Xin City

The English Rogue - Part III

2008-12-11T10:17:00.003Z

I was trying to get used to the darkness, my chinese eyes squinting to make out the shape of the bedside lamp. I clamped my eyes shut, rubbed it lightly and opened them to more pitch black. I closed my eyes again, steadied my breathing. The sheets felt so soft against my legs and I instinctively pulled the blanket closer. I felt soft and weak, like a cooked asparagus, in a giant cotton sandwich. I rubbed my neck gently, brushing against the neckline of the oversized t-shirt that I was in. “That’s right”, I thought, “I’m in Liam’s bed. I must have fallen asleep… I’ll try to fall asleep again.” I curled up and turned more to my right, facing the only stream of light that was coming from the crevice of the window, trying to guess what time it must be.

And he turned too.

I stopped myself mid-way and thought hard. Hazy recollections of the night floated into my cotton-wrapped head. The dinner, the way his face wrinkled when he laughed, the way he was watching me eat and drink, like he knew I was trying my best to not make a mistake, the way he spoke to the waiters and the chef… strobe lights, vodka shots, us leaving the club, us kissing on his couch. “Did we kiss?” I wondered. “No, he only pecked me on the cheek, oh no, on the lips…” My mind raced a little.

And I felt his hand on the side of my waist.

I froze. I even froze my thoughts.

Nothing happens.

And I remember to breathe. I don’t know why, but my heart was pounding. My throat was dry, and my head was in denial of the impending hangover. I was wide awake now, and all my senses were working overtime.

It felt like I had been lying there frozen for 3 days. No make up, hardly any clothes and not even remotely drunk anymore. I didn’t go back to sleep, I didn’t plan anything in my head, and I didn’t dare move. I felt somewhat naked, somewhat vulnerable, and a bit of a slut.

I liked the feeling.

Finally, he stirs.

I was aching for him to. I closed my eyes and quietly willed “touch me, pull me closer, kiss me, kiss my neck…”

And he does.

His hands ran up and down the sides of my body, as if gently checking to see if I was awake. I didn’t move. He ran it up the length of my side and traced my shoulder blade up to my neck. He leaned in closer, I could feel his entire weight next to me, his breath on my shoulders and I could hear his cleanly shaven chin rub on the soft cotton sheets. He swept the hair away from my neck. I breathed harder, my stomach tight, my body arced, aching for a harder touch. My willpower was a complete helpless mess. My hairs were standing on their ends and I needed his touch to ease my crazy senses. As if he read my mind, he lightly buried his face in my neck and the full front of his body pressed against my back. I let out a little gasp and leaned back on him, overtaken by an indescribable longing. Quite clearly, he wanted me just as jumbo badly as I wanted him. I was so very turned-on. He reached down, disregarding my weak resistance. Scoffing at my mini attempts at a struggle, he gingerly peeled at my underwear. He pulled it just halfway and as if distracted by something else, he stopped, and grabbed at my hip with his left hand and steadied my tense body. I was over the edge. Our legs entangled in a perfect spoon and I let him take over. With a surge of force, he found his way under my t-shirt grabbing me firm and hard, while his other hand tugged at my hair, he whispered in my ear,

“Do you want me inside of you?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I gave the slightest nod and closed my eyes. If I wasn’t so turned on, I would’ve laughed at the fact that I just tried to give my consent by nodding in a dark room. So I opened my mouth again. But there was no need for words, my body had already said yes. I turned around, I was now nearly flat on my back, save for the mini back arch my writhing body was unable to contain. He climbed on me and a welcomed weight of warmness blanketed me. I could feel his desire in its full glory, nudging at my thigh.

“What do you want me to do” he said

“Please…” I replied, speaking for the first time. My hand curled into a tiny fist pounding at his chest.

“Please what…?” he teased.

I broke into a faint smile, took in a gasp of air and tugged at his underwear and pulled him towards me. Refusing to beg further.

“Please what?” he was more firm this time, not letting me drag him any further. “Tell me…” he asked again.

“you. are. driving. me. nuts.” i said, disguising nothing.

“ahh.... That’s good. that's good... its about time. Wha’ else do you feel?”

Oh my god. I was so turned on I could tear my hair out. And this guy wants to talk?! He had his one hand on my breast, kneading it like he was a terrier with a new plush toy. The other hand had me pinned to the bed as if I was trying to escape. His face was millimeters from mine.

