Trophy Shags

I haven’t written for a while. I know. Bad me. But I’ve been sick. Nose-dribblin’, brain-addlin’, lung-wheezin’ sick. Not that it stopped me from having sex, mind you. (This is me, we’re talking about.) I just haven’t been able to face my computer screen without having amoebic black dots do backstroke across my line of vision. Not that I need to be making too many excuses to my imaginary blog readership of 2.

If you must know, I spent the last weekend in Bintan with Lenny. Working hard to avoid getting a tan and impart a whole host-body full of virulent influenza germs to anyone within a 3 metre radius. Lenny was an absolute sweetheart actually, making sure I was well taken care of. Of course, he was justly rewarded. (Never has a blowjob felt so long or so asphyxiating.) It just goes to show what the mind can achieve over minor physical impediments.

The more I hang out with Lenny, the more I realise that I am in possession of a trophy shag. It’s not that I never noticed how the girls throw themselves mindlessly at him at Attica…but well, behaviour like that is de rigeur at Attica. Still, when even the immigration officials at Bintan remember his name, ask for his autograph and swoon when he tells them where he’s from, you’ll agree it’s a bit ridiculous. Really, not everyone from Brazil is Ronaldo.

A trophy shag is a shag with inbuilt bragging rights. Steven Spielberg. Elvis. Maybe a sultan from Johor, if you’re a little less ambitious. It’s the sort of shag that comes attached with a sweet little bedtime story for your grandchildren, who would be completely incredulous…except they’ve seen the photo that you stole from your paramour’s wall as proof.

So methinks I've got meself a trophy shag from Rio de Janeiro. Yummy. But wait, he gets way more attention than me in public. Which is enough to give a girl an insecurity problem, if she thought hard enough about it (thankfully this one doesn’t). It’s not that I shag a series of losers, but good looks just aren’t the be-all and end-all for me. In fact, more often than not it’s hard not to distrust picture-perfect good looks and the people who possess them. (Yes, it is sooo tough being Beautiful)

So when I look at Lenny, I don’t see Desirable-Brazilian-Heart-throb-Model-Extraordinaire-Prime-Specimen-of-Manly-Man, I just see well, Lenny.

Maybe it IS time for me to up my meds.

VPL

My ever-observant colleague has zoomed in on my big fat cotton pantyline today. I usually wear lace undies or nothing at all (which is really the only fool-proof solution to the yeast infection and VPL problem). But today, I am wearing Damian’s Calvins to work. Thankfully, she can’t see the excess cloth bunched up at my crotch for my imaginary penis.

All Names Have Been Changed

Some people have asked me about the real identities of some of the men mentioned on this blog. (Feeling a little defensive, perhaps?) Well, there’s no need to name and shame. I do confess to taking a certain amount of creative liberty when writing about my encounters. But everything is based on real experiences and real people. Fact is frequently sadder, weirder and more sexually incompetent than fiction. At least since most of the world defines fiction as anything written by Dan Brown or Barbara Cartland.

There needs to be a certain amount of anonymity for this blog to exist. So it is essential that I protect the identities of the people I write about (God knows, I don’t protect their dignities). That way, they could be anybody. They could even be you.

Honourable Mention for Luddites

In that same vein, I have another friend Lenny, who is a wilful Luddite and carries a brick in his pants (his 1 kg walkie-talkie phone, you gutter-dwellin’ creatures!). He calls me sometimes during the week to say good night, because his dinosaur phone does not allow him to SMS me "gdnt". I know. How novel, and how nice.

The Joys of SMS

Over 90% of people in Singapore have a mobile phone. And the most prevalent - and overused - mode of communication is the text message or SMS. You’d think that a whole country of Singaporeans who have thumbs surgically attached to their keypads would produce better SMSes. Instead, I get stuff like this:

“U wan to do lunch 2moro at my plc? Iv got mtg this eve. Talk soon k” – what I call the Abbreviated SMS.

Or this:

“Eh cannot call me ‘dai gor’ …muz gimme chance hor, or I mati oreadi” – what I call the Singlish SMS. For the uninitiated, “dai gor” means “big brother” (Cantonese), “mati” is the word for “die” (Malay), and “oreadi” is a substitute for “already” (origins unknown). For me, this is almost an unforgivable crime especially if you are trying to get into my pants. I have been known to ignore people who use one “izzit” too many.

The thing is, I'm not demanding a piece of elegantly-written copy every time you SMS but I try to make an effort with the content of my messages and I reckon, so should you. I have an old-school Nokia that allows me 160 letters per SMS. I object to the newer phone models that give you something like 1,500 letters. (That’s called email, people.) I find that the truncated nature of SMS makes it a beautiful medium for one-liners. Pithy insights. Haikus. Catty comments. Soundbites. Statistics. I’m open-minded, as long as it’s spelt properly.

Good SMSes go a long way with me (see illustration below).

Quinn is a guy I shag occasionally. Bar the fact that he's a complete Neanderthal and holds his life with masking tape (just barely), he types a mean SMS. This is how he invited me to his place after our initial meeting at a bar:

Him: Would you like to come over and watch American Idol?
Me: Ooh I like that, the subtle approach. Are you interested in my personality as well? Where is your house?
Him: Haha Little Miss Cynical innit! It's (address here)...
Me: Oh please. Spare me the niceties. I’m not a lady. Neither are you, when I last checked.
Him: In that case smartarse, bring a change of clothes and toothbrush so if you get lucky you can go straight to work and not fucking wake me too early.

