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. :)

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.

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? :)

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! ;)

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.

Period Delay

In many ways I am very much a product of the 21st century. I understand why French women don’t get fat, I have 50 Cent on my iPod, I know the name of Brangelina’s new baby, I eke out a good work-life balance, my house has good fengshui and so on.

But there is a certain time in every month where all that gets thrown out of the window and I am reduced to being a hopelessly cranky, whingey, tetchy female. Like my generations of sisters before me.

The monthly curse, eumenorrhea, the menstrual period – call it what you will, its just one of these things that we women have to put up with on a regular basis. And spare us the scorn and pity guys, I’ve heard pattern baldness starts as early as 30, so why don’t you let that keep you busy.

Anyway, after mopping up more than 100 periods, I am thoroughly fed up with the concept. More pressingly, I am threatening to turn into a walking faucet right smack in the middle of one of my lover’s sponsored getaways (this time to Saigon), which is simply unacceptable.

I am not on the pill. And my half-hearted attempts at a few hokey old-wives’ methods to trigger / delay my period – from exercising violently in spurts to eating pineapples – predictably don’t work. Mars and Venus will not align. And I am fast approaching my 28 day deadline.

So I do what every self-respecting modern woman does. Stride into her GP’s office and offer herself up to the vagaries of medical science. I say I am ready to embed a microchip in my ovaries if it will solve the problem.

My GP assures me that my sacrifice, whilst noble, is a tad melodramatic and completely unnecessary. She is surprisingly sympathetic to my plight and calmly prescribes me a round of hormone pills (northisterone) to take 3 times a day, starting 3 days before my scheduled period.

And this is how I learn I can delay my period for restricted lengths of time. Just until after that much-anticipated birthday or that special holiday or that secret rendezvous or whatever. I feel incredibly liberated.

No more will I be a slave to plugs on strings, maxi pads with wings and extra-absorbent hydrogel! There is nothing sexy about having your man watch you waddle to the toilet once every few hours to stick a wad of cotton between your legs. Not to mention the little adjustments we have to constantly make to the offending pad with our legs crossed, our bums shifting imperceptibly on the seat, and the occasional hand down the back of our pants.

And no more will I swear violence on the fair-faced talent in tampon commercials that prance around in tight white shorts and wiggle their asses tauntingly at the camera. I’m sorry but one Vivienne Westwood skirt ruined, twice shy. Those innocent Tampex girls just annoy me.

Some of you profound types might scoff at using medical means to delay a period for the sole purpose of enjoying a holiday or more spontaneous sex with one’s lover, finding me both shallow and self-obsessed (and who am I to argue otherwise). And some of you traditionalists might think doing this subverts God’s master plan for a woman to bleed every month.

But it is now widely accepted that women don’t need to have monthly menstrual periods. In fact modern women endure up to nine times more periods than their great-grandmothers, who began menstruating later, married young and naturally suppressed periods for years while they were pregnant or breast-feeding.

Frankly, what this all means is that monthly periods are not necessarily by Nature's design. Rather it seems to be a means of punishing women of our evolutionary ilk for shirking our baby-making responsibilities - and we can get away with a lot fewer. And there is nothing to stop us from demanding 'period holidays' from our bodies. This is what has partially driven the popularity of contraceptive pills like the newly-FDA approved Seasonale.

So I am happy to see that nowadays menstruation is becoming optional, if not downright obsolete. As I, for one will not miss it. At this point, I’m still happy to bleed but only when I want to and not when I don’t want to.

Actually, it is not the bleeding I object to so much. Rather it is all the other nuisances that come with my period I detest – let’s call it Beached Whale syndrome – the bloat, the cramps, the occasional migraine.

Not to mention, that mistimed first gush. The most gauche of which would be in a man’s mouth as he is eating my pussy out hungrily. And oh yes, I’ve been there. It wasn't pretty.

