How Does It All Fit Together

Yesterday, you surprised me with a wonderful SMS when I thought I'd never hear from you again. I replied in kind. I was happy that day.

And then today, you hit me again. Another SMS. Commiserating about Hong Kong and how you had told me so. Only right at the end, embedded in all that kindness and sweetness, a grenade telling me you knew about my blog and what I wrote about you.

I was apologetic. Embarrassed. Guilty. Exposed. And then Sad. Oh so sad. I offered to take down the posts about you, but to add insult to injury, you had to be gracious about it. The least you could do is be affronted. Or infantile. Or hate me. Never talk to me again. Let me off easy.

In retrospect, it was all quite inevitable. I'm pretty good at protecting the anonymity of my subjects, because it is inextricably tied to my own. But this was something I had written quite a while back - when there were 200 reading my blog daily, as opposed to 2,000 - and I had accidentally let slip a few too many distinguishing characteristics. And as things go in the world of the big bad Internet, I got found out - by your jerk colleague who probably spends his time gratuitously wanking at his desk over my blog.

I wasn't so much ashamed of what I wrote. I meant those words. And I have never lied or hidden my sexual asides from you. No, I was ashamed that you found out when I had taken so many pains in real-life to prevent you from knowing. Knowledge that would make me vulnerable. That would make me look silly. Strung along like the rag-puppet I swore I would never be again. I was protecting my pride. And whatever was left of my heart.

We never had a future together. So on that pretext, I never felt I owed you the truth. In fact, I was never even sure you cared. Might as well get on with the rest of my life and the two Italian stallions fitted the bill at the time. It would just hurt me more if you knew. Sometimes the heart needs mindless sex to chase its foolish notions out of existence. And to remember the real world it lives in.

But I never expected you to want to discuss what I wrote and ask me what I meant by this or by that. I never expected you to have so many questions I couldn't answer. I never expected you to dredge up old wounds and kindle old memories. You upset me. I thought I had healed over. I don't torture myself with the what-could-have-been. I'm just not that sort of girl. But I guess there is too much unresolved. There is too much we haven't talked about. And maybe we never will. You sent me these lines...

"The thing is...it doesn't work together at all. I would never judge your sexual preferances or desires no matter how off putting I might find them. And I know that the stuff you wrote about me came from your heart. I have always felt the same about you and you know that. But when you write heartfelt feelings about someone in one sentence and then fanciful 3 way action in the next absolutely everyone that will read this associates one with the other which puts into question and lessens the belief in anything said...But aside from all that I find it hard to believe that you honestly thought that this would be something private and personal?"

...and I was just at a loss as to how to respond. There are just too many unexorcised spirits buried in that SMS. You are too late. (And this is from someone who doesn't usually believe in 'too late'.) I am too far away. Mentally. A chasm of unanswered questions and consequent misunderstandings stand between us.

You broke my heart but never shattered it completely. And that is the cruelest thing to do to somebody. It broke into one thousand parts. So that piece by piece it flaked off. Like bad paint off a humid Hong Kong wall. Carrying off fragments of the hopeful, optimistic me that you once knew and cared about.

Maybe I was too forgiving. All I needed from you was a simple dealbreaker. Something to definitively label you a bastard and thus make me avoid you forever. The worst relationships are the ones that wear away at you by attrition. One modest disappointment after another. A neglected call. A missed dinner date. A forgotten gift. Love isn't always about grand gestures and flowery apologies. You know I'm not a needy chick. You never had to spend much time with me. And I never asked for much - just the certainty that when you said you'd call back, you would. Or that if you couldn't make it in time, you'd let me know. Simple courtesies like that.

Do you know the amount of time I spent waiting for you to call? Or keeping my fingers crossed in agony over whether you'd make it to see me? I would put my plans on hold for up to a week on the off-chance that you were in town. Of course I grew tired of waiting. But then I'd wait some more. Of course I'd tell myself that I would never let anyone else string me along this way. But when the opportunity presented itself, I'd just do it all over again. That's why I said that knowledge makes me vulnerable. Nobody but me should know that I suffered like that.

