for chrissakes. And I would imagine that after you’ve bought me drinks and attempted to put up at least 2 hours of decent conversation, the last thing you’d want me to do is just sit between your legs and work on perfecting my wrist action for an hour. It’s hardly an efficient use of resources for you. And dead boring for me.

Suck me, fuck me, or take me home to Mom if you must, but there are a ton of other things to do in the realm of lovemaking than having an hourlong assisted wank. Or am I missing something here.

You’d think someone from the entertainment industry would have had a bit more imagination. Randall had relocated from LA a year ago to work with “financing budding Asian talent” (am I the only one that finds that phrase side-splittingly funny?). He name-dropped for a living. (“I’m meeting Jeffrey Katzenberg next week”, “Yea me and Harrison go way back” etc.) He was 38 but mentally he seemed to be still in high-school. I should have known he’d be the sort who would want a one-hour handjob. And maybe a light-sabre fight after.

So 30 minutes in and I was beginning to feel like a professional i.e. I had settled my hands into a somewhat monotonous rhythm and was busy thinking of what to cook for dinner. That was when Randall started to give me instructions, as if he was a director on set:

“Ok now a little bit lower…aah yes, good. That feels verrry comfortable…now if you can just use your thumbs to touch my balls? Ohhh! Great. That’s it…Now long strokes. Right, looooong strokes. Up…and down….Up….and down. Let me see your face. You have a beautiful face, don’t hide behind the hair. Great…”

Admittedly, my handjob skills could have done with a little brushing up, since it’s something I hadn’t really quite bothered to master for long periods of time until now. Every guy likes to be touched a little differently. You can’t go too far wrong with a firm, straight-up pump. But some men also like long, tight strokes down their shafts. Others prefer quick, frantic rubbing around the head. I even met a guy who would vibrate the inside of his wrist directly on his frenulum. But then he also wrote poetry about dead animals – so we can assume he was a bit unorthodox.

Randall seemed to like a combination of techniques. And he let me know it, which made me feel like I was in one big, stinking B-movie. The Curse of the Infernally Pumping Hand Part Deux. A Hand In Need is A Hand Indeed. (Heh) It felt pretentious and just didn’t make up for the fact that I was cramped up in 3 different places. In fact, my right hand might have even lost sensation for a while, close to the 50 minute mark.

This is what it feels like to wank one’s arm off, I thought to myself gloomily. And then he came. I almost cried with relief and legged it out of there as fast as I could.

So Randall, and all you other would-be marathon wankers, next time you’ll have to content yourselves with talking to my face because the hand…well, it just ain’t listening.

Three's a Crowd (But we love crowds...)

Before I left Singapore, I had just the sweetest threesome to remember our over-manicured Garden City by. Two Qantas stewards (one Italian – Paolo, one Maltese – Mario), too many drinks at Attica and lil’ ole me.

It started off innocently enough, as these things do, with me dirty-dancing with Paolo. Paolo fit the profile of the typical mid-40’s Italian – leather-tanned, slightly oily, shirt half-undone, abundant chest hair, mellifluous accent, oodles of enthusiasm but relatively harmless. I didn’t fancy him, and was quite relieved to have my ass groped by his younger, more well-built, suave friend Mario.

Mario and Paolo had been friends for 17 years and they had just gotten back from holidaying in Italy together. A few sweaty sandwiches on the dancefloor later, they were telling me the most entertaining stories about nude beaches (how to find them), family dinners (how to avoid them) and Italian women (how much unnecessary energy is required to bed them).

It was getting hot on the dancefloor and I pleaded for a drink. Mario led me to the bar, ordered us the perfunctory drinks and then proceeded to ravish the living daylights out of me. We must have taken quite a while because by the time Paolo came looking for us, my lips were flamingly swollen, my hair haphazardly kinked and a small bruise was beginning to form at the bottom of my neck.

“Paolo! You’re just in time to see what I’m doing to our beautiful friend here,” Mario said before breaking into a stream of fluent Italian, most of which I thought sounded highly complimentary. (But then I don’t speak Italian, so this is a highly unjustifiable opinion).

“Oh? Show me again. I want to see everry-ting,” Paolo said, wide-eyed. Mario proceeded to accede to the request, but not before I broke off halfway and eyed Paolo mischievously.

“You like to watch? This is only Chapter 1. There’s so much more that I could do your friend Mario over here. It could go on for hours. But you won’t be around to watch it all. This is only the first act. You might miss…(staged gasp) the climax.”

I cupped Paolo’s chin, and pushed a finger gently past his lips. He sucked on it greedily and I turn my head to bite Mario swiftly on the shoulder. “I think your friend likes me.” We both laughed and Mario dipped his head over the swell of my breast, lapping at it sensuously.

Paolo could hardly contain himself. “Oh show me…that’s right, tease me, tease me. I love to watch. Can I watch, please? You can tie me up so I can’t even touch myself. That way, it will be the ultimate tease. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I pretended to hesitate. “Weee-lll, I guess you can watch a little bit. If Mario is ok with it.” I turn to Mario and say in a loud whisper: “Maybe he can watch up till the part where you fuck me. Then he has to go back to his room”.

