But we were just talking

“So how do you like being taken from behind?” he asked.

“Oh, I can do back arched, bent over a desk or toilet seat, if you like,” I answered, with a sexy wink.

‘What about on all fours and looking back at me?”

“Alright too. But only if you reach over and stimulate my pussy with your fingers.” I said.

“Fingers are good. Are you a self-satisfaction kind of girl though?”

“Now and then, if I need a quick fix. I’m pretty dexterous. Would you like to watch me do it?”

This is the third time Danny and I have met to discuss our sexual preferences. In public. Under the most chaste of settings – lunching at the nearby food court, sitting on a public park bench, having a quick drink in a crowded bar.

Don’t get me wrong - fingers have strayed and appendages have been fondled but our individual personal circumstances prevent us from actualising the full extent of our depraved fantasies. So for now, we just content ourselves with discussing positions and predilections, sometimes with almost fanatical detail.

The “sex” is stellar, of course. I have multiple orgasms, he has multiple erections. We never have trouble with the police. Neighbours never complain. We have complete disregard for personal health and protection. And concepts like “sore”, “headache” or “have to get up early” are completely unthinkable.

That said, all talk and no action makes me a dull girl (and this a dull blog!) But it’s a bit like going through an entire degustation menu and having no space for dessert. I’m sure the sex - if or when it happens - will be a complete anticlimax. Stay tuned.

Gifts & Giving

In exchange for my most recent sexual favours and general loving kindness, I have been given a stuffed cat. Not your everyday Toys R' Us soft toy variety with a vague approximation of feline features. No, the cat in question came curled asleep in an attached basket and looked like it had had a bad accident with a taxidermist. Batteries not included.

(Incidentally, with batteries inserted, the cat starts to snore and an area on its chest inflates-deflates accordingly. No kidding, I was proudly treated to a demo of its somnolent capabilities.)

In response, there was not much else I could do but give the boy an appreciative peck on the cheek before collapsing helplessly into laughter. All the while exclaiming, "No, I really like it! I think it's cute! I do! Really!" (Can the lady protest too much?)

Actually, I did appreciate the gesture - execution aside - especially since I had been a little glum after my real-life cat ran away. It was just probably not quite the response he was looking for.

So, if you want to give me - or any other woman really - a gift that provokes an indescribable urge to express gratitude with all available orifices, here are some things to bear in mind:

1. I'm not a material girl by any means but the general rule is, the more thought and effort put behind a gift the better. Had to climb Everest to get it? Great. Had to cross-train for months, lose 30 pounds, plot a course sans sherpa and almost asphyxiate yourself on the way? Even better. I can sell your story to Reader's Digest.

2. You will never go wrong with something very expensive for your typical materialistic Asian female. Hong Kong girlies and China brides especially luurve anything with visibly interlocking Gs, Cs, LVs. The gaudier the better - no imagination necessary. But remember, you are only as good as your last carat.

Since I don't even put up the pretence of monogamy with my men, I probably don't do enough simpering to justify 'very expensive' gifts. Some men disagree (I'm as surprised as you are), but their gifts just feel somewhat soulless. Still, if you must buy me something in this category, make sure it's a stylish classic and comes in a robin-egg blue box. No logos attached.

3. Flowers - Very common. Most girls love them, I'm no exception. But pick your buds with care. Roses are most likely to be chucked (too cliched), gerberias and sunflowers on occasion (poor aesthetic, no style) but lilies, hand-picked wildflowers, rare breeds of blue-speckled orchids, tulips flown in overnight from Holland get a beautiful vase and many proud, adoring looks.

4. A lot of the times, its not the gift itself but the ritual / experience of gift-giving that creates suspense, surprise and excitement. For example, every time I look at my left wrist, I remember a short bald stranger at the Bangkok airport duty-free who bought me a watch on a whim in exchange for my company on Business Class.

This is a great way to give me otherwise unromantic, functional gifts i.e. things I can 'use' but am just too lazy/financially-challenged/uninspired to buy for myself. Watches, laptops, silk blankets, mobile phones, yes. Kitchen implements, no, no and still no - even if you've arranged for them to be specially delivered by a SWAT team rapelling down the side of the house.