I never told you because I just wanted the few times we had together to be happy and free of these banal little irritations. I just assumed things would get better with time. I never told you because I needed to preserve my dignity. I was a strong, confident woman who didn't need anyone else in her life, who had a string of people who loved to spend time with her, who went through men like water. Why was I being over-sensitive and needy and pathetic like this? Absolutely out of character. I had to disown that part of myself.

And thus, I had to disown what I felt about you. And so I did things to sabotage our relationship. I kept the truth from you. Because that was the only thing I had control over. I had to convince myself that I didn't care. I had to numb myself to what I felt. I used other men with their tokens of affection to fill the gaping void you tore inside me.

That's how it all works together, okay? Like a bird with a broken wing. Looking out at the sky and wanting to fly but knowing it never will. And so it begins to eat away at its feathers and starve itself in despair. Knowing that the more it destroys itself, the less chances it will have to escape the cage it's in.

I wanted to respond to you today. And I began to, in a rather clumsy and inadequate way. But you see, I started crying at my phone and everyone started looking at me funny. And I had to stop myself. It's not that I wanted to shut you out. (What would be the point since you know too much already.) It's just that I can't talk about it right now. I just can't.

Maybe one day we will have a "Before Sunset" moment. Or not, as life sees fit. You asked if I thought about you. Well I do - and I did especially when I watched that movie. Sentimental me. If you want answers, come find me another day - at the right time and in the right place - and I will tell you everything.

Or maybe you will read this and you'll know. Whatever it is, until I next hear from you, take care of yourself.

Sexual Conditioning

WANTED: Girl for an X-rated FFM threesome

That's right, you read it correctly. I'm on the hunt. For a special someone who can put an additional X into sex. (And ok, that chromosome thing too.)

It's not for me per se, but for a special friend who's very politely made the request. And if you have been following the riveting plot of my sex life you will know who it is - Anthony, my seminal Hong Kong shag, who planted the seed of a FFM threesome in October of last year.

Well lucky for him. His little seed has taken root. In fact, it’s sprouted like the most resilient little weed such that even when he’s not around, I’m scouting around for ways and means to fulfill his fantasy.

I am not necessarily so eager to please. And obviously I don’t indulge every man that I meet with a threesome fantasy (because that would be the majority of the population). But Anthony’s become rather a favourite of mine. I really like him as a person, he’s great company, drop-dead charming and sexy in that weathered, knowing way that only older men are. He fabricates meetings to fly to Hong Kong just to see me. He lets me flirt outrageously with all his debauched friends such that they would pledge half their tangible assets, which are reasonably considerable, for the privilege of watching us fuck. Fantastic in bed, he dedicates his cock, his fingers, his unbelievable skilful tongue to my pleasure for hours on end. He takes me on dirty holidays where we hardly leave the room. And he brings me nice gifts (which we use quite effectively until my body just can't accomodate anymore).

Given all of that, I would think a little reciprocation is in order.

However, if you remember I was much more hesitant about a FFM threesome when Anthony first brought it up. I have since changed my tune somewhat. And gratitude is not an adequate enough explanation. I think I am a victim of Sexual Conditioning. Such that now, everytime I see a beautiful girl walk past I immediately evaluate her threesome potential (before moving onto her other better qualities - like her tits and ass, of course). And it's all Anthony's fault, really.

At this point I think it is appropriate, ladies and gentlemen, that I introduce you all to the concept of Sexual Conditioning - as pioneered by Anthony. I swear it must originate from a deviant strain of Pavlovian thought. Sexual Conditioning subverts the usual stimulus and response ethic of scientific response. Rather, the stimulus is the response. In fact, fuck response, master the art of stimulus and you will have the insidious power of persuading anyone to fulfil Your. Every. Sexual. Fantasy.

Exactly. Like a mindless bitch in heat. Look at me. (Damn you Chinese calendar, I am now seeing a dog metaphor in everything.)

Curious to see how it works? I know you don't visit this blog for academic discussions of socio-psychological theory so I'll cut to the chase and give you an up-close-and-personal peek at how Anthony does it. Sexual Conditioning 101 is now in session. Observe:

"Come on top of me baby," he says. Naked and panting, we've been fucking for a while now. I've had a handful of orgasms but I'm to have a lot more before the night is done.