The whole scene was turning very B-movie but they seemed like the sort of men who were suckers for over-acting and a cheesy script. God bless Italians (and their neighbours).

“Paolo is like a brother to me. We’re family. Any other guy I wouldn’t be so sure. But Paolo – he gets the best. And you’re the best chick in this club, bella. So let’s all go back.” And with that affirmation, Mario got the bill and left the club.

Once we were all nicely ensconced in the Swissotel, Room 1309, Menudo and Paolo broke out more drinks while I took a shower. By the time I stepped out, they were both naked, knocking back vodka tonics and comfortably chatting. It felt like a big pyjama party (sans pajamas).

They then took a shower - together. Actually, it was rather refreshing to see two men so comfortable with their bodies and each other (even in the unlikely event of any soap-dropping). And that was what made the whole threesome absolutely enjoyable for me. There was no competition, no attempt at one-upmanship, just two men with two not unimpressive cocks, and one combined desire to please me.

We did start off by tying Paolo up with the string of the hotel bathrobe. He was just so happy to watch. But as these things go, it would have been churlish to deny him a little action. So I crawled on all fours over to him and put his cock in my mouth as I was fucked by Mario from behind. Every deep cock-thrust in my pussy was matched by the appropriate audible suck of my mouth.

There was great chemistry in the room – and at some point we couldn't deny Paolo the joy of participating. He so actively wanted to suck, and kiss, and lick every inch of me, even though I’m sure he would have been just as content as a bystander.

Really, a girl couldn't have asked for much more...

Well technically, she could. But three is such a good number in terms of what fits where at any one time, and who gives head to who, and who sucks on who whilst doing doggy, that personally I wouldn’t mess with the dynamic. I was surprised to see that they both kept their erections reasonably well. For some reason I just expected there to be a lot more cock flogging going on, but maybe I'm just woman enough for two men.

Any more than two would not be quite a turn-on. I don't find it horny to have numerous men line up patiently and flog their cocks desperately just waiting their turn to use me as a spunk-bag. We all know of Singaporeans who have launched famous careers in this fashion. But I am neither bored nor publicity-hungry enough to follow in those footsteps. (If I ever get into the Guinness Book of Records, it’ll be because I was the first woman who inhaled the longest length of string or painted the largest number of bullfrogs on a single canvas. Or something completely eccentric like that.)

Besides, threesomes should be fun, intimate and off-the-charts sensory experiences. There’s nothing desperately dirty or soul-destroying about them if everyone has the right attitude and does what they’re comfortable doing.

Occasionally, they can even feel quite uplifting and dare I say, life-affirming. After we were finished and Mario had shot a load full of cum on my face, we all laid back on the two queen beds, panting.

Paolo turned to Mario and said exultantly: “So we finally shared a woman! Tonight has sealed our 17 years of our friendship! And now no matter where we are in the world, we’ll always have our time in the Swissotel to remember. With the sexiest bella in Singapore. We’re going to talk about this one for a long time. Even when we are old and our dicks don’t work anymore.” Aww.

That old Italian penchant for hyperbole, of course. But still, I was strangely moved by that little speech. I gave them each a massage whilst they continued to regale me with little vignettes that began with “Remember the time we…” until finally we all fell asleep one by one.

And only then, did I discover the one, big drawback to sharing a room with two inebriated men whom you’ve just finished having a mindblowing threesome with – the Snoring. It was like an orchestra of the damned. Winds on the left, brass on the right, and cacophonic madness everywhere. I slipped out early the next morning with a note left at the bathroom mirror to escape from it all.

So got a threesome on the cards? Make sure you’re well prepared. Lose the inhibitions. Bring lots of condoms. And pack earplugs.

A Farewell Kiss...

…that takes me by surprise.

No thrusting tongues, no heated panting, no urgent undressing. Instead, the kiss is gentle, dreamy, questioning. It lingers. My eyes hooded and half-open the whole time. Our foreheads touch and we breathe the same air for a minute, laced with silent regret and muted purpose.

I hate airports if I’m not the one leaving. But I was there to help fulfil a promise. It’s been a long time since he’s made one, even longer since he’s kept one. And we both need the practice. We don’t usually do promises – just random surprises – but maybe we’re growing up. It is important to know that we can hold some things sacred. At least, just this once.

I watch him through immigration. Our eyes search for each other through the unnavigable distance of glass and procedure. A casual wave. Another time, another airport, maybe? I smile and half-shrug my shoulders.

And it is on that note of wistful helplessness, that he is gone. With his rugged t-shirt, travel-beaten bags and 2-day stubble. Back to the world and its unpredictable meanness.

I take the last train home. In my best non-farewell outfit – a bright green sundress with beech-brown wedges and ethnic bangles. Back to my life and its ordered madness.

So it was, my last kiss here, bestowed on its rightful owner. And with it, the close of this babe’s chapter in Singapore. On a whisper. For now. No goodbyes, just a see you later.

