How Does It All Fit Together

Yesterday, you surprised me with a wonderful SMS when I thought I'd never hear from you again. I replied in kind. I was happy that day.

And then today, you hit me again. Another SMS. Commiserating about Hong Kong and how you had told me so. Only right at the end, embedded in all that kindness and sweetness, a grenade telling me you knew about my blog and what I wrote about you.

I was apologetic. Embarrassed. Guilty. Exposed. And then Sad. Oh so sad. I offered to take down the posts about you, but to add insult to injury, you had to be gracious about it. The least you could do is be affronted. Or infantile. Or hate me. Never talk to me again. Let me off easy.

In retrospect, it was all quite inevitable. I'm pretty good at protecting the anonymity of my subjects, because it is inextricably tied to my own. But this was something I had written quite a while back - when there were 200 reading my blog daily, as opposed to 2,000 - and I had accidentally let slip a few too many distinguishing characteristics. And as things go in the world of the big bad Internet, I got found out - by your jerk colleague who probably spends his time gratuitously wanking at his desk over my blog.

I wasn't so much ashamed of what I wrote. I meant those words. And I have never lied or hidden my sexual asides from you. No, I was ashamed that you found out when I had taken so many pains in real-life to prevent you from knowing. Knowledge that would make me vulnerable. That would make me look silly. Strung along like the rag-puppet I swore I would never be again. I was protecting my pride. And whatever was left of my heart.

We never had a future together. So on that pretext, I never felt I owed you the truth. In fact, I was never even sure you cared. Might as well get on with the rest of my life and the two Italian stallions fitted the bill at the time. It would just hurt me more if you knew. Sometimes the heart needs mindless sex to chase its foolish notions out of existence. And to remember the real world it lives in.

But I never expected you to want to discuss what I wrote and ask me what I meant by this or by that. I never expected you to have so many questions I couldn't answer. I never expected you to dredge up old wounds and kindle old memories. You upset me. I thought I had healed over. I don't torture myself with the what-could-have-been. I'm just not that sort of girl. But I guess there is too much unresolved. There is too much we haven't talked about. And maybe we never will. You sent me these lines...

"The thing is...it doesn't work together at all. I would never judge your sexual preferances or desires no matter how off putting I might find them. And I know that the stuff you wrote about me came from your heart. I have always felt the same about you and you know that. But when you write heartfelt feelings about someone in one sentence and then fanciful 3 way action in the next absolutely everyone that will read this associates one with the other which puts into question and lessens the belief in anything said...But aside from all that I find it hard to believe that you honestly thought that this would be something private and personal?"

...and I was just at a loss as to how to respond. There are just too many unexorcised spirits buried in that SMS. You are too late. (And this is from someone who doesn't usually believe in 'too late'.) I am too far away. Mentally. A chasm of unanswered questions and consequent misunderstandings stand between us.

You broke my heart but never shattered it completely. And that is the cruelest thing to do to somebody. It broke into one thousand parts. So that piece by piece it flaked off. Like bad paint off a humid Hong Kong wall. Carrying off fragments of the hopeful, optimistic me that you once knew and cared about.

Maybe I was too forgiving. All I needed from you was a simple dealbreaker. Something to definitively label you a bastard and thus make me avoid you forever. The worst relationships are the ones that wear away at you by attrition. One modest disappointment after another. A neglected call. A missed dinner date. A forgotten gift. Love isn't always about grand gestures and flowery apologies. You know I'm not a needy chick. You never had to spend much time with me. And I never asked for much - just the certainty that when you said you'd call back, you would. Or that if you couldn't make it in time, you'd let me know. Simple courtesies like that.

Do you know the amount of time I spent waiting for you to call? Or keeping my fingers crossed in agony over whether you'd make it to see me? I would put my plans on hold for up to a week on the off-chance that you were in town. Of course I grew tired of waiting. But then I'd wait some more. Of course I'd tell myself that I would never let anyone else string me along this way. But when the opportunity presented itself, I'd just do it all over again. That's why I said that knowledge makes me vulnerable. Nobody but me should know that I suffered like that.

I never told you because I just wanted the few times we had together to be happy and free of these banal little irritations. I just assumed things would get better with time. I never told you because I needed to preserve my dignity. I was a strong, confident woman who didn't need anyone else in her life, who had a string of people who loved to spend time with her, who went through men like water. Why was I being over-sensitive and needy and pathetic like this? Absolutely out of character. I had to disown that part of myself.

