Top 10 Reasons why Sash is Rubbish at Relationships

Status: I love my life (absolutely), I love my man (madly) and I love my relationship (usually...um, marginally?...more than my singleserves lifestyle).

Sighs. Is it just me? Don't get me wrong. The guy is great, truly great, but this girlfriend-boyfriend thing is H-A-R-D!

I mean, I'm a reasonably good trophy. I have nice shoes and a pedicure every month. I get along socially with basically anyone who isn't a bigot about their earning power or an embittered expat housewife (or rather, they don't get along with me). And it has been said, that I can come across as rather witty and clever when I don't confuse my ozone with my CFCs.

So what's wrong? Why can't I make a graceful exit from the meat-market in a poof of romantic bliss? Why am I still writing?

Because sometimes, I just get this nagging feeling at the back of my head, a bit like a hangover, that I'm not quite the cat's pyjamas as a girlfriend. I really am trying my best, but there are a few things about me that are so fundamentally Sash, and that I can't (and won't) change, I'm not sure they quite fit in any relationship, let alone this one.

And really, the boyfriend, also occasionally known as 'the boyfwen' bless his heart, is so patient and accommodating about all my quirks (especially if they're the pouty-lipped, D-cup variety) it's as if he actually loves me!

Ha. Which makes it all so much worse, really.

It's not like me to be plagued with self-doubt but there are days when all I can do is think that I'm just wasting his time and one day the scales will fall from his eyes and my inner monster will be revealed in all its grubby glory. I can tell you right now I'd be gutted if that happened. Absolutely gutted.

You may or may not agree, but in no particular order, here are my top 10 reasons why maybe I'm just not cut out for this relationship thing. And yes, you have permission to laugh.

1. I am a monogamist's nightmare. I look at, and openly lust, after other women. And men. Black men. The ones with pecs the size of canned ham, metal-detector abs and thick, long um, johns. Preferably 2 of them at a time... But mainly, I try to keep it to women. Ahem...

2. If he gets jealous about my lust habit (see #1), my usual response is: "Don't be. I'd never do it behind your back. Don't you know that if I fucked someone else, you'd be the first person to know? Especially if the sex was really REALLY good? Maybe we can invite him over! Or give the guy a t-shirt that says 'I made Sash squirt' or something..."

3. If I get jealous...? Hmm, actually I don't get jealous. Why get jealous when you can get even? And his best friend told me once that he's hung like a coat hanger. So I'll just have to find out...

4. I prefer to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. In fact, the last time I asked for permission was maybe in Secondary 4 when I asked my parents if I could stay over at my then-boyfriend's house, to which they said no. I then went and did so anyway (but I swear we didn't have sex Mom!). On the plus side, I'm very good at feeling sorry and I bake a mean humble pie, with real chocolate chips and vanilla. Hungry, anyone?

5. I have a sordid past. And I can still bump into most of it at Attica on a Saturday night. (Note: this is after leaving Singapore for 2 years.) And no, that guy did not have that double chin / spare tire / withered look / cold sore on his lip when I was fucking him...

6. I don't listen very well. Nor can I read maps or follow instructions. Unless I'm being slapped around in a schoolgirl uniform, that is...

7. I admit, I'm a bit of an adoration junkie. (Everybody is, aren't they?) And I rather miss my bevy of besotted admirers who used to strew shoes, watches, jewelry, skincare and the odd laptop as tokens of affection at my feet. In fact, I still have their numbers, and we keep in touch from time to time. And if they insist on plying me with gifts in a transparent and shameless bid to buy their way into my heart, what can I do but accept? I'm just being polite...

8. I need a lot of sex. And I need it now. And no, we can't stop until after I've had 10 orgasms. If you have a headache, then go take a Viagra. I guarantee it'll make the headache worse, but you'll have wood and I can give you hand jobs for the rest of the night...

9. I'm sexually up for anything and I'll try anything once. Which is fine when I'm luring beautiful women home for some fun. But not so fine when I also suggest we try our hand at bukkake, bisexual boys, strap-ons, knives, rape fantasy, the odd enema and of course my lifelong altar fetish (don't ask, I can't explain it except to say that I have a seriously twisted imagination). You never know, it could be really fun...

