Social Media Capitulation

I know, I know I don't write enough. Well here's an excuse: social media is making me dumb and lazy. For those of you who want to see me try my hand at producing irrelevant sound-bites within 140 characters - find me here.

P.S. I'm not that interesting, so you have been warned.

Rain

It was a dark and stormy night… No, seriously! Nowhere else does ‘dark and stormy’ as wonderfully as Hong Kong. I wrote this a while ago in the context of a Typhoon 3 warning, lots of rain and great winds culminating in a dramatic Typhoon 8 in the end.

Hong Kong has the best storms. I love the sheer theatre of them. The sky gets dark in seconds as if someone flipped heaven’s lightswitch. Then, the windy howl rising up against the windows – a ghostly audience waiting impatiently for the show to begin.

And what a show it is!

Not the stingy, chronic, low-budget productions characteristic of temperate climes. It’s practically a character-driven circus. First, the thunderous fanfare. Then craaaaak, the lightning crack of the ringmaster’s whip. And finally, the main event – the rain that spews, pisses, and spurts, blanketing a thirsty city with wet.

The bauhinia trees stuck in cement, the muggy slopes of the mid-levels, the faded building facades with their years of perpetual grime, I feel them rejoicing in the torrent. They wash. They drink. And when they are satiated, they create puddles and rivulets of their own.

Not everyone loves the rain though. All around us, Hong Kongers with their fancy leather shoes and diamante-studded umbrellas, are scurrying and hurrying. They crouch under little shop verandahs, expressing their fury with the elements with frantic text messages. "T1, T3, T8, Amber, Red, Black" – the lingo of the storm that I have to come to know well.

No taxis! No shopping! No high-tea appointment! Aiya!

********

We’re lucky. One of us (or rather, him) has had the foresight to bring an umbrella to dinner, but it never really stood a chance against the T3. We start off optimistic. Then suddenly, needles of rain bear down at us from an angle and we’re drenched. The umbrella turns itself inside-out, spokes all awry, and flies merrily down the street.

So we decide the best option is to kick up our heels (or in my case, kick off my heels) and make a wild, unco-ordinated dash for it. Numerous happy-splashes and a quick fumble for the keys later, we’re home.

We peel our clothes off, eagerly discarding them in a wilted heap. I fling open the windows and look out onto a landscape that glistens and gleams in the night-light. It’s beautiful. A wonderful peaty, mossy smell fills the apartment.

Then, we fuck steadily to the rhythm of the rain, my moans lost to the whistling wind.

********

“I love fucking you when it’s raining,” I say, somewhere between my sixth and seventh orgasm. “It feels sexy…and somehow, so right.”

“You know what I’d really love to do…is fuck you in the rain.” He thrusts himself deep into my core as he speaks, for effect.

I look out the window, observing the tempest. Things are hurtling down the street. I see a bin cover, the odd branch and plastic bag. It is bucketing down so hard if I close my eyes it sounds like I could be next to a waterfall. It is beginning to flood.

Then a sudden gust blows in, and the blinds fly up. I sneeze – it must be a sign.

“I think you’ve picked the wrong girl to say that too. Come on get your boxers on…” There is an unmistakable glint in my eye, a look he knows too well.

“Oh no. N-O. What, like right now?”

********

We’re outside by the stairs of the house – him in his boxers and t-shirt, me in my cocktail dress… or what is left of my cocktail dress. I’m not sure why, but one of us (or rather, him) even brings along an umbrella.

We are two drowned rats going at it. I can barely open my eyelids wide enough to see clearly, the relentless downpour running off us in sheets. I begin to bend over, but he grabs a gob of my wet hair and forces my face to the sky. I clamp down on the instinct to sputter, as he enters me fiercely.

I come – an outpouring of my liquid, steaming and pissing down his thigh – three times in quick succession. Although I think he only notices on the third time. After which... he marches me, umbrella et al, back home for a hot shower and a dry cuddle.

"Remind me to keep my big mouth shut next time," he murmers heavily, into my neck, as the storm begins to pass.

Change - or be Changed?

“Oh my god! It’s so weird to hear you, of all people, say you have a boyfriend!”

I was having drinks with an old friend from Singapore – someone who was familiar with the younger, more imprudent me, and whom I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” I said, glancing away quickly. “Weird. To be fair, I only started calling him my boyfriend slightly more than a year ago. Before that, he was just my…”

“Fuckbuddy?”

“Um, no, not really. Stopover fuck’s more like it.”

“Is that higher or lower than a fuckbuddy in the grand scheme of things?”

“I’m not sure. He was never a ‘buddy’ – I never really wanted him to just be my friend. I think he was in a special category all by himself.”

“Ok, so when did he become your boyfriend then?”

I thought for a long while. It’s hard to say exactly when A first became my boyfriend, in both name and spirit. There was no one momentous occasion with bells ringing and birds chirping, but rather, as these things tend to go, a culmination of gestures and intimations that seemed so natural at the time, I never once stopped to think what they all meant.