And thus, I had to disown what I felt about you. And so I did things to sabotage our relationship. I kept the truth from you. Because that was the only thing I had control over. I had to convince myself that I didn't care. I had to numb myself to what I felt. I used other men with their tokens of affection to fill the gaping void you tore inside me.

That's how it all works together, okay? Like a bird with a broken wing. Looking out at the sky and wanting to fly but knowing it never will. And so it begins to eat away at its feathers and starve itself in despair. Knowing that the more it destroys itself, the less chances it will have to escape the cage it's in.

I wanted to respond to you today. And I began to, in a rather clumsy and inadequate way. But you see, I started crying at my phone and everyone started looking at me funny. And I had to stop myself. It's not that I wanted to shut you out. (What would be the point since you know too much already.) It's just that I can't talk about it right now. I just can't.

Maybe one day we will have a "Before Sunset" moment. Or not, as life sees fit. You asked if I thought about you. Well I do - and I did especially when I watched that movie. Sentimental me. If you want answers, come find me another day - at the right time and in the right place - and I will tell you everything.

Or maybe you will read this and you'll know. Whatever it is, until I next hear from you, take care of yourself.

Sexual Conditioning

WANTED: Girl for an X-rated FFM threesome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nate Part 2

Put a dog in the same room with a bone. Tell him firmly he is not supposed to touch the bone. Lock the door. Observe the dog.

First, he goes over to the bone and gives it a suspicious sniff. He walks back to his corner and contemplates. Seems just like a normal bone. He sits. He waits. He then goes over and gives the bone a tentative lick. Immediately he springs back, cautious that he has done something his owner has expressly forbidden him to do. He surveys the room. No one seems to have noticed. He sits. He waits. He assesses the situation with his canine faculties – he seems to have gotten away with his last little infraction.

He then walks over to the bone and circles it warily, still relatively alert should his owner suddenly appear. Finally, he can stand it no longer. He settles on his haunches and starts gnawing away at the bone. As time passes though, he grows careless. Soon he is lying flat on his stomach, ravishing the bone with his jaws, sucking the marrow to his heart’s content.

At some point, he even attempts to shag the bone. And the bone is experiencing new parts of the dog that no bone has ever experienced before. It is in the middle of our dog’s pleasuring, when you choose to walk back into the room. Guilt and shame overwhelm the dog. His tail hangs between his legs and he refuses to make eye contact. He sits. He waits. You make no move to forgive him. And the dog rationalizes to himself that it was you who created the situation and put him in the same room as the bone anyway. It’s your fault. Offence is the best defense. He denies all knowledge of the bone. Instead, he snarls and barks and threatens to pounce on you if you don’t go away.

Note: This experiment may work on other domesticated mammals. (But hey, it’s Chinese New Year and year of the Dog at that, so I’m just being festive.)

And so it did with Nate (see "Searching for Soul") from two posts ago. And if don’t know who Nate is because you’ve been watching too much American Idol, you don’t deserve to be reading this entry.

If you remember, Nate and I formally agreed to call a truce in our relationship. Or rather, I had told Nate that I wouldn’t make things “difficult” for him so on my part, I was going to exercise some rusty self-restraint in the situation. Yes, meet Sash, the Protectorate of Man’s Soul. Heh. In all seriousness though, I did my best to abide by my promise.

The minute I told Nate I was not going to make / respond to any more sexual advances, he looked slightly provoked. “Why would you do that?” he asked slightly petulantly. Dog, meet Bone.

I looked askance at him. But we were met by another colleague at that point and couldn’t carry on the conversation any further.

We moved over to the client’s office for a meeting. I was sitting next to Nate and talking seriously to the client when I felt Nate’s fingers sensuously brush up against my leg under the table. I repressed the urge to smile and carried on talking. A little while later, I felt an errant hand sweep across my ass as I stood and leaned over the table to point out something to the client. Dog sniffs bone.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to Nate in the taxi back to the office. He shrugged and gave me an angelic look that denied all wrongdoing.

