Enlightenment

Ah! We all need a little help joining the dots sometimes. Thanks Edie.

Just a little postscript on the topic. I watched some porn the other day where a woman lifted one of her breasts to her mouth and lapped at it happily. What a nifty trick! You have to be at least a D-cup though, C gets you as far as your chin.

I should know.

Minister Mentor

Obviously, someone has too much time on his hands and not enough imagination to know what to do with it.

As a few of you may or may not have noticed recently, a dysfunctional individual has insisted on flooding my comment box with remarks that are vulgar and offensive. Never mind that I have a ban list as long as my arm or an inbox of complaints from friendly readers, but I broke a nail whilst pressing 'delete' to one of the comments in question and I'm annoyed now.

There's simply no excuse for bad manners or ruining my manicure. Unless there's a safe-word in place.

Ok so, we need to talk.

I'm not here to win a popularity contest, I blog as a form of personal expression and because I need something (else) to keep my fingers busy. I'll be the first to admit that what I write may not be to everyone's taste, and I'm happy to recieve both positive and negative responses as long as you articulate them thoughtfully.

But I'm bored of the same old same old. Put some creative consideration into calling me a slut already. Otherwise, go away. And take your poodle with you.

Frankly, I'm not so much perturbed by the content of these comments as much as the effect it has on the other people of Sashville. These pervy pacifists come from all over the world to the blog to play, wank, laugh, commiserate etc. in comforting anonymity. Having them gird up their lions and lob weapons of (m)ass destruction at my detractors is not horny. In fact, it lowers the tone of the entire site.

And secretly, I hate it when someone else gets more attention than I do. Heh.

So enough. Rather than close the comment box altogether, I've decided to use moderation for now, which just means that it will take a little longer for your comments to be registered in the box but they will get there eventually I promise. Please don't let this defeat you from saying what you want to say though. I enjoy reading what you think, especially if there's cum involved.

That said, I have deleted the offensive comments in question as well as those that have been mounted in defense of me - thanks :) but I like my way better - hope you understand.

Love XOXO,
Your Minister Mentor

Puppies

“You have to meet Carrie. She’s got great puppies,” he says, gesturing with both hands cupped around his chest.

Puppies? I look skeptical.

I wonder about the origins of the term ‘puppies’. Tits (from titillate, teats) I understand. Or jugs (milk-bearing vessels) even. Rack (hanging frame, medieval torture device) a little less so, but British people say this a lot and since they claim to be an authority in the English language, I’ll let it slide just this once. God love that (ex-) colony mindset.

But back to puppies – Daschund or Shar-pei, is there even a difference – the term suggests a certain vulnerable quality, does it not? However when Carrie’s puppies are duly presented in front of me for inspection, there is nothing at all vulnerable about them.

Springing from her chest in two smooth, perfectly-symmetrical orbs and barely encased by a skimpy lace top, the puppies are armed. And very dangerous.

“A ‘Warning: Do Not Feed’ label would have been more appropriate don’t you think”, I mutter to my friend under my breath, jabbing him in the side with my elbow.

But for all my ungraciousness, even I have to admit that the reviews are spot-on. Attached human notwithstanding, the puppies are exquisite – slightly-raised mounds on top, subtle swellings that peek out from the side and a shaded valley down the middle that appears tantalising soft.

It’s not difficult to pinpoint the tight little buttons of arousal underneath the merciless fabric and I am helpless to tear my eyes away. Its Darwinian - the long-term survival and reproductive well-bring of our species depends on puppies like these.

Of course as I barely know Carrie, etiquette dictates that I only ogle at her chest when she is not looking. When we do engage in actual conversation, I make sure to plumb the portals of her eyes and make engaging noises about her outfit and uh, intellect.

In truth, all I'm really thinking is how those puppies really need a good toilet training. A hard pinch when they've been bad, an affectionate squeeze when they've been good and voluminous squirts of cum for everything in between.

So I'll come clean. You know how there are ass-men, ab-girls and the odd stiletto-fetishist, well I am a true-blue tit-girl, which means to say I love breasts and everything about them. Always have, always will.

What variety, you ask? Unlike the male philosophy of 'bigger is better', I'm more along the lines of 'size is nice'. Carrie must have been a D at least and you don't see me complaining. But you know what they say - anything more than a handful is a waste. (Replace 'handful' with 'mouthful' depending on which you use more often of course.)

Well my take is this: I have a C-cup hand, a B-cup mouth and people are starving in Somalia. So I'm much more likely to value subtle curvature and defiance to gravity over a set of trophies from Cathay Bowlerama. I like to think so anyway.

I have an equal opportunity policy about breasts – like most people I’m usually more pleased to be granted access than anything else – but naturally, I have personal preferences: I like perky tits that spring to the touch. And I do enjoy cupping the fullness of tear-shaped tits from the side and lifting them from the bottom. Nipples, I prefer to be lightly rouged and pointing straight or slightly upwards with a little plumpness around the areolae. Cleavage should be subtle and inviting, but nothing a mamasan could lose her handkerchief in.

Perhaps what I like most of all is mobility – breasts that bounce, wiggle, attack, sway to the music and nipples that point, twist, brace and spring to attention. I want to be inspired by bouncing balls, swaying pendulums and ripening papayas...

Anyway...

These thoughts bring me back sharply to the specimens in front of me. Yes, the puppies. We are in a club now and it’s dark so it’s legal to look for as long and hard as I like. On closer observation, I notice that the puppies maintain a remarkable sang-froid while Carrie stomps up a storm in her precarious high heels and Dior hot pants.

I turn to my friend suddenly, catching him off-guard with my suspicions. It is only then that he admits – a tad guiltily – he’s known all along that the puppies are surgically enhanced, if not completely manufactured.

“They’re not great puppies if they’re fake!” I whisper, outraged. We’re on holiday far from home but coming from the continent of confident, natural small-breasted women, the Asian in me is not impressed.

"But you’d still fuck her, right…” he asks hopefully.

I shoot him a look through narrowed eyes. We head back to the hotel and say no more on the subject.

On Kissing

'Kiss me’, I whispered.

I had timed my request perfectly. Anthony’s eyes, amber in the light, burned into me. My knees were pushed close to my chest, my pussy soaked with the juice of my earlier orgasms and his cock nudged insistently at my arse. Usually by this point I’d be yelling for him to ‘give it to me deep!’ and bracing for impact.

Yet tonight, I stilled the shudders coursing through my body and offered my face up towards him. A light sheen of sweat coated my features, yet my mouth felt dry, a result of significant fluid loss (we had been fucking for a while now). My tongue moved slovenly across my lips.

He started with little papery kisses, our lips merely flirting with each other. Yet the minute he saw my neck begin to arch and my eyes flutter closed, he broke contact. At this sudden disruption, my eyes would pop open like an antique doll held suddenly upright.

He began to alternate the onslaught of his kisses with his cock, which began to probe and pressure my arse to yield. I gasped repeatedly. And as I fought for air, he smothered me with kiss after kiss. Caught between twisting my face away to breathe and returning his kisses, I made small cries of frustration at the back of my throat.

He let the kisses deepen, his tongue chasing mine into my mouth and then retreating just as quickly. The game was exhilarating and for a while, I forgot all else, including the fact that I was still being held in a very vulnerable position.

Then with his lips held against me, he fucked me. His cock slid right up the canal in a smooth motion and stayed there. My head thrashed helplessly from side to side, every nerve ending on fire. And as my arse struggled to adjust to the intrusion, he rained tender kisses on my forehead and my neck.

Steady, relax, I’m here, it’s ok, his kisses seemed to say whilst his cock bullied me mercilessly into submission. The juxtaposition of rough and gentle sensations sent me deeper and deeper into paroxysms of ecstasy.

Let’s get this straight. Most women like to be kissed. I for one, love to be kissed and will volunteer myself for the activity almost anytime, anywhere. Airports, taxis, bars, educational instutions, moving platforms. I draw the line at my parent’s bedroom though – especially if they’re sitting a few feet away watching the Discovery Channel.

Most men on the other hand, are ambivalent about the concept. Often, it is just a means to an end. After all, a kiss is the most socially acceptable demonstration of interest and less likely to get you criminally convicted than say, flashing your pubes in a crowded club. (Although a girl like me would probably give you more respect for the latter approach. Then go home with your best friend. Of course.) The prevailing logic seems to be that the further men ram their tongues down your throat, the more they idiomatically – and you, literally – are gagging for it.

There is a rule, or more like a general correlation, that people who kiss well, fuck well. Still, I must say that it’s rare to find a man who kisses and fucks well. At the same time. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve met in the past that have used kissing as a crucial part of the pick-up and as a prelude to sex but not during the actual sex itself.

What gives? Is it too difficult to multi-task? Men, take note. If you really want to show a woman a good time – fuck her like a whore and kiss her like a princess. Not just once, but at frequent intervals. Yes, like you actually mean it.

Never underestimate the power of a good kiss. It’s a versatile little weapon to have in your arsenal – it can be casual, intimate, erotic, sensual, sexy, dirty, passionate – and pack enough punch to decimate a small village of beautiful, bloodthirsty Amazonian women. Or that'd be the plan anyway.

