Second Chances...

...will have to wait till this Tuesday. Yes, my "date" (inasmuch as I believe in "dates" - which is very little) with JP has been postponed. Courtesy of the rising oil prices that could have sparked off civil unrest in Indonesia.

However, it looks like peace has prevailed, which is good (for me - since he heads back to Singapore tomorrow) and bad (for him - no story for the BBC). I can't really pretend I feel too sorry about his situation.

I'm writing this because I recieved such a massive amount of interest (thank you) in the outcome of my meeting with JP that I couldn't really reply to everyone personally. So I thought this was the best way to let everyone know what's been happening.

Since quite a bit of time has elapsed from my last post about JP, I've had time to think of all the things I will NOT do in the context of this "date". Of course the beauty of these rules and resolutions is that a. they're not legally binding and b. there's nothing like the guilty pleasure of breaking all of them, so here they are:

1. I will NOT be too crestfallen if a Nuclear Holocaust breaks out in the next couple of days, millions of people are killed and JP has to cover the story from the frontline, foregoing dinner with me.

2. I will NOT lose patience and stress out about what to wear or the massive pimple beginning to erupt on the right side of my face. But I really hope we are dining by candlelight.

3. I will NOT be silly / giggly / nauseatingly sycophantic like the last time, but will attempt my very best to be cool, calm, collected and in control of all my faculties. Even though I know there is a babbling idiot that lives within me.

4. I will NOT be presumptuous - it is only dinner. So no sexual propositions, no "your place or mine" references, and certainly no whipping out of toys I've stashed in my handbag. Of course I will carry my newly-bought condoms - better safe than sorry!

5. I will NOT commit to anything. Not a relationship. Not children. Not to building a house in the Bahamas. Not yet, anyway. Not unless he asks really really nicely. Hmm...

Okie, glad I got that out of the way! Now, wish me luck - and don't worry, this isn't going to keep me from having fun in the meantime. I'll be writing! :)

Sex Shop Shopping

Yesterday, I visited the House of Condom at the basement of Lucky Plaza in Orchard Road. I’ve actually never gone to a so-called sex shop in Singapore. Usually my condom runs are frantic 7-11 stops in the middle of the night when inevitably the default option is Durex, which well, works. Just about.

Occasionally however, I have found myself in apologetic “I’m really terrible with condoms” situations, and had to nurse runaway erections with liberal tonguefuls of Nonoxynol 9. Not very gourmet.

So I went to Orchard in search of a better solution. Different smocks for different cocks, as they say. And the time had come for me to increase the size and range of my condom collection. In particular, I was on a grand quest for snug, Sheerlon Japanese-make condoms (for sensitivity junkies), comfy, ribbed Trojans (for thick dicks, long dongs, chunky monkeys - you get the picture etc.) and some adventure (for me).

I walked into the store and it was reasonably busy. But I might as well have been in a huge elevator – never before had I met a larger group of uncommunicative people trying so hard to studiously ignore each other.

There were lots of people inspecting merchandise, mostly students or early 20s. Not touching anything - oh no, God forbid they interact with the products – but just staring very hard at stuff. Slently, with their arms folded or resting at the side.

Then there were the couples huddled in their respective corners conducting serious discussions (mint vs. strawberry, ribbed vs. studded - I can only imagine) in hushed tones. Occasionally a giggle or two would escape guiltily from them, only to be hastily shushed and instantly disowned.

I was standing behind one such couple when the girl craned her head round to speak to me:

“Do you have any poly..mmm…ter…mdtthh…ane…. mdmmtermmpfthh?” she mumbled.

“What? Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that,” I said in my normal voice (i.e. 30 decibels louder than anyone else’s instore).

“Do you have any…poly…er…the….ran condoms?” she repeated in a vicious whisper.

“Oh poly-U-re-THANE condoms!” I corrected her in a flash of helpful enthusiasm, and watched a dull flush nauseously creep up her face. “Actually you’ll have to ask someone who works here, because I don’t. Maybe that girl by the counter?” I was just trying to be helpful of course but she looked like she could have put a hex on me, so I tried to get out of her way.

I can’t imagine what she (or her protective boyfriend) would have thought had she seen me at the counter 10 minutes later with my hands wrapped tightly around different vibrators, discussing the virtues of anal plugs with the salesgirl. I ended up buying 2 new toys and the condoms I was looking for. So all in all, a reasonably fruitful trip.

