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?

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?

Lost in New Territories

“So you like to party, you love to flirt, dance on tables, take different men home and you have an erotic blog. Actually, I’m not really surprised. But why are you telling me all this now?”

“Well now that the weekend’s over. I just want to get things straight. So you know who I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. Gosh, haven’t I scared you off already?” I smiled and mischievously poked him in the arm.

“It’s not making me scared. And it doesn’t make me want you any less.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think you have a heart.”

I fell silent. I looked into his brown eyes, and loved him for that instant. And for that fleeting moment where I saw myself reflected in his irises, I saw a different person, a better person. The girl with the big heart and anime eyes. Free from ghosts and any distinguishing dysfunctions.

Alas, sweet Ryan, I so wanted to tell him, I do have a heart. But I also have a body full of wickedness. And a mind full of treachery. And ultimately, I can’t give you what you want.

“You know, I’ll just hurt you. Trust me, I’m trying to protect you.” It was true, and I had said it before to men who wouldn’t listen. I didn’t feel so bad saying it to Ryan, who was also 26. He was still fresh.

“What if I don’t want to be protected? I have some say in this too you know. I’ve been hurt before. So what? It doesn’t make me want to stop trying to be with somebody,” he said. He nuzzled his upturned face right below my collarbone as we descended the escalator, and I rubbed his hair absently. “Besides, I think I can make you happy.”

A one-night stand had become a whole weekend without me realizing it. Ryan made the world feel safe and a little fuzzy round the edges – 375 degrees fuzzy in both eyes to be exact. It was funny how we realized that we were both equally blind without our contacts on. We heard the thunder roll in through the sunshine and watched the rain from his window in short-sighted fascination. And I felt like someone had sprinkled fairydust all over me.

We wandered the streets, like two fresh, well-mannered 26 year-olds, the type of couple that warms the cockles of withered grannies’ hearts. He carried the umbrella and I fitted my body close to him, happy to be the perfect elbow accessory.

Ryan lived in the New Territories, near to his job, near to the hills, and far away from the gritty quagmire of Central where I lived. He was a tennis coach who loved kids – and wasn’t afraid to admit it. I shouldn’t have stayed with him so long but besides not quite knowing how to get home, that weekend in the NT was a respite from Central, a respite from me.

I longed to tell him it was my Doppelganger in a black cocktail dress that had helped him clean his house that weekend, that had sat in the bath with him, that had massaged his injured lower back and kissed it so the pain would go away.

But all weekend, I just dodged any sort of serious conversation and I postponed exchanging numbers. And now on a Sunday evening, as he was seeing me back home to Central, he had broached the topic.

“Look, I don’t know if we’re going to last 2 days, 2 months or 2 years. But I want to see you again, to find out. If you hurt me then it’s my choice. Besides why should you care?” he asked.

Well I just do, I thought. I wanted to tell Ryan the stories of my life, but had not the words nor the context. I care that I’ve broken trust. I care that I’ve hurt people. I care that I’ve lost friends. I care that things never work out, invariably because of me. Most of all, I care that I am mutely accused of never having cared at all.

Because I warned them, as I did Ryan. But they made their own self-professed free-will decisions, lured by that same big heart and anime eyes. And I being much more careless and naïve then, had let them.

“No…sweetie. Please. I care, I do. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. I’m not what you’re looking for. And I have to go back home to what I know, to what I’m good at. But I really had a great time with you this weekend,” I said. And I meant it.

“So did I. I just want to see you again.” But he saw how I smiled at him – with my chin down, cheeks raised but my eyes steady and uncrinkled. So he half-shrugged and said: “Look, I’m going to give you my number because I know you don’t like guys bugging you. If you want to call me, call me. I’ll take the risk.”

I put his number in my phone and prayed I wouldn’t use it in a moment of weakness. He only turned back once – his thumb and pinkie of his right hand outstretched near his ear mouthing the words ‘call me’ - before disappearing into the cocooning gutter of the Central MTR underground.

