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.