Was it when he first said “I love you”? Was it when he stopped sleeping with other people – or was it when I did? Or maybe it was the moment I gave him the key to my apartment, asking that he call it his own. Or could it have been the numerous little epiphanies that I got along the way writing about him on this blog?

Maybe the truth lies in the truly mundane. I mean how many times can a girl read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read, and re-read a single text message? (Without losing her eyesight, that is.) Well in my case, a fair estimate might be…more than a few dozen? And I still smile too. I have over a hundred of his texts saved in my phone, and my favourite one dates from as far back as July 2006.

I tried hard to remember when I said my first “I love you”. Because surely that would have given me the answer to my friend’s question. But I couldn’t. (Admittedly my excuse is that I was highly intoxicated at the time.) But I’ve said it too many times to count since. And besides, I probably meant, showed and indicated it in a myriad of ways before my tongue got into the act of forming the actual words.

In that way, I think sometimes the body is wiser than the mind. Even from the first time, I marveled at how my body fit into his. How he took my hand to cross the road while we were walking back to the hotel and how I smiled, and curled my fingers around his without breaking stride. Or into a cold sweat.

How after sex, I knew exactly how to curl up him like a limpet, resting my head along the crook between his collarbone and chest, and letting our post-coital smells spontaneously mingle.

And how we kissed. Oh, how we kissed. We only started doing this later on in the relationship, him having never been too big on ‘the kissing thing’ when he was with other women. But the first time he decided to take me in his arms, using his lips to smother, suckle and caress me with wild abandon, I was lost.

More importantly, my body had stopped enjoying sex with other people way before my mind cared to concede. In fact, it took me a streak of rather unenjoyable encounters – including one where I had to literally sneak out of someone’s apartment like a thief while he was sleeping (leaving no note, and definitely no number!) – to make me sit up and think…

Waitaminute. Whatthehelljusthappened? That used to be fun.

So where does all this leave us? I suppose with the old adage that change happens – even to the unlikeliest candidate of us all. And the best kind of change feels natural, and organic, and not impelled by anyone else but yourself. The funny thing with change of course, is that it’s only when somebody shines a ‘blast from the past’ spotlight on you, that you realise it’s actually happened.

Otherwise, you’d just think you were being you.

Ever heard the phrase, “I love you, but I love me more?” It’s a phrase that maybe Sash would have used. Or anyone with a strong, uncompromising sense of self. And in all my previous relationships, I had always felt this epic tussle between the real me and the ‘me’ that the other person wanted me to be.

It never felt quite right.

Because how much can you truly change about yourself on behalf of someone else? A lot of people pretend, all their lives even, whilst scurrying away to hide their dirty secrets from prying eyes. But I never wanted to pretend. And I never wanted to compromise. And maybe that’s why it took me such a long time, and such a lot of tries to get it right.

Because finally, I’ve found someone that I can just be me with. Kinky, quirky, funny soulful me.

And that’s what changed. I’ve found my home, my family, my anchor and my truth in another person. And I suppose, for the first time, after 2 years and 9 months, I can finally say, with some degree of certainty, that I’m content in a way that comes from knowing indeed, there is someone out there for me. Yes, for even ‘difficult cases’ like me. So there’s hope for all.

Maybe that’s why I stopped blogging – because in a way, I’ve stopped searching. I’m still me but I can’t be Sash anymore. Not in the way you know me anyhow. Ferociously hunting for the next man, the next high, the next hedonistic adventure, the next blogworthy anecdote. Just because I could. And also because in a way, playing the game and exerting my sexual power had become my heroin.

But now, I’ve realised that it’s not the end of the world when I can’t get laid with that super-handsome, well-dressed, alpha-male of a man that’s looking sideways at me across the bar…

So you see, there is simply no more sexual pathos. Or so it seems for now, anyway.

Because when I do go out looking for sexual adventure – which still happens, mind you, pretty often – I go out looking in tandem. And boy is it fun to hunt in a pack. I know I have the best wingman I could ever ask for by my side, and the best fall-back plan if things don’t work out.

Someone who makes me laugh till my sides ache, fucks the living bejesus out of me, snuggles up in the morning when its cold, and treats me with the utmost patience, respect and forgiveness on days leading up to my period.

He is my biggest adventure. And even till this day, there’s a sense of newness to our relationship. Perhaps because every day with him is a revelation of the depth and nuance of feeling that I am capable of with him.

But I can’t risk boring you with any more details. Really, the last thing the world needs is yet another rosy-eyed romantic grandiosely espousing the life-changing power of love. And please, I beg of you not to put me in that category.

I don’t believe in happy endings, but there’s something to be said for happy beginnings, and middles.

Because they’re just wonderful. :)


P.S. And that pesky monogamy thing? We have a deal that I’ll stay faithful as long as he makes sure that I always have the most mind-blowing sex a girl like me could possibly want and have. And also, that he brings home guys for the occasional dp. ;)

P.P.S. To my beloved, thank you and happy 40th.

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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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.