5. Anything quirky, soulful or just plain clever - I love! A handwritten invitation on personalised stationery. Poetry. Brazilian folk-dance CDs you enjoy and want to introduce to me. Jewellery made from leftover bullet shells from the civil war in Lebanon. Latest Japanese vibrating pellet that also makes your panties hot. Anything that makes me laugh and is good dinner-party story material - even a stuffed cat, I guess.

The Declaration

We were at The Cliff at the Beaufort Hotel in Sentosa. As luck would have it, we had secured a table at the outside fringes of the restaurant. Nobody could see us, or hear our uninhibited conversation pierce the night air. We laughed a lot, often without restraint. Mine a loud, explosive cackle. His a trajectory of infectious chortles and convulsions.

His company was kinetic. Through the course of dinner, chairs would rock, table settings would get disrupted and feet would touch under the table as we lost ourselves in thought, amusement and each other's company. Thankfully, where we were sitting, we didn't have to contend with disapproving glances from diners or hovering waitiers.

We had been friends for little over a year, but we had become close very quickly. I sought his advice frequently on my career, and he sought mine as a guide to Singapore's quirks, psyche, and daily contradictions. We did not meet for dinner very often and today we had a lot to catch up on - 26 years of living for me, 38 years for him.

He had been extremely affectionate tonight, calling me his 'soulmate' any number of times. And more than once, I found myself blinking back tears as I told him stories about my adolescence, my mistakes and how jaded I felt by life in Singapore. It was a strange kind of night.

"It's ok to cry," he said, reaching over the table to stroke my arm. "You have to let it out of your system once in a while."

"Easy for you to say. I'm not used to this. I can't believe you have this effect on me. I don't feel the need to 'emote' very often," I studiedly avoided his gaze, my hands folding and refolding the unresisting napkin on my lap.

"Why not?"

"Because there aren't that many people I find worth 'emoting' to, to be honest,"I paused, meeting his eyes briefly. A traitorous tear had escaped and wound its way to my chin. I brushed it away almost viciously.

Desperate to change the subject, I said: "Alright, enough with analysing me. Remember this dinner was supposed to be about you. What did you want to tell me today? I haven't forgotten."
"Nice counter-attack," he smiled ruefully. "Nah, let's not talk about me today. We're having such a good time and I don't want to spoil the night."

"Oh I really hate people who do that...just tell me! I promise, we won't let it spoil the night." Both captivated and curious, I pressed him to tell me - at turns, pleading and at turns, demanding. I wanted to know.

"Er...all right...well, ok before I start...can I hold your hand?" He reached over the table to hold my hand, before I could reply. I did not pull away.

He began to speak haltingly."So you know how I always tell you I love you very much. I'm so glad I met you and you've become one of my best friends in Singapore....But really, you would have been a dear friend no matter where I met you in the world...You've just got such a positive spirit and a rare talent, I've always said..."

"You're stalling..." I interrupted, somewhat threateningly.

He cleared his throat before continuing. "Well, you know I always said I loved you...which is true, but well, I guess I never told you that I'm in love with you." Before I can reply, he grips my hand and hurtles on. "You see what I mean? I knew I'd fall in your estimation after this. Now you think I'm another one of those pathetic middle-aged expats salivating after you..."

At this point, I was only half-listening. It all clicked. The long pensive stares, the nervous fiddling with his wedding ring, the long walk in the Botanic Gardens, his visible discomfort with my 'father figure' jokes.

My mind still racing, I asked: "But why...and how...and when? Of course I'm flattered, but what does this all mean?"

"Well, nothing's going to change between us. I just wanted you to know. Think of it as a 'gift'. I don't want or expect any reciprocation. I don't think you've been loved enough, and this is my small way of trying to make up for that small inbalance...until someone else comes along I guess," I could feel his palm sweating into mine.

He attempted to lighten the mood. "Hey so now you'll always have someone to turn to, or to 'emote' to, and someone to laugh with and to have dinner with. You don't even have to make an appointment!" he said with mock-jollity.

I stared at him blankly, not joining in.

He continued hurriedly. "Really, I'm big and ugly enough to know that you don't feel the same way. I can live with that...well actually, I've been living with that. Of course, I'm not asking you to hurt me unnecessarily. I mean, just don't ask me to give you away at your wedding..." he broke off and half-coughed, half-laughed at the thought.

This was not what I had been expecting at all. I had numerous responses to lascivious advances and insincere flattery on auto-pilot, but nothing for this except for a thousand staccato heartbeats.