10. I don't suddenly want babies. Or an HDB flat. I don't cook dinner every night. I don't call everyday (he calls, usually) even though I have been known to send a squealy text once ever so often. And I'm still awfully footloose and fancyfree. In fact, currently I'm thinking wouldn't it be a fantastic adventure to transfer to New York for a few months...

So there, the prosecution rests. Is there any hope for me at all?

Coming (Or Not)

Three whimsical little vignettes about the joys and perils of that physical phenomenon we call, coming.

I have finally(long story!) decided to go on the pill. And for the first time ever, tonight, A will leave a tide of his cum unobstructed and uninterrupted inside my pussy.

The most basic act between a man and woman, and the purest, yet it’s been years since I’ve felt open and committed enough with anyone to allow it. But now, I am longing for it, something deeply fundamental inside me aches for it. I am a blank canvas, an empty cup waiting to be fucked, filled. Finished.

Never have I been so excited by a man’s orgasm.

It will be over quickly, I estimate half an hour tops. My hands are gripping his back while he rides me. Each thrust is determined, deliberate. His climax is the raison d’etre of our lovemaking tonight.

I love watching his cock, plunging into my depths only to resurface moments later wet but triumphant. I follow the metronome rhythm of his thrusts and my moans rise in syncopated chorus – Yes. Now. Soon. Oh. God.

The veins on his neck swell and his face crumples with concentration. There’s no holding back now. I’m melting. His hips are grinding to the finish, and his head is next to mine now. The hairs on the side of my ear vibrate with his whispers:

“Do you know, what I’m giving…you? My life. My essence…I’m pumping you full of my sperm. I want you to feel it on your cervix, in your womb… I’m giving myself to you.”

He is gasping between breaths now, shuddering, his handsome face crumpled with concentration. “All I have…Baby, everything…do you want it?”

“Yes, I do.”

********************

A little while later, when I can no longer feel his tremors, he rests his nose on the side of my cheek and speaks into my lips: “I thought we were going to come together, Baby.”

“We are.”

“But you didn’t…?”

“Are you sure of that?” I give my clitoris a hard rub and propel myself off his detumescent cock, a clear unfettered stream of fluid surges forth and hits the carpet. It is followed by the more gelatinous drip of his ejaculate, sluggishly creeping down my thigh.

“See? Told you we’d come together.” I grin while he joyfully scrambles for a nearby towel.

********************

There’s an insistent stabbing at my lower back and I surface, momentarily, from sleep. I can tell from the milky way that light is streaming through my blinds, it’s early. Or at least earlier than my rightful wake-up time, which on most weekends I like to delay to as late as possible.

“Mmffphmmmff?” Obviously, a rhetorical question.

“Morning Baby!” comes the chirpy reply. I groan inwardly. Why is he awake? Why is he so energetic? We had only switched off the lights 3 hours before and I was feeling it.

“Go back too schlweep…” I mumble, the side of my cheek cracking slightly to accommodate the movement of my lips. I wade back under the shroud of nothingness.

Then, again. Jab. Jab. Jab. Lower this time, just grazing the skin above my arsehole.

He tries to pull me into a cuddle, or perhaps maneuver a better strategic position. But I curl up into a ball facing the wall, my body language clearly saying ‘GO AWAY OR ELSE’. It seems to work.

For a few minutes, the Morning Glory and Human Pincushion call it a truce, but not for long. “Baby, are you horny?” comes his voice, a mere few minutes later, pleading this time.

More pleading and prodding. There is no denying it. His cock is rock-hard, and dying to be emptied of its contents. Well that’s because the poor man has held himself back for an entire night of lovemaking with you, I think to myself, my sympathies rising momentarily to the surface.

God knows I don’t hold back. I never do. The bed is still wet with my juice, so much so that moisture has soaked through the industrial-size towels we laid down on it before going to sleep. I can never come up with a reasonable explanation when visiting friends ask, why a girl living alone has 25 towels in her closet.