“You like it when I do this?” he said, gently tweaking at my nipple, his big hard cock rubbing on my thigh.

“yes…”, I said. Sounding almost hungry.

“Would you like me to lick your pussy?” he said, his hand working its way down to complete the show and tell.

I shook in acknowledgement. my mouth dry, my breaths fast.

“yes, or no?” he commanded.

“Yes, yes, please.” I was breathless.

“av ew had anotha girl eating at yor pussy?” he asked.

“n... n no.” I shyly said. Not the least bit proud of it.

“What about your friend, Anjali, av eu eva seen her naked?”

“no.” I said, almost too quickly, wondering where this was all leading.

“who waxed you, huh?” he asked. “did you have it waxed or did you shave it?” His finger gently stroking at my neatly waxed landing stripe, coaxing me to let him in. I was used to the dark now, and I could see his eyes burning into mine, waiting for my answer.

“It’s a girl. who waxed me.... A Chinese girl, in her early twenties.”

“yeah? You let her touch you?”, he said, and went quiet, cueing me to continue.

“sh... she asked me how I wah... wanted it done, told me I should have one like hers. And she pulled the front of her pants down, showing me... her pussy.”

“Oh yeah?” he was harder than ever, I could feel it. “Did you touch her, baby?”

“no, I didn’t” he was almost disappointed.

“yeah, I want you to go back next time, and invite her to my place. I want to sit on my couch and watch you two on my bed. Yeah? You’ll let her do what she wants...”

“But I don’t want you touching her” I pleaded like a jealous girlfriend.

“I won’t, i won't.” he said. “She’ll be here to make you cum. I want to watch as she makes you cum. yeah, tell me how you want her to make you cum.”

As quick as the urge came, it left.

My gawd. here i was, horny as a crack whore on e, my mind on an extended holiday; My body was in a foreign land and my brains were scattered like stardust all over a unicorn; i was light as a feather and fluid like mercury, my fingers prickled and tingled for all the blood had rushed to my groin. AND HE WANTS TO TALK DIRTY?!? As though were an old couple, the sex had gone out the window and we needed to bring friends, lube and creativity to the bedroom??

“this is bullshit”, i thought. My body is hotter than that. there should be no need to 'engage' my subject in conversation.

So I left.

The English Rogue II

2008-08-21T06:44:00.005Z

“Do it.”

I begged. My eyes bored into his and while I said it with a tight little frown characteristic of a girl who’s slightly constipated, I found myself stifling a smile that was curling up the sides of my lips.

“No. Beg me to”

He coolly said, and I turned the smile into a girlish pout, my eyes darting sideways thinking of other strategies to get him to cave in.

“ok. pleeease.”

I clutched my fists, lifted them up to my throat in my typical dramatic flair.

“I beg you… Do it. Come on. Please… with a cherry on top…”

He threw his head back and laughed. A laugh that brought out the creases around his eyes and two long dimples that framed his kind face. He must be about 40, I figured.

“No. Can. Not.”

I frowned. And I studied him. My hands on my throat now, fingering my collar-bone. Then I reached over, sub-consciously, and playfully patted his hand before warmly and grabbing it.

“Come on.” I coaxed.

He put his hand on mine and for the first time that night, we touched.

It lasted a good 5 seconds before I pulled away, blushing.

I stood up, smoothed my skirt, adjusted my hair and said:

“I’m going to the bathroom. When I get back, you’re going to do that scene from Snatch. I don’t care.”

Note: when I say “I don’t care” to anyone, it means I have allowed myself to be reduced to a lump of whine and have chosen to take on a vulnerable stance that likens me to a puppy who’s seen the bone. I am a tad unreasonable, a little bit girlish and at my attract-the-40-year-old ’s best.

And I wiggled my way out of my seat. When I passed him, I stopped by his side, leaned over beside him, placed my hand on his arm and said:

“and don’t forget the accent”.

He looked blankly at me and smiled like a schoolboy, clearly enjoying the closeness we were sharing.

Within minutes, hours had gone by.

Through the night, our phones were ringing like a Chinese takeaway on Valentines’ Day. And both of us were too polite to each other to speak for too long, and too polite to our friends to shut it. His conversation with one friend went like this:

“Yeh? Umon ay dayte…. Tha’s righ. Eu erd me.”

He looked right at me and I blushed.

“She is stunning mate. An shes nort ma raght hand.”

I gave a chastising laugh and shook my head.