All the usual characteristics – fresh breath, adequate saliva, nifty tongue-work – notwithstanding, here are a few more things that really work for me:

1. Kiss Chic – A kiss isn’t just a kiss. It’s an overall look to be worn with your best 3-inch Manolos. I like kisses that include hands (caressing back of head, side of cheek, spine), neck (arched and exposed), eyes (half-lidded or completely closed), thighs (entwined), hair (messy), clothes (torn at seams), lungs (approaching asphyxiation). And are followed by a sultry strut along the pavement.

2. Sense of timing – A good kiss should be like an orchestral performance with an introduction, a climax, and a coda. It has its own rhythm. Nothing should feel rushed or contrived. I like to be steered effortlessly from zero to panting on the nearby pool table without realising how I got there.

3. Accessories – Lips and tongue are great, but my most memorable kisses have been accessorised with half-melted chocolate, Fisherman’s Friend, ice-cubes, secondhand cigarette smoke, fingers, toes and even the odd wedding ring thrown in for good measure. The less sanitary the better.

It’s sad to say but Hong Kong does not provide a conducive public environment for kissing, good or otherwise. Maybe it’s the fear of becoming roadkill. Or catching SARS. Or reducing ROI. Whatever the reason, I’ve been here more than a year and have yet to see anybody – lovesick teenagers on the Star Ferry included – actually lock lips and have a decent snog. There’s a lot of insincere bisous-bisous going on, which even the guy from my neighbourhood kebab shop dishes out (yech), but that doesn’t count.

Come to think of it. I’ve administered a blow-job in full view of passing traffic on an alleyway in SoHo but I’ve never been properly and publicly kissed in this city. How radical. I must try it sometime. When I’m feeling brave enough.

Takers anyone? :)

Video

Everyone should be a porn star at least once in their lives. It is healthy to actually see oneself immersed in the process of fucking, to discover through an objective medium exactly how and why people enjoy fucking you, and vice versa.

For best results, I prefer to have an external cinematographer present. Better angles. Better direction. And oh, here's a blowjob for all your trouble. However, filming each other can be a really rewarding and intimate experience as well.

He has brought a friend’s videocam with him and I am anxious to use it. We start in the afternoon when there is good light. It is a horny exercise being filmed. I am loathe to admit it but I have Paris Hilton syndrome – I am a camera-whore. I pout my lips and wiggle my bum trying doing my best to look suitably depraved and come-hither-esque.

We shoot for a bit and then review the footage. Ok so presumably my graceful cat-arch on all fours makes me look 5 months pregnant (and this is with me sucking my stomach in). And sadly, my bum isn't quite as perky as I think it is. But God bless him, he doesn't seem to notice.

Still, for all my over-acting and flouncing about, the on-screen result seems rather tame. My breast-palpation scene turns out well, nice in a bovine kind of way and documenting the journey of his lone follicled finger in and around the crevices of my pussy doesn't exactly lift the human spirit like we want it to. But hey, we're working on it.

We agree to move on to fucking, starting off with me lying on my back. He half-kneels, half-sits in between my legs, pumping his cock hard into my body. He zooms in on my breasts which bounce in response to the shock of each thrust. He then shifts the focus to my face. I have crazy half-slits for eyes, my hair is in knots, my mouth is contorted into a grimace of sorts, I grip hard into the side of the pillow, my fingers leaving compressions in the stuffing.

He then holds the camera behind his back to do a close-up of the actual entry. The curtain-lips of my pussy flank his cock and you can see them gleam as they vibrate energetically to accomodate him. His balls are tight against his body and make gratifying slaps against me as he thrusts.

Then I begin to cum and he shifts the lens back to observe the changes in my body as I hit my peak. I give it all I've got. The tightening of my stomach, the flush around my neck, the beads of sweat on my upper lip - these are things I do not or cannot see by myself but the camera doesn’t miss a thing.

We do a few more positions and then finally, tired of all the twisting and stretching to get a good shot, our inner narcissists call it a day. Or ahem, 'a wrap' for all you MTV-types.

The best part to filming one's own porn movie is then being cuddled next to him post-shoot, watching the finished product. Like film critics, we point out the parts we like and the parts that maybe need a little editing or improvement. Its interesting to see what he likes about me and what I like about him. And overall, we agree we're pretty hot. Predictably this little exercise gets me throbbing wet all over again.

Can I help it if I turn myself on? (Don't answer that.) My fingers stray towards my pussy and I begin to have a fiddle. I notice his cock is hard as well.

Then we both spontaneously realise the added benefit of filming ourselves - it is remarkably gratifying (not to mention, economical - and if you're in Singapore, legal) to wank off to one’s own porn. And the actors fuck in the exact way you want them to do. Fancy that.

We lay back contentedly in our cosy little hotel room pleasuring ourselves until the evening before heading out for dinner. I make sure to burn a CD for myself before deleting it off the videocam. Might make a nice Christmas present for Mom.

Countdown - Five

Even though the events described all happened in the span of one very l-o-n-g night, I will post this series in parts to make it easier to read – and less intimidating for me to write! Here’s Part Number 1.

First there were five.

Two grown men, Anthony (yes, my Anthony) and Jon, bound to the chairs they were sitting on, facing the bed. They were our watchers and with their hands tied behind them, we had rendered them completely helpless, even to themselves.

My friend Bee, also in restraints, had her wrists strapped to the opposing sides of the bed, her torso laid bare for the plundering. She had clamped her legs shut though. If only she knew how beautiful she looked with her alabaster flesh registering ripple after ripple of miniature defiance. Or how her nipples presented themselves to our eyes like perfect little peas balanced precariously on satin pillows.

Then there was Jen, Bee’s friend and Jon’s girlfriend, whom I had met earlier that evening. I would soon find out that she was just as feisty naked as she was clothed. But for now, she looked extremely composed with her lithe compact body bent over the bed like a flower-stalk. Her head, a drooping blossom weighed down by a lush cornucopia of hair, was positioned precisely to plunder our birthday captive’s reluctantly-proffered bounty.

And finally there was me, standing around self-importantly pouring champagne, double-checking the restraints, making sure everyone was comfortable or well, as comfortable as they could be strapped to pieces of furniture.

It had been my idea after all, to get some bisexual girls together under the auspices of a surprise birthday party for Bee. And I suppose I felt somewhat responsible for everyone having a good time. The party itself had been a big hit. And we had pulled off the charade to every last choreographed detail. The entire event along with Bee’s completely unscripted 60-second scream and us getting warned at the bar for our ‘disrespectful behaviour’ would definitely go down in the annals of girly history.

We had dinner, drinks and some dancing but the sexual tension between five of us was increasingly palpable. The girls couldn’t keep their hands off each other. And as hands and tongues strayed, Jon and Anthony looked on protectively.

By the time we got to Jon’s apartment, we were all extremely giggly. Perhaps from the champagne but more likely from the absurdity of the entire situation. You try asking 4 of your friends – two of whom, recent acquaintances – to sit still whilst you tie them up in their birthday suits and you see that you all don’t end up laughing.

Once everyone was suitably secured and positioned, you could feel the air change. It was as if the atmospheric molecules carrying high-pitched laughter and silly banter automatically rearranged themselves into dense, vaporous clouds that settled around everyone’s parted lips.

The men stopped fidgeting and held their breaths, concentrating now as the scene unfolded before them. I could hear Jen exhaling noisily as she began to lick and nibble on her captive in earnest. Bee was gasping quietly, taking shorter and quicker gulps of air as if she was running out.

“I won’t run away…let me go…let me go,” Bee pleaded insistently. She looked adorable as she struggled, her head tossing from side to side, casting her tangled net of hair wide over the white cotton sheets.

“No, you’re the birthday girl and this is for you.” I rained kisses on her from her lips down to her shaved mound. I ran my hands along the inside of her thighs. They parted with less resistance than I expected.

Her mons was flushed and her intimate petals were glossy with promise. From the numerous explicit discussions we’d had over the course of our friendship, I already knew what to do. I angled my fingers on each side of her clitoris, pulling the hood back and zoomed in on her favourite spot with my tongue, flicking it lightly but rapidly just the way she liked it. Soon I had her sighing and moaning in ecstasy.

“Bitty bittee bitteee…!!” Jen exclaimed with satisfaction as she moved down the bed and sucked hard on Bee’s toes, pulling each little manicured member out of her mouth with a little ‘pop’.
“Come onnn…let me to play too,” Bee groaned out of frustration. Her body was really convulsing now and I could see the restraints beginning to get in the way of her enjoyment. I motioned to Jen to release the Velcro on one of the straps.

As if to make up for lost time, Bee attacked me with her fingers, burying the length of them deep in my wet cunt all at once. I gasped involuntarily and stopped what I was doing. Jen, seeing me momentarily incapacitated, wrestled me down and sat triumphantly on my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the bed.

I suppose I had it coming.

“Yea! You go Jen!” cheered Jon. And then turned to his fellow spectator remarking: “Nothing beats a bit of lesbian bondage.”

I had almost forgotten about the men. They had somehow untied themselves (ok so I’m a girl, I don’t tie very good knots) and were now the absolute picture of bohemian decadence – naked with champage flute in one hand, cigarette in the other and jaded, lustful looks in both eyes.

I heard Anthony yell out from his seat. “Baby, are you going to let her do that to you?”

