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.

The First Threesome

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Big night last night?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would miss cock entirely too much.

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

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

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

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

Mine did, anyway.

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

I could get used to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bi-curious? Get Bisexual

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

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

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

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

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

At least for the first course.

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

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

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

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

Don’t make me beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would anyway.

Sexual Conditioning

WANTED: Girl for an X-rated FFM threesome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missed Opportunities

Remember Anthony, my good-referral shag (ref: Sept 26)? I recently got the following text message from him:

Hey baby. Am going to be in HK on the 6th. Will you be around?

I replied in the affirmative and followed up with the somewhat obligatory reply of how I have been swooning about Hong Kong with my loins in the throes of absolute lust waiting for him to return. (A bit of an exaggeration really. At least the swooning bit - I am perfectly capable of lusting for someone without losing consciousness, thank you.)

He replied:

Great, I look forward to pleasing you soon. Can I bring a friend? She’s blonde, beautiful, German. Wants to meet you and eat pussy all night.

Greeted with this scenario, I hesitated. Instead of a resounding yes, I couldn’t quite make up my mind how to reply to Anthony, which I thought was extremely out of character.

You see, confession time: I have never actually been in a threesome with another woman and contemplating it was making me feel a little odd. I tried to put my finger on exactly why.
Was I uncomfortable with the display of another woman’s naked sexuality? Would Jesus still love me if I put my fingers up another girl’s pussy? What if she had crooked teeth or big feet – would I still be able to clamber into bed with her? Was I simply being - horror of horrors- a prude?

The thing is, I actually like other women. And not deodorant-shunning, breast-strapped, baggy-panted dykes either. It’s the lipstick-wearing delicately-perfumed women with luscious curves and supple skin that I find sexually intriguing. And just in case you were wondering…Yes, I have kissed and made out with a few. Yes, sometimes for the benefit of the general public. Yes, just like in porn.

And I have long been enamoured with the idea of being a full-fledged bisexual. It just seemed to be a position that offered the best of two worlds. Strawberry tea, afternoon cuddles and incestuous Tupperware parties with the girls. Impulsive flings, extravagant gifts, wild and crazy sex with the boys.

However, I have to admit I’m only recreationally bi. For one, I am a bit too attached to my meat – thick, fleshy, hard, pulsating, self-lubricating, hanging slightly to the left and preferably belonging to a lean mean virile male.

A buzzing vibrator, though deftly handled by another woman, just doesn’t do the trick. I mean technically it does, but ultimately, 8 inches of rubbery silicone and flashing lights does not a cock make. It doesn’t have a foreskin. You can’t tug on its balls as you rock back and forth. It doesn’t ejaculate on command (“Cum now for me baby, please…Now. Hard.”) And it’s just a little bit silly to be putting it into your mouth.

Second, I can’t quite eat pussy. I’ve tried. But well, I find it intimidating. Pussies are complicated pieces of machinery – every one is slightly different and there are lots of fiddly bits (flashlight not included). They need to be treated with a level of finesse and skills I’m not too confident I have at this point. I can just about cope with the incessant demands of mine. And the pressure and responsibility of getting it absolutely right with another woman is crushing.

If I failed to get her to orgasm (and being female, I would know the difference between a faker and a real quaker), then it would be a disaster that would strike deep into the heart of all womankind. I might have to go into therapy. And you might even have to boycott this blog. Horrors.

I’ve tried my best to be as liberal and un-Singaporean as possible about thinking through these issues but alas, I fear it is a mental barrier I can’t quite overcome right now. (I have though started learning how to tie better cherry-pip knots with my tongue. So I am working on the situation.) Maybe I am destined to spend my life just being completely straight after all. How disappointing.

All this means a FFM (2 females 1 male) threesome, whilst not completely out of the question, would be a lot less fun for everyone involved. I wouldn't be able to participate to the fullest of my abilities. And in my opinion, it would be selfish to just lie there and make the other girl do all the wetwork, so to speak.

I would like to be a team player and share my toys. Really.

I also have doubts about how sexually fulfilling a FFM scenario would be for me. I’m insatiable enough when I have dedicated attention – and quite up to the task of handling 2 men at a go. But having horny, multi-orgasmic me, multiplied by 2, in a room together demanding satisfaction? All I can think is that Anthony, capable as he was in the sack, had better have a good backup plan ready. And it better not be a movie and ice-cream either.

Misgivings aside, I was of course curious to how I would react to Anthony’s “blonde, beautiful German” in person. There was always the slim possibility that Angelina Jolie might have bleached her hair, changed her name to Olga and started working for Luftansa, incidentally scheduled to stop off in Hong Kong on the 6th. And that she might be just the person to turn me into a raging lesbian. (Really, I think it would be horribly unfair not to consider a serious lifestyle adjustment under those circumstances.)

So after much deliberation, curiosity won the day. I decided to leave my fate to the threesome gods. I sent Anthony a tentative reply:

Ok but only if you think we’ll like each other. No guarantees. And I have the right to demand a refund.

I held my breath. I had made a big leap into what sociology professors in the U.S. would have called the realm of “subverting gender stereotypes”. I was proud of myself - I would not just be another sexuality statistic. Anthony had better start taking his vitamins.

He SMSed the next day:

Just checked. She’s not around on the 6th. Dang! Trust me, she’d have loved you. Next time then. See you soon.

I felt both disappointed and relieved at the same time. So I was to be deflowered another day. Oh well. Back to my cherry pips and the comfort zone of being only 30% gay (of course it’s a spectrum, stupid).

I can just about hear the tempered rejoicing from the religious right (some of whom obviously read and comment on this blog faithfully for reasons that mystify me). As well as the collective exhalation of the Singapore government who want my fecund, heterosexual ovaries to solve its ageing population problem.

So I am fairly happy about pretending to be an upstanding citizen and pillar of our uptight lil community for a while more. But excuse me if I go to bed occasionally dreaming of Angelina.

Sexually deviant, moi?