I got into a cab immediately. Watch and learn, kids.

Things I Learned From Having a Cock

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Penis Envy

Gay men rejoice, I now have one more thing in common with you – besides my penchant for Kylie and pink feather boas. Last night, I buggered a guy’s ass. Usually the farthest I dare venture in that area is a questioning poke now and then with my fingers and only if the guy I’m with doesn’t have a mild stroke first.

But as you know and as this blog lays testament, I never pass up opportunities to have new (and potentially scandalous) sexual experiences. But before I begin, let me assure you I haven’t had a change of heart – I am still 100% female, and still adore having sex cock-pussy style dearly -I've just now know how to wield a mean strap-on.

The strap-on in question was a prime piece of meat, shall we say. It had three heads - two for me and one for him. It looked like a medieval chastity belt - complete with leather straps for my thighs and a steel band across my waist. When it first made its appearance, I looked at it a little doubtfully.

“You know I don’t take this thing out very often. But you seem like the sort of girl who can handle it.”

That’s what started all the trouble – an innocuous-enough conversation about souvenirs from New York that I was having with Garth in bed. Garth was a scruffy freelance journo who picked me up at a press conference I was attending (with my day job). I was doing my best to disguise my skanky self with pinstripes and Powerpoint, but there was no mistaking his piercing stare across the conference table. I was not all that surprised when he emailed me the next day to ask me out for a drink. And even less surprised that he was interested in more than my personality…I just didn’t count on the contraptions in his closet, I guess.

“Are you freaking out yet?” he asked, as he closed the closet door and returned to bed with my toy for the night.

“No, it’s very difficult to freak me out. Besides, I’m more curious about this thing than anything else. I hope you wash it thoroughly.”

Garth put the strap-on in my hands and I lightly ran my fingers over its three flesh-coloured prosthetic bits (sorry I know this isn’t a very handicapped-sensitive description) . The protrusions were reasonably unyielding but have a slightly rubbery texture. The manufacturer had also simulated the shape of a cock head, complete with a ridge for the glans and quasi-frenulum on two of the bits meant for me. (Dedication to detail, I approve of that.) The final bit (or 10-inch chunk, really) meant for him was shaped in long, smooth contours.

As I got more familiar with the toy, it is not immediately apparent how I was supposed to put this on, so I looked up quizzically at Garth, waiting for instructions.

“Well you strap it on like this. Here, these two are for you,” he demonstrated. And before I knew it, I was fully strapped in, my pussy and ass appropriately plugged. I looked down to realise I was now in possession of a king-size cock. And ooh yes, I had an erection.

I have to admit I was quite proud of my new prosthetic cock and its perpetual tumescence. To start with, it was almost one and half times the size of anything I had seen before (and I’ve seen quite a lot) which also implied it would not be the sort of thing one used conventionally on women i.e. it would not be best friends with anyone's cervix.

All in all, it felt like a fucking weapon. Or, a weapon to fuck with, if you will. I was in control and I could already feel the blood rushing through my veins. I was getting worked up, flushed. I think I could have even uttered a bloodcurdling war-cry at some point but I restrained myself.

Meanwhile on the bed, Garth assumed the position - face down, ass up. He turned around to look at me somewhat expectantly.

“You don’t think I’m gay or anything, do you?”

“Look, you don't use deodorant and I have to wash my hair with soap every time I shower at your house. So no, I don’t think you’re gay,” I laughed in reply. Garth was so homophobic he could almost be French. (Except he's American). “Besides you shouldn’t be so self-conscious, all men have a prostrate gland, so you’re all biologically wired to like it up the arse,” I might have seen him cringing in response, except that I was busy bracing myself to enter him.

I took my time with it. After all, I figured a straight guy’s ass is a delicate thing. So lots of lube and achingly slow penetration. He loved it though and with each thrust, he was writhing and groaning all over his bed, at my complete mercy. The view from behind was one to cherish - his lifted arse eagerly gobbling up my prosthetic - and helped me understand why men are regularly unable to make eye contact during sex. Because damn, its hard to tear your eyes away from the sight of one's monstrous peg sliding into a tight, slippery receptacle. Boys, I am enlightened.

Soon, we both got into the swing of things and upped the pace. The beauty of the toy meant that the faster/harder I fucked Garth, the more vibrations it caused inside me. I had never been more motivated to master the finer points of fucking with a prosthetic. I also wanted to ensure that my partner had a good time (see boys, having a cock is not an excuse for being selfish and inconsiderate). So I concentrated on perfecting my rhythm and technique on Garth's bum, while he practised some rhythm and technique on his own rock-hard member.

We finished up with a bout of normal cock-pussy sex. But not before fumbling around with lube-slippery fingers for 15 minutes trying to remove the device from around my waist and more than a moment of mild panic (on my part) contemplating what I would do with a 'cock' for the rest of my life.

But that sort of question is best left for the experts. And my brief love affair with having a cock is best contained to Garth's closet for now.