“No! But well, it's a bit err, difficult,” I said helplessly. I was torn between the conflicting urges of breaking free of Jen’s submission-hold and regaining control of the situation, lying there and letting Bee’s fingers continue working their magic, or persuading Jen to move upwards and sit on my face.

I picked the third option. And eventually all three of us rearranged ourselves into a triangle of pleasure, such that wherever there was a pussy there was a mouth or a finger (or occasionally both).

We began to make sex noises in unison. And I discovered that there was nothing more appealing than the collective sound of girls moaning, grunting, squealing. I could have closed my eyes and listened for a long time.

But before I could get too carried away, it was time for Bee to go. And as we scuttled about getting our clothes together, I nestled my face in her hair and whispered: “So did you have a Happy Birthday?”

“It was wonderful! I love you so much,” she said with a big, beautiful Bee smile and then was gone.

Rugby

“How many men have you had in bed with you at any one time?” one of them challenged, pinching my right nipple through my bikini. I had another one trying to give me a hicky on my left breast, another one stroking the crack of my arse, and the rest were circling hungrily.

“Two.”

“We could break that record tonight.” I believed them. And I suspected it wouldn’t have been their first time to do so either. They were half a professional rugby team from the UK and there was an easy familiarity (hugs, high-fives, back-slaps) between them that had probably developed from sharing the same locker-room as well as not a few women.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, laughing casually in their faces.

And I’ll admit that for a few moments, I did think about it. They were young, mostly my age or below, but they would have been quick, strong fucks with top quality, alpha sperm. Yum.

It was difficult to ignore the bukkake bells that had begun ringing madly in my head. I was imagining S-A-S-H sprayed repeatedly in cursive all over my face. I was projecting Jackson Pollock…in a harem…squirting mayonnaise…on a huge salami sandwich…Help, Dr. Freud!

I was getting horny and more than a little carried away. I looked them over. They were prime tenderloin – everything you’d want from a cut of meat and more – with solid six-packs, broad deltoids, good stamina and from what I could feel, bulging packages beneath their trunks.

Who better to lose one’s gang-bang virginity with?

And as I pondered, they tried their best to persuade me – hoisting me up, spinning me, dunking me and then fingering me in the water whilst I shrieked with mock-indignation. I even lost my bikini bottom to the pool at one point, but all annoyance shamelessly melted away when the perpetrator, who bore an uncanny resemblance to David Beckham, sidled up next to me and said “sorry, I love you” whilst feeling up my bare arse.

All the attention was very flattering of course. To start with, there was nothing that felt more helplessly feminine than being manhandled by a team of big, burly guys. My ‘me-Jane’ complex (read: oh throw me over your shoulder, if you must) was asserting itself in full force and I grew more and more embarrassingly giggly as the evening wore on.

Ordinarily they wouldn’t have been my type - too young, too obvious. But for someone who grew up reasonably nerdy in Singapore i.e. straight As, braces, drama club, scraped through 2.4 – enough said, the idea that I had a team of seven well-conditioned jocks eating out of my hand (and pussy – underwater) was doing a good job of exorcising every single adolescent insecurity I ever had about boys, especially the ones that played ‘Sports’.

Oh yes, I was enjoying getting the last laugh.

That was until one of them asked me, in his thickest Brummie accent: “Can I rub my love-butter all over your tits?” And I fell from my newfound pedestal of social posturing back to earth.

Because I realised that while in my wildest fantasies The Seven Studs would have been legendary lovers who treated me with respect and dedicated themselves to my pleasure i.e. made me cum as many times as they did, the reality would be very different.

I had always felt empowered by my sexual encounters even if they were only one-night stands. Everything was conducted in the name of fun and mutually-gratifying good times. But the empowerment in this situation started when the guys flocked around propositioning me in the pool and stopped when it was clear I would just be an ejaculation device for Mr Love-Butter and Co.

And I guess I had reached a point in my life where it was ok to say No. Not so much No to sleeping with seven guys but No to myself; No to my animalistic urge to act on every impulse without any regard for consequences, No to jumping on every sexual bandwagon for the hell of it, simply because I could and especially No to waking up the next morning feeling absolutely shit for sleeping with guys nicknamed Weasel, Curly and I-kid-you-not Poodle who I never really fancied in the first place.

Because dear readers, I can finally say with conviction, that I have been there and done (a lot of) that. And I don’t need to prove to anyone, least of all myself, what a dirty chick I am. I am a dirty chick. And christ, this is a dirty blog.

This doesn’t mean that there aren’t tons of areas in the sexual landscape that I am not dying to explore – having barely touched the surface of being bisexual, threesomes, orgies, toys, bondage, role-play etc. – but I think I have just developed better judgment on which ones are worth the effort.

And you know, it feels kinda comforting to know that even *I* have my limits. Even though, I did manage to store seven phone numbers in my phone before going home to wank furiously.

What? Just in case it's all a phase! ;)

Oops

I love you all – very very much. And I’m really REALLY hoping the feeling is mutual because guys, I’ll say it straight – I’m an idiot. And a bit of a fraud. No no no, the group sex and raging bisexual bits are all true. But the morbid pathos and death-becomes-her bits expressed in my last post ("Have You Ever") aren't.

Or at least, not anymore.

It’s turned out to be a complete misunderstanding. And after a weekend of stewing in my own muck, I decided to let the respective people involved know why I was behaving so oddly i.e. going to the gym, donating to charity, wearing comfortable shoes around the house, and suppressing the urge to howl every time Someone’s name was mentioned.

Piece by piece the entire picture emerged. That he said she said I said. And she said he said I said. And of course, nobody really said anything or meant anything the way they did. In fact it turned out that the original message (completely garbled and misinterpreted by alcohol and good intentions) was really quite sweet. Hopelessly, utterly and truly sweet, to be precise. And ironically enough, he was worried that I was pissed off at him for declaring it.

Which leaves me with a hastily glued back together heart, a relationship that has reverted to status quo and err, a rather embarrassing situation on this blog.

I would have taken down my last post completely and tried to sweep everything under the carpet – because my therapist says I’m good at that – but there were so many comments on it already, I thought you all deserved better by way of an apology and an explanation.

So guys and gals reading this, from the bottom of my heart, I am really sorry to have misled you all. I can tell you that it feels much worse than misleading myself, which I do quite regularly without the least bit of remorse. And I hate the idea that I've cried wolf and the blog continues to elicit sympathy on a now defunct premise. If you must shower compassion on anything, then may I suggest something more worthy. Like Iraq. Or ozone depletion. Or the fact that I’ve been so wretched I haven’t wanked once all weekend.

Jokes aside, I must thank you though, for all the comments I received in the past 2 days, even the ones that called me a self-indulgent little schmuck with a flair for minor theatrics (ok so you were right – just this once!). It's really a long story not worth retelling but trust me, the situation when it first presented itself was extraordinarily upsetting (or so I thought). And I was genuinely very very hurt over it.

But having you all out there – reading, responding and commiserating – really helped. It surprised me. I suppose that’s the power of blogging. And it still amazes me how this space has evolved from nothing more than a prurient piece of entertainment chronicling my sex life for a handful of close friends to a forum for expression that is really potent and vital to who I am and what I do.

So thanks for that. You guys are great, you really are. :)

Well now then, in the spirit of doing penance and being a better blogger, I’ve decided to open up the comment box on this post for you to ask me questions about the things that interest you. I’ll try my best to accommodate everyone – within reason – but I won’t answer any personal questions.

This being the blog that it is though, anything from orgies to rimming to why Singaporean schoolchildren excel in Math and Science is fair game.

Have You Ever...

…been hurt so bad it feels like dying.

No, really. This is what it must feel like to go. And actually, it is rather pleasant.

It’s more like a release. The final 'fuck-it'. A complete and utter surrender to a higher power outside your control. Like drowning in a river. You struggle at first. But then, people say there is a moment of euphoria as your lungs learn how to breathe water instead of spit air. You have reverted to man’s pre-evolutionary state and ironically, you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your entire sorry land-locked lifetime.

You float. Then you sink into oblivion.

And the best part of the transition is the peace. Nothing can touch it or take it from you – it is six feet below. Profound. Exquisite. Deep. It consumes you. And you are left with nothing but the metaphysical conviction that everything in this topsy-turvy world is now as it should be.

Finally, you have done something right.

You always knew it was coming. Death and taxes, as they say. The only thing you could never pinpoint was how or when. All you knew was that it would be too soon.

Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Nobody ever really wants to go. Even the most reckless maniac with a death-wish wants to live – even if it is by the skin of her teeth. She may flirt with her mortality but ultimately all she wants is to be pulled back from the brink. To live another five minutes. To scrape by.

So follow your own advice, girl. Don’t fall in love.

Because in doing so, you will have signed a warrant for your own execution. In effect, you will have planted a knife in your heart – so deeply and so cleanly you don’t even feel it going in. Except when someone twists and pulls it out.

You wait. A year flies by – the best year of your life. Nothing happens. You grow careless. You begin to make modest little plans and dream modest little dreams, you have a little celebration to congraulate yourself on defying the odds. But in reality, all you are doing is looking forward to a future that isn’t yours and committing yourself to a person that can never fully reciprocate.

You fool.

