You know you're Mindfucked when...

...you fantasise more or less about the same person every time you touch your pussy. (And it's not Brad Pitt.)

...you notice and delight in the charming minutiae about him. The way he spells Baby with a capital B in his texts. The way the freckles are sprinkled like party confetti over his back. The way his thighs involuntarily shudder when you run your fingers up his spine as he's sleeping. The way he pokes his head round the shower curtain to watch you pee.

...you find yourself only halfheartedly contemplating the idea that you could get laid when you’re out at Lan Kwai because sex with him is so much better than anyone else. You just have an instinctive sense of each other's bodies and are dedicated to bringing each other the most amount of pleasure. Everytime you wander elsewhere to test the market, it just validates this hypothesis.

...following on from the previous point, it takes six drinks, two Luftansa pilots and the promise of a good 'man-wich' to finally coax you into bed. And then only if your girlfriend agrees to watch.

...every time he fucks you, he bites and bruises you in places that mark you as his sexual property for the next week or so. Instead of being annoyed with this, you luxuriate in the fact that you look like a week-old apple and then cheerfully proceed to give him a long bloody scratch down the middle of his chest.

...you save all his messages and read them over periodically, especially the one that says: "Some things are strange that I want to tell you but it's hard. When I see you Baby. You're killing me. Just make sure you are ok."

...you tell your girlfriends over dim sum that you "really like this one guy" and relate the details of the relationship. They look slightly worried. You even tell your best fuckbuddy in Hong Kong about him. He looks amused and now keeps asking to be allowed to watch you fuck.

Nauseous? I don't blame you. I write this feeling a bit like a postmodern Emperor parading about in new clothes, nevertheless I can't stop myself. And please, I am already anticipating the jeering comments from you to that effect, so spare me.

Over the past few months, you have been privy to my reasonably casual take on sex and relationships. I can - and do - fuck like a man. You know this. I know this. Even my mom knows this and has pretty much given up on my marriage prospects.

In fact, I have spent 4 years earning my stripes in terms of relationship independence and invulnerability. To mentally inure myself from the situations I find myself reluctantly describing above. So I'm not sure why the system is turning all Bridget Jones on me suddenly.

I will not reveal much more of my paramour's identity than to say that he is certifiably a naughty boy. A devastating flirt. A charming alpha male. He plays my game. He flaunts his virility in front of me and tries to persuade various other women to come back with us. But he treats me well, he pleasures me in all the right ways and we have incredibly tender moments. Of course, he is unavailable in every single way except sexually.

And yes - you knew this was coming - I like him, and in a bad way. Or if one is to be technical about it, I am hopelessly mindfucked about him.

A mindfuck is a device that when applied, leaves one feeling shocked and disoriented. It’s what passes off as entertainment nowadays to us been-there-done-that types and is a curious thing. It works in an insidious way, allowing you to feel mastery over your sense of perceived reality until that pivotal 'a-ha' revelation where everything tips out of balance and you are forced to re-interpret past events with the filter of subjective enlightenment.

I'm pretty sure he started it. But in these scenarios of star-crossed inevitability, it doesn't really matter does it.

We met through mutual friends and the original pretext of the meeting was really to have a bit of fun. We had an intense sexual chemistry and within 20 minutes, I was sucking him off in a cab quite happily back to his hotel. However, since he doesn't live in Hong Kong I was quite happy in my role as a stopover fuck.

We would exchange text messages every few days, usually relating within 160 characters or less sexual scenarios to each other. And then as we built more equity into our real-life encounters, the tone of the messages become more witty banter and less horny fantasy. I hit it off with his friends, he hit it off with mine. But I pretty much led my life, and he led his, save for the incidental jealous thought (him) or sentimental text (me).

And still I thought - rather misguidedly - that things were above board except now I fancied myself as having a slightly elevated position as his favourite stopover fuckfriend.