Nothing had changed, and everything had changed. This time, when the tears came, I let them flow.

My Affair with Mr Potter

I have a confession to make. I'm obsessed with a man. His name is Harry, he's 16 and he's a fucken' piece of children's fiction. (Sorry, bad joke I know. But it got your attention, didn't it?)

I started reading the latest Harry Potter instalment intermittently 2 nights ago and it has taken over my life like a bad acid trip. I missed a Nigella episode because of it. I've kept friends waiting twice because of it. I've even been spotted carrying it onto the MRT (all 600 pages) only to find half the schoolchildren on the train reading it too. Oh the indignity of it all.

Worst of all, it's ruining my sex life. I deliberately emerged from Attica on Wednesday at 2:30 a.m. (instead of my usual 3) so I could get an extra half an hour of quality time with Harry before I went to bed. And I must say my attempts to get laid were somewhat lackadaisical this week. I mean, what can an Argentinian Pilates instructor with absolutely stunning abs offer me over JK's Rowling's gifted imagination? Harry can do magic, ok.

So now its Friday night. Bad news, I'm still reading sluggishly. Good news, I'm on page 500-something out of 607. I have 2 hours to redeem myself, and catch DJ Dimitri play his set over at Zouk with a couple of girlfriends. Will I make it? The clock's ticking...

In The Dark

"I feel so lucky to be with you," Ben said, post-coitally.

"Why is that?" I asked, curled up at the crook of his arm.

"Because look at you, you're so young...and beautiful...and perfect. And look at me." He made a self-conscious gesture before switching off the lights. We lay together in bed without speaking for a while, lost in thought. He pulled me closer. I felt like he was trying to infuse his old, tired shell with my essence.

"Well, you make up for it in other ways," I replied after some time, thankful for the darkness. At least my mouth could say what my eyes couldn't.

46

No, it's not the number of men I've slept with (don't ask, because I truthfully don't know...and haven't bothered to count).

Neither is it the number of times I can orgasm in a night (even with The Rabbit, I think 28 is the maximum before my clitoris gives up).

Nor is it the number of men I've been in a gang bang with (I wouldn't dare hold a candle to Annabel).

Actually, 46 is the age cap for men that I'm willing to sleep with. (Tom Cruise is 43 - I checked - so Katie Holmes is just about kosher.)

I met Ben in the Bangkok airport. He 'conveniently' helped me with an errant exit tax machine before immigration. I later found out that he had deliberately positioned himself at the machine next to mine to get a better look at me, when I fortuitously started having problems. He gallantly introduced himself, we shared a moment of mutual frustration with the machine, ...and the rest, as they say, is history. Ah, the wonders of technology.

Besides being one of the most interesting people I've met in a while and a wicked correspondent, Ben was also - you know what's coming - 46. Not old enough to be my Dad, but definitely old enough to be called "Uncle", and not just in bed. Now I've always enjoyed the company of older men and I'm not discriminating against them in any way. (God knows, the combined age of all the men I've shagged would come up to at least 500.) But a girl's got to draw a line somewhere, right? And 46 is my line.

This was brought home to me the first and only time we shagged. We had sex exactly the way I imagined my parents would have had sex, which is not the greatest mental image one would like to carry around at ANY time. I certainly wasn't quite prepared for it. To start with, I found Ben's physical appearance very 'old'. He was not fat per se, but oddly pear-shaped - he seemed to have very wide 'hips' - and it was as if his entire body was shrouded in a layer of saggy and papery Caucasian skin. He was breathless quite a lot and I had to ride him v-e-r-y-s-l-o-o-w-l-y in order get him off. It wasn't really fulfilling for me sexually, but I enjoyed the touching, the talking, the connecting. It was sex as punctuation. We would have a bit of sex, lose interest, start a conversation about something random, like the Calvinist Reform movement or the Akha tribes in Northern Thailand and then go back to the sex.

Now I'm sure that there are those of you who are still shagging spry geriatrics with a penchant for doing doggy-style from their wheelchairs, but I think that sex just takes on a completely different significance as one gets older (or grows old, as in this case). And I can see it's merits. But I'm too much of a thrill-seeking, hedonistic, experimental party-animal to appreciate it right now.

If I want intimate conversation, I'd just rather have it over a nice dinner (I pick the place), thank you.