Yet, you continue to laugh in the face of your own destruction. You court it. You jeer at it. And when it doesn’t come, you begin to trust in the myth of your own invincibility. You believe your own lies.

You forget you are on borrowed time.

And you are in such a mood when the knife is casually drawn from you, so swiftly that you lose your breath and immediately start to fall. You feel like you should resist or retaliate, do what all women do and cry even, but there is no point. The deed is already done. It is your time to go, not with a bang, but with a forced smile and a whimper.

The house always wins.

You turn to face your killer. Her features swim into view and somehow you think you have seen that face before. Your tongue moves out of its own accord and it is your voice you recognise being discharged from your throat. Congratulations, you’re a muppet on your own show. If life wasn’t ebbing away from you, you would find it terribly amusing.

“That…hurts me,” you mutter softly, resignedly, to no one in particular. It is all a bit of an anti-climax.

After all, the culprit is no evil priestess. She is your best friend, your confidante, your protector – against whom you are utterly defenceless. She comes bearing good intentions and takes you at your least aware – when you are sitting around tittering over something superficial, feeling reasonably content with life.

A moment which for her will just be another moment.

But for you, will be an eternity.

The First Threesome

I don’t mean to be a tease but I’ve been ridiculously busy at work which has (very sadly) eaten way into my writing time. This looks set to continue for at least another week or so but please bear with me. I have not abandoned you. Normal posting frequencies will resume when the sun breaks through the clouds.

Here’s a backdated entry to tide you over for now.

So I lost my threesome virginity. I can eat pussy. I presently tip the scales at 35% bisexual (from my former 20 – 30%). I absolutely adore women, in fact now more so than before. And I’m beginning to think I could adopt threesomes as a lifestyle choice. More on that later.

The thing is, I promised to write about my first FFM threesome experience a very long time ago but I know I have been endlessly procrastinating and pussyfooting around the topic. So here is the reason, which I submit – quite humbly – to you, faithful readers:

My first threesome didn’t quite turn out to be the incendiary, inspiring orgiastic encounter of my lifetime. Actually, it was just ok. I know I know, bran cornflakes are just ok. Giordano jeans are just ok. 5 inch cocks are just ok.

But threesomes are frenzied, Sapphic, porn fantasies! Uncharted sexual territory! Twice the pussy, three times the fun! They aren’t supposed to be just ok.

Alas.

If I must be honest, I suppose I was partly to blame for the undistinguished turn of events. Because whilst I can navigate my way around a twosome with a blindfold and handcuffs on, threesomes as you can imagine, are a whole different ballgame. And my lack of familiarity with the dynamic meant that I became quite passive and hesitant in bed; all very uncharacteristic for me.

But let me tell you the entire story in all its pedestrian glory, from start to finish, since you have waited so long for it.

It begins with a bright Sunday afternoon. And that should already be reasonably telling with regards to the context that it occurred. Lesson #1 my friends, first-time threesomes are best conducted in the wee hours of the morning of a Friday or Saturday, when everyone is sufficiently – but not overly – intoxicated and lubed up after a night of merrymaking.

This is the Singaporean in me speaking– but Sunday afternoons are really best left for that dining tradition we call brunch.

Anyway back to the event, Sunday afternoon notwithstanding. I was in bed with Felix. Sunlight was streaming into the room from a crack in the curtains. I groggily estimated it was about noon and pulled the covers defiantly back over my head in an attempt to chase whatever dream I had been having.

I woke again to the sound of Felix groaning softly. I sat up. Taking in the huge sunken crescents under his eyes and the general pallor of his complexion, I scurried to the kitchen to get him some water and Panadol.

“Samantha just called, I asked her to come over,” he murmured through sleep-crusted eyes when I returned, his head propped up reluctantly on the pillow.

I met Samantha at a party a week ago, where under the influence of some substance or other, she blurted out, “I’m bisexual and I think I’m in love with you”. So much for subtlety, but it was endearing in a semi-Tourette’s kind of way. I fell for it. And Felix, who initially introduced us, was quick to suggest that we all meet up again – under much less civilized circumstances, of course.

I opened Felix’s main door and there she was. In a pair of grey sweats and white t-shirt pulled tight over a bikini top. Her rosebud lips were still pink, and her skin baby-smooth, but her usually sparkling eyes were dull.

“Big night last night?” I asked.

“Yea…dizzy all morning. But I’m better after seeing you honey,” she said. I wasn’t particularly convinced but I gave her a hug and let her in anyway. She headed straight to the bedroom without ceremony.

“Err, give me one minute.” I rushed to the bathroom and gave my pussy a quick wash, guessing (correctly) that Samantha would prefer the scent of Satin Breeze hand-soap to Felix’s stale cock.

On emerging from the bathroom, I saw that Felix and Samantha already lay entwined on the bed, kissing. I watched them for a while. My pussy throbbed every time Felix fed his tongue to her mouth and her eyes fluttered closed in pleasurable submission.

Her bikini top had been pushed aside to reveal a set of lightly-nippled, D-cup breasts. Perfectly-shaped, they hung and quivered like dewdrops on a leaf. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
I shifted awkwardly, waiting, like a girl at her first school dance, wanting to join in the fun but not quite sure how. Or where. Or with whom. As if sensing my hesitation, Felix gestured for me to help loosen the knot of Samantha’s pants.

I did so, relieved to be of use finally. I traced my hand over Samantha’s buttocks – they were as impertinently round as her breasts. She shifted her position ever so slightly so that the cleft in between her legs winked at me.

I stroked her there. A virgin’s touch. Tentative at first, but slowly more insistent. The texture of her shaved private skin felt furry as a peach might.

She turned over on all fours and opened to me. I could see the lightly pink petals of her inner labia beckoning to me, glistening with promise. She had a pussy like a Georgia o’ Keefe flower – completely symmetrical and delicately rouged.

I suddenly felt self-conscious of my own pussy and its irregularities. How one lip hung lower than the other, how the skin folded roughly at the sides and how its vulgar redness tended towards carmine at the fringes. If she was a Georgia o’ Keefe, I felt like a Jenna Jameson.

And God help me, I had a bad case of pussy envy.

But I didn’t let it stop me. I was on a mission to get acquainted, so I positioned myself in between her legs, my mouth so close to her opening that I could smell the vapours of her excitement. I felt myself flush, perhaps with anticipation but more likely, with mild panic.

Now was the time of reckoning. It was right there. Pussy perfection. And I was determined to chow down – whether she approved or not.

The first thing I noticed was the softness. It took me by surprise. There is something about the construction and composition of a cock – its brutal erectness, its leathery sheath – that prompts a certain amount of roughness or vigour in the manner which it is handled. Think strong suction, twisting grips, pumping rhythmic movements.

Samantha’s pussy on the other hand, was unbelievably yielding and supple. As she sat on me, I felt like she almost conformed to the contours of my face. I could have burrowed into that warm crevice and stayed there happily for a long time.

As I worshipped – with my tongue passing over her like a feather, I also defiled – with my finger dipping deep into her well. But I lacked technique. And I knew it.

I’d been taken to the heights of ecstasy by some champion pussy-eaters, men who have licked / flicked / lapped / tapped / hummed / nibbled / twisted / tugged / and executed quadruple-combinations of the above techniques on my vulva and clit at the same time. But I had never taken the time to pay proper attention to the mechanics of what was being done to me. (Multiple orgasms do tend to hinder general observation and analysis, after all.) I hadn’t read any books on the subject matter. Heck, the last time I’d even watched lesbian porn was in college. I felt inexperienced and woefully inadequate. I was a mess.

She didn’t cum. And I didn’t blame her. Nobody would have cum from the lolly-licking that had been so doggedly administered. Least of all me.

The alpha female in me was disappointed anyway. If nothing else, I have always prided myself on being reasonably skilful in the sack. And orgasms all round were taken for granted when I was with a man. (Even if I had to help myself.) Being with women though, was giving me performance anxiety. I had been so intent on eating pussy that I wasn’t particularly enjoying myself doing the things I normally did.

I turned my mouth round to shower some attention on Felix in a bid to console myself and soothe my rather-bruised ego. I relaxed as the familiar sensation of cock filled my mouth and nudged the back of my throat. It was strangely comforting – and I sucked on it contentedly like a baby with a pacifier. I realized in that instant that as much as I was attracted to women, I could never just have lesbian sex with a girl.

I would miss cock entirely too much.

Then it was Samantha’s turn to eat me out. She was just as gentle as I had been. And I didn’t detect any particular technique either. Had I set a bad precedent? Were women always this soft and tender with each other? Or was I just hard-wired for cock and nothing else? There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask.

All I knew was that whoever said women naturally and intuitively gave better head to other women better than men got it wrong. I had been lied to.

From my admittedly limited experience, girls treated other girls’ pussies with much more respect. That was a good thing but I quickly got bored of all the gentle licks and delicate fingering. I didn’t want to be treated roughly but I missed the rhythmic thrusts, well-placed nibbles and even occasional slap that usually accompanied a pussy-eating administered by a man.

Don’t forget, this is the birth canal we’re talking about here. The pussy is able to withstand, respond and appreciate much stronger pressures than most people think. Consideration and respect are nice to start off with, but to take it up a level, a pussy needs hearty stimulation, action and a certain amount of filth.