“I’m not really in the mood,” I say in a small voice, half-muffled by the pillow. I don’t want to be uncharitable but it’s physically difficult for me to get aroused in the morning. Actually, it’s physically difficult for me to do just about anything in the morning except lie still and snore.

Not that this seems to deter him in the slightest. “That’s ok! Just turn around and open your legs slightly,” he says.

I do so, angling my butt towards him. I hear him uncapping the little blue bottle of lube and smearing some on his cock. Then the air whooshes out of my lungs as he plunges suddenly into me.

“Ohhhh, uhhhh,” I moan. His pace is ferocious, and I feel him chafing away at the tender skin of my perineum. My lower body starts to tingle and awaken, my pussy beginning to open and silken. I can feel the sprigs of pleasure growing through my blood.

“I’m coming,” he pants.

“No!” I scream in protest. But it is too late.

He makes a funny sound in his throat, half-groan half-splutter, as if he is suddenly drowning in his own spit. Everything grinds to a halt. He holds himself rigid for a few seconds, a look of astonishment on his face. I think maybe, just maybe, he might have caught himself in time, until I feel a weakening pressure against the walls of my pussy and his wetness leaking away.

“I can’t believe it! You just used me like a cum-bucket!” I turn to face him accusingly, my pussy feeling a familiar ache. I only get helpless laughter in return. “Now I’m horny!”

P.S. See You Later

I suck at goodbyes. I really do, which is why often I prefer to put on my running shoes and do a 400m dash, or in this particular case, a 3-month marathon. I know it's not the mature thing to do nor is it the kind thing to do, but it's compulsive, this need to put the world in a box and stare at it from a distance. If only to understand it better.

Besides you'd laugh if I told you that I took 2 months to compose the words to this post, to get them to look, sound and feel exactly right. But I did. Of course, the last month I spent just sitting around eating haw flake biscuits from the tin. But in the productivity stakes, 2 out of 3 ain't bad!

So to those of you who are still loitering on this site (I'm not sure how many there are left), but especially to those who started loitering right from the beginning, here is a little explanation for my absence, my metamorphosis from this creature called Sash and my eventual departure from this blog.

It starts with being in love. There, I said it.

And well, I'm not sure how or exactly when or why or even if I should or shouldn't be, but I just am.

Love is a state of being, and I defy people who reduce it to a feeling, a mere wisp of emotion. There is a strong, real difference between just feeling love and being actively involved in the process, even though it took me a long time to recognize it.

I suppose I've had a bad experience with love. (Hasn't everyone?) I've mistaken it for many things – for infatuation, for companionship, for obsession with an ideal. And I've mocked it, belittled it for being mundane, and for being weak.

Strongly independent women don't do love. It's beneath them, it destroys their character – I had made up all these strange rules for myself. One set to govern my pussy, and another entirely different set to govern my heart. It made sense for a long time to keep them strictly apart.

I secretly despised those who could only have sex with people who meant something to them. They were fragile little porcelain flowers who bore the burden of being unenlightened, the ones who cloistered themselves and held out their quivering, virginal quims for a statistical improbability.

I, on the other hand, was invincible. But hard in places I couldn't see. I struggled a long time with what seems in retrospect now to be my destiny.

I was torn in several different directions. I loved a man, but I loved my freedom more. I loved a man, but I did not love the situation we were in. I loved a man but in a self-protected, self-obsessed way, the only way I knew how, I loved him only if he loved me more.

It was difficult for me to reconcile these conflicts and the more I tried to resolve them, the more I made a hash of things. At times broody and sensitive, at other times spiteful and hurtful, I was self-sabotaging my chances for happiness because I was too scared of being disappointed.

For some reason, I thought that an emotional bogeyman dogged my steps, and that his chief aim was to gobble up my joy and turn it to despair.

It was only at the beginning of this year that I learned to stop worrying, and to just follow my heart.

And despite evidence to the contrary, I have one. You can imagine this comes as a surprise to me as much as it does to you.

I'm not a romantic, and I've known firsthand enough dysfunctional, destructive relationships to ever be one. So I'm not about to say that being in love has made my life better – I enjoyed a fantastic singleserves lifestyle with no regrets – but it has changed me.