However, I really didn’t enjoy my visit to the House of Condom as much as I should have for a few reasons:

First, when did sex shop shopping become such a serious business? The House of Condom was at worst, a little tacky and badly-merchandised. But Singaporeans were treating it like a place of depravity, a necessary evil. Walking into the store, I felt, dirty. And there’s nothing dirty about sex. (Only when the government tries to campaign us into having more of it – but then, that’s just wrong.)

Still, the prevailing mindset of these nervous, hesitant young couples seemed to be: If we go to a sex shop that means that we have sex. Not just do we have sex, but we enjoy sex and we do it not just to procreate and support Singapore’s population. And ooh, if someone else walks into the store, we have to stay at least 5 metres away from them because they enjoy sex too. Filthy animals!

Second: I know that by law these shops are forbidden to display and sell “obscene objects and literature”. So I’m not expecting to see the silicon moulds of actual porn star pussies with their labial lips held wide open in the window. (And trust me, I don’t want to – they are shriveled, leathery looking and not at all, erotic.)

But some porn would be nice. Nothing with grannies or squirrels in it. Just some pictures - maybe an occasional video – of people who enjoy fucking. And there can’t be anything wrong watching two beautiful women suck on each other’s pussies. It’s art, surely.

Third: It wouldn’t have been such a hardship if the store was full of handsome, eligible men whom I could “accidentally” brush up against, preferably in the Trojan “Shared Sensations” section. That way, we’d already have a lot in common. Deep, meaningful conversations to follow.

Or am I just getting carried away here?

Loose Ends (Part 2)

Today, in the name of self-improvement, I finally forced my chicken-hearted self to call JP.

Which one is JP? The One-that-got-away-One (Refer to my last post on "Loose Ends" for more details.)

I knew I had to call. It had been gnawing away at my insides since that last post. I even have the actual bite-marks to show for it.

Besides, I convinced myself that he would be out somewhere shooting underneath the Antartic ice floes or dodging disgruntled Israelis in Gaza so really he was unlikely to pick up or return the call. And I could leave Singapore in a self-righteous huff, my dignity intact. QED.

I even had my voicemail message all rehearsed. Written out on a flourescent green Post-It. Casual. Friendly. Noncommittal. Just called to say hi, but ooh gotta run. Take care and don't get caught by a stray bullet. Ta! (How. Neurotic. Am I.)

So ring ring - the dialtone sounded local. My heartbeat was going gangbusters. And then, he actually picked up!

For a second, none of us said anything. And then...

"That can't be you who's calling," his familiar, teasing voice filled the reciever.

"Oh my god. Okay. I can't believe you picked up," I said and promptly collapsed into convulsive laughter. Yes, Bimbo Me to the rescue.

"Of course I'd pick up the phone sweetheart. It's you."

"Yes, its funny how that happens sometimes huh. Great. Now I can't use my voicemail message that I prepared. And I thought so long about it too," I said, rather stupidly. This was definitely not turning out to be one of my finest moments.

"I thought I'd never hear from you again. I thought of calling you so many times but thought nah, maybe she hates me. Or even more likely...maybe you've met the love of your life, moved into a cottage somewhere and had 8 children or something," JP's tone was lighthearted but I could sense him testing the waters, wanting to know.

"No...come on. Hey, this is me we're talking about. I think just remembering your phone number qualifies as a commitment." I was talking too loudly, too fast. Was I sounding too flippant? Too eager? Too nervous? Breathe, breathe.

He asked me to recite my voicemail message, which I did. And he said: "Oh that's nice. Although I would have preferred. 'Hey JP, I've been thinking about you for more than a year. I can't quite get you out of my head and I was wonderin...'"

I cut in with my most sultry voice. "...and I was wonderin, aren't you lonely? I know I haven't talked to you for more than a year. But hey, let's do something crazy. Las Vegas is just 15 hours away!"

We both laughed and that put the tension was put to rest. No apologies necessary.

And then, a pause. A silent acknowledgement to do things differently this time. Not everyone gets the luxury of second chances.

So, he's only in Singapore for a few days (Man did I luck out on this one) and I'm meeting him for a quick lunch tomorrow. And then dinner on Thursday. I'm going to try my best to keep my act together - and my pants on - and do justice to the herculean mental effort involved in this silly little exercise. We will actually catch up properly, and interact like human beings - not rabid animals. No more games. No more self-destructive behaviour. Not until after dinner, at least.