Mine did, anyway.

But before I could say anything, Felix moved to suck on my nipples. And for a few moments, I just lay there watching the top of their two heads, Felix’s dirty blond and Samantha’s jet-black, moving down my body, tasting and savouring every intimate inch of me. It felt like one big, extended session of foreplay.

I could get used to this.

How different it was from the MMF threesomes I had done. It made all that high-fiving, ambidextrous-wanking, double-penetrating and spunk-collecting look like such hard work.

My time with Felix and Samantha seemed more artistic than pornographic. Physically, she was my ideal – beautiful alabaster skin, curvy in all the right places whilst being toned and taut in others.

There was also a giggly girlishness to being in the same bed with her, like we were at a pyjama party with no pyjamas. We cooed and stroked and mutually admired each other’s breasts. I promised to bring her to get her pussy waxed after she marveled at the smoothness of mine. She wore the most beatific smile as we kissed and cuddled from the front whilst Felix fucked her from behind. And then later, we showered together and passed soap all over each other’s bodies.

Everything felt strangely chaste. All that was missing from our little tete-a-tete was some hot chocolate and ginger biscuits.

I wouldn’t say my first threesome sucked. But like losing one’s virginity, the whole experience was a little disappointing. Nobody came. And I didn’t know if it was my performance anxiety, Samantha’s boredom or Felix’s hangover, but at some point somebody wisely raised the suggestion of brunch. And we all immediately stopped what we were doing and headed for the bathrooms, stifling sighs of relief.

Still it was a rite of passage, and as a result, I have reached a new level of sexual understanding. So no turning back. Upward, onward, forward. Onto bigger and better groups err, things. I am sure the next few threesomes I do will be much more inspiring to write about. After all when it comes to sex, I am nothing but optimistic.

Bi-curious? Get Bisexual

If the road to hell is paved with nubile bisexual girls, then I’m on it.

This Friday I shall be having dinner with 3 girls of the aforementioned persuasion, all recommended by various sources and screened by yours truly. This means that not just do these girls possess a quotient of physical attractiveness, more importantly they have demonstrated the actual aptitude and enthusiasm required to nibble nipples and eat pussy. All references have been double-checked.

A few men have been invited – really just to pay for dinner, perform the requisite gleeful rubbing together of the hands and provide the possibility of cock, if so required. But all other spectator tickets have been sold out.

One of the girls is a really good friend of mine celebrating her birthday (and what better way to celebrate, really) and the rest of the dinner participants are partners, or friends-of-friends, or ex-shags, or first cousins that I will be meeting for the first time. I’m joking about the first cousins, but you get the drift – everyone at dinner is connected by at least 2 degrees of DNA.

I made the decision to pull this party together because firstly, I thought it’d be a lot of fun to see what trouble a bunch of attractive, open-minded bisexual girls could get up to in a party setting. I’m not expecting a full-blown orgy or anything like that, but I’d be happy to see some gentle pawing and sexual friction.

At least for the first course.

Secondly, I am so so tired of meeting these sexy bi-curious women who work me up to a fever-pitch in a club and then balk at coming home to seal the deal i.e. eat my pussy whilst my man watches (and participates, but only if you want him to).

I mean seriously girls, to be a cocktease is one thing – but being a pussy-tease is like letting the side down, its betrayal. And may the heels of your Manolo Blahniks fall off.

Yes Dinh or whatever your name is, Ms Seductress I met in Saigon, I’m talking about you. I would like to submit for consideration that when you put your foot under my skirt and pulse it against my bare, wet pussy in time with the music, a girl like me gets the wrong idea. But in my defence, those semi-orgasmic squeals of pleasure you make as you grind your crotch into mine do not help matters one bit.

You broke my heart Missy. And I’m dedicating Friday’s dinner party to you and your kind. Because I know that you’d be a full-blown bisexual if you would just help me help you. I used to be like that too. And I can tell you wholeheartedly, life away from the straight and narrow is so much more fun. Really. You will never look back. I promise.

Don’t make me beg.

Sighs. These would-be / could-be / should-be bisexual girls have been the bane of my life of late. They seem to be everywhere, tapping their feet against my pussy and taunting me to pop their bi-curious cherries with my tongue. Or fingers. Or the six-inch strap-on I have in my closet (but I digress).

It must be because the whole idea of bisexuality has never been more fashionable. After all, if Madonna, Britney and Christina – the role models for the Y generation – are simulating it on MTV, then surely it must be cool. Like Pilates. Or dreadlocks. Or finding yourself an obscure mystic religion.

In a recent survey in the U.S., up to 63% of women admitted to wanting to sexually experiment with other women. I don’t know what the statistics are in Asia, but if the number of adolescent girls who developed crushes on Mrs Chan back in convent school are anything to go by, then I’d say that that we’re pretty up there.

However, the propensity to dabble doesn’t make a girl bisexual, just bi-curious. The difference between which – six drinks, as they say – is really quite slippery.

If I had to take a stab at defining the terms, I would say that being bisexual is an orientation, behaviour as well as a means of self-identification, whilst being bi-curious usually fulfills only one or two of the criteria. To illustrate - bi-curious women could be attracted to women (orientation), take a muff-dive off one in a club or swimming pool (behaviour), but still go home with their boyfriends at the end of the night (self-identify as straight).

Here’s another way to think about it. Bi-curious women are could-be bisexuals. They could easily also decide, after a stint of experimentation with other women, that they are rather-be heterosexuals. And it’s that ambiguity, that idea that 'I’m still exploring' which lends itself to the term bi-curious.

I know firsthand that despite the diminished risk of social censure, there are many things that hold back a bi-curious female from becoming an active, actualised bisexual. I myself might never have traversed the sexuality spectrum had I not had the rightful impetus.

However, I realise now that there are plenty of benefits to being a full-fledged, bisexual, besides doubling your chances of a date on a Friday night. To start with, girls are nice to have in bed. They smell nice, they look great, they’re less hairy – and they never cum too quickly.

Being bisexual is also one of the best things you can do for your sex life, and oh I suppose your partner too. Possibilities for threesomes, foursomes and more-somes abound. Checking out girls with my man and saying “ooh, I could so fuck her” has now become one of my favourite ways to spend an evening. Competing with him in terms of who makes first contact comes a close second.

Ironically enough, being bisexual also makes it a breeze to get the attention of the opposite sex. Just get on the dancefloor, find some other girl to make out with and voila, instant lust from the rest of the room. This works if you’re bi-curious as well, I suppose. But take my earlier anecdote as a cautionary tale if you will, nobody likes a pussy-tease.

So if you’re considering it girls, my advice – do it right and do it now. Find someone who knows what they’re doing. A hot couple preferably, that way you have the option of straight sex to fall back on. And put your heart into it – not just your foot. You might just love it, like me.

And if you don’t, you’ll find that girls are the gentlest, un-pushiest creatures when it comes to dealing another girl’s sexuality. Tell them you’re not comfortable with something and they’re more than happy to lend you one of their sex toys or give you a little tub of Haagen-Dazs whilst you watch them finish up with the guy they’re with. They'll just have a little rant on their blog and organize a sexy party with 3 other fully-fledged bisexual girls to make up for it later.

I would anyway.

Three Words

Oh my god.

Can it be?

He loves me!

No erms or ahs, no luv-s or ya-s this time. It was so unexpected. We can talk about anything and everything but in our terms of engagement, there are certain invisible barriers we will not cross, and hot-spots we will not touch - lest we erupt and blow away in a plume of sulphur. It is a precarious balancing act, but one we have learned to navigate.

Besides, why show your hand if there aren’t any aces? Sometimes the kindest things we could have said were spoken only with our eyes.

I told him never to make me a promise he couldn’t keep. Promises were luxuries that we could not afford – they were niceties that could only be fulfilled with the extravagance of time, by people who had a future (boy did I despise that word). We were here-and-now people, always planning the next trip or the next fairy-dust adventure but no more than that. In many ways, it was intense and always interesting. In others, painful and perennially frustrating.

So far we had treated each other with due consideration – the only emotional disclosure we did came closely accompanied with guarded confessions, qualified caveats and irony in spades.

It was rare for us to speak plainly. Even though through intuition and the general reading of the tea-leaves, I suppose I should have known what was coming. But I didn’t ask – I never ask – and thus would never have received direct confirmation, except that he decided to sit me down on that anonymous hotel bed at 4 o'clock in the morning and tell me in the most direct possible way where our ridiculous roller-coaster journey had taken him.

He looked unflinchingly into my eyes as he said it – it wasn’t a spontaneous slip – rather he had been thinking of telling me for a while and biding his time. He knew I wouldn’t have appreciated it any other way.

He chose his moment well. I was ready to hear those words spoken from his lips. Any earlier and I might have scoffed or made a wry face, given my skepticism towards the entire concept. But over the past few months, I guess I had grown to believe in him. Or maybe I had grown to recognize how much more convenient it would be for us to be together without those three words, how things could have been much more sane, much more efficient.

Yes, the grubby Singaporean in me knew firsthand how much those three words cost him, and how they could function as much of a curse as a blessing. What underlay those words was not merely bland, self-congratulatory sentiment, but difficult, often uphill effort. For us, it would never be a case of just saying those words, it would be a matter of sweating them and squeezing them from a stone. Only then could they be true.