I waved back, before curling my fingers into a ball and clutching the side of my dress, my hand hot with moisture. I turned and walked quickly away.

Hits & Messes

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Welcome to the Circle of Champions

So, Hong Kong. City of Life and newly-christened Home of Mickey.

Lots of people ask me why I moved. And I always reply, “Oh I got sick of Singapore” which is the over-simplistic answer one gives at frivolous dinner parties – accompanied by the careless shrug and toss of the head – to people I intend never to see again. But of course, you faithful reader, don’t fall in that category.

I moved because of a variety of factors – most of them are boring and not worth dwelling on (office politics, professional opportunities etc.). But chiefly, I moved because it was time for a Change. A big 3-60. Up the ass. No lube.

Living in Singapore for the past few years has felt like a bit of a Faustian bargain. An insidious sacrifice of my soul on the altar of casual familiarity, comforting conformity and grand middle-class lucre. Don’t get me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute. And most likely I will return one day, a harried tai tai with 3 squawking children in tow, ready to discuss PSLEs and charity fundraisers with much aplomb.

But for now, there’s Hong Kong. And Ms Sash van Winkle needs to make up for lost time. To feel alive. To reinvent. To live dangerously. And yes, to have better sex. (And more frequently, yes please.)

In that respect, things started off auspiciously. My phone beeped a few hours after I touched down in Hong Kong. It was Matt, one of the most charismatic (and naughtiest) men you would ever meet, and a favourite shag of mine from more than a year ago. He now lived in Switzerland and we kept in touch occasionally.

Matt: “R u in hk?”

Me: “Yes. Sitting in the middle of suitcases and contemplating the meaning of life. Why? What’s up?”

Matt: “My friend Anthony will ph u in 5 mins and invite u for a drink! He’s a champ.”

Me: “Wait, this isn’t the self-same Anthony from our last encounter?”

I didn’t know Anthony. Save that he had a honeyed Aussie-accented voice and loved to talk dirty. Also he must have known Matt reasonably well. Because he wasn’t the least bit surprised when Matt called him mid-shag, switched to speaker phone and then had me describe to Anthony exactly how I was being pleasured in breathy, graphic detail.

Matt: “Yep! He’s in HK and will meet u either at Dragon-I or Carnegies to start!”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. It was that Anthony. And that Anthony wanted to meet me on my first night in Hong Kong. I hadn’t even unpacked a toothbrush and already I was being set up to meet a complete stranger whom I had phone sex with for drinks. Exactly what the doctor ordered, I guess. I figured it was only good fengshui to accept.

Anthony and I met at Dragon-i at about 11 p.m. and hit it off almost immediately. He was tall, wore a well-fitted Paul Smith suit and had an absolutely wicked sense of humour. It was a Wednesday, Dragon-i’s legendary Model’s Night, but we joked that it must have been full of hand or foot models (strange choice of career – but being currently unemployed, I’m in no position to judge) because we hadn’t seen anybody particularly attractive there.

Or maybe we just weren’t paying all that much attention. I was more intent on making Anthony work hard for my favours.

“We’re not leaving here until I say we are. Because I have rave reviews but the jury’s still out on you,” I teased. Anthony raised an eyebrow in reply, as if challenging me to test him. So I did.

First, I asked him how good he was with his fingers and his tongue – and to show me how he intended to use them. He talked me through his intentions. And I was immediately turned on - never underestimate the power of a beautiful turn of phrase and good old fashioned imagination.(“These two fingers go inside you until I hit the spot”, “My thumb stays at the top on your clit until its stiff and peaked for me”) Finally he took the fingers of my right hand, brought them to his mouth and used his tongue to dart in between them, flickering and sucking their length before nibbling softly on the skin between my knuckles. ("And I don't need to explain that one...")

