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.