“How many people have you been in love with?” I asked curiously. I suppose it was a mini-test, to give me a benchmark of where I stood in his affections and maybe subconsciously, to size up the competition. “Its ok, just be honest.” I placed a reassuring hand on his chest.

He hesitated, as if searching for the right answer. “Three. Two of whom are my children.”

“Ah.” I paused and smiled wanly into the darkness. It wasn’t his answer that grazed me, but how he had said it, his voice stripped bare of any artifice. It was so truthful, it seemed as if I could see right to the bottom of his heart.

We looked at each other for a long time. “Baby, I’m not saying this to hurt you,” he touched me tenderly.

“I know.” And I wasn’t really hurt. Not at that moment, anyway. I didn’t feel the usual selfishness or jealousy, just a twinge of quiet resignation to the way things were. I gave a little shrug to dispel it. Then, I felt the odd sensation of a little soap-bubble rising up from deep inside me and popping somewhere behind my eyes. And another, and another. They left fizzy pinpricks all over my body. It was then that I realized I was really happy.

Tell me again, I demanded, suddenly serious. This time I wanted to make sure I was really ready for it. He did so, and the three words tipped over his lips one after another so naturally that I suddenly couldn’t imagine how we had gone on for so long without saying them before. Because suddenly they seemed so self-evident, almost obvious, like rough diamonds hiding in plain sight.

The words hovered in the air for a few seconds, serenading us together with the graceful sounds of Henry Mancini, a soundtrack I had in an act of prescience put on earlier that night. And as I internalised them, they swelled and became voluptuous, billowing through the fibres of my entire being.

I surrendered myself to them.

It was as if I had become atomised, and particles of my element were being pulled in discrete directions to fill all four corners of the room. I lay back in bed airborne and lissome on the wings of that enchanted expression, drunk with delight.

It was a natural high, a metaphysical fullness from another realm. So much so that I must confess the idea of making love to his naked form didn't even cross my mind. A physical joining would have seemed so ordinary and so earth-bound, compared to how I was feeling.

Perhaps because I have always perceived sex as a kind of desire as opposed to a grand finale. And for those moments, I desired nothing. I was pi, a perfect number that went on for infinity, neverending yet complete.

Yet from my giddy cloud of contentment, I could feel the tangential fragments of my heart coalesce and settle like a kaleidoscope in my chest; my joy, exhilaration, fear and absolute wretchedness creating stark but dynamic patterns of demented beauty.

The words were so simple. And once they were said, they could not be un-said. But the implications were so intricate and densely complex, that I didn’t quite know where or how to start processing it all. And I didn’t want to. What I wanted was for those taffy-pulled moments that night to last forever.

Tell me again, and again. And again! I laughed with daft delight as he complied. The repetition of those words and his reassuring embrace were enough to hold my dark thoughts at bay, as I raced towards that blissful oblivion that was the sun.

Ok enough, I ordered gently touching a finger to his lips. I didn’t want him to dilute the magic of those words by saying them too often. Just the knowledge that they were out there, and they existed as an explicit part of the world’s collective verbal consciousness was enough. They were accessible and yet they were mine. I could draw strength from that.

I would need it. I knew an Icarus moment awaited tomorrow.

Need for Speed

Every fast car needs a fast woman – and I am as fast and racy as they come. There is something about being in a vehicle hurtling along a street at 200 mph that stirs my loins and brings out the sexual beast in me.

My need for speed started off in the U.S. where I learned how to drive along 5-lane freeways and park in lots the size of hangars. I loved driving – and it seemed that the beautiful Californian indian summers and my general teenage bravado conspired to make me drive like a fiend everywhere I went.

Even 10-minute grocery runs in the suburbs would be executed at hazardous speeds, sometimes with nothing but my raised knee on the steering wheel and a very short skirt. After all I reasoned, one free hand was required to snap my fingers in time to my Missy Elliot CD whilst the other fiddled with my clitoris. (Dude, was I cool or what.)

It wouldn’t have been entirely accurate to say that I drove like a typical chick – more like a typical chick with a personal vendetta against pedestrians and a possible death-wish. Two totalled cars, countless tickets and a massive insurance premium hike later, I realized reluctantly that driving was better left to the experts – or at least the spatially-competent – and not to me.

I was heartbroken. And since then, I’ve constantly had to find men to fill the void and feed my speed addiction. Have a gut and mid-life crisis? A spanking new Ferrari? Let’s go to your place. Have a Ducati? Red? Let’s go to mine. I was the stuff that global marketer’s wet dreams were made of.

Alas, I quickly discovered that in Singapore as well as in Hong Kong, there is an inverse correlation between the price of a man’s automobile and the number of kilometers he does an hour. Tell me people, what is the point of buying a sports car with high-performance torque and even higher-performance bragging potential, and then granny-shifting it in and out of second gear?

Might as well buy an automatic. Better still, take a cab. Don’t mind me, I’ll just walk home in my 3-inch Jimmy Choos, thank you very much.

Suffice to say, I find the ability to drive well and drive fast, a very desirable quality in a man. I’ve always reasoned that if you can go full throttle in a vehicle, it would be likely that you uphold an equally no-holds-barred policy in the sack. And if you can power-shift like a pro, then surely you can bring me from a purr to a roar with a similar amount of finesse.

In that way women aren’t that different from automobiles – we’re all finely tuned machines that have a brake, a clutch, an accelerator, several gears that will bring us from 0 to 160, and damn can we make you look good when you rev us at the lights.

Adam was living proof of my hell-on-wheels-heaven-in-bed theory. He was one of those ‘good bad-boy’ (or is it ‘bad good-boy’) types that I just can’t help but have a complete weakness for.

A lawyer by trade, he used to race motorbikes in Australia before foot injuries compelled him to stop, and had that easy, effortless way of assuming control of any situation. You know, the sort that would instantly know what to do in any form of ‘crisis’ – say a friend in need, a brawl on the street or a sexy stranger offering him a blowjob in a cab. Needless to say, I was instantly infatuated. And he turned out of course to have his own excellent methods of shall we say, maneuvering his way around my gearbox.

I hadn’t seen Adam for a while, but as fate would have it we would be at the same place at the same time. A little beach destination off the Andaman. He promised to pick me up from the airport. And I promised to give him something that would alter his perception of commuting. Forever.

He pulled up in the parking lot in a rather innocuous Honda Jazz – with tinted windows. Chicken, I said under my breath as I pulled my legs up onto the seat and shut the car door behind me.

“You smell of sex,” he informed me, with a crooked eyebrow, perusing me lazily through his shades. His hands rested gently on the steering wheel, looking tanned and relaxed, the loosely-rolled up cuffs of his white shirt shone brightly in the sun.

“Well it was a 3 hour plane ride. I had to get started without you…” I retorted unapologetically. I rifled through my suitcase with deliberate nonchalance and inserted a CD – Gotan Project’s latest album, Lunatico - into the car stereo.

However, even I couldn’t ignore how the heavy muskiness of my pheromones, diffused with the spicy woodiness of his cologne, was filling the car with an unmistakeably rich, pungent scent. Compelled to inhale this vaporous concoction, we grew imperceptibly intoxicated. The car was transformed by our olfactory senses into a clandestine alcove, and it was as if we were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde plotting something dangerous, something forbidden.

“Skip to Track 3. Now, drive,” I said, giving him a challenging look.

As we languorously pulled out of the parking lot, I began to fiddle about with the buckle of my left shoe. Oh fuck it, I muttered and lifted my legs, spreading them out on the dashboard. The husky, passion-drenched female voice that emanated out of the car speakers exhorted me to hike my skirt up even further and run my fingers lightly across my clit.

Thus, with my head pressed into the seat, my chunky heels making marks on the passenger-side windscreen and my freshly-waxed pussy wantonly exposed to the gaze of oncoming traffic, I began to work myself up the ladder of arousal.

“I’m creamy today,” I announced and languorously reached over to draw my soiled fingers across his lips.

Adam’s eyes strayed from the road frequently. I could see the tension tugging at the corners of his eyes and sides of the mouth every time I moaned. Occasionally, he would take a hand off the wheel to push my skirt up and give himself better access to my swollen opening.

I looked over at the speedometer. “60? That’s below the speed limit! Drive. Come on, show me what you can do.”

He did not reply except to make a slightly scornful sound and apply more pressure on the accelerator. 80 – 100 – 120 kmh. I leaned my body over, unzipped his jeans and found his already erect cock with my tongue. As I sucked away, my mouth gripped and loosened according to the humps and holes of the uneven island road.

130 – 140 – 150 kmh. My throat began to swallow his cock at a feverish pace and I could feel it swelling between my cheeks. Droplets of my spit splattered on the inside of his jeans as my fingers, tongue and mouth raced up and down the length of hiim. He made sounds low in his throat as he fought for control over both his body’s impulses and the oncoming traffic.

155 kmh and I removed my mouth sharply from its endeavours. His eyes were glued to the road but I knew that they would have registered momentary surprise and possible relief. I took off my seatbelt and motioned for him to reach over on his side for the lever that pushed his seat back. He complied willingly.