“Not bad…” I murmured. My eyes watching his tongue intently. “What about if I do this?” I reached for my drink and poured a significant amount of it down the front of my low-cut top. “Oops.” I leaned in close and ran my tongue up his earlobe.

He bent his head over and followed the streams of vodka cranberry from the top of my clavicle to the centre of my cleavage, lavishing attention on the upper mounds of my breasts. I arched my back against the pillar. It was then that I decided we would get the bill and leave.

But there was a final test. We reached Anthony’s hotel room and he had with his key-card in his hand. But before he could let us in, I stood in front of him and blocked access to the keyhole. With a cheeky laugh, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside to grab his cock.

“Show me how much you want me. Right here.” I said. To my surprise, he was completely uninhibited about pinning me to the door and unzipping my satin trousers, pulling them completely to the ground. I wasn’t wearing any underwear (in accordance to my principles) so he bent over and began to lick the mound of my pussy. Right in the hotel corridor. I could feel myself get soaking wet. Convinced, I took the key from his hand and opened the door.

Anthony turned out to be great in bed. One of those men who is just naturally sensual, wild, tender, generous and passionate – and who can apply these qualities together with a healthy knowledge of sexual techniques and unfeigned attentiveness to a woman’s pleasure.

Essentially, any man who instinctively knows to rest my right leg on his shoulder, lick my toes whilst vibrating his thumb on my clitoris is a real keeper.

“I’m thirsty,” I whispered after we had finished our first session of lovemaking (there were to be 3 sessions in total before dawn).

Anthony took out a bottle of minibar-cold Evian, opened it and took a swig before kissing me deeply and pouring it into my throat. He did this a few times. He then took a big mouthful, put his lips over my pussy and shot a stream of cold water into me. As water slowly trickled out of my pussy and onto the bed, I felt him lapping it up with warm, languorous strokes of his tongue. The gesture were unexpectedly and deliciously sensual.

“Now that I’ve licked you clean, we can start all over again,” he said.

The next day, I sent a text to Matt.

Me: “Loved Anthony. Every ounce as good in real life as over the phone. Showed him the town, made sure he had a good time etc. You’ll be glad to know he didn’t let the side down.”

Matt: “Sooo pleased to hear that. Welcome to the circle of champions. 3 of us next time. Hv a great day!”

I laughed. And probably inhaled enough carbon monoxide to mess up a few internal functions, but everything was humming from the tip of my toes to the top of the clit. And then somehow I knew - viscerally - that things would be all right for me in my newly adopted home.

So hello Hong Kong, I thought. Here I come.

Lending A Hand

“How long can you do this for?” Randall looked down at my rapidly vibrating wrist on his cock.

“I don’t know. How long do you want me to do it for? I’ve never really timed myself. Maybe 10 minutes?”

“Oh, I usually need a lot longer than that,” he said, reaching over to his bedside cabinet for that ever-handy bottle of Johnson & Johnson baby oil and pouring some over my fingers.

(I’m sure if the abovementioned Mr Johnsons – honourable gentlemen and undoubtedly excellent fathers – knew what twisted applications their innocent, baby formula products were being put to, they would turn in their graves. And then turn back – so they could conduct more statistically significant market research.)

“Well, however long you want” I said with a smile, thinking that it would be no real hardship to maintain speed for about 20 minutes.

“I’m thinking an hour of this would be very good…” he crossed his fingers around the back of his head and lay back looking reasonably content.

I tried to keep my lower jaw stuck to my teeth. One WHOLE hour? Good grief. Even the Electronic StrokemasterTM doesn’t last that long, I thought.

But I was stuck. We were both naked on his bed. We had done some very rudimentary shagging (he like a beached whale, me like a starfish – I came once out of courtesy) before he whipped off his condom and lay back requesting to be pleasured. I felt it would have been rude and extremely unsatisfactory to just refuse and walk out abruptly. Even though I should have, on the luxury of hindsight.