P.S. Faithful readers, no need to reach for the Valium. This blog will continue in Hong Kong, which is a complete cesspit (meant in the very best way) I've been told. But first, I have to finish packing. Ugh. And then I have to make extra sure nothing starts ticking or vibrating in my bag.

So is she...Or isn't she?

I noticed a very lively thread of discussion going on in the Comments sections of my last post. Most of it fevered speculation about whether I am a shameless SPG whoring myself on behalf of Singapore Government. Actually I found this allusion quite funny. I mean, it gives new meaning to the term “public servant”, for one. And then gives rise to a bunch of related questions. Do I have to pay CPF? Can I retire early? And will I at least be amply compensated?

I’m not about to ruin my manicure defending myself with guns and cannons blazing because a lot of my other readers have done that for me (thank you) and well, this is my blog after all, I didn’t start it to seek approval from others. What I write is meant to be provocative and I do enjoy people responding strongly to what I post, whether that is derision or delight – as long as it is well-written and reasonably amusing. But there is a fine line between amusing and irritating, so don’t push it.

I suppose though that some sort of moderated response is in order to all this – not as a means of self-justification, but more in terms of giving people additional insight into the way I think about men, sex and this whole incendiary race issue.

Let’s start by reviewing my rather “colourful” sexual history. I’ve had a Singaporean boyfriend for 5 years. (Oh dear, I suppose that had to come out at some point.) I’ve also been with the usual Caucasian suspects i.e. Brits, Americans, Italians, Aussies, Canadians; other Asians i.e. Indians, Malay, Japanese; and the occasional guy from the Middle East i.e. Iranian, Egyptian, Israeli. But South America is still largely unexplored, aside from Brazil.

Suffice to say, it would be a political catastrophe to put all the guys I have shagged into the same room together. But the world is a big place, and there just aren’t enough Singaporeans in it.

If anything, all this just makes me a Slut with a sex addiction. I can live with that. But an SPG who’s a puppet for the Government? (Gosh, now that takes talent.) I’ll leave that for you to decide, I guess. Either way, it’s not about to give me sleepless nights.

Note: For the less well-informed, the Coxford Singlish Dictionary describes SPG as a pejorative term for “sarong party girl” i.e. a Chinese chick that only goes out with Caucasians. God, how I love proper Singlish.

I don’t hold any stereotypical views about the men I shag or where they come from. (Except that all the Japanese men - ok, 2 - I’ve shagged seemed to enjoy jackhammering me to the wall. Is this a particular cultural technique that I don’t know about, someone please enlighten me.) In fact, this blog will attest that I’ve always emphasised what attracts me to a guy is his intelligence, big personality (yup, that's what they're calling it nowadays), sense of humour and how likely he is to be good in bed. These attributes aren’t race-specific.

In my experience, being a terrible lover isn’t race-specific either. And that’s something I try to avoid across the board.

Naturally, I have preferences – not prejudices – in men. For example, I find green-gray-hazel eyes that change in the light completely mesmerising in a man. And I love the look of a thick, black cock. I’m sorry that most Singaporeans I know don’t have these traits, although come to think of it…in the dark (and with the appropriate refractory index i.e. beer goggles) it hasn’t made much of a difference anyway. Heh. I also tend not to be a fan of excessive body hair and my ideal physique on a man is leanly muscled – again, certain races have more of an advantage with this than others.

But I refuse to adopt a blanket view of the world and I defy anyone who tries to force me into any sort of artificial classification borne out of ignorance. One only has to live abroad for a little while – as I have – and meet people who think that anyone Chinese is hardworking, good in Math / Science, doesn’t speak English well and works in a laundry shop to realise how irritating that is.

I know there is a lot of resentment towards the idea that expats come into Singapore to “steal our jobs” and especially, “steal our women”. But please, read a newspaper and get over it already. China’s on its way to taking over the world, or haven’t you been listening. Women of the world swoon at the thought.

People who go around with their holier-than-thou race filters and huge chips on their shoulders don’t do justice to the fact that Singapore’s one of the most integrated, cosmopolitan cities in the world and that Singaporeans (yes, us “natives”) are some of the most friendly, open and welcoming people to external influences. I’m sorry that you see this as something to be ashamed of. But it is you who gives Singapore and Singaporeans a bad name, not me. I’m just the mindless mouthpiece of the government, remember.

So please, give me – and my readers – some credit. Countless people from Singapore and around the world read this blog for a reason. And that reason is not because I’m the sort of simpering, spineless Asian female that literally tries to mate with anyone that lurks around Brix and approximates cowboy accents. And then writes about her adventures using facile, drippy descriptions.

Feel free to disagree, but the Internet is a big place. Nobody is forcing anyone to read anything. And I highly recommend you redirect your browser and any meanspirited aggression to “innocentyounglamb.blogspot.com” or any of the other 2 billion websites that produce literary content worthy of your lofty attention and interests.

I doubt it’s likely to be as riveting a read though. But it’s obvious, we were never meant to be together. Yawn. Now go on, do your worst.