We were tied up working for the rest of the day so nothing else really happened. But the next day, we picked up where we left off. At every opportunity, Nate would try his best to turn me on. Either by saying provocative things to me (“No underwear…?”) or by touching me surreptitiously (“Definitely no underwear…”). At one point, he even stood behind me in the Starbucks queue and blatantly pressed his bulge into my arse – with our colleagues sitting at a table literally feet away.

I know I should have gotten into a moral huff and sniffed virtuously at Nate and the whole situation. And things would have ended differently.

Unfortunately, I found myself getting increasingly wet as the day wore on. I’m not trying to make excuses but what else could one expect from me? I was single and sexed up. The only thing keeping me from fucking this man right there on the conference room table was good intentions. And we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So I know where I’m headed. Dog licks bone.

At some point, I began to respond to all this teasing with some of my own. “No underwear and a soaking wet pussy, you forgot to mention darl,” I leaned over to whisper and casually flick my tongue against his earlobe.

For every move he made on me, I made one back – and upped his game. If he touched my leg, I’d touch his cock. If he groped my arse, I’d reach under and grope his balls. Our game grew pretty hot and heavy. And soon, we were timing our ‘toilet breaks’ to find somewhere private to kiss and grind our bodies against each other passionately. Before returning – slightly ruffled – to our colleagues.

That evening, we were having drinks at the lobby lounge and decided to share a cigar. Again. (I know, I know but can I help it if I like cigars?) He was watching me intently as I sucked on it and blew out a cloud of smoke around my lips. One by one, our colleagues left, but not before wishing us a safe journey back home the next day, leaving Nate and I alone. I looked at my watch. Past midnight.

“My flight’s at eight tomorrow,” I said.

“I guess we should go to bed. It’s pretty late.” We waited for the lift. In silence. In the lift, I hesitated and then pressed ‘6’ for my floor and ‘9’ for his. He fiddled with his pen and notebook.

“Ok, well this is me,” I said brightly. “Have a good flight tomorrow.” I lifted my hand in a cute little wave before stepping out of the lift.

There was a slight pause. And then Nate stepped out of the lift too, ostensibly to give me a hug and wish me goodnight properly. However, as we embraced he said to me huskily:

“I know what you’re going to ask me…”

“What?”

“You’re going to ask me to your room for a nightcap.”

“Well, if you want to. You’re welcome to come,” I said casually. And we walked to my room together. Dog circles bone warily.

Once in the room, he stretched out fully clothed on the bed. Shoes included. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I knew I could have just taken off all my clothes and clambered on top of him. Too easy. Too predictable. Or we could just have sat there and carried on chatting. But that would have been silly.

Absently, I had begun to take his shoes off. Soon I peeled his socks off too. And then I took the mini-bottle of moisturizer from the hotel that was (conveniently) by the bed and spread it over his bare feet, kneading it slowly into his skin. The cold cream heating in my hands, I used my thumbs to rub circles into the balls of his feet, my knuckles dug gently into his arch and my fingers firmly stroked his Achilles tendon.

His whole body reacted and he groaned. I could see his pants tightening around his crotch.

I then used my teeth to lightly nibble the top of his toes. He bucked.

My tongue slithered around his big toe. He buried his face in the pillow to keep his moans from escaping.

I closed my lips around his toe and sucked. Hard, hollowing my cheeks around his toe. He writhed on the bed and put his hand on his bulging cock, rubbing it through the fabric of his trousers.

I repeated the same sequence on his other foot. Halfway into it, he pulled me up to him and started tearing my clothes off, until I was only left with a beige camisole. He stuck his fingers roughly into my pussy and played with me until I was thoroughly wet. His passion was overwhelming. I tried to enjoy myself except that he was moving much too fast. He gave my pussy a few rapid licks. And then stuck his fingers back into me. Dog ravishes bone.

However, it wasn’t until he leaned over to kiss me that I felt there was something wrong about the situation. The wrongness emanated from his kiss. There was a sour quality to his breath, a bit like the odour of blue cheese. It was sharp and overpowering. I just couldn’t accustom myself to it. I gasped involuntarily.

I am a great believer in compatibility of breath. Air is an essential element of life and the way one’s body processes and transforms it before returning it to the environment is unique. We are defined by our breath. And I find nothing more intimate than lying on my back post-sex and willingly drawing in the sweet, sated exhalations of my partner, who is collapsed on top of me.