Well, such is the stuff of good intentions anyway. Law of Entropy notwithstanding.

Now if only I could figure out what to wear! *flaps hands wildly*

I think I need to sit down.

Stripping It Down

Whilst I love the relentless tempo of frenzied fucking - buttons popping, shirts ripping, underwear torn off with teeth - sometimes it's essential to slow things down a little (especially if I'm wearing my favourite bespoke outfit) and which guy doesn't like a good strip tease? Here's one that works for me - Japanese bondage ropes and ice-cubes optional:

I start by putting a good track on, something I'll enjoy dancing to. Pretty much anything goes but leave Black Sabbath, Teresa Teng and Frank Sinatra to the professionals. If I'm feeling plebian - or I'm at his house, wasting valuable time rummaging through his CDs instead of getting it on - something from the Black Eyed Peas will usually do the trick. If I'm well-prepared, then something Latin or Claude Challe's 'Je Nous Aime' are my preferred options. (If he only has chinese opera and classical music in his collection, then my advice is to leg it out of there. Fast.)

The trick to stripping is to put up a good show. It's all in the pent-up anticipation, the simmering tension and then the postponement of the climax (yours or his) for as long as humanly possible. Of course it's easy for his over-enthusastic member to overwhelm the situation at some point and plunge straight in, so to speak. It's up to you to decide at which point this is acceptable.

As much as I approve of audience participation, I never like him to spoil all the fun. So, in order to maintain the upper hand, I make up a few rules and talk him through them:

I can touch you, but you can't touch me.
Take your clothes off and I'll tie your hands behind your back.
Sit up and pay attention. I'm going to show you how I really like to be touched.
If you behave, I'll finish off by coming on your face.

I never give the game away and let him assume that we're going to end up fucking (I guess this works better with people you hardly know, as opposed to would-be Chinese boyfriends who take this as their God-given right), so all these rules are delivered in a reasonably firm but sexy manner. So far, there haven't been any complaints.

I start swaying my hips to the music. I use my hands to move up my thighs, to stroke the sides of my breasts and to caress the back of my neck. I lift a leg onto the bed, my skirt begins to ride up and I angle away from him, so he only sees me from behind. I put my fingers to my pussy, pushing aside my panties and start rubbing my clitoris. My eyes are half-closed, I put my head back and moan softly deep in my throat. Taunting him...

Are you enjoying this? You like watching me get off?

I turn to face him. I reach under to remove my bra, revealing nipples that are hard against my chiffon blouse. I cup my breasts and pinch my nipples, twisting them slightly through the fabric. I climb on top of him and dangle one breast dangerously close to his mouth. So close he can feel my hair on his face, my hot breath on his forehead and just when his mouth closes on the outline of my breast, I turn away.

I pull my top off and reach for a piece of ice from the champagne bucket. I rub the ice-cube slowly down my cleavage and then over each nipple, watching rivulets of cold, melted water run down my chest, soaked up by my skirt. I pop it into my mouth and lean in for a kiss, pushing the ice over his lips and through his teeth, forcing him to manipulate it with his tongue. My cold, wet nipples brush against his cheek suggestively.

Now show me what you can do.

When the ice has melted and he's done sucking on me, I reach under my skirt and step out of my underwear. He sits up and I straddle him with my back against his chest and my hands on his knees, my skirt around my hips, rubbing up and down against his erection. He leans over and watches over my shoulder as I start touching myself under my skirt. I draw out a finger from my pussy, glistening with juice and put it to his mouth. He licks it clean, his tongue dancing circles around my fingers.

Don't you wish it was your cock doing that? I do.

I reach down to pull my skirt off and reach down to untie his hands. By this time he's chafing at his bonds, about to explode. I wrap myself around him tightly, letting him feel the full heat between my legs. I start untying his knots with excruciating slowness. At this point, I judge the situation and make a decision about how much more I should torment him. The point is to stimulate and titillate - not generate hate - so if the excitement is making him froth at the mouth and show symptoms of cardiac arrhythmia, I generally take it as a signal to stop while I'm ahead. I hesitate...

I'm only going to let you go on one condition.

I name my price. I've earned it. I know if I think of something really good, the rest of the night will follow. And I'm the sort of gal who is never at a loss for ideas.