“Lis nn. We ah jus avin dinna at Seb’s restront… Oh, eu wanna check on me don you, you li-el nosey fat fock.”

And he looked at me and nodded, as if asking for my permission. And I just nodded in return quite blankly.

“righ. Come o-er if ya laike. I don think she’d wanta spind frighdaigh noight with an old English boy. She’s a partay animal musta made plans with friends * making air inverted commas*”

and he winked at me.

Minutes later, I returned my girlfriend Anjali’s missed call.

“babe! Sorry I missed your call. Am on a hot date”

and I smiled cheekily at him

“Oh, it’s almost over. He’s chosen to meet his friend over me! To think I was gonna let him get to first base or something tonight. *loud deliberate sigh* haha. Yes. We’re just by the river. Oh, are you? Come over if you like! We can all do drinks!”

He laughed.

And we kept on flirting. It was a perfect dinner date. At some point, actually, at the precise point he tried to explain about his job to me, I gave myself an invisible pat on the back for showing up to this date. He was just so easy to be with. He put me at ease, gave me ample air time, shared some stuff about himself when asked, and asked me questions about me. It was honest, sensual, and all very mature.

And then his mate arrived.

And they broke into a never before heard, or should I say comprehendible language – cockney it was called (I later learned). In between the blah blah blahs and and the oh oh ohs and the ay ay ayes, I can hear faint traces of “Tha berd las nigh wus shite. Heels up to er shouldas. Beh-ah chick if shes’ stolen me wallet.”, and “Vince brough us some fine wine. We drank till now and um so tired um gonna go home and sleep till Tues fuggin day”… and “Wha’s her name? hasn’t she gort a proppa nayme like Twinkle or sumthin? She’s hot…. Oh, but so s this one…” his mate gets distracted by someone who waltzed in the restaurant.

Anjali is in da house.

In her full blown hotness - clad in a dangerously tight skirt and propped up by her suspiciously smooth legs – Anjali, looking like the figure of 8 was at her mating peak.

And there were 4.

In between the wicked banter, the sexual connotations, and the polite conversations, even Stevie Winder could see that we were 4 inebriated spirits in a restaurant, hiding our true intentions behind wine glasses. So the most decent thing to do was…

To head to The Living Room to party it off.

Vodka shots were like free - Or at least that’s how we were behaving.

We were rock stars and the dance floor was our stage. I was waving my hands in the air in the classic 1990s, I.am.intoxicated way. It’s all a happy blur.

Hours later, Liam takes my hand. I swept my hair out of the way and leaned in, allowing my cat-like listening powers that can differentiate house music from human voices to take over. He said,

“I’m goin tah gooh. Old men need rest. You staigh and partaigh”

“Hey, no!”

I said. Just realizing I was actually having fun because he was watching me all night and for him to leave now would mean one front row ticket stub holder gone from my audience of… ONE.

And he said, “or if yo’d laik, I cun ah, take u someplace else u’d like ta go, but I wan tah leav”.

“well, ok then. I’ll stay”

“No, come. Come with me. Drink at mah place”

I was silent.

“Come on then”

he said and forcefully took me by the hand. Leaving no goodbye kisses behind.

***

When all the necessary was done, we sat politely by his sofa. By necessary, I mean I had already done a scratch-the-surface mandatory check. Despite being ruled by a head of vodka, I remember seeing an Indie Arie CD, a Shawshank Redemption DVD, a decent collection of soap bars and passing him on the cd, dvd, hygiene test. We both had a drink in the hand – which was really a much-needed tool in modern-day pre-foreplay instances.

“Ah wonted eu tha whole nigh…”

he said to me and leaned in. I could feel his breath on my cheek and for the first time, I caught a whiff of his aftershave. I closed my eyes, and smiled, it was a compliment, and it made me, for some reason… feel relieved.

“When you walked passed me in tha ristront, and eu stopped and touched me on tha shoulda, eu remembah?”

I nodded, looking up at him.

“tha was ma favourite par of tha nigh.”

Subconsciously, I had turned to face him completely now, and with every word that he spoke, I felt more relaxed.

“and eu are such a bright one…”

He put his hand on my shoulder and reached up to hold my face. I looked down. This man had a strange calming effect on me, yet when I looked in his green eyes, all the calmness just gets blasted into a ball of nerves.

“tha eu are out on a dinna date… with me. It’s unbelievable.”

He pulled me closer and I was letting him completely run the show.