But there is something to be said about a person whose very breath befouls the environment that they are in. Even his saliva that dried on my lips left them cracked and fishy-smelling.

Nate continued to lap desperately at me, like a dying man to water. His eyes had rolled back into the back of his head so I could see the whites. He was writhing on top of me, the side of his belly squished against my arm. It felt spongy and yielded little resistance to pressure. He was furiously grinding himself against me. Wrong. All wrong. And all of a sudden, I felt smothered.

I tried to recoil but somewhere somehow I knew I had past the point of no return. It wasn’t because Nate had already emancipated his cock from his trousers and was beating it against the side of my face. No. Rather, it was because mentally, I had accepted that this had to happen. It was the culmination of 4 days of extended teasing, of which I had played a big part. I knew that if I had really objected to the outcome, I should have said so at any one of the turning points earlier in the story. And now, it was time to hold the peace.

I tried to enjoy myself. I really did. I had enjoyed the teasing. I had enjoyed the touching. I had especially enjoyed the toe-sucking. But alas, it was the thrill of the chase. And the prize seemed slightly disappointing.

I wasn’t inspired to fuck him. So I sucked his cock and hoped that he would cum quickly. He did. All over my face. You would think that would make a man at least somewhat grateful. Dog pleasures Bone.

Instead, once he shook the last drop of cum out of his cock, he looked at me in a mixture of shame, anger and horror. He practically leapt out of bed and hastily pulled his clothes back on. He threw me a towel and gestured for me to clean up.

“Fuck, what did you just do to me? You knew this would happen, didn’t you? What else would have happened? I’m a man alright. A MAN. I’m not a saint,” he spat accusingly.

“W-what?” I stuttered in shock. “I thought you wanted this as much as me.”

Nate ignored me and continued on his rant. “Do you know I have three little people that depend on me? I can’t afford to fuck up my life. I can’t afford to fuck up my marriage. This is fucking unacceptable!” He was angrily fastening his belt and tucking his shirt messily into his pants. He pulled his shoes back on with a vengeance, stepping on the back of the heels.

He looked in my direction. “Why are you looking at me like that for? You don’t have to worry about consequences. You don’t have someone to answer to when you get home. What the fuck do you have to be scared or worried about?” Dog goes on offensive.

Dog denies knowledge of bone. "This never happened. Do you hear? Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" I didn't respond. I felt the temptation to cry but refused to give him the gratification of seeing how much he had hurt me. So I just looked at him dully, the light completely extinguished from my eyes.

He yelled expletives all the way to the door. “Well, if I don’t see you again. Good luck to you.” The door slammed. I hadn’t moved from my spot on the bed. In fact, I sat there like a statue for a full 10 minutes. Still naked from the waist down. And then I went to the bathroom and washed my face a total of 8 times. I took a shower. I looked in the mirror.

And an accidental rapist looked back at me. I felt like the guy in college that gets led to bed by a girl, they sleep together willingly only to have her parents find out the next day and she cries rape in a bid to defend her honour. Maligned. Defiled. Misunderstood. Wrong, all wrong. I felt like shit.

There is no straightforward moral lesson here. I make no excuses for myself. I created the situation with Nate and it backfired so I don’t really expect sympathy from anyone. I was half of the mind not to write about it, because of the intensely personal and traumatic nature of the encounter. But I’m glad I did.

I know this is a long, complex entry and thanks for sticking with me if you managed to reach the end. More than anything, I write this as a painfully honest note to self. Because I need to mitigate my reckless impulse and innate knack for trouble with the sobering memory of the mistakes I have made in life (this being a BIG one) or I will one day self-destruct. And there will be no one to blame for it but me. This bone needs a conscience.

That said, I don’t want to end this on a defeated note. Because I’ve written it, you’ve read it and it’s over. It is now firmly compartmentalized under the Persian carpet of my mind. Let me assure you that I’m on the fucking warpath for the next few weeks to reaffirm my love for sex. I’ve self-prescribed a good gratuitous shag (or five) to cleanse my system. Stay with me troops because in that regard, I’m used to getting what I want.

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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Searching for Soul

“Do you believe in the soul, Nate?” I asked.