I’m not squeamish at all about the idea of fucking with the flow – it’s a surefire way to alleviate cramps after all. But it sure is hell on the sheets. And blood just isn’t a very good lubricant for long periods of intense fucking. It dries out too quickly and naturally I’m not quite prepared to use the full faculties of my mouth or tongue to re-lubricate. Also, much as I adore giving head, a girl gets tired of doing it without any possibilities of reciprocation.

Now armed with my period-delay-in-a-packet, I’m off to Saigon.

To go commando under my linen mini-skirt, my neon bikini and my skimpy little fuck-me-here-and-now dress. To wank furtively in taxis and planes and feel my cum-juice trickle down my leg. To cream my guy’s cock in a public place and wipe it off with the underside of his fresh, white shirt. To have his best friend worm his fingers under my skirt and make me cum publicly on the barstool in front of an appreciative audience.

Ah. Bless thee Northisterone, you have made a 21st century woman of me.

Nature Takes Its Course

“Let me look at this…” he says taking the plastic object from my hands and examining it closely. “So this is what they look like. I always thought that they were these weird, nasty things that came with five tubes and a bag or something to put your shit in.”

I laugh. “Well there is that kind of enema, but those are, ahem, an acquired taste. Not for beginners like you. I prefer these, a bit more civilized, medically safe and readily available from your neighbourhood pharmacy. Clears you out and the best bit? No bags of shit to tote around!”

“So you just stick them in and it all comes out?”

“Yup! I’ll show you! In fact, you are going to do one with me!” I pronounce smugly. “That will be the rule from now on ok? If I do one, you do one – for solidarity! C’mon it’ll be fun! These are the things you do with someone you feel completely and absolutely comfortable with. The things you don’t see in porn!”

“For good reason…” he mutters under his breath.

I see him hesitate - caught between curiousity and dismay - and ruthlessly press my advantage. “Pwease? Pwetty pwetty pwease? Friends for life, right? And besides, it’s my birthdaaay…” Faced with all the earnest and enthusiastic cajoling, he knows his only option is to gamely capitulate.

I make him lie back and tell him playfully – and quite unnecessarily – to “just relax”. I lube up the tip of the plastic tube with my forefinger before carefully and tenderly inserting it into him, subsequently pulling it out in exactly the same fashion.

“See? Easy-peasy! Now you do the same on me!” I squeal, reclining horizontal on the bed and positioning my buttocks at an angle to give him the best access. He obediently returns the favour and looks suitably serious whilst admistering it.

“So now we wait.”

We stretch out on the king-sized bed next to each other. And wait. And giggle. And wait some more. It gives me great amusement to see him just lying there looking somewhat uncertain and vulnerable, anticipating what will happen next.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. “This is a real bonding experience huh, waiting with somebody to shit!” he exclaims with great amusement. “Actually I could feel it working the minute you inserted it, like my insides were relaxing. Matter of time Baby, matter of time…”

The urge hits me first and I run off to let nature take its course, forgetting in my haste that he is still lying in bed a few feet away. My body begins to release and induced by the enema, I begin to make some reasonably loud and explosive bathroom sounds (subtext: farts that echo throughout the entire villa).

Suddenly I hear a loud yell of encouragement: “YOU GO Baaaby! YEAAAA. Giiiive it to me. C’mon, LOOOUUD! Just the way I like it!”

“FUCK OFF!” I shriek back in laughter, helpless to stop my body from completing the course of its natural functions. “I’m sooo fucking going to sit outside the toilet when you gooo!”

“Ok ok, I’ll switch on the TV,” he says, as a concession. I hear the sounds of the tube and I recognize the drone of a newscaster reading the news.

Great, I muse. Just great. Now I’m shitting to the sounds of car bombs detonating in Iraq. Poetry in motion indeed. I vow silently to feed his innards to the flies when I finish.

When I finally wander out of the toilet, he is nowhere to be found and I conclude (correctly) that it must be his time. Out of general politeness and the reluctance to intrude, I sit on the bed idly flipping channels, looking for something remotely inspiring on the small screen.

It doesn’t last long – my half-hearted attempt at courtesy and self-control - and after a few moments, I run over to the other room and press my ear to the glass door of the toilet. “Knock knock! How’s it going?”