P.S. If I'm wearing bad-ass stilettos, it goes without saying that I'm keeping them on all night. It just completes the look, dahlin. The juxtaposition of nudity with luxurious, over-priced frippery. Why the concept is quite deliciously postmodern, if I say so myself. ;)

4 Months and a Blog Virginity Ago

When I started this blog, it really was much more of a whim (small w) rather than a Project (capital P). But I have to say, I've been pleasantly surprised at how long it's survived, and indeed, thrived. It's been 4 beautiful months of writing and...and...wait, stop the presses, I think this qualifies as a commitment!

Recently, I told my parents about my latest hobby. Just so they know that should their eldest child fail to accomplish anything significant in life (marriage, grandchildren, 5Cs), at least she had a sex blog to her credit. Oh, the joys and triumphs of parenting. I have to say they were relatively sanguine about the whole business, but I'm sure they're secretly hoping it's 'just a phase'. (As they did with my shoe habit, but that one's lasted for 5 years now.)

That said, I really want to thank everyone for their comments. I am always happy to see them appear in my inbox (even the cryptic, desperate ones when I need a laugh). A lot of them have really sustained, inspired and enlivened my writing. Not to mention, its always nice to know there's a significant portion of the world at large that enjoys screen-side vicarious living and sharing in my twisted adventures.

As a general rule, I won't delete any comments on my blog unless they are rude (I get to be the arbiter of precisely how rude is too rude), offensive (only one person has the right to do that here - me) or criticise my haircut (my stylist swore I'd look nice with china-doll bangs, goddammit). Free speech is a scarce enough commodity in this country, so play nice by those rules and you can post anything you want. But be gentle. Gulp.

The comment box is both my forum and my filter. So if you've got something to say, and it's sincere, witty, well-worded and includes an email address / URL, I will try to dignify it with an equally thoughtful (or irreverent) response. Of course, if all you want to do is show me a picture of your 9 inch cock, please post it publicly so everyone else here can enjoy it too. After all, sharing is caring.

Lots of love and happy reading.

How Do I Reject Thee, Let me Count the Ways

I really hate to be put on the spot. Especially by random strangers who make unqualified assumptions about me and subsequently try to desperately slobber all over my leg. So for the record: Just because I flirt outrageously, grind my hips against inanimate objects and maintain a sex blog doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with anything that moves. Or anyone that leaves a despondent comment on this blog, for that matter.

Recently however, I made the mistake of being caught in an awkward situation where I had to reject someone - let's call him Calvin - who just persisted (and persisted...and persisted!) in trying to get me to cuff him, spank him and perform some weird anal probe ritual.

Usually at the establishments I frequent (you know which ones, I should demand a fee for all the free publicity), this behaviour would not have been tolerated even 5 minutes without my bouncer friends lending a hand, courtesy of a shove out the door.

However with Calvin, the situation was slightly different. Clever me had agreed to let him pick me up in his big black SUV, so there was no easy escape route.

Calvin and I barely knew each other. And I had quite innocently suggested we go for coffee to get better acquainted. Alas, he must have gotten a different impression. Because within minutes of me climbing into the front seat, he was eagerly pulling out his S/M cuffs (suspiciously greasy), a riding crop (reasonably used), nipple clamps (ouch) and a very crumpled-up ball of black stockings (his!) from his black gym bag of tricks. Obviously, this guy was a maven at making subtle introductions.

I should have realised that I had made a mistake by then. I thought: Hi Calvin, nice to meet you too. Here's a Scooby snack for being so presumptous. Fuck off. But instead, being the polite, open-minded, well-brought up gal that I am, I oohed and aahed, doing my best to look interested and quelling the urge to scrub myself with sanitiser.

To be fair, we did end up going for coffee and a quick chat, which started out fairly innocuous. However, when the conversation swung to whether I found fecal matter erotic (which I really REALLY do not, and I would much rather we talk about the weather), I realised there was nowhere to go but steadily downhill. I finished my drink and got back into Calvin's car, slightly relieved at the prospect of going home.

But as you would have already predicted, it was not to be.

"So where do you want to go? Straight to my place? Or we can go to some beach to get pissed drunk, first?"Calvin was not the sort of guy to leave things to chance.

"Err...I'm going to be really honest with you ok? I think we get along great and I had a nice time chatting over coffee, but I'm just not attracted to you. Sorry." I decided the brutal truth was the best approach to take with him. Besides as a rule, I don't subscribe to all that coy, faux-virginal Asian female I-don't-do-it-on-the-first-date stuff.

"But...What...? But...come on. We're both open-minded people, we have great chats, looking for a bit of fun, enjoy sex. What's the matter?" Splutter splutter.