It was an innocuous enough question. But Nate looked at me curiously, wondering where the train of conversation was going. Since we met a day ago, I had surprised him with my habit of delivering casual non sequiturs with a completely straight face. He quickly surmised that dealing with me required not only his full attention, but a considerable amount of guarded guile as well. Needless to say, he was waiting for the penny to drop in this particular conversation.

I pressed on. “You must believe in the soul. Because you have one. And it’s a good one. You should keep it that way. I don’t say that about a lot of people so you might as well take it as a compliment.”

I, like the ancient Greek philosophers, believed very much in the soul – that intelligible, imperishable part of one’s spirit that wages an epic battle with the flesh. The bearer of such virtues as courage, temperance and justice, it is what makes us human. Without which, we would be craven beasts led only by our basic instincts of survival and the indescribable urge to see the world as one big sperm bank.

Nate had never thought too much about his soul before. A former wild child by his own admission, we had met for the first time the day before in Shanghai and clicked immediately. Within an hour or two we were ribbing each other like old friends.

We also had a lot of respect for each other professionally. Me – for his experience and effortless charm with clients. Him – for my talent and youthful accomplishments.

As the day wore on however, it become more and more apparent that there was an undercurrent of sexual tension between the two of us. It being a professional setting, I was keen to ignore it. However ensconced comfortably in the hotel lounge around midnight, sharing a cigar as well as all manner of scandalous corporate gossip, it was growing increasingly difficult.

“Are you seducing me?” He surprised me by asking all of a sudden.

I laughed and countered: “Are you being seduced?”

“Well I am definitely intrigued. You are probably one of the most remarkable females I have met in the past 2 decades,” he took a long sip of his drink. “If I had met you maybe 10 years ago, I would be fucking the shit out of you right now.”

But he hadn’t met me 10 years ago. Instead, 42, married with two precocious children and a wife as his best friend, Nate was most assuredly losing the battle for his soul and having to cool off by making frequent trips to the bathroom.

“Well, it’s only Day One. And it’s late. Maybe it’s time to say goodnight before we both get ourselves into trouble. I’ll see you in the morning.” I said with a gentle smile, preparing to leave.

We took the lift up to our rooms, each chastely occupying separate corners. The doors opened on the 5th floor. And closed again.

We stared at each other. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Well, goodnight then,” he said and swooped in for a goodnight peck on the cheek which turned into a goodnight kiss on the lips which turned into a goodnight grope of my ass. I could feel his erection straining through his trousers as he ground his hips into me. And then, with a loudly uttered curse, he pulled away and fled.

I touched my lips instinctively. They were ripe and swollen with forbidden pleasure. I didn’t know whether to find my encounter with Nate delightfully theatrical or terribly dangerous. All I knew was that somehow sometime someone had to pull the brakes. And my engineering skills were rusty. The lift continued up to my room in quiet contemplation.

I took my time dressing (or undressing, rather) for bed before calling Nate’s room. I decided Act 1 Scene 2 would take place from the relative safety of under the covers.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he answered gruffly.

I laughed at his discomfort. “That was interesting,” I teased. “Did you intend to do that?”

“Yes…I mean…No. Shit…your lips, your body, the way you carry yourself. You’re a walking composite of all the women I’ve fucked in my past life. You make me remember things I thought I’d forgotten about myself,” he paused. “The thing is, I can’t…I shouldn’t…do this. You’re a colleague. I’m married. And I can’t afford to fuck up my life. This is just completely out of control, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s nothing that can’t be nipped in the bud at this point,” I said, putting on my best voice of reason. “We’ve got 4 more days stuck working together so let’s take our time. We don't have to make things any more difficult than they are. I'm not about to force myself on you. We can just say goodnight and leave tonight at the door, if you want.”

“I’m half-happy you said that,” he said ruefully. “Even if my other half wants to come down to your room and put my cock into you.”

I laughed. “Well you can. But there are 3 floors, 10 rooms and a huge moral crisis in between to ensure that you don't. And we're only on Day 1. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Goodnight.”

So there we were having breakfast the next day, reasonably more sober - the animalistic instincts of the night trussed up and muffled by our dapper business suits – and attempting a metaphysical discussion over some bacon and eggs.

“Do you have a soul, my Asian seductress?” Nate asked in return.

“Yes I do, but it’s a crap one. You know, souls are rare commodities in Asia. They don’t go down too well with hard-headed pragmatism and rampant materialism.”