"Like this?"

"No, lie on top. With your back against me. Now put my cock back inside you," Anthony positions my somewhat pliant body against his.

"Mmmm that's good..." I moan as I slide his slick cock inch by inch into my ass. His fingers snake round my body to stimulate my pussy.

"I want you to make yourself cum such that your juice runs down my cock and I can feel it on my balls and soaking the sheets..." Lying as I am on top of him, I am captive to his whispered encouragement.

A little while later, I am getting predictably more turned on. My hips are working up their own rhythm along his thrusting cock.

"Good. Keep moving like that. Do you like having my cock deep in your ass this way?" he asks huskily.

"You know I do..." I barely can utter a coherent reply at this point. My fingers are working furiously at my pussy, I can barely keep my orgasm at bay and he knows it.

"Now imagine a beautiful girl eating your pussy. Right now. Her tongue would be...Right here. She would be moving her fingers deep inside you the way you're doing it now..." He illustrates how his fantasy would work out in the most vivid detail. At this point, I am beyond all logical thought and response. I have no choice but to imagine another beautiful girl in bed with us doing exactly what he describes...

Really, it's cheating. Because at the point of orgasm, one's mind is at its most vulnerable. It's completely devoid of its critical faculties and is literally a blank slate for someone to wreak mischief with. Every neural fibre is single-mindedly committed to getting the body through to the light at the end of the pleasure tunnel. And the priorities are pretty basic (in order of importance): 1. not to pass out 2. not to cry out somebody else's name by mistake and 3. to relax and have a good time.

Still, kudos to Anthony, I recognize a master manipulator when I see one. And for once, I feel like I've met a physical and mental equal in terms of sexual prowess. You are welcome to try out your own little Sexual Conditioning experiments at home and tell me about all the trouble you get into.

Anyway, it's not like I'm being clubbed over the head and forced to worship pussy. I already feel an incipient sexual attraction towards beautiful women. And if you must know, I have on occasion been known to indulge in the following activities in their presence:

1. Slow, deep, tongue-kissing when the mood so dictates with various female candidates. I have a very sweet but crazy girlfriend of mine in Bangkok who swears she would love to kiss me whilst we were both astride the cocks of our respective men on the same bed. Logistically, how that would work out, I have no idea.

2. Lifting of bikini tops and clamping my teeth lightly over wet, slippery nipples. And then having the same courtesy performed on me. This particular episode took place in the KM8 swimming pool (read: cesspit of sin) on a random Sunday evening. (Where were you when it happened?) We had all had a little too much to drink and my friends had decided to throw me fully-clothed into the pool, incidentally ruining my new mobile phone in the process. But it didn't take too long for a few amorous people in the pool (read: girls in their own bikini tops pretending to swim) to start noticing that my nipples were protruding through my then very sheer tank-top. Mutual admiration all round and well, it seemed quite fitting to the natural flow of conversation to ask: "Would you mind if I sucked on yours?"

3. Rubbing scented oil over every inch of a woman's naked body as part of a sexy massage. Yes, I know this one is a bit of a Maxim cliche but this was part of my self-discovery phase a few years when I was trying figure out exactly what percentage of bisexuality I was comfortable with. (FYI I've settled for somewhere between 20 - 30 % for now). But I feel compelled to add that the whole 2-women-1-baby-oil-bottle fantasy is not as completely testosterone-serving as I initially thought. One of the biggest turn-ons about women for me, is skin. Smooth, velvety skin that just begs to be touched and caressed. And yes, rubbed with a bit of breast.

The only mental obstacle I face is the crippling pressure of eating pussy and pleasing another woman exactly the way I would want it done. And this is not conjecture. I've tried. And I can tell you – from experience – that while I acquit myself quite admirably of any heterosexual tendencies from the waist-up, the pussy thing just makes me hanker for the blinding comfort of right-wing, Adam-Eve evangelical tradition.

Being 20-30% bisexual means I'm not attracted to all that many women. In fact, I would say I have higher standards for women than I would for men. I suppose I should be more specific about what I'm looking for. But let's not steal Anthony's Sexual Conditioning thunder, we'll leave that for a whole other blog entry. Stay tuned. I will write more on this topic.