“Good. The miracles of science are…miraculous! Everything’s coming out in a rush!”

“I don’t hear anything! Where are the fucking sound effects?”

I arrange myself cross-legged on the floor outside and wait patiently but receive no audio gratification for my efforts. I must have mis-timed it. Drats. He emerges from the cubicle a little while later, careful to shut the door firmly behind him. He chuckles when he sees me sitting outside. And this sets me off on yet another round of mirthful spasms.

“What will you say to the people who ask what you did on your birthday, Sash? Sat outside the toilet and listened to a guy shit,” he teases me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Stop it! For your birthday next month, I’m going to make you carry a 2 gallon bag of shit around. You best not shoot your mouth off, buster!” I gasp out a warning, wiping the wetness of hilarity from my eyes and holding my sides tightly.

Thus, with our bowels so unceremoniously emptied, we have set the scene for an all-night session of hot, heavy backdoor action later on (subtext: no mess, no embarrassment and no need to call the hygiene police, people!) Just thinking about it gives me a quick pucker from anticipation and arousal.

But for the immediate moment, first things first – we head out for lunch. Chocolate fondant is predictably not on the menu.

Dirty Weekend

What does one pack for a dirty weekend...

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

Oh and Toothbrush - electric.

Yay. I'm excited.

Below 22

It's been cold in Hong Kong recently. And I'm a real tropical chick i.e. I cease to function at arctic temperatures below 22 degrees (ok, maybe 21 if you give me a leather jacket).

I've also realised that they don't heat their buildings here - so often it’s as cold inside as it is outside. What a ridiculous concept. It's bad enough that I have Eskimo status forced upon me when I'm outdoors, but is one expected to rub noses under three layers of fur indoors as well?

This gives rise to the following dilemma, most commonly encountered in the weekend: You've been out the night before. And have predictably drunk a bit too much. You sleep fitfully because of the alcohol and wake up the next morning abnormally early i.e. pre-10 a.m. It is freezing in your apartment and there is nothing except your down duvet protecting you from contracting hypothermia. You are also insanely hungry and slightly hungover. And you know if you don't have a stack of pancakes and hot drink at some point, your acidic stomach juices might just eat your insides out. You live in Central and you know the shop round the corner serves great takeaway breakfast. What do you do?

Brave the elements and forage for food in SoHo? Yes. That is a given. The more important question is: What does one wear? Since it is so cold in your apartment, you are already sleeping in thermal sweatpants and a green sweater from Aunt Ginny, a possible re-gift from last Christmas. Surely no one will notice if you wore this particular outfit out on your 15-minute trek to the corner shop. And even if they saw you, surely no one would recognize you. You'll don your best oversized sunglasses to complete the look. Just to be safe.

So far, I've managed to make a few incognito journeys thus attired. However I don’t know how long my luck will hold. One of these days, I know someone will see me (and invariably it will be my hunky colleague / ex-fling with his new model-esque love interest) and I will lose all traces of dignity.

This whole temperate climate business is also having a 'chilling effect' on my behaviour in bed. Small concessions have taken on monumental significance in my futile effort to keep warm. Like, socks on / socks off? Never before have I encountered such a tricky predicament.

I've even had to barter sexual favours like a stingy housewife. I will give you a blowjob, but only if you let me stay under the covers.

And by the way, you're sleeping in the wet spot tonight. Snookums.

Needless to say, I am still navigating the territory between keeping alive and keeping men interested. So far, I've decided I shall be warm but asexual (read: bundled up like a pumpkin) during the week and cold but alluring (read: mini skirts with knee-high boots) during the weekends.

I would breed for free with the person who invented boots though. They're possibly the only article in my wardrobe that does double-duty in terms of keeping my tootsies toasty and exuding sex appeal at the same time. It must also make a pretty picture to have me bent over a chair stark-naked with nothing but my boots on because I've had requests (and each one thinks they're being dreadfully original) to adopt this particular stance often enough.