It has helped me live deeper and richer. I experience life with an under-current of passion, generosity and groundedness that I never had before.

And in this way, I think I needed to fall in love. Or have a meteorite strike my building. Either way, I needed that epiphany; that it is possible for someone to be in love with me, kinks and all. And that I have the spiritual capacity to reciprocate in kind, when I honestly thought I had forgotten how.

Thus, I am endlessly comforted and inspired by this new phase in my life. Sometimes I think of it like a little red thread running through my arteries, holding otherwise random pieces of me together.

At other times, it's a mirror, and it illuminates my actions and quirks from the perspective and context of another person. In a funny way, I see more of me now than I ever did before.

Sometimes, I even surprise myself.

I remain remarkably stoic about my prospects though. I don't put much stock in the happy ending. Love ebbs and flows. In fact, it seems the more desperately one tries to hold onto it, the faster it pours away. And deep down, I know that this little mad ecstasy of my heart, as with all things, too shall pass.

But for now, I'm enjoying it.

I've never laughed so much in my life, for instance. I've never been as silly and goofy – having a made-up baby-vernacular with words like ‘Schmoops’, ‘Babby’ and ‘Wuv’ in it is not something to crow about, but well, us Singaporeans have made it a national habit to mangle the English language.

I've never been so open with someone – even telling my darkest, guiltiest secrets – and had it be alright. I've never been such an instigator of fun and sexual spontaneity. No public corridor is safe, no piece of furniture spared and no beautiful stranger unmolested.

Which all sounds very sweet and slightly nauseating, but what has all this got to do with blogging, you wonder?

Well here's the nub – I've changed. And in ways that aren't quite Sash anymore. I wouldn't say she's gone completely. She can still be counted on for things like, modeling lingerie in front of 200 lesbians, dancing with abandon on a podium at old haunts, persuading beautiful girls to be bisexual, having mad sex with multiple partners (except now it tends to be in the presence of a certain someone).

That's still me. But there are other parts to me now that need recognition. And to tell the truth, every time I have tried to post the latest developments of my life on this blog, I've felt constrained by the all-pervading themed persona I created. Even the tone and style doesn't fit anymore.

I'm still writing though. I will always write, it's who I am, it's just that for now I am trying to move my thoughts into another medium. So it's not a farewell, I sincerely hope it's a see you later.

Thank you for all your encouragement, well-wishes and loyal readership. It has given me confidence and has helped me find my courage when it comes to writing.

At its best, I hope this blog provided you with a dash of inspiration, some information, and plenty of wank-fodder while encouraging you to embrace your sexual side. Remember, your kink is what makes you special. Explore it, nurture it and don't be afraid to share it with somebody one day. I did, and still do. If anything, it makes for very interesting dinner conversations.

I will be leaving the archives up here for your reading pleasure. But before I hang up my stiletto on a shingle for good, I will be trying to finish and polish up a few orphaned Sash posts that I still have left on my computer. I will put these up at arbitrary intervals, as the spirit moves me, so expect the story mill to trickle down and dry up as opposed to grinding to a complete halt here in Sashville.

Questions or personal anecdotes, if any, are welcome in the comment box. Usual rules apply. If you leave your email address, I might respond personally.

All said and done, I had a wonderful, madcap time y'all. And again, thanks for being such a supportive audience. Now go forth and fuck your brains out. That's all for now, folks. :)

Tied Up

I wonder how long he's going to leave me here.

The wall is cold against my cheek and the bulb of the reading light incubates the side of my forehead. It casts large, distorted shadows around the room. A flickering candle becomes a beating heart, a stack of pillows become giant Lego-bricks and my own head is a clotted nest of writhing anemone.

I blink. And crane my neck as far as it will go in an attempt to catch sight of him. I feel the vertebrae on my spine uncoil protestingly, crick by crick.

It doesn't exactly hurt to move. Rather, it pinches, nibbles, and throbs. I don't know what sort of knots he's used but they're tight. I guess he wasn't joking when he said he used to be a Boy Scout.

My flesh is soft and buttery against the rope.