“I wan tah see eu again”

I opened my mouth and I had nothing to say. An epiphany hit me. I am never good with serious conversations. Turning this into a joke and a giggle fit would be my forte, but keeping it up was like asking me to kiss my elbow. I smiled like a dumb 3 year old, and said,

“Can’t believe we waited to do this.”

He laughed.

(I knew it. I always manage to be funny at serious moments. Argh.)

“yeah, eu are a tough one. Honestly, I neva try so hard, but I think old age has a way o makin skins thick. I’ll be honest with you, I’m a male slut, and I’ve doon things I’m nah pruud of, and a lort of it,”

he smiled and looked up, as if a recent sexcapade just floated into his mind. He shook it off.

“but callin a person up again and again is nort ma thing. don make me do tha again.”

Before I could answer, he kissed me squarely on the lips. My eyes flew open. And as quickly as it happened, it ended. He stood up and said.

“Come on then, you can sleep in the guest room. I’ve got towels, toothbrush, and a big t-shir for ya if eu need. Mi casa, Su casa.”

And maybe the look of disappointment was clear on my face, cos he quickly added.

“or you can pick tha bet-ah option, to sleep in mine… with me”.

To be continued

The English Rogue

2008-07-29T11:10:00.004Z

I was looking hot as usual, minding my own business, taking stock of my life, one pre-christmas day in town –

By town, I mean Borders. By minding my own business, I mean I was fresh out of Borders arms laden with ‘Buy 3 for the price of 2’ novels, happy as a pigeon that just pooped on a canteen table.

By taking stock of my life, I mean I was in Marks & Spencers stocking up on dark chocolate digestives biscuits, sparkling grapefruit juice, and slinky nylon knickers.

And by looking hot, I mean I was in my usual 4.5-inched black patent heels, in a pencil skirt that was tight as a Chinese housewife at NTUC, and a thin white blouse, which humbly concealed my Marks & Spencers demi-cup laced push up bra. I had let me hair down and was playing with my waist-long tousled mop, sweeping it out of my face with pre-meditated panache -

which usually means I am sending out “approach me” signals.

A powdered nose, a wrist-ful of different St Michael’s deodorant scents and 20 minutes of shopping later, I was $256.90 poorer, and chirpier, and possibly more approachable than ever. Because a voice, no, more like, a noise, originated from the man who stood between me and the shelf of oh-so-yummy gummies.

Man: swight. Ay ay ay…

Me: Sorry?

Man: ay swante tah ssaye tha eu af gor nois shoooz.

Me: I what?… oh, nice shoes? I have nice shoes? Thanks! *blush*

Man: aydon aydon… aydon eu shu lee doi dis but but ma maits swaidin, ays wundarin, ca ay huf yo numbah? To to contac ya, yagitwhaaymean?

Me: You want my number? To contact me? But you don’t even know my name. Shouldn’t you at least introduce yourself first?

He was a white guy. Duh.

Not tall. Looked about late 30s, maybe early 40s. He had a friendly face and a perfectly crinkled nose. He had a deep frown and the most piercing green eyes which sat on top of an omnipotent smile. When he spoke to me he looked me directly in the eye. But when I spoke, he let his eyes drop to my feet and appreciatively let them wander up the length of my skirt, lingering just politely long enough at my chest before he returned to my eyes - Making me a subject of his scrutiny made me hot. And it made me wonder if anything I said was being taken in at all.

He could tell he was making me uncomfortable, and he was enjoying it.

Man: *with a smile and a glint in his eyes* oh, Par nn me. Leem’s mah nayme.

Me: Lee?

Man: Tha’s righ. Leeum

Me: Oh, Liam? As in Liam Gallagher?

Man: Tha’s wah ah sed.

Me: Oh, sorry, I’m not listening well today. Nice to meet you, Liam. Where’re you from?

Man: Where rum from?

Me: *nodding* That’s what I said.

Man: *giving me another once over as if to say: “know your place, little girl”* Arm frum England. You kno…

Me: Of course I know England

Man: Sorray, of cos eu doh.

*pregnant pause*

Standing before me was a man with confident eyes, and a put-on nervousness – something I could not get my head around. Just as quickly as he was lusting after me, he seemed to snap out of it and returned to manager mode.