If I am alone, nothing beats the incomparable luxury of wearing a scanty silk robe and warming my privates within the 1-foot radius of my ceramic heater in the bedroom.

In fact, it was in one of these intimate little bedroom moments, that I had my latest epiphany about relationships: Relationships are God's consolation for winter. It's cold and miserable outside? Ok fine, enough with the candles and petitions. Here's something to keep you company indoors – your very own 36.5 degree internally-heated, hermetically-sealed human being to cuddle up with. All batteries and bits included. Keep small parts away from children.

Yes, relationships are the handiest little things to keep you from freezing your ass off. I knew that there must have been some sort of functional aspect to explain their popularity. In fact, this explains why I haven’t had a relationship for the past 4 years in Singapore. There's simply been no need. That's right, I blame the weather.

It is just so much easier to be someone's fantasy girl in the tropics. Sexy slips, low-cut dresses, bikinis, garters et al are too impractical in the cold. So much more convenient to have a boyfriend for a few months. Who cares if the sex is sporadic and lackluster? At least you get to keep your flannel bunny suit on and avoid frostbite.

I like the way these Hong Kong girls do it. With their beautiful knee-high leather boots, dyed-fur overcoats and Hermes scarves, they keep their favourite winter accessories hanging off their arm i.e. pinched-looking boyfriends who in turn are entrusted the important responsibility of carrying last season's LV handbag.

Now that's class. Take it from me, the arbiter of style in thermal sweatpants.

Goodbye Ken, Hello 2006

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Stalker

Surely, I am being punished for something. I just don’t know what or by whom. Let me explain.

For the past week, I have had my very own pet stalker. He (I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘he’) calls my mobile from an unlisted number in the wee hours of the morning (from 4-7 a.m.) and says nothing when I pick up.

Absolutely nothing.

Even if there was some sort of heavy breathing, I would feel comforted. At least I would know that his stalker intentions were honourable. (And maybe I could record the breath patterns and send it to the CSIs in New York for analysis.) But it’s hard to read the intentions of dead silence. It could be a cry for help. It could be cowardice. It could be loss for words. It could be anything.

The amateur sleuth in me has tried listening hard for distinguishing background noise but to no avail. Not much goes on from 4 to 7 in the morning in Hong Kong, except for the little old men who are just waking up to gum away at their dim sum and read the newspaper. But they don’t make much discernible phone noise as you can imagine.

One of my male friends has offered to pick up the phone for me and answer in his most menacing voice, which would have been a good idea except for the fact he was probably trying to win a free night in my bed.

I’ve even tried outlasting my stalker i.e. picking up and saying nothing in return but it’s a boring game to play when you’re sleepy and I hang up pretty quickly. I mean if there’s anything you can say about this guy, it’s that he’s got commitment. He wakes up at 4 in the morning every night for a whole week to call me – most people would consider that a relationship.

In fact, just for that he deserves his own name on this blog. Let’s call him Whitney - because scary stalkers don’t have names like Whitney.

Sometimes Whitney is unpredictable and will call in the middle of the day. Same modus operandi though. I’m not sure what sort of pleasure he derives from hearing me say a normal hello (the “wanton sex goddess” hellos are reserved for special friends), but obviously he gets off on it. Maybe he needs a specialist. Or a good receptionist.

Anyway, I’m pretty much of the mind that Whitney is someone I know. My Hong Kong mobile number is only 3 months old and has not been previously owned. I’ve only given my number to people I know – and maybe a few people that I would like to get to know. But in the case of the latter, surely they would call and say something – like could we go for a drink or could we shag right now or something.

In particular, I have a hypothesis that Whitney is actually a guy I know called Max. It’s just a hunch and there’s no way to prove it. But if it is Max then at least I can put a face and a cock to my tormenter.

Max was the flavour of October (and maybe early November). I met him on the Mid-level escalators. He was a performance artist and he seduced me with a series of performances that can only be described politely as bizarre. (If you’re nice, I’ll tell you the full story later.) But it piqued my interest and we had a good time shagging our brains out for a few weeks.