In general, men don’t usually ask me for extensive handjobs. I mean that’s something you pay $30 at Orchard Towers for a well-qualified Thai dame (real name Dave) with bad breath and heavy biceps to do. I’m always happy to lend a hand or two as part of foreplay – in the shower, on a balcony overlooking a beautiful skyline or surreptitiously in a bar. I have also helped guys finish off whilst keeping my mouth nearby.

But I’m a real, live, sexy woman, for chrissakes. And I would imagine that after you’ve bought me drinks and attempted to put up at least 2 hours of decent conversation, the last thing you’d want me to do is just sit between your legs and work on perfecting my wrist action for an hour. It’s hardly an efficient use of resources for you. And dead boring for me.

Suck me, fuck me, or take me home to Mom if you must, but there are a ton of other things to do in the realm of lovemaking than having an hourlong assisted wank. Or am I missing something here.

You’d think someone from the entertainment industry would have had a bit more imagination. Randall had relocated from LA a year ago to work with “financing budding Asian talent” (am I the only one that finds that phrase side-splittingly funny?). He name-dropped for a living. (“I’m meeting Jeffrey Katzenberg next week”, “Yea me and Harrison go way back” etc.) He was 38 but mentally he seemed to be still in high-school. I should have known he’d be the sort who would want a one-hour handjob. And maybe a light-sabre fight after.

So 30 minutes in and I was beginning to feel like a professional i.e. I had settled my hands into a somewhat monotonous rhythm and was busy thinking of what to cook for dinner. That was when Randall started to give me instructions, as if he was a director on set:

“Ok now a little bit lower…aah yes, good. That feels verrry comfortable…now if you can just use your thumbs to touch my balls? Ohhh! Great. That’s it…Now long strokes. Right, looooong strokes. Up…and down….Up….and down. Let me see your face. You have a beautiful face, don’t hide behind the hair. Great…”

Admittedly, my handjob skills could have done with a little brushing up, since it’s something I hadn’t really quite bothered to master for long periods of time until now. Every guy likes to be touched a little differently. You can’t go too far wrong with a firm, straight-up pump. But some men also like long, tight strokes down their shafts. Others prefer quick, frantic rubbing around the head. I even met a guy who would vibrate the inside of his wrist directly on his frenulum. But then he also wrote poetry about dead animals – so we can assume he was a bit unorthodox.

Randall seemed to like a combination of techniques. And he let me know it, which made me feel like I was in one big, stinking B-movie. The Curse of the Infernally Pumping Hand Part Deux. A Hand In Need is A Hand Indeed. (Heh) It felt pretentious and just didn’t make up for the fact that I was cramped up in 3 different places. In fact, my right hand might have even lost sensation for a while, close to the 50 minute mark.

This is what it feels like to wank one’s arm off, I thought to myself gloomily. And then he came. I almost cried with relief and legged it out of there as fast as I could.

So Randall, and all you other would-be marathon wankers, next time you’ll have to content yourselves with talking to my face because the hand…well, it just ain’t listening.

Three's a Crowd (But we love crowds...)

Before I left Singapore, I had just the sweetest threesome to remember our over-manicured Garden City by. Two Qantas stewards (one Italian – Paolo, one Maltese – Mario), too many drinks at Attica and lil’ ole me.

It started off innocently enough, as these things do, with me dirty-dancing with Paolo. Paolo fit the profile of the typical mid-40’s Italian – leather-tanned, slightly oily, shirt half-undone, abundant chest hair, mellifluous accent, oodles of enthusiasm but relatively harmless. I didn’t fancy him, and was quite relieved to have my ass groped by his younger, more well-built, suave friend Mario.

Mario and Paolo had been friends for 17 years and they had just gotten back from holidaying in Italy together. A few sweaty sandwiches on the dancefloor later, they were telling me the most entertaining stories about nude beaches (how to find them), family dinners (how to avoid them) and Italian women (how much unnecessary energy is required to bed them).