Man: Lis-nn, ma maits swaitin, un ah huf ter goh, buh ah wus wunderin if ah cud contak yah

Me: But I, erm… it’s not really my…

Man: Cumon, ma maits swaitin *points to his friend* an ah wud lik tah sta’ n cha’, buh I kan. *gesturing to his mate to wait a little and looking helplessly at me*

Me: okok. Here’s my card. You can email me.

Man: noh noh noh. Ah m noh dum. Tud’s noh nice. Gimme ur numbah.

In my study of men thus far, I figured there were only 2 possibilities.

1. He’s picked up countless chicks like that before and has no more fortitude to baby yet another one despite her being outrageously above-average.

2. He’s newly back in the game after years of thinking it’s something strictly for people half his age. And I just happen to be the outrageously above-average test-bed that’s given him back a reason to shave and live.

I smiled. He was too old to play my silly games, and been around too much to fall for my weak coyness and had zero patience to coddle me. I liked that.

Man: Doh keep me hah in’ Ah ahreddy got ma fone out.

Me: ok. It’s XXX-XXXX

We parted ways. And I forgot to buy my damn deodorant.

Within 20 minutes he SMSed:

Him: Sorry couldnt stay and chat that was my boss

Me: It’s ok. that’s how you ought to treat girls with nice shoes

Him: u always this funny

Me: u always don’t use punctuation?

Him: Just picked myself up from the floor

Me: and picked u a new random helpless shopping chick, may I add.

Him: call u soon we have dinner

Like 4 days later he called

Him: Liss nn. Ore eu doin arnything tah noite?

Me: *took me 2 seconds to process it before I replied* Oh hello Marks and Spencers guy, Why? What’s up?

Him: Liss nn. Mah mate’s got tickets ta a concert.

Me: So he’s taking me?

Him: *laughs* yore funny, eu know tha? Lis nn. He not goin. Eu wanna come? Bunch of us, good fun.

Me: ahh… I can’t! I made plans!

Him: tha’s arright. Coll you again.

And 3 days later he emailed:

How u doin

I ignore him.

And then he emailed:

I be in samui for two weeks

I ignore it.

And 3 weeks later he texts:

Your not sure how to work emails

I ignore him.

And then he texts

Weird you ignorin me

And then he calls:

Him: Hey, Lis nn, you arr wight?

Me: Yeah.

Him: An you don think to reply would be nice, to saye tha least polaite?

Me: *surprised he was so fierce* Well, you lis nn, you never asked any questions, or put a question mark to say the least. What do you expect me to reply?

Him. *long pause* Unbelievable.

Me: what.

Him. Unbelievable, you are

Me: erm…

Him: You got to be won of de fohnniest girls ah hav eva met.

Me: *breathing a sigh of relief*

Him: now. Wha time u git off? I gort some work drins en will try ta git away, lis nn, u wanna have dinna?

Me: I… er…

Him: Ah see you 7.30pm at foh east squa?

Me: right… (he smooth or what?)

Him: righ then. See you later.

He picks me up from Far East Square in a beee-hu-ti-full car.

Hiding behind anonymity means I can tell you how this was a big fucking turn-on.

Without even asking me if I was hungry or if I have a restaurant preference, he takes me to this ah-mai-zingzingzing restaurant.

Hiding behind anonymity means I can also tell you that I have already, at this point, decided he can kiss me tonight.

And then, when we get to the restaurant, he is friends with everyone! And by everyone, I meant the waiter, bartender, damn, even the chef came out to greet him. Not only that, the chef, in his thick Italian accent said:

Chef: Ahhh… Lee-am, my friend! Finallee, you is bringinger a girler to my restronter. How are you, my friends’ preeedeee girlfriender? Why deeden u teller me that you were a-coming der?

Him: *jokingly* as if yoh full house ta-nigh. Yea, you twat, Let go rofher hand.

This was all too hot for me. This guy was some cool shit. And I’m not even the impressionable sort. We even had a private table!!! Wheeee…

He sits, the waiter walks me to my seat and pulls my chair out. As I lowered myself on to the chair he does it again. The long lingering once over – one with a good mixture of lust and hunger and the right dose of appreciation. From holding the gaze in my eyes – which at this point was programmed to reflect 30% coy and 70% shy, he let his eyes drop from my eyes, to my bare shoulders, to the little crease in my top right down to my thighs and said coolly,

“Dah-ling, you forgoh tha rist of ya skirt”

Damn. He was funny. And somewhere in between the wine and the banter and picking at my main course, I decided I may let him get a bit more than a kiss tonight.