Then somehow someone changed the reel of my life without asking. On one of his trips to Hong Kong, he casually said "I have something important to tell you but I'm going to wait till the time is right." I could feel the hairs on my arms prickle. I knew, of course. Like every intuitive woman knows these things. And I could have bugged him to tell me, but I wasn't ready to plunge into the depths of altered reality. Yet.

So I just gave him a long look, shook my head imperceptibly and dismissed it, cloaking myself as well as I could in a shroud of reasonable doubt and plausible deniability.

It would be two months later over our first aborted attempt to have a dirty weekend that he told me how I affected him. And within the 160 character limit, no less. He then delivered the same message in person last weekend. I told him I knew already. And that he had just put words to what I thought but was unwilling to say.

It goes without saying, I had a fantastic weekend with him. With truth and context held at bay, we played together with the desperate carelessness of the damned. He was a man in his element and I was the perfect aphrodisiac. For that stolen slice of time, we allowed ourselves to be as the Immortals were, masters of our universe and savouring every minute.

But now with more than a hundred hours and two countries between us, the mindfuck begins. He has become a splinter embedded in the rabbit-hole of my altered consciousness. I reminisce. I daydream. I wonder. It irritates me. And if he is to be believed with his messages in the wee hours of the night, I have infiltrated his subconscious. It scares him. And I'm glad.

The thing is, I - of all people - should know better and believe me, I smell the deja vu in this situation, as do you. You'd think that age and experience would keep me from making the same mistakes. But alas, it contends with the sheer obstinacy of the human temperament and I must be biologically hard-wired to behave in the same impulsive, foolhardy way that I have since birth.

In popular culture, the way a mindfuck ends is that it usually destroys the host (a la the film "Fight Club"). And up to that point, things are just suspended in an unpredictable tangle of red herrings and ambiguity. And so I predict it will be with this particular mindfuck. It is thrilling, stimulating, exhausting and goes against every fibre of rational thought.

Do I think it will end in disaster? Yes. Do I think I will end up hurt by all this? Yes. Do I go along with it anyway? Of course. And thus I wait patiently, alongside you, like any other obedient mindfuck victim for the plot to unfold.

Dirty Weekend

What does one pack for a dirty weekend...

Leopard-print 3 inch heels
Dancing shoes
L'Occitane Massage oil
Marc Jacobs satin top (his request)
Narciso Rodriguez perfume and body lotion
Assorted Condoms

Oh and Toothbrush - electric.

Yay. I'm excited.

Too much Whiskey & Champagne...

...do not a turgid cock make. But is the modern self-serving woman really complaining? Not really. I had one of my best nights of sex recently with Felix, who had consumed both of the abovementioned beverages in reasonably significant quantities.

Felix and I have a running joke called "Truffle Night", which usually takes place on Thursday. Because that was the day he initially invited me over to his house on the ostensible reason of helping him consume his stash of Godiva truffles, washed down with ample amounts of champagne albeit. And we've just made a habit of it. Now he sends me text messages with the words "Truffle" or "Thursday" in them and instantly I perk up.

However this being Hong Kong, Felix and I have friends in common and we bump into each other at all the usual public entertainment venues. In these instances, we are friendly but leave the other enough breathing room to pursue fresh game as necessary. Such are the joys of a good fuckbuddy. It is an enjoyable arrangement.

It is on one of these so-called unscheduled nights - a Friday I believe - that I see Felix and instantly as he approaches to greet me, I know he wants me. Or maybe I want him. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it is the unhurried assessment we give each other the once-over from head to foot (although for him it is more accurately described as foot to chest). Or maybe it is the teasing way he whispers in my ear. Or the way I let him "accidentally" discover I am not wearing any underwear.

Whatever it is, at some point of the night he leads me to a remote area of the club and starts playing with my clit under my skirt. By the time we are in a cab, we are busily thrusting against each other and he gives the driver an extra tip for being so "quiet and discreet" about the frenzied punishment being borne by his back seat. There is no question that Felix is incredibly turned on by the time we get back and I am ripping his clothes off (we find out the day after that half his shirt and belt are caught in his front door) busily sucking, kissing and licking.