“You need to lose this timber truck up front,” I said matter-of-factly. Traffic was not heavy just irregular, but it required a certain amount of concentration for us to maintain the speed we were going at. I could still see his cock, red and veined, poking out from between the fly of his pants.

160 kmh and we were driving on the wrong side of the road, overtaking the truck. My erogenous zones were humming with the adrenaline of velocity. I took one of his hands off the wheel and slid over the transmission in a smooth motion to sit on him, blocking his line of vision momentarily. The car veered to the right, I could feel the crunch of gravel underneath us. He cursed and swung his head to the side to get a better view of the road, abruptly steering us back to our own lane.

I whooped. I had the best seat in the house; I had bent my body in such a way so as not to obstruct his line of sight and my head was pressed against the corner of the windscreen such that I looked out at all the action at extremely close-range. His hands were positioned around me on each side of the steering wheel and I could feel his breath hot on my back.

Then, I lowered my pussy onto his lap, coating his cock with my proprietary brand of creamy perfume and grinding away with my hips.

We fucked as we dodged slower-moving potential roadkill. Scooters, bicycles, trucks, animals, pedestrians flew by Daytona-style. I was not especially bothered. I had faith in his driving abilities and having sex at high speeds had made me embrace a new level of recklessness. Besides, I reasoned that our fellow commuters would have the common sense to just make way for the speedaholic weaving maniacally in and out of traffic and the woman in heat fucking him on the front seat. (I mean, who wouldn’t?)

We arrived at the hotel in one piece - suitably stirred (not at all shaken) and in superbly high spirits. His fly had been re-buttoned, my dress had been pulled down demurely to my knees and I smoothed my hair. We looked like any other respectable couple on a leisure getaway. There was nary a trace of bad behaviour.

Except the car reeked of sex.

The heady fumes of our bodily emissions (cum, sweat, pheromones) and respective fragrances (Issey on him, Agent Provocateur on me) had been recycled countless times by the rental car air-conditioning and soaked up by the upholstery. We realised this too late, as we were pulling up into the lobby. And no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t dispel the odoriferous cloud that we had built up with our misconduct.

The door staff stepped up to welcome us. A porter efficiently took our bags and an unsuspecting valet waited expectantly. Adam and I exchanged wry looks. He shrugged and dropped our keys into the valet’s outstretched gloved hand as I bent over double, convulsed in laughter.

Period Delay

In many ways I am very much a product of the 21st century. I understand why French women don’t get fat, I have 50 Cent on my iPod, I know the name of Brangelina’s new baby, I eke out a good work-life balance, my house has good fengshui and so on.

But there is a certain time in every month where all that gets thrown out of the window and I am reduced to being a hopelessly cranky, whingey, tetchy female. Like my generations of sisters before me.

The monthly curse, eumenorrhea, the menstrual period – call it what you will, its just one of these things that we women have to put up with on a regular basis. And spare us the scorn and pity guys, I’ve heard pattern baldness starts as early as 30, so why don’t you let that keep you busy.

Anyway, after mopping up more than 100 periods, I am thoroughly fed up with the concept. More pressingly, I am threatening to turn into a walking faucet right smack in the middle of one of my lover’s sponsored getaways (this time to Saigon), which is simply unacceptable.

I am not on the pill. And my half-hearted attempts at a few hokey old-wives’ methods to trigger / delay my period – from exercising violently in spurts to eating pineapples – predictably don’t work. Mars and Venus will not align. And I am fast approaching my 28 day deadline.

So I do what every self-respecting modern woman does. Stride into her GP’s office and offer herself up to the vagaries of medical science. I say I am ready to embed a microchip in my ovaries if it will solve the problem.

My GP assures me that my sacrifice, whilst noble, is a tad melodramatic and completely unnecessary. She is surprisingly sympathetic to my plight and calmly prescribes me a round of hormone pills (northisterone) to take 3 times a day, starting 3 days before my scheduled period.

And this is how I learn I can delay my period for restricted lengths of time. Just until after that much-anticipated birthday or that special holiday or that secret rendezvous or whatever. I feel incredibly liberated.

No more will I be a slave to plugs on strings, maxi pads with wings and extra-absorbent hydrogel! There is nothing sexy about having your man watch you waddle to the toilet once every few hours to stick a wad of cotton between your legs. Not to mention the little adjustments we have to constantly make to the offending pad with our legs crossed, our bums shifting imperceptibly on the seat, and the occasional hand down the back of our pants.

And no more will I swear violence on the fair-faced talent in tampon commercials that prance around in tight white shorts and wiggle their asses tauntingly at the camera. I’m sorry but one Vivienne Westwood skirt ruined, twice shy. Those innocent Tampex girls just annoy me.

Some of you profound types might scoff at using medical means to delay a period for the sole purpose of enjoying a holiday or more spontaneous sex with one’s lover, finding me both shallow and self-obsessed (and who am I to argue otherwise). And some of you traditionalists might think doing this subverts God’s master plan for a woman to bleed every month.

But it is now widely accepted that women don’t need to have monthly menstrual periods. In fact modern women endure up to nine times more periods than their great-grandmothers, who began menstruating later, married young and naturally suppressed periods for years while they were pregnant or breast-feeding.

Frankly, what this all means is that monthly periods are not necessarily by Nature's design. Rather it seems to be a means of punishing women of our evolutionary ilk for shirking our baby-making responsibilities - and we can get away with a lot fewer. And there is nothing to stop us from demanding 'period holidays' from our bodies. This is what has partially driven the popularity of contraceptive pills like the newly-FDA approved Seasonale.

So I am happy to see that nowadays menstruation is becoming optional, if not downright obsolete. As I, for one will not miss it. At this point, I’m still happy to bleed but only when I want to and not when I don’t want to.

Actually, it is not the bleeding I object to so much. Rather it is all the other nuisances that come with my period I detest – let’s call it Beached Whale syndrome – the bloat, the cramps, the occasional migraine.

Not to mention, that mistimed first gush. The most gauche of which would be in a man’s mouth as he is eating my pussy out hungrily. And oh yes, I’ve been there. It wasn't pretty.

I’m not squeamish at all about the idea of fucking with the flow – it’s a surefire way to alleviate cramps after all. But it sure is hell on the sheets. And blood just isn’t a very good lubricant for long periods of intense fucking. It dries out too quickly and naturally I’m not quite prepared to use the full faculties of my mouth or tongue to re-lubricate. Also, much as I adore giving head, a girl gets tired of doing it without any possibilities of reciprocation.

Now armed with my period-delay-in-a-packet, I’m off to Saigon.

To go commando under my linen mini-skirt, my neon bikini and my skimpy little fuck-me-here-and-now dress. To wank furtively in taxis and planes and feel my cum-juice trickle down my leg. To cream my guy’s cock in a public place and wipe it off with the underside of his fresh, white shirt. To have his best friend worm his fingers under my skirt and make me cum publicly on the barstool in front of an appreciative audience.

Ah. Bless thee Northisterone, you have made a 21st century woman of me.

Nature Takes Its Course

“Let me look at this…” he says taking the plastic object from my hands and examining it closely. “So this is what they look like. I always thought that they were these weird, nasty things that came with five tubes and a bag or something to put your shit in.”

I laugh. “Well there is that kind of enema, but those are, ahem, an acquired taste. Not for beginners like you. I prefer these, a bit more civilized, medically safe and readily available from your neighbourhood pharmacy. Clears you out and the best bit? No bags of shit to tote around!”

“So you just stick them in and it all comes out?”

“Yup! I’ll show you! In fact, you are going to do one with me!” I pronounce smugly. “That will be the rule from now on ok? If I do one, you do one – for solidarity! C’mon it’ll be fun! These are the things you do with someone you feel completely and absolutely comfortable with. The things you don’t see in porn!”

“For good reason…” he mutters under his breath.

I see him hesitate - caught between curiousity and dismay - and ruthlessly press my advantage. “Pwease? Pwetty pwetty pwease? Friends for life, right? And besides, it’s my birthdaaay…” Faced with all the earnest and enthusiastic cajoling, he knows his only option is to gamely capitulate.

I make him lie back and tell him playfully – and quite unnecessarily – to “just relax”. I lube up the tip of the plastic tube with my forefinger before carefully and tenderly inserting it into him, subsequently pulling it out in exactly the same fashion.

“See? Easy-peasy! Now you do the same on me!” I squeal, reclining horizontal on the bed and positioning my buttocks at an angle to give him the best access. He obediently returns the favour and looks suitably serious whilst admistering it.

“So now we wait.”

We stretch out on the king-sized bed next to each other. And wait. And giggle. And wait some more. It gives me great amusement to see him just lying there looking somewhat uncertain and vulnerable, anticipating what will happen next.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “This is a real bonding experience huh, waiting with somebody to shit!” he exclaims with great amusement. “Actually I could feel it working the minute you inserted it, like my insides were relaxing. Matter of time Baby, matter of time…”

The urge hits me first and I run off to let nature take its course, forgetting in my haste that he is still lying in bed a few feet away. My body begins to release and induced by the enema, I begin to make some reasonably loud and explosive bathroom sounds (subtext: farts that echo throughout the entire villa).

Suddenly I hear a loud yell of encouragement: “YOU GO Baaaby! YEAAAA. Giiiive it to me. C’mon, LOOOUUD! Just the way I like it!”