About this Blogging Business

So I decided that some housekeeping was in order. 3 months since my 26th birthday and numerous entries later, I realise that I really do enjoy being in the blog business. There's an immense satisfaction whenever I finish an entry and I've found it's a good way to look busy at my desk. Anyway, I figured that if I am to keep doing this on a longer-term basis, I'd make a few minor adjustments:

1. Bigger font - for the benefit of my myopic Singaporean friends. Also because a lot of my entries are quite lengthy and I do intend for you to read them without losing your eyesight. (Somebody give that girl a medal!)

2. More information in the sidebar - tells you much more about me and my current state-of-mind than a self-absorbed "About Me" write-up ever will.

3. Updated photo - Is-she-or-isn't-she? Suitably grainy and pixelated for effect.

4. Different wallpaper - more minimal and less Victorian. Thanks to Blogger's extremely limited range of templates, it was that or the sexually-ambiguous polka dots. Tough.

5. Other corrections - got rid of that date problem. Also tried to keep my casual use of English grammar in check for now. But since the entries aren't strictly chronological (some of these episodes take place more than 2 years back) it's easy to get mixed up. Cut me some slack or go wank off in front of a dictionary for more joy.

Hotel 81

Now I know what the fuss was all about. Billed as "Singapore's largest tourist class budget hotel chain", Hotel 81 frequently came to the rescue of more than one sexually frustrated Singaporean adolescent. That's how I first came to know about it anyway.

I was doing some research for some school magazine feature I was writing about Hotel F&B Managers (suffice to say, it was a riveting piece of literature) and quite innocently -and enthusastically- called almost every hotel listing in the phonebook looking for people to interview. (Note: this was when I was like, 15 and still had a work ethic).

Of course, Hotel 81 didn't have an F&B Manager to interview. The receptionist's comments, "People don't really come to our hotel for the food leh" and "Is that like Housekeeping?" led me to think something was amiss. I was enlightened a few days later by a bunch of my more worldly friends who were undoubtedly more acquainted with the facilities than I was.

A hotel with its roots in Geylang, Hotel 81 is the site of unsanctioned hook-ups and hourly sex. A spectrum of ill-at-ease characters sweat, grunt and ejaculate within the confines of its paper-thin walls on a daily basis. One is just as likely to meet an unshaven Ah Pek with his two-bit mainland Chinese mistress, a bronzed NS man with his most recent prize, fumbling teenage couples terrified that their staunchly-conservative parents might find out, as well as the occasional bonafide budget tourist.

Or one just might find...a curious middle-class yuppie in business attire (i.e. me). With Quinn i.e. scruffy cash-strapped ex-coke dealer in tow. On a Wednesday lunchtime. You know, a good time as any to check out the F&B outlets.

To be fair, Hotel 81 was surprisingly clean (rooms were spotless, sheets regularly changed). And pleasant with everything you needed for a quick fuck, including a heated shower, TV with remote control, packaged peanuts for sustenance, toothbrush, condoms. It was also almost unapologetically tacky (faux-Renaissance art, chintzy chairs and gothic pillars). And it was also really cheap. $30+ for 2 hours - the number of shags you can squeeze into that period is anyone's guess. Hotel 81 is definitely what most Singaporeans deem value-for-money. Or "cheap cheap good good", as they say. No need to bring your own Dettol.

I've definitely laid my skanky self in much dirtier, shadier and uglier locations. (strangely, shopping centre handicapped toilets come to mind). But the idea of sneaking out to a rent-by-the-hour hotel at lunchtime, sanitised though it was, still felt pretty seedy. And quite ludicrous. Quinn and I wasted about an hour of our allotted time making silly jokes about the "minibar" and listening intently at the walls. We were laughing so hard he couldn't even get a proper erection and we decided to watch an animal documentary just to get ourselves into the mood, which sent me into a further burst of giggles.

When we finally got the machinery in order, we did it twice and then I had to scurry back to my desk job all neat and tidy, none the worse for wear.

(Real time update: Quinn's been bugging me for a repeat of our little Hotel 81 adventure next week but I'm sorry to say this one's definitely a single serve. It's a little too proletariat for my tastes. I guess that means there'll be continuing damage to Quinn's bed - yes, the one already held together by masking tape. But I've already blogged about that. Drats.)