"Look, I get along great with lots of people. It doesn't mean I want to sleep with every one of them," I said. "This really isn't a difficult concept."

"But there aren't that many people who are equally open-minded, can have great chats...." Yadda yadda yadda. He must have repeated that whole refrain about 10 times. It was getting tedious. And exasperating. But because I was stuck in his car, I had to paste a wide, Ronald McDonald smile on my face and look like I was giving ear to his childish protestations.

At some point, I suggested politely that he drop me off home. But he - equally politely - ignored my request and drove us to Sentosa, where we parked at the Tanjong Beach lot and started negotiating like an old married couple. The quintessential Husband who wants kinky sex, and Wife with the headache. It was really ridiculous. Couldn't this guy understand that there was no way I would suddenly be smitten by him, no matter how hard and long we talked about it? By forcing me to analyse and deconstruct my non-attraction, he was making me sound like a bad jewelry-box tune.

"Its not like I want to have a relationship. It's just about getting off," he said. I could tell he was grasping at straws.

"Look, if my life aim was to just get off, then I'd rather masturbate. If I'm with someone, even if it's just a gratuitous shag, I still need to be with someone I'm really into," I said, a certain degree of resignation creeping into my voice. Seesh, its guys like Calvin that make women lie about going on holiday and never coming back.

"Well, Disappointment is a word that's coming to mind now. I mean, you don't even have to do anything. Just chain me up and treat me badly. How hard is that? And maybe lie there while I lick your pussy," he was almost pleading with me. "Or watch me wank off....You don't want to even want to watch me wank off??"

Hello, I thought. I'm 26, I went to college? You'd think I'd be smart or at least, mature enough not to fall for the whole Pity Sex argument by now, so why bother trying.

And then, seeing that 'eloquence' was getting him nowhere, He leaned over and tried to kiss me. Before I could stop him, his fleshy hand slipped underneath my dress like an eel and he sqeezed and twisted my nipple, watching it intently to see if it would harden. He looked up at me, seeking reassurance that I was being turned on by this.

I concealed my distate. That was pretty much the last straw. Still, I had to be practical. It was a long walk from Sentosa to the main road and not a journey I was looking forward to making by myself. In 3-inch heels. So I looked at him stonily and firmly repeated that I wanted to be dropped home. There was no trace of smile in my voice this time. And I followed up with a relatively threatening and sullen silence. At last, he could tell his time was up. Thank God (and I'm not even religious).

So some key learnings, which I've put in an easy reading format because I'm tired of even blogging about this episode already:

Bullet Point #1 Over-persistence really doesn't work well with me, Desperation is even worse. Look, if I girl says she's not interested, she'll have much much more respect for you if you are just man enough to accept it. She might even try to be friends and show you her fanny (or is that only me?).

Bullet Point #2 Patience is not a virtue that I possess in abundance. And in future, if you ever corner me in a small, enclosed space with your bag full of implements and a head full of presumptions, I promise you, there will be a small brick in my handbag you will quickly become fast friends with.

Appendix 1.1 I prefer to deal with lawsuits and restraining orders rather than waste my time, breath, brain cells and soon-to-be professional negotiating skills with men who need help looking up No in the dictionary. So there.

Refer to first principles Even Dogs Have Dignity and Life Is Too Short if you have any questions.

Loose Ends

I've been wrapping up my life here in Singapore for the past few weeks. If you must know, I'm packing my bags and moving to a slightly bigger, grittier, less sanitised puddle. For now.

Yes, I think I've outgrown Singapore a little. The last straw came when I quite innocently (I swear!) shagged 3 guys at separate intervals, only to find out accidentally one vodka-addled night at Velvet that they were best friends and all trying their darnedest to pull me, completely unaware that their 2 friends had already poked their fingers in the same honeypot - but that story for another post.

Back to the point, Singapore makes six degrees of separation look like a ham sandwich (no lettuce).

Don't worry I won't be hanging up my whips and fluffy cuffs anytime soon. I'm sure I'll find an eager audience for them where I'm going. You'll be the first to know. I leave at the end of the month and have been spending time tying up loose ends here in Singapore. And untying them one more time, just for old time's sake.

Some of the men I've been with have gotten hitched, grown facial hair, developed double chins, grown up, achieved nirvana etc. but I'm doing a good job of tracking down the leftovers. It's been nice catching up and letting them know that I actually like them, you know, as people. The ones to which I can still vaguely put names to, of course. Some of them have even become good friends - all the more reason to keep this blog a secret.