Until he started getting really ‘sticky’. Of course Max's wacky sense of ‘sticky’ meant telling his friends loudly at a bar that he wanted sole proprietorship rights to my armpit and giving me a little piece of bunny fur for safekeeping until further notice. And sending me SMSes filled with what he claimed were subliminal messages like “love..”, “trust…”, “blossom…”.

I kid you not. This guy was seriously loopy and after a few weeks, even the sex was past its sell-by date.

Quite fortuitously around the time this was happening, I was due to take a trip for work to Malaysia and I did the predictably cruel thing, I told him I’d call him when I got back and never did. In fact, when I got back to Hong Kong two weeks later, I intentionally missed his calls and ignored his SMSes, most of which said: “miss you…”, “come over…”, “still awake…” anyway. (Of course I was tempted to respond in kind with messages like “freedom…”, “desist…”, “no hope…” but I figured that might open a can of subliminal worms, which is not my idea of fun.)

Yes, I know it’s not a nice thing to do to somebody. And yes, I have dated guys like that and I know how it feels. A part of me feels bad about leaving him hanging. But I confess, not soo bad that I want to call and broach the matter with him like a mature adult.

The trouble with being a Chinese female is that I suck at confrontation, especially with men. I hate disappointing people. I hate scenes. And in general, we Chinese (allusion to stereotype to follow, but bear with me) tend to think that the ‘cruel-to-be-kind’ approach is just well, cruel. If something in life can be negotiated through deft manipulation or with a certain amount of charming disingenuousness then so be it.

I am never actually dishonest with people, it’s just that if I can avoid saying the words: “I don’t want a relationship with you and I’m not interested in shagging you gratuitously any more. So please stop calling” then I will for as long as possible.

Besides most of the time, in the case of flings with finite lifespans, it’s considered good etiquette not to pursue things if one party stops calling. And in all manner of half-baked righteousness, I did stop calling Max and leave other universal Go-Away clues for him to find i.e. being unfailingly too busy to meet up and taking a holiday for an indefinite period of time. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to join the dots.

On a side note: I’d actually be quite happy to be on the receiving end of this as well. I’m not a sucker for punishment and actually I would rather not be sat down in a public place, bought a sympathy lunch and then told frankly that you've grown tired / bored / sick of shagging me. If you must let me down, then at least have the courtesy to ignore me. But I digress.

So back to the original point – I think Whitney might be Max. He would just have the most to gain from calling me up in the middle of the night – like knowing I was alive. And if both are one and the same, I would understand. Really, I would. After all, who am I to throw the first stone? (See my former post "Loose Ends" for more insights into the criminal mind.)

I know a lot of you are thinking that the anonymous phonecalls are all the more incentive for me to call Max and sort things out. Except that I can’t be sure it’s him. And even if it is him, if he’s a smart stalker, he’ll have to keep up his calling habits to protect his identity. So all I can do is write about this and hope he gets tired of calling sooner or later.

Either way, my phone gets switched to Silent every night. So if you want a last-minute booty call, you’ll have to SMS. And only under those circumstances will messages like “shag tonight…”, “cum…”, “eat pussy…” be counted as acceptable forms of communication.

Porn Does Not Make Me Horny

Call me Dutch but I find watching porn to be a healthy activity, if not for stimulation’s sake then for education’s.

I used to watch porn more regularly during my formative sexual years (read: 17 onwards – law-abiding Singaporean that I was) usually as an aid to having sex and would still highly recommend it to people who need a few new ideas in the sack. Or even a few extra functions for their stray vegetables.

However, I think my days of avid porn consumption are more or less over. I found some last week on a friend’s computer and decided to check out the latest in prurient entertainment. No surprises – peroxide is still very much the rage. As are DD boob jobs and long schlongs. Not to mention our mandatory money shot makes its appearance on cue regularly.

Ok granted, people tell me about the inroads made in gay porn and I hear there are lots of funky (read: freaky) possibilities with enemas but I just don’t think there has been anything particularly groundbreaking in mainstream porn for the past decade. It’s sad. It’s no wonder we’re so repressed, we have nothing good to wank off to.