It was getting hot on the dancefloor and I pleaded for a drink. Mario led me to the bar, ordered us the perfunctory drinks and then proceeded to ravish the living daylights out of me. We must have taken quite a while because by the time Paolo came looking for us, my lips were flamingly swollen, my hair haphazardly kinked and a small bruise was beginning to form at the bottom of my neck.

“Paolo! You’re just in time to see what I’m doing to our beautiful friend here,” Mario said before breaking into a stream of fluent Italian, most of which I thought sounded highly complimentary. (But then I don’t speak Italian, so this is a highly unjustifiable opinion).

“Oh? Show me again. I want to see everry-ting,” Paolo said, wide-eyed. Mario proceeded to accede to the request, but not before I broke off halfway and eyed Paolo mischievously.

“You like to watch? This is only Chapter 1. There’s so much more that I could do your friend Mario over here. It could go on for hours. But you won’t be around to watch it all. This is only the first act. You might miss…(staged gasp) the climax.”

I cupped Paolo’s chin, and pushed a finger gently past his lips. He sucked on it greedily and I turn my head to bite Mario swiftly on the shoulder. “I think your friend likes me.” We both laughed and Mario dipped his head over the swell of my breast, lapping at it sensuously.

Paolo could hardly contain himself. “Oh show me…that’s right, tease me, tease me. I love to watch. Can I watch, please? You can tie me up so I can’t even touch myself. That way, it will be the ultimate tease. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I pretended to hesitate. “Weee-lll, I guess you can watch a little bit. If Mario is ok with it.” I turn to Mario and say in a loud whisper: “Maybe he can watch up till the part where you fuck me. Then he has to go back to his room”.

The whole scene was turning very B-movie but they seemed like the sort of men who were suckers for over-acting and a cheesy script. God bless Italians (and their neighbours).

“Paolo is like a brother to me. We’re family. Any other guy I wouldn’t be so sure. But Paolo – he gets the best. And you’re the best chick in this club, bella. So let’s all go back.” And with that affirmation, Mario got the bill and left the club.

Once we were all nicely ensconced in the Swissotel, Room 1309, Menudo and Paolo broke out more drinks while I took a shower. By the time I stepped out, they were both naked, knocking back vodka tonics and comfortably chatting. It felt like a big pyjama party (sans pajamas).

They then took a shower - together. Actually, it was rather refreshing to see two men so comfortable with their bodies and each other (even in the unlikely event of any soap-dropping). And that was what made the whole threesome absolutely enjoyable for me. There was no competition, no attempt at one-upmanship, just two men with two not unimpressive cocks, and one combined desire to please me.

We did start off by tying Paolo up with the string of the hotel bathrobe. He was just so happy to watch. But as these things go, it would have been churlish to deny him a little action. So I crawled on all fours over to him and put his cock in my mouth as I was fucked by Mario from behind. Every deep cock-thrust in my pussy was matched by the appropriate audible suck of my mouth.

There was great chemistry in the room – and at some point we couldn't deny Paolo the joy of participating. He so actively wanted to suck, and kiss, and lick every inch of me, even though I’m sure he would have been just as content as a bystander.

Really, a girl couldn't have asked for much more...

Well technically, she could. But three is such a good number in terms of what fits where at any one time, and who gives head to who, and who sucks on who whilst doing doggy, that personally I wouldn’t mess with the dynamic. I was surprised to see that they both kept their erections reasonably well. For some reason I just expected there to be a lot more cock flogging going on, but maybe I'm just woman enough for two men.

Any more than two would not be quite a turn-on. I don't find it horny to have numerous men line up patiently and flog their cocks desperately just waiting their turn to use me as a spunk-bag. We all know of Singaporeans who have launched famous careers in this fashion. But I am neither bored nor publicity-hungry enough to follow in those footsteps. (If I ever get into the Guinness Book of Records, it’ll be because I was the first woman who inhaled the longest length of string or painted the largest number of bullfrogs on a single canvas. Or something completely eccentric like that.)