“FUCK OFF!” I shriek back in laughter, helpless to stop my body from completing the course of its natural functions. “I’m sooo fucking going to sit outside the toilet when you gooo!”

“Ok ok, I’ll switch on the TV,” he says, as a concession. I hear the sounds of the tube and I recognize the drone of a newscaster reading the news.

Great, I muse. Just great. Now I’m shitting to the sounds of car bombs detonating in Iraq. Poetry in motion indeed. I vow silently to feed his innards to the flies when I finish.

When I finally wander out of the toilet, he is nowhere to be found and I conclude (correctly) that it must be his time. Out of general politeness and the reluctance to intrude, I sit on the bed idly flipping channels, looking for something remotely inspiring on the small screen.

It doesn’t last long – my half-hearted attempt at courtesy and self-control - and after a few moments, I run over to the other room and press my ear to the glass door of the toilet. “Knock knock! How’s it going?”

“Good. The miracles of science are…miraculous! Everything’s coming out in a rush!”

“I don’t hear anything! Where are the fucking sound effects?”

I arrange myself cross-legged on the floor outside and wait patiently but receive no audio gratification for my efforts. I must have mis-timed it. Drats. He emerges from the cubicle a little while later, careful to shut the door firmly behind him. He chuckles when he sees me sitting outside. And this sets me off on yet another round of mirthful spasms.

“What will you say to the people who ask what you did on your birthday, Sash? Sat outside the toilet and listened to a guy shit,” he teases me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop it! For your birthday next month, I’m going to make you carry a 2 gallon bag of shit around. You best not shoot your mouth off, buster!” I gasp out a warning, wiping the wetness of hilarity from my eyes and holding my sides tightly.

Thus, with our bowels so unceremoniously emptied, we have set the scene for an all-night session of hot, heavy backdoor action later on (subtext: no mess, no embarrassment and no need to call the hygiene police, people!) Just thinking about it gives me a quick pucker from anticipation and arousal.

But for the immediate moment, first things first – we head out for lunch. Chocolate fondant is predictably not on the menu.

Animal Sex

"Play with me," I commanded softly, pushing a leg against his chest as he attempted to move closer to me on the bed.

We were naked in our secluded little villa. It was a full moon that night. Everything was still around us except for the voices of various night creatures – the deep-throated hiccup of the frogs and the restless buzz of the mosquitos in particular - that made the night-air thrum with an expectant energy.

He looked at me curiously, trying to discern what mood I was in. I had been sick earlier in the night – something I ate – and he had patiently held my hair back as my guts made mutiny against me. When I had finished, he had laid down with me in bed, stroking my tummy as I laughingly railed against the indignity of retching in front of another human being.

Apparently though, I had recovered. “Come on, play with me.” I kicked again, harder this time. I taunted him from between the part of my hair, a challenge bright in my eyes.

He pushed at my shoulder, tentatively at first, trying to gauge my reaction. I landed another kick, this time on the side of his pelvis, close to his already hardening cock.

A split-second feint, and he had my arms pinioned to my side, the body weight of his chest crushed me to the bed.

"So this is how you want to play, huh?" he whispered huskily, his hot breath tickled my cheek. I growled at him from the back of my throat.

"Is this how you get all your women to sleep with you, old man?" I bucked my body against his, struggling to pull myself free. "You can't even get your limp excuse for a cock anywhere near my pussy."

"Why would you think I even want to sleep with you, you cheap slut?"

"I don't know and you know what, I don't fucking care," I hissed contemptuously. "But I've seen the way you look at me. You want me. But then we all want what we can't get."

We circled each other on the bed, panting and sweating. The blood was pounding in my head and my body flushed from the combination of physical exertion and sexual agitation. I could see the dilated pools in his green eyes and his stiff, red member standing rigidly between his legs.

I lunged at him, taking him by surprise. And as I impaled my pussy onto his cock, I gushed cum all over him.

He let me savour my presumptuous victory for a few precious moments. Then with one swift movement, he flipped me over expertly like a croupier with a full deck. He pressed my knees down such that I was forced spreadeagled onto the bed, naked and vulnerable. I gasped.

And then he did the unthinkable. He raised himself cobra-style between my legs and spat. A white projectile flew out of his mouth and landed squarely – warm and viscous – on the folds of my labia.

"That's what I think of your cunt," he sneered dismissively.

"Fuck you!" I screeched in outrage. I wet the back of my throat and before he could duck for cover, I expectorated back. Huge beads of my saliva splattered across his face and he flinched instinctively.

"Now we're even. Not feeling so great anymore, are we?" I said with as much scorn as I could muster.

Without warning, he plunged himself into me. Over and over again. Deep, hard thrusts that scraped my core as I shrieked for more. It seemed the more we hurled abuse at each other, the more savagely we fucked.

In fact, fucking was a barely adequate description for what we did. Homosapiens with opposable thumbs fucked. We on the other hand, tore into each other like savage animals that night – a wolf and a wildcat – driven by nothing but a frenzied, feral sixth sense.

We coupled. We mated. We bred.

I had never uttered so many epithets in my life. We called each other names that the respectable gentlemen Merriam and Webster would have thrown a conniption fit at. We battled on all levels. Physically, we bit, clawed, bruised each other for mastery. Sexually, we exploded over and over again – each time scaling new heights of ferocious intensity.

But the heart of the engagement was 100% mental – ultimately, the individual who had the most colourful vocabulary and who could strike the lowest (and most inventive) verbal blow won the day. Too late, I discovered that for someone reasonably well-mannered in real life, he was a surprisingly adept trash talker and indeed a worthy adversary.

And therein lay the illicit thrill of our little game – acute provocation as the stimulus with completely uninhibited animal sex as the stipulated response.

Even though he was bigger and stronger than me, I never felt like I was in any actual danger. I knew that he would never ever have hurt me. Even whilst we played, he always ensured that we were evenly matched and that he never brought his full physical advantage to bear upon me.

The verbal slurs we exchanged were never hurtful because they were underlaid with a fundamental understanding of the way we felt for each other. The idea that I was his "whore" and his "slut" was sacred because I knew no one else was, or could be.

There was also a raw, stripped down intimacy to the way we transformed into absolute beasts that night. It was so completely removed from the way we usually treated each other. Yet it felt entirely natural, as if we had each unlocked our rightful soul-creatures and set them free.

We continued to work each other over in this manner for an hour or more. It was only when the mattress threatened to topple off the bed that we stopped, slightly reluctantly, for breath. We gazed at each other warily for a second. And then I broke the spell – with a barely-suppressed giggle.

"Well that's a first," I said, my face luminous with a combination of mirth and incredulity as I mentally registered what we had just done. "Have you fucked like that before?"

"No only with you, you crazy nut," he shot me a crooked smile and we winked simultaneously.

He added: "I think I've never heard you make so much noise. And you squirted all over. I could feel your juice running down to my ankle!”

We ran our hands over the sheets, tacitly congratulating ourselves whenever we came across significant wet patches. I tidied up whilst he went to take a quick shower. The sheets had been half-pulled off and most of the bed was indeed, soaked. We would have to leave a big tip for housekeeping tomorrow.

I joined him a few minutes later, leaning lazily on the doorframe of the bathroom as I watched him dry off, his alpha-animal qualities sheathed partially in a fluffy white towel.

"Want some?" I asked, handing him a bottle from the mini bar. He walked over, took a swig and... artfully - ejected - a - big - mouthful - of - icy - Evian - all - over - my - breasts.

I stood rooted to the spot, dripping, my eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He grinned, amber devils dancing in his eyes. I continued to stare at him dumbly for a few more seconds. And then, a fire ignited in between my legs and blazed through my whole body with a blistering, defiant heat.

"You asshole!" I screamed and immediately sprung into action. "Fuck me. NOW." I put my hands on his shoulders and yanked him towards me sharply, intending to force his cock into me. He pulled away abruptly.

"Fucking's too good for you right now," he snarled. So instead of giving into my desire for penetration, he started to slap the length of his cock vigorously against my pussy. Huge, forceful smacks that only increased in vigour and velocity. I howled my frustration and arousal.

I had positioned myself on the nearby dressing table because it was the nearest platform available that could hold my body weight. And I half-sat, half-squatted on the varnished wood as a frog would if it were held upright with its soft underbelly exposed. In that position,the lips of my fully-bared pussy swelled and grew a dull red. My clit constricted up and down in time to the contact.

The sounds changed as his cock encountered a wetter and wetter surface – from tight, precise slaps to deeper, more mature cuffs. Then suddenly, I flooded the table with my essence. He entered my pussy as it was still contracting. A few deep thrusts later, he joined me in release.

Lathered and gorged on our own juices, finally we were still. We had acted out the horniest of our fantasies, plumbed the depths of desire for each other, unleashed our inner brutes and all that was left was just an incredible feeling of tenderness.

He brushed away strands of my tangled hair away and caressed my cheek gently, as if I had suddenly become a fragile flower. I smiled. This time, there was no need for words. The silence enfolded us like a warm fuzzy blanket. It bound us with a temporary truce and sang of our hard-won peace, honouring our efforts.

We ran our fingers over each other lightly and just lay there for a long while - completely immobilised and utterly satiated. It was close to morning when I climbed on top of him like a limpet and fell asleep.