“Why do you think I have a soul?”

“Because of last night. Because your soul wouldn’t let you do what your cock wanted to do,” I said matter-of-factly. “That is so much more the exception than the rule here. It’s refreshing. So I’m going to respect that by being really really good over the next few days. You might as well start calling me Saint Sash.”

Last night’s encounter with Nate had indeed given me pause - in a good way. It was surprising. (And if you read this blog regularly, you will know that very little surprises me) It is not easy to stare temptation in the face and walk away with just some spit-swapping.

There is a wide chasm between the guilt-based societies of the West and the shame-based societies of the East. In the West, you’re sorry because you’ve done something horribly wrong and you need to seek forgiveness or you won’t be able to live with yourself. And none of the neighbours will speak to you again. In Asia, you’re sorry because you got caught. And the neighbours are laughing because they’re doing it too, they’ve just got thicker curtains.

Most people who grew up in the West but have lived long enough in Asia know and adhere to the precepts of this paradigm shift. In a way, I can understand the lure of this philosophy. It must be liberating for people to do as they like with complete impunity from their soul.

Who needs a soul anyway – courage, temperance, justice? In Asia, qualities like that just get in the way of getting laid with your wife’s friends from Bible study.

I had almost given up on the whole concept of soul altogether. Singapore as a place is not high on the soul-stakes to begin with. And me being me, I have the tendency to bring out the worst in men – the pre-evolutionary ape, as it were – and sometimes it is easy to forget that an alternative exists.

Or has the ability to resist, as in Nate’s case.

To struggle is to be human. Sometimes I think the worth of a man should be counted in terms of how well he fights to preserve his soul; the battle of wills, the grand game of chess, the should-I-shouldn’t-I.

As opposed to how spectacularly he fails. Because we all do, at some point.

Nate had done well so far. And I had gained a significant amount of respect and affection for this stranger of 18 hours ago. I looked over the breakfast table at him, trying to find the right words to say without sounding patronizing.

I wished I could have told him that I admired him for loving his wife and resisting temptation. I wished I could have told him how protective I felt over his soul and how seriously I took this responsibility. And I wished I could have told him that he made me believe that good, faithful men existed.

But I couldn’t find the right words to break through the barrier of pride and do justice to my own much-diminished soul. So I smiled instead and said nothing.

Cocktease

“Okie, I’m going home now!” I straightened up abruptly and flipped my fingers through my hair, my voice unusually bright.

I avoided my companion’s gaze as I casually initiated the universal pre-departure motions, as one does before leaving any party. There was a degree of ritualistic deliberation to my movements – the looking around for my bag, the checking of the time on my mobile phone, the gathering up of my personal accoutrements, dropping the unused condoms into my purse.

When I was done, I finally looked at Julian. He lay unmoving on the bed, naked with his legs splayed apart and his head propped up against the pillows. His cock still throbbed and glistened with the memory of my freshly-removed mouth. He held it in his hand, almost questioningly, like a teenager being caught out by the physical manifestation of his desire.

I grinned impudently and moved to pull the sheets over him; a mollifying Mother-Earth gesture meant to cover his nakedness and signal the end of the night’s festivities.

He resisted. “No, come here. You can’t just leave me like this.” He kicked at the sheets and pulled at my arm in an attempt to upset my balance and force me back to bed. I wiggled out of his grasp.

“You can have more of me tomorrow,” I playfully admonished, laughing at his discomfiture.

“But I want you now.”

“Well, too bad. We can’t always get what we want, dear. That’s life! Besides, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, won’t I?” I lowered my voice and ran my tongue up the outer side of his ear, simultaneously brushing my hair against his neck. “Let’s consider tonight as collateral.”

“You would see me tomorrow even if I fucked you tonight.”

“I know. But I want you to really really want me tomorrow. Tonight’s just an appetizer,” I touched the tip of his cock and it pulsed to life. “Hmm…ok here’s a little more just for you,” I licked my lips and ran them down his shaft with excruciating slowness.

I heard him exhale loudly as I pulled away a few minutes later. I adjusted my dress. His eyes slowly opened and he stared intently at me. I stroked his hair in mock-empathy.

“You don’t believe I’m really leaving, do you?”