Besides, threesomes should be fun, intimate and off-the-charts sensory experiences. There’s nothing desperately dirty or soul-destroying about them if everyone has the right attitude and does what they’re comfortable doing.

Occasionally, they can even feel quite uplifting and dare I say, life-affirming. After we were finished and Mario had shot a load full of cum on my face, we all laid back on the two queen beds, panting.

Paolo turned to Mario and said exultantly: “So we finally shared a woman! Tonight has sealed our 17 years of our friendship! And now no matter where we are in the world, we’ll always have our time in the Swissotel to remember. With the sexiest bella in Singapore. We’re going to talk about this one for a long time. Even when we are old and our dicks don’t work anymore.” Aww.

That old Italian penchant for hyperbole, of course. But still, I was strangely moved by that little speech. I gave them each a massage whilst they continued to regale me with little vignettes that began with “Remember the time we…” until finally we all fell asleep one by one.

And only then, did I discover the one, big drawback to sharing a room with two inebriated men whom you’ve just finished having a mindblowing threesome with – the Snoring. It was like an orchestra of the damned. Winds on the left, brass on the right, and cacophonic madness everywhere. I slipped out early the next morning with a note left at the bathroom mirror to escape from it all.

So got a threesome on the cards? Make sure you’re well prepared. Lose the inhibitions. Bring lots of condoms. And pack earplugs.

A Farewell Kiss...

…that takes me by surprise.

No thrusting tongues, no heated panting, no urgent undressing. Instead, the kiss is gentle, dreamy, questioning. It lingers. My eyes hooded and half-open the whole time. Our foreheads touch and we breathe the same air for a minute, laced with silent regret and muted purpose.

I hate airports if I’m not the one leaving. But I was there to help fulfil a promise. It’s been a long time since he’s made one, even longer since he’s kept one. And we both need the practice. We don’t usually do promises – just random surprises – but maybe we’re growing up. It is important to know that we can hold some things sacred. At least, just this once.

I watch him through immigration. Our eyes search for each other through the unnavigable distance of glass and procedure. A casual wave. Another time, another airport, maybe? I smile and half-shrug my shoulders.

And it is on that note of wistful helplessness, that he is gone. With his rugged t-shirt, travel-beaten bags and 2-day stubble. Back to the world and its unpredictable meanness.

I take the last train home. In my best non-farewell outfit – a bright green sundress with beech-brown wedges and ethnic bangles. Back to my life and its ordered madness.

So it was, my last kiss here, bestowed on its rightful owner. And with it, the close of this babe’s chapter in Singapore. On a whisper. For now. No goodbyes, just a see you later.

P.S. Faithful readers, no need to reach for the Valium. This blog will continue in Hong Kong, which is a complete cesspit (meant in the very best way) I've been told. But first, I have to finish packing. Ugh. And then I have to make extra sure nothing starts ticking or vibrating in my bag.

So is she...Or isn't she?

I noticed a very lively thread of discussion going on in the Comments sections of my last post. Most of it fevered speculation about whether I am a shameless SPG whoring myself on behalf of Singapore Government. Actually I found this allusion quite funny. I mean, it gives new meaning to the term “public servant”, for one. And then gives rise to a bunch of related questions. Do I have to pay CPF? Can I retire early? And will I at least be amply compensated?

I’m not about to ruin my manicure defending myself with guns and cannons blazing because a lot of my other readers have done that for me (thank you) and well, this is my blog after all, I didn’t start it to seek approval from others. What I write is meant to be provocative and I do enjoy people responding strongly to what I post, whether that is derision or delight – as long as it is well-written and reasonably amusing. But there is a fine line between amusing and irritating, so don’t push it.

I suppose though that some sort of moderated response is in order to all this – not as a means of self-justification, but more in terms of giving people additional insight into the way I think about men, sex and this whole incendiary race issue.