I mean, is it too revolutionary to ask for a little bit of imagination with my porn? Surely the industry could benefit from a little branding. A few more Tarantino camera angles perhaps. Or something hip and stylized, like a little film-noir fucking. Or an unusual, picturesque backdrop, maybe hanging off a cliff in Kashmir. Or surely something with Elvis in it would do well…

For me, porn has lost its fantasy aspect. It’s just a lot more fun to watch a real-life couple fuck in the bed next to me. Or to lie in bed with a vibrator at my pussy and a husky voice in my ear telling me all the rude things to expect from his next trip to Hong Kong. Or to find opportunities to create porn wherever one goes – in the bathroom mirror, in an empty stairwell, on a spare pool table, with a complete stranger(s) etc.

Thus, it was with a significant amount of objectivity and amused skepticism that I went through my friend’s porn collection last week. Liberated from teenage hormones and the urgent need to wank, I was able to deconstruct some of the specific things about porn that did not make me horny. I advise you to read the following list with caution though – I don’t want to ruin an otherwise happy relationship you may have with the medium.

1. Inch-long poison-green acrylic nails are weapons. Touching your pussy with them is not pleasurable, it is life-threatening.

2. Real-life pussies are not porn-star pussies. Real women do not get off from tugging and pulling at their clits like rubber bands, or smacking their patches with repressed violence. Someone tell these porn directors that it’s social responsibility to show a little finesse.

3. Guys like to watch real breasts that bounce as they fuck. It’s no good to have a woman in a missionary wheelbarrow, ram a cock into her at 60mph, have her body thrashing wildly from side to side, and her head banging against the headboard but her breasts pointing unwaveringly north all the time.

4. Nobody in their right mind puts a vibrating dildo in their mouths unless they want to see a dentist.

5. Sweat is sexy. And an endorphin-induced flush is unbelievably erotic. But fucking vigorously for an hour under a spotlight with not a hint of moisture appearing on your fully-powdered face is well, weird. Most people I know don’t have a Barbie–Ken fetish.

6. Women cum too. It’s possible. National Geographic says so.

7. Fat Japanese salarymen do not get to poke Ayumi-type schoolgirls in the ass. Or do they? Maybe there is a vending machine for this somewhere that I don’t know about. Also I’ve yet to figure out the attraction or logic behind the Japanese child-women who scream “Idei! Idei!” (it hurts, it hurts?) when being fucked by these unbelievably tiny penises. It’s a good thing they have childbirth to look forward to.

8. I’ve fucked to Café del Mar, avante-garde jazz, the relentless sounds of Hong Kong construction even, but never will I voluntarily spread my legs to analogue synthesized porn beats that go wa-wa-wa in all the wrong places. No, not even for you, Emperor Eroticus.

9. Very few women can allow 9 inch cocks into their oesaphaguses without gagging. It’s false advertising. If you happen to meet someone who can do that in real-life, ask to see her credentials. She’s a professional.

Besides that…the rampant ass-fucking, the military positions, the wedding-cake cum on the face, the professional spanking, the Brazilian-waxed cocks, the glass dildos…all of that agrees with me. And these enjoyments aren’t too far removed from real-life either. Sometimes it’s nice to know that porn can have its bright spots of integrity.

The Travails of a Serial Non-Dater

Since moving to Hong Kong for a change in scene and the promise of reinvention more than a month ago, it seems inevitable that I find myself navigating formerly uncharted waters with my personal relationships.

Yes alas, I’ve fallen into this whole dodgy business of dating.

And boy do I really suck at it. I sleep with these guys on the first date and more often than not, before the first date. I dance outrageously on bartops, flirt with all the waiters, maintain an erotic blog and don’t have any houseplants. I state truthfully that I have not been in a serious relationship for 4 years and don’t intend to start. I am not a Rules Girl by any stretch of the imagination.

But still, they keep coming (and for once, I don’t mean it in the biological sense).

And calling. And leaving meaningful voicemail messages like, “I really would like to meet you for a coffee soon to talk about us.”