Younger Men

Last night I broke with tradition and shagged a guy younger than me. Maybe it was because I needed to do something special to celebrate a major milestone in my life - resigning from my company. Or maybe it was because he didn't seem like the typical washed-out chewed-up Singapore expat when he proclaimed loudly that all Singaporean women bored him (how charmingly naive). Or maybe it was because he told me he used to be a gymnast and flexed his not inconsiderable pecs for me. Or maybe...just maybe it was because I was at Attica on a Wednesday. How many more excuses does a girl need for the fact that she was just plain bored and very horny?

"You sound like you have an American accent," he says.

"I went to school there," I reply nonchalantly. I had noticed him standing quietly in the corner of the VIP area, watching me dance.

"Which uni did you go to?" he asked seriously. As if my academic qualifications really mattered to him.

"Uh oh. Wrong question. How old are you?" I shot back, instantly suspicious. I wasn't in the mood for intelligent conversation.

"I'm a very mature 23 year old," he says.

I laugh. "Err...that's like, my brother's age."

"Well I can do a few things your brother can't. Like this." He swoops in for a kiss. His lips are soft and unbelievably gentle. I break away and grind my hips sexily against him. Not surprisingly, I can feel his growing erection. We dance together for a while.

"God you are such a tease. You've got to be the most exciting female I've met in Singapore," unable to control his arms from roaming up and down my body. I tease him for a few more minutes before turning to face him in my attempt to tell him a few disappointing home truths.

"Look darlin', I'm too old for you. Besides, I'm off home now. I have an 8:30 meeting. Sorry." I cock my head and smile with faux-regret. As I leave, he follows me with an air of injured nobility, insisting on walking me to my cab.

"Look, this is really not necessary. But since you're the tourist, I can drop you off if you don't live too far." I hail a cab, open the door and usher him in. It was more of a directive than an invite. By now, I was relishing playing the role of Corrupter of the Youth, probably as much as he was enjoying playing the Acquiescent Puppy.

In the cab, my tongue made tantalising circles around his thumb and I sucked each of his fingers in turn. In return, he reached under my skirt to pleasure me, his fingers surprisingly deft and quick. By the time we reach his house, he's worked me into a reasonable lather.

"Don't make me beg...please..." he says huskily, looking as if he would enjoy doing exactly that.

"All right I won't. Your night just got better. The taxi fare is $8.60, come on get your change. No dawdlin' now, dear," I exit the cab and he stares at me open-mouthed, not quite following his sudden reversal of fortune.

Now if you follow this blog, you'll know that youth and inexperience aren't particularly high on my list of desired qualities in bed. But he committed himself reasonably well. He was a quick learner. His enthusiasm and stamina served him well. And he thanked me for a great night in the best way he knew how. Again. And Again. And Again(!!?). All in the space of an hour.

All in all, the shag turned out pretty ok. I think I was charmed by his earnest adoration of me. It certainly made up for the flourescent ceiling lighting and student-styled apartment (complete with sports trophies). He didn't have the practiced lines and guarded technicality of an older man. He was in genuine awe of everything I did. Every little gesture would turn him on and bring him to his knees (literally and figuratively), begging me to do it again.

"How did you know I like girls who lick my clavicle / suck on my balls / ride me reverse-cowgirl etc, " he would ask almost incredulously. I practised my best 26 year old knowing smile in response.

Ardently, he would whisper, "you're explosive in bed", "you have to give me your number", "how do you do that?", "you are the sexiest woman I have ever met". Sighs. I could get used to that.

Of course, there's no saying what 10 years of life experience and experimenting with loose women will do to him. But until then, it can't help to pick up a few useful life skills can it? I've told him that I'd bring my Japanese bondage ropes for our next session ("If I decide there is to be a next session, don't get your hopes up," I told him before leaving his apartment). So he can learn them, and learn them well.

I Am Not a Morning Person...

...and I have a particularly adversarial relationship with Monday mornings. So I was not thrilled to wake up to someone sucking relentlessly on my pussy at 6 o clock this morning. I don’t understand the deal with morning sex. My pussy is always dry, the sex is always too hurried, and I have halitosis strong enough to knock out an entire city. Given all of that, I would just rather sleep.

Still, I've found that men tend to like early morning encounters. Raging testosterone levels, morning glories, clean the plumbing – save it, I've heard it before. I'm the one who has to lie there and pretend to enjoy it, remember? Well, no better time for me to compose entries for my blog. You'll be surprised what some sleep deprivation and semi-lubricated sex can do for creativity.