It's futile to escape. To tug awkwardly on the left is to feel a corresponding tweak on the right. Any attempt to roll or twist would mean the risk of over-balancing and landing on the floor in a cold, crushed heap.

That doesn't make me sorry for what I've done of course. He can do what he likes, but there's no way I'll crack. Or submit. Or beg.

Or cry out his name with pleasure.

He announces his return with a few sharp tugs of the rope and my limbs flail involuntarily up and down to greet him like a marionette. He chuckles and then pulls one more time for good measure.

Prick. I look at him sullenly, mutinously but say nothing. I know a bout of hysterics will most likely be punished by a pinch to my nipple or bruising spank.

'Last chance...' his voice drips honey in my ear. His expression gives nothing away but his eyes are dancing, flanked by grooves that extend to the top of his cheek.

'I told you, you can go fuck yourself.' I say the last two words especially slowly. For emphasis, I aim at his face and spit. But he recoils and my saliva spatters darkly on the sheet between us.

He chuckles. And his cock gives an involuntary quiver.

I realise too late that I've pushed it too far. His arm snakes round to grab a fistful of hair. My head snaps back and I start to wriggle about like a hooked eel. He's leaned in close and I feel his breath caress my face. His fingers burrow between my clenched thighs, rousing the swollen nub that's peeking out between my pussy lips.

The direct stimulation makes me more and more sensitive, pushing me to the brink of pleasure and tearing discomfort. I am sweating all over. I wriggle some more to dislodge his fingers, but in doing so, invite them to slip a little deeper.

And then, without warning two of his fingers plunge straight into my boiling cavity. My body instinctively jerks but the rope holds fast. Immobile, I feel the sensations shoot straight to my head, lingering behind my eyelids. My mouth has gone dry and all I can muster is a series of small unghs at the back of my throat.

Then for a brief second, relief.

He draws his glistening fingers out and holds them near my nose. I can tell how aroused I am by my smell – it's dense and almost feline. He draws back and licks his fingers seductively. I stare at him, happy to catch my breath.

Then he invades again, this time twisting and vibrating his fingers for extra effect.

And again. This time rougher and more vigorous.

And again. My insides are thrumming, my wrists and ankles are singing with a raw, keening sweetness. My moans are forceful and voluptuous. My limbs have long ceased their futile struggle. Instead I feel every pore in my body on fire, in open rebellion. His fingers carry on with their assault, except that he's watching me intently now, deep in his own arousal.

And then the final wave comes. It's sweet and explosive, as I knew it would be. I surrender completely to it. Taking my well-deserved pleasure. Savouring it, no, demanding it. Knowing that I'm free.

The scenario described above is purely consensual. If you want to role-play this way, do it with someone you trust and make sure you establish rules beforehand. Also, always use a safe word – something unusual (i.e. NOT 'Stop' or 'Enough') but easy to remember. Mine is ‘water-based make-up’! :)

Minus Libido

I wake up today and it is a relatively nice morning. We’ve been having a fair share of sunlight lately. And an unseasonably warm winter is really something that us Singaporeans can’t complain about.

I instinctively roll over to reach for my trusty vibrator, except…

Except...err Houston, we may have a problem.

I hold the implement with increasing pressure against my clit, moving it down to the lips of my pussy and then back again. Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt the mechanical pulses resonate down my intimate tissue. I writhe urgently against the sheets, my mind flitting through its archives of favourite fantasies, longing, desiring, waiting… something…

Anything…

Hello? Is there life on Venus?

Evidently not! I blame God. I blame SARS. And I blame the antibiotics.

I finally orgasm after 15 minutes. (F-I-F-T-E-E-N minutes, people.) And then, only because I'm blue in the face and my clit has been beaten into resentful submission by my vibrator’s thriller speed Rotate-Whirl-Take-Out-The-Laundry combo.

Numbed nether regions aside, I discover that life really does suck with a drug-diminished sex drive for all the following reasons:

a. No urge to wank in the morning means I actually get to work on time.

b. No urge to wank mid-day means the office toilet seats have a fighting chance of staying dry.

c. No urge to wank in the evening means I can have sensible hobbies like vacuuming and stamp collecting.

Yes, no urge to wank makes Sash a very productive human being but a very sad girl.