I’m still trying to figure out why. Maybe because in Hong Kong, my distinctive firecracker-red passport and appalling Cantonese mark me as a dysfunctional discombobulated expat desperately looking for someone to love as opposed to a languishing local sluggishly looking for someone to share the lease.

Maybe it’s because I stay in Mid-levels in Hong Kong. I swear there are enough young, upwardly mobile, aspirational, attractive people here to put a permanent finger up Cupid’s arse as compared to other districts. Everyone does their hunting here – in fact there is a whole line of bars and restaurants dedicated to encourage this habit – and if one is to snag a special someone, then it is only to be expected that they will move to Singapore a few years later. You know, for the kids.

Or maybe I’ve just had the misfortune to meet men who really like me for my brain, (obviously no one’s told them about the Singapore school system or they wouldn’t still think I’ve got a good one) and not my body. And oh, not to forget, they really dig my personality too.

Whatever the reason, in the short space of a month there have been at least 3 serious contenders for the biggest booby prize of all; Me – in a relationship. And these guys won’t even settle for no-strings-attached sex as a consolation. Believe me, I’ve flogged it but to no avail.

I’m not against relationships or commitment per se, I’m just not ready to do it yet. And I’d rather not make some half-hearted attempt to commit to the next available guy, fight constantly, cheat on him with his maid’s uncle and then generate enough bad karma to come back as a flu-ridden chicken in my next life.

I have many fulfilling interactions with people that don’t include sex and for now that works for me. Sometimes I am emotionally intimate with the men that I shag and we end up becoming good friends i.e. we keep in touch even after we stop having sex. But none of these relationships have included me meeting Mum or signing up to cook dinner on a non-negotiable basis.

All my supposedly older, wiser friends who don’t buy apartments for their mistresses say that when I meet the right person or when I’m ready to settle down, I’ll Know with a capital K. Well so far, I haven’t discerned any sort of knee-knocking, orchestra-playing, swine-soaring moment of enlightenment in my life.

So all I Know with a capital K is that I’ve checked my biological clock and it says 6 a.m. (It’s said that for the past few years so maybe it’s broken or something. Heh.)

Which leaves me stranded on Square 1; going through the awkward and elaborate motions of dating.

I’ve been happy to ‘non-date’ for the past 4 years. ‘Non-dating’ basically means hanging out, chatting and enjoying the company of men that I also happen to be shagging. The rules are simple. Free sex, intelligent conversation and a few good laughs in exchange for the following:

1. You do NOT think I am the perfect woman and that you are sooo lucky to have met me.

2. You do NOT think that I will make a great girlfriend/wife/mother someday and that you are the only person that can tame my spirit.

3. You do NOT spend time looking deep into my eyes and dreamily contemplating what to name our children.

Dating on the other hand, involves all of those things. And so far, I have found it to be a game of sophisticated interactions where I feel duty-bound to persuade these hapless men that I am not The One (in not so many words) and really, I am not as sweet and innocent as I look. Whilst they feel honour- or ego-bound to prove otherwise.

It is an intricate dance where every little gesture (drinks vs. dinner, weeknight vs. weekend, roses vs. lilies, how many times you call vs. how many times I call etc.) takes on a much larger significance under the magnifier of unmet expectation and barely-suppressed emotion.

Some girls love the drama and dissimulation. But I find it tiresome. It just seems awfully expensive (for you) and futile (for me). Honestly, if you’re not the Armani-wearing, Sartre-spouting, Ducati-riding hellion of my dreams, then all the fancy dinners and concert tickets in the world will not suddenly transform you into that person.

(Of course now that I’ve written this, the love of my life will undoubtedly end up being some bespectacled beancounter wearing a hippie bandanna. Life is cruel and uncooperative like that, sometimes. And you, dear readers, will have the last laugh.)

So save yourself a few noble declarations. And me a few heartless rejections. I’m happy doing what I do, and I just don’t do boyfriends.

Now can’t we all just have a few gratuitous shags and get along?