“Actually, I am afraid…that I do. You are a good tease. I can play along. And I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Even though, I’m going to have to finish myself off after you go,” he added ruefully.

I chuckled. It had been a case study in physiognomy to watch Julian’s face run the gamut of emotions. From surprise to dismay to indignation to amusement to disbelief, all in the span of a few minutes. And now exhausted by their earlier exertions, his features seemed to have found respite in their current arrangement – a half-smile of resignation tinged with helpless bewilderment. Only his pupils, large and dark in rings of blue, defiantly registered his sexual arousal.

I looked at him fondly. “Be my guest. You should do it while things are still…fresh,” I ran my fingers sensuously down his thigh before heading for the door.

I know I know, you’ve all heard some Healthy Relationship guru state that imposing a delay on sexual gratification can invigorate an otherwise lackluster sex life. But for a single person with very different sexual needs (I lack consistency, not vigour!), an episode recounted as the one above requires a lot of self-control – not an area I usually excel at – and some amount of misplaced mischief.

It is also however, very effective. So I’m not sure why more single girls don’t use this method to get men hooked and keep them hungry. This is Asia after all, if men wanted a surefire fuck, then they would have paid for it. Instead, they’re on a date on you because ultimately you are free to leave if you want to.

So occasionally you should. Just for fun. Even if you’ve shagged before. An element of surprise always ensures that nobody can take anything for granted.

And surely, there is a sense of empowerment that comes with being a good cocktease. It usually starts with dressing the part. For me, it was a clingy, low-cut black outfit with straps that innocuously fell off the shoulder and revealed more than they should (but not nearly enough). But anything that doesn’t have small furry pom-poms all over the front and makes you look like a 12-year old girl should do the trick.

Then there’s the conversation bit over drinks or dinner. A throaty laugh (best inserted after his jokes), casual physical contact (best inserted after your jokes) and a reasonable amount of sexual innuendo are your best weapons at this stage. Also possibly, a suitable quotable quote just to show that you’re well-read and a person of depth. (In this regard, Oscar Wilde is timeless and very accessible, thanks to Google – don’t worry, the last thing this blog intends to do is force actual literature on you).

Usually the dancing occurs if it is late enough or if one is drunk enough. At this stage, give him a good show. It helps if you actually like dancing, as I do. Caress your body, brush his face with your hair, grind your ass into his lap. It is also permitted to express rampant desire at this point. A simple “God, I want your cock inside me” before moving sinuously out of reach has an admirably uplifting effect.

And then, you’re in bed. Finding a good point to pull the plug is always tricky. Too early and the night becomes a real downer (pun intended). Too late and it’s just too difficult. I have yet to find someone who can pull away in the middle of sex. If you can, you are a machine and you have my undying admiration. (This doesn’t count if you are a. married b. fucking someone you are not attracted to c. extremely drunk or d. never had an orgasm. Factors not mutually exclusive.)

Fellatius interruptus is my preferred method. There’s a certain amount of sexual intimacy and promise that comes with giving head. But it’s nice to actually stop when your jaw gets tired (as opposed to pausing on the pretext of picking hair from your teeth and then carrying on for another hour). Nothing gets between a man and his source of suction, as we say. So it’s usually a good way to ensure another meeting.

If done correctly, the sex when it does happen, is usually explosive. That is, if he doesn’t prematurely ejaculate on your leg. If done incorrectly, then you are left waiting for him to call the next day while he can’t be arsed and would rather have a beer with his mates / hooks up with another girl with a shorter skirt and an even lower-cut top who will most assuredly have sex on the first date / undergoes surgery for an emergency case of blue balls.

With Julian, it was most definitely going to be the former. He fell into the category of “old favourites”. “Old” because we had shagged before and literally, because there is something about a man in his late 30s or early 40s that makes them prefer these casual attachments that I seem to specialize in. And “favourites” because well, I enjoy fucking him. And hanging out with him. We even watched 6 years of Roberto Cavalli retrospectives on TV together, so obviously I don’t just use him for sex.

Also, he had flown into Hong Kong for a round of meetings and didn’t know all that many people save his colleagues, whom he had to maintain a reasonable level of professionalism with. So you see, I had insurance. Of course, the next night Julian and I did finish things to a satisfactory degree. And it was well worth the wait.

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.