Except that he has a raging non-erection. We speculate that someone might have put a pill in his drink. Or perhaps he is suffering from post-marathon fatigue. Or simply - and most likely - we have drunk too much whiskey and champagne. This is the first time his member has been so strangely uncooperative but undeterred, he flips me over and says the magic words, "its your night tonight - just let me please you".

Now boys, if there is any surefire way to make a girl your eternal love-slave say those words and really mean them. (She will thank you kindly the morning after - regardless of whether she is a morning person or not - and for as many successive mornings as you two deem necessary to work off any endorphin deficiencies.) It makes such a difference from just humping her like a piece of plywood and then slumping over her semi-consciously slurring, "God, I'm so drunk".

Oh sure I feel sorry that he didn't have a hard-on and wasn't going to be able to fuck me (not immediately anyway). There, there baby. And then as with all these little setbacks in life, I recover. I know, what resilience.

It feels great to be liberated from the preoccupation with the male erection and orgasm once in a while. It is ridiculous how much we pander to it and measure our success in the sack by it. Me included (but this isn't due to any insidious socio-anthropological gender conditioning I swear, I just love cock). It dictates the rhythm and tempo - and indeed, the start and finish - of the majority of sexual interactions between men and women. Such that, an erection is taken as an unspoken cue to start having sex. And consequent ejaculation means time to dim the lights and ask for that extra toothbruszzz...zzzz.

But true to his word, Felix was on fire that night. I showed him exactly how to nibble at my nipples with his teeth, how to stroke my g-spot with his fingers, how to flick my clit with his tongue. I never had more of an apt or willing pupil. He got so good he could get me worked up to a gasping-tear-at-the-sheets orgasm within 2 minutes.

And all the time he keeps his eyes open. Again maybe because he doesn't felt the need to hold back his orgasm (read: close his eyes and think of granny). Nor is he at all fussed with reaching his own climax (read: close his eyes and grunt with effort). We would kiss, fingers would stray, tongues would quest, and all the while, his blue eyes would drink me all in. He would watch me orgasm and lose control. And as my own eyes slowly opened and I came slowly back to earth, his chin would be propped up against the side of my thigh, and he would be watching and smiling. It was sexy as hell.

I would turn the spotlight back onto him. I know he is extremely aroused, but a non-erection is a different kettle of fish. It needs to be handled delicately. Indeed, almost deferentially. I put a glob of cold lube on my fingers and spread it over him, gently pulling back his foreskin. Slowly, sensuously, my lips lock up and down his shaft. I find it is also a good opportunity to lavish attention on his other erogeneous male parts, the underside of his balls. The rim of his arse. In the absence of an erection, he has grown extremely sensitive to me touching him. Its like being with a virgin. The feel of my teeth against his nipples sends him into shivers. When I gently ring my fingers round his cock, it drives him crazy.

And then he makes me lie back and decides to kiss and lick every single inch of me. "Like the way when we first learned how to make love." He is unbelievably gentle and takes his time with me ("lie back, you don't have to do anything") such that it becomes a complete torment. My toes start to tingle and soon enough my whole body has turned into a writhing erogeneous zone, I beg for release. He indulges me, and I surrender in a gush of desire, such that my juice drips down his chin and onto the sheets. "I love the way you taste," he says and licks his lips.

We play like that for hours. Perhaps because there is no full-on penetration, we don't get tired. There is no beginning or end. The hours merge crazily into each other until we realise the sun is rising and we laugh. One of us reluctantly checks the time. It has been almost 5 hours. I am so tired after cumming for the upteenth time, I am beginning to just lie there hoping for the curtains to fall but of course, we find we both can't sleep.

So I make him lie down facing me and stroke his hair with regular motions as one would do a restless child until I hear his breathing steady and deepen. I listen to him breathe for a good period of time and then some time later kiss him slowly to rouse him. At this point, his cock also emerges from its inebriated slumber (thank God for the humble but trusty 'morning glory'). And the rest of the story is quite predictable really. ;)