So. That said, while azythromycin beats the crap out of my lingering throat infection and libido, I’ll be doing up some old stories from last year that I started but didn’t get to finish for one reason or another. So forgive me if the blog’s a bit chronologically impaired but everything will catch up at some point, I promise.

Until then, happy reading!

And Now, For Some Wank Fodder...

A new year, a new profile and a new perspective. At least now you get a facial.

I also wanted to customise a new look for the blog and got as far as turning everything a noxious shade of magenta before I realised the new Blogger template made all my Haloscan comments disappear. I reverted back to Missionary Minima in a huff.

Sorry to sound whiney but will somebody give this technologically-challenged girl a few clues?

Naked

It takes a certain kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. For money.

And then, it takes a whole different kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of their friends (the ones they will have to make eye contact with again under sober circumstances). For free.

And enjoy it.

In my defense, I will say it was for a friend’s birthday. I was a little drunk. And there were a group of us taking our clothes off – maybe not all off, nor with as much wild abandon – but we were definitely egging each other on. So what can I say, safety in numbers.

Or so I tell myself.

The thing is, I love being naked. I love the frankness of nudity, the lack of guile, the insouciance of being able to say to the world at large here-I-am-and-here-are-my-jiggly-bits. (Note: I do try to keep in okay shape generally, just so it’s not too much of an imposition if there’s an audience involved.)

I sleep naked, I do the dishes naked, I blog naked and if I could go out naked (save a pair of Fendi boots, in case the temperature drops), I would.

It is the purest of pleasures to feel my body interact with the atoms around it – my tiny body-hairs bristling against the cold, my malleable bottom negotiating a wooden stool, my arm coming to blows with an unexpected corner, leaving a stain.

It feels authentic, elemental, natural. Like I am having a conversation with the universe.

I suppose some part of this philosophy translates into a fierce aversion to all things underwear. I don’t understand the need for tights, pantyhose or pieces of string obstructing the flow of air to vital body parts that need to stay fresh and spontaneous. Who knows when or where I might desire a quick poke? Or a surreptitious wank? Or just a bracing gust of wind between my cheeks, for that matter.

It’s a compromise really, but my reasoning is this: if I have to wear clothes for the sake of everyone else’s sanity, I will be as naked as possible underneath them. For myself.

Granted, I would freeze my arse off – literally – in a city that had a real winter i.e. Chicago, New York, London, Tokyo. But thankfully, here in Hong Kong everyone just likes to pretend. So they can wear minks. And eat cake. And sniff in disdain at those of us who wear cardigans from Giordano.

I was not always such a self-actualised naturist. I grew up with the typical brand of Singaporean propriety forced down my throat. My BeeDees bras were cotton, my uniforms below the knee, my buttons done up to my collarbone. Nudity was shameful and my dad would berate my mom frequently for just walking to the kitchen to get a drink in her t-shirt and underwear.

What will the children think, he would scold.

Of course, all my brother and I thought was, oh there’s Mom in her t-shirt and underwear getting a drink. My parents were about 15 years into their marriage at that point so Mom’s underwear didn’t quite consist of a blood-red garter and an Agent Provocateur thong, if you know what I mean.

Anyway the risk of censure didn’t stop me from rolling myself up in a carpet without a stitch when I was ten or regularly kicking off my pyjama bottoms in the middle of the night when I was twelve or once, standing outside in a storm until my clothes soaked through and stuck to me like a second skin.

But it took years of active defiance to get over all that social conditioning. And I can’t say I’ve looked back since.

Which brings us to a neon-lighted stage in an undisclosed Wanchai location with my tits hanging out, I suppose. It’s a slow night. We have the bar to ourselves, save the mamasan and a few working girls, who are all avidly watching or participating anyway. My Brazilian Girls CD is playing and I’m watching another friend en deshabille spanking one of the bargirls with a star-shaped riding crop.

We’re all laughing. The liberal vodka shots have just begun to hit, we’re flushed, we can barely walk straight, we’re happy and now, we’re best of friends.

Funny how a bit of tits and arse will do that for people.

Sash's Greatest Hits 2006

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