Let’s start by reviewing my rather “colourful” sexual history. I’ve had a Singaporean boyfriend for 5 years. (Oh dear, I suppose that had to come out at some point.) I’ve also been with the usual Caucasian suspects i.e. Brits, Americans, Italians, Aussies, Canadians; other Asians i.e. Indians, Malay, Japanese; and the occasional guy from the Middle East i.e. Iranian, Egyptian, Israeli. But South America is still largely unexplored, aside from Brazil.

Suffice to say, it would be a political catastrophe to put all the guys I have shagged into the same room together. But the world is a big place, and there just aren’t enough Singaporeans in it.

If anything, all this just makes me a Slut with a sex addiction. I can live with that. But an SPG who’s a puppet for the Government? (Gosh, now that takes talent.) I’ll leave that for you to decide, I guess. Either way, it’s not about to give me sleepless nights.

Note: For the less well-informed, the Coxford Singlish Dictionary describes SPG as a pejorative term for “sarong party girl” i.e. a Chinese chick that only goes out with Caucasians. God, how I love proper Singlish.

I don’t hold any stereotypical views about the men I shag or where they come from. (Except that all the Japanese men - ok, 2 - I’ve shagged seemed to enjoy jackhammering me to the wall. Is this a particular cultural technique that I don’t know about, someone please enlighten me.) In fact, this blog will attest that I’ve always emphasised what attracts me to a guy is his intelligence, big personality (yup, that's what they're calling it nowadays), sense of humour and how likely he is to be good in bed. These attributes aren’t race-specific.

In my experience, being a terrible lover isn’t race-specific either. And that’s something I try to avoid across the board.

Naturally, I have preferences – not prejudices – in men. For example, I find green-gray-hazel eyes that change in the light completely mesmerising in a man. And I love the look of a thick, black cock. I’m sorry that most Singaporeans I know don’t have these traits, although come to think of it…in the dark (and with the appropriate refractory index i.e. beer goggles) it hasn’t made much of a difference anyway. Heh. I also tend not to be a fan of excessive body hair and my ideal physique on a man is leanly muscled – again, certain races have more of an advantage with this than others.

But I refuse to adopt a blanket view of the world and I defy anyone who tries to force me into any sort of artificial classification borne out of ignorance. One only has to live abroad for a little while – as I have – and meet people who think that anyone Chinese is hardworking, good in Math / Science, doesn’t speak English well and works in a laundry shop to realise how irritating that is.

I know there is a lot of resentment towards the idea that expats come into Singapore to “steal our jobs” and especially, “steal our women”. But please, read a newspaper and get over it already. China’s on its way to taking over the world, or haven’t you been listening. Women of the world swoon at the thought.

People who go around with their holier-than-thou race filters and huge chips on their shoulders don’t do justice to the fact that Singapore’s one of the most integrated, cosmopolitan cities in the world and that Singaporeans (yes, us “natives”) are some of the most friendly, open and welcoming people to external influences. I’m sorry that you see this as something to be ashamed of. But it is you who gives Singapore and Singaporeans a bad name, not me. I’m just the mindless mouthpiece of the government, remember.

So please, give me – and my readers – some credit. Countless people from Singapore and around the world read this blog for a reason. And that reason is not because I’m the sort of simpering, spineless Asian female that literally tries to mate with anyone that lurks around Brix and approximates cowboy accents. And then writes about her adventures using facile, drippy descriptions.

Feel free to disagree, but the Internet is a big place. Nobody is forcing anyone to read anything. And I highly recommend you redirect your browser and any meanspirited aggression to “innocentyounglamb.blogspot.com” or any of the other 2 billion websites that produce literary content worthy of your lofty attention and interests.

I doubt it’s likely to be as riveting a read though. But it’s obvious, we were never meant to be together. Yawn. Now go on, do your worst.