Of course there is one man - fate decrees there is always ONE, the quintessial 'one that got away', let's call him JP, that I can't quite bring myself to call. Not even to say goodbye. We haven't spoken for close to 2 years. I want to get in touch (not least because I am morbidly curious) but I've been putting it off for weeks. I make the best excuses for him: Maybe he's out of the country. Maybe he's changed his number. Maybe he's got a wasting disease. Maybe he's making friends with the natives in Sierra Leone. The possibilities are endless.

Obviously I find the situation completely ironic. I'm usually glued to my mobile phone and press the 'dial' symbol with nary a breath. I may even have interrupted a CEO or two by calling them mid-meeting and announcing breathlessly "Slut on the menu tonight". And if you follow this blog, you'll know I am not what you would describe as a 'shrinking violet'.

Nevertheless, here I am taunted by a string of 8 digits, frozen out by the mere thought of calling JP. It may have even crossed my mind (but I will deny this strenuously to my grave) to call him from an unlisted public phone - that way if he picks up, all fine and good, but if he doesn't, he wouldn't know I tried to call. A cunning plan, agree? Nice to know I'll always have the finely-tuned mind of an organised criminal to fall back on, in case the professional career doesn't work out.

So what's the story? I'm not the typical Singaporean chick that has sex under the blankie and falls in love every 24 hours, right? Say yes. But maybe about 4 years ago, I might have (sort of) fallen 'in like' with JP, which is bad enough.

JP and I discovered and re-discovered each other once every month or so. This went on for about 2 years. They were 2 years of the best one-night stands in my life. I had a goosebump named for each time we met. As one of Asia's most well-known cameramen, JP courted danger for a living. He hung upside-down from helicopters, bore bullet scars with pride and swallowed bugs for dinner. I hung naked from his roof rafters, bore whore-bruises with pride and swallowed cum for dessert - so we were meant for each other.

Alas, we had far too much in common. That meant he was laid back, kind, wise, soulful, superb in bed, generous to a fault and had a side-splitting sense of humour. It also meant he was fiercely guarded, emotionally reticent, highly individualistic, commitment-phobic and non-confrontational. Oh you know, just your everyday garden-variety neuroses.

We were defined by our passion - which scared the shit out of us, to say the least - and ultimately we failed because we were unable to tether that nebulous attribute to something sane or sustainable. We each realised a real relationship would only have been a disappointment. So one day, with minimal drama, he disappeared on one of his trips and I never bothered to call back.

I've always thought Closure was what single, neurotic Sex In The City women called their cats. I'm not that sentimental (obviously because I don't spend half my paycheck in therapy trying to 'actualise' my inner self). But I would be lying if I said I didn't think about JP from time to time. Not in a check-25-times-if I've-left-the-stove-on-or-my-face-twitches kind of way. But in a big-fat-juicy-loose-end kind of way. I guess he's the itch I never quite scratched.

So now you know the whole story - thanks for listening - it's time for the anticlimax: that's right, I'm off to Attica.

I think I might call him tomorrow, after entering a few more permutations of his name, country of origin, date of birth, residential address into Google. Surely, this is what unemployed people do, no? Besides telling all their friends about Jesus...which is exactly what I'm thinking of doing right now, of course. Heh.

There is such a thing as Too Big…

...especially when you’re a small Asian chick who does Kegel exercises almost for a living.

Through my many exploits, I have experienced the whole size spectrum. From pinkie-small to porn movie-big. And surprisingly, I find that my tastes stay quite happily within the curve in this area. Maybe at a modest 60th to 70th percentile? Average, really.

I figure, I'm 26 and reasonably tight so any more than a 6.5 inch cock (erect, pre-cold shower/swimming pool/ejaculation) is a waste, right? I guess I'm not exactly when you would call a size snob. Although I reserve the right to change my mind once a baby or two pops out of me, and I need to start wearing thermals to keep my pussy from letting the wind in. Get those rulers out!

Circumference and curvature are a whole different discussion though. I once shagged a guy who called his cock "The G-Spot Penis" because it curved upwards strategically. He had limited technique and an even more limited personality (be ye wary of any man who gives his penis a name and refers to it in the third person - "The G-Spot Penis likes it when you suck him hard") , but I had to admit he had a really good cock.

So how big is too big? A few months ago, my cervix met (collided with, rather) Adam. Adam was a great guy and reasonably unassuming in every way - although come to think of it he had a big nose, so I should have guessed - except when he dropped his pants. Then he became Mr Novelty Dildo. Yea, lucky me. I swear my tonsils constricted at the thought of what was coming their way.

Sex with Adam felt like an eternal pap smear with not enough K-Y. He took at least 5 minutes forcing himself into his condom, all the while manfully tugging and pulling away at himself to retain his erection. When he had finally wrestled the condom on, his cock just bulged and flopped around in all the wrong places. I had never seen anything so alarming. Purple is just not a good colour for cocks. Please somebody just give that man a Trojan Magnum XL, already.

And then, 1-2-3-Brace! He began to shag me in earnest. It started off pretty pleasurably but when he turned me around on all-fours, pulled my hair back and took me roughly from behind, I must have lost a whole layer of soft tissue from my nether-parts. I was going to need medical attention and a prescription for industrial lubricants if it lasted much longer.

But no pain no gain, as they say. I rocked against him as fast and hard as I could. Muscles cramped. Stars swam. Pigs flew. And then it was over. I brought a cold glass of gin-&-tonic into the bathroom and iced myself down. I didn't stay the night. In fact, I never called him back. Yes, superficial me. I stopped seeing Adam because of the size of his knob.

So don't believe everything you hear in the locker-room, boys. I'll be clear about this: I never want to see anything over 9 inches again unless it's stuffed full of pork and I'm eating it with mustard.

But obviously that's just me. I don't see Peter North or P.Diddy having problems with chicks.

Oops, I did it again

Yes yes, another Hotel 81 run. I promise I won’t make it a habit. Yawn. One more time and they might even give me their loyalty card. (Although I have it on good authority that their card doesn't get you additional discounts on the room rate, it just helps you check in faster - oh, not to mention you can use it to impress all your friends.)

It was 4 a.m. on a Friday night - actually early Saturday morning - and I had become friendly with a very cute, clean-cut, funny but also, relatively self-effacing diplomat. Let's call him Jake. We were both reasonably drunk and were now looking for a suitable location to spend the night. Somewhere that would guarantee the greatest degree of anonymity. Or at least incredulity. ("What? No. Jake would never go somewhere like that.")

Naturally, Hotel 81 was top-of-mind. And personally, I thought it would also be fun to see what manner of colourful characters staggered through its doors at 4 a.m. So, in the name of research, we went.

"Sorry, there's no available rooms right now. We have a booking for 6 a.m., now already 4:30," said the woman sourly at the Hotel 81 desk, checking her watch.

We stood there, almost dumbfounded. Somebody had a booking for Hotel 81 - at 6 a.m.? And they say Singaporeans have no spontaneity.

So there we were, feeling like we had not just been turned away from the inn, but from the manger as well. It hurt. And there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

I looked at Jake with mock-disapproval - what good was it that he could disrupt bilateral free trade and breach international security protocol with a snap of his fingers but he couldn't get us a room in Hotel 81. (“Can’t you get your people to talk to their people?”) Maybe he should fire his secretary.

Still, the irony was too delicious to pass up and it was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter in the lobby. I know I know, you really can’t take me anywhere. We were just about to leave when the woman at reception called out to us, probably in pity after witnessing our abject disappointment. After all, we did make a cute pair. We deserved to fuck, even if only for the sake of attempting to boost the world's gene pool. (And world peace.)

“Ok sir? Sir? You can get the room, but just for 1 hour. We call your room at 5:30 a.m. 10 minutes and then you get out.”

We got the key to Room 209 and embarked on our permitted hour of sexual release. But it was not to be. Mid-orgasm - mid-screech, to be exact - we were interrupted by a continuous loud banging on the adjacent wall. We stopped. The banging stopped.

Sighs. I must be behind the times. Apparently, people now came to Hotel 81 and expect a good night’s sleep. Thankfully, aside from the temporary interruption, Jake and I still managed to have a relatively good time, albeit quietly.

Evidently, Hotel 81 is coming up in the world. It might even be 5-star in a few years. Buy stock now. And don't enter the premises if you're in flip-flops. Even if that means you have to resort to a hotel along Balestier Road. But save that for the really classy chicks.

P.S. Balestier’s still a bargain at $15 plus GST for 2 hours, so you might even be able to pay for her cab fare at the end of the night. Don’t even ask how I know this.