To be continued.

The 20 year old

2008-07-10T07:13:00.006Z

Once upon a time, I sold my soul for $13 bucks a pop.

I was blonde. I was legit. I was mildly attractive. and a cigarette company, eager to inject life into their corporate social responsibility program decided to embark on a smoker’s-only survey to better understand their market standing (read: corporate bullshit to cover up the leakage of e-coli into the tobacco).

They were paying $13 per complete survey.

So I, a “social smoker” (as one calls herself when she is 21) took on a socially responsible call of duty to find smokers. (social, political and emotional ones alike) and take up 45 minutes of their endangered time on earth to raise me funds to aid my world domination.

I took the job so seriously, I took it to MAMBO night at Zouk.

I’m going to write the rest of my story in prose.

Because I can.

So there I was in Phuture, another hunter to a prey,

hanging around, doing my thing, planning my play.

When from the corner of my eye a b-boy made my day,

But from the other corner, my ear heard someone say…

He said “I think… you look great”

I said “Thanks!” *gyrate gyrate*

He said “I don’t mean nothing, I just wanted to say

That you look great. No sweat, hey.”

I turned around to smile at him, and look at him sashay

He kept still and smiled back, I decided he’s barely twen-tay

I said “How old are you?”

He said “Are you judging me too?”

I said “I’m too old for you”

He said “Not if you’re still in school”

I said “okok. My bad. you’re cool”

He said “what’s your name? gimme a clue.”

I said “Do you smoke? Tell me you do!!!”

He laughed and said “weird criteria have you”

Why am I writing in prose you ask?

Because the poet in me just must

And also because a girl of class

Like me, can’t let her talents rust.

This guy I speak of, was a interesting mix alas.

He was young, and messed up, and a body full of lust.

And to him, I was older and cooler, and “sikit atas”.

We laughed and spoke, and I refilled his glass.

For $13 bucks, I figured, I can be nicer to the lower class.

We exchanged numbers and parted ways.

He promised he’d do my cigarette survey

I told him it’s not an option, it’s a must, okay,

I did not try to play it cool, I just called him the next day.

Having dated guys of father-age,

this young boy was a refreshing change.

For starters, all the things he said young and dumb,

and so laced with pre-cum.

Most of it was pre-meditated and carefully calculated

to impress an older woman as the guidebook has indicated.

Some incriminating statements he made about getting wasted,

About life and crime and getting de-flowered,

It got me thinking this boy needs to be cancelled,

But anything that makes me $13 bucks should be worth the effort.

“My dream is to live on the beach” he said, “just by the shore”

When a guy says this, he is under 24.

“Age is just a number” he offered for free,

When a guy says this, he is under 23.

“I don’t hang out with people my age” he mentioned too

When a guy says this, he is under 22.

“I book out this Saturday;

shall we do your cigarette survey?”

When a guy says this, he is under 21.

Oh My God, what have I done?

Even then, the words just flowed. I was stoked.

For once, there was no talk of “what are you wearing”,

“Have you got a lesbian friend”, or “Fancy some cuming?”

Instead, we had one of the best tele-conversations of my life

About teenage pangs, football fallacies, and campus strife.

We spoke about him being young, and about a song oasis had sung

about how material girls and some houses are made of dung.

About Friendster friends, visible bra straps, and common grammatical errors.

Just like that, hours flew by like beer on tap, it was something to remember.

No one said any word about a having fling…

or two

But we both knew we had a thing,

going on, which reminded us of high school.

The next day, in my inbox I got a mail from him that read: in verbatim

So that night, i was at zouk,

it was becos, my friends called in the afternoon and asked me to.

And so i realised my lovely ex gf was gonna be there.

She had asked her friends and gang,

becos her 19th birthday was just the next day, and guess she wanted to celebrate it with a bang.

And so i went, not withoit hestitaions,

after all she said "Hey, just go. It's a public place."

Warmed up with mutual friends and it help the situation.

Not long after, on the dance floor, things happened before my face.

It would take me more than words to describe how i felt,

but hey, i was there to enjoy myself, didnt i?

So i decided to join my other group of friends elsewhere in the crowd.

I was dancing and that's when this girl caught my eye.

She was wearing this stunning blue, oops white dress, which i guess helped her stood out.

My eyes enjoyed every sight of her, i must confess.

My gaze was fixed. I couldnt stop checking her out.

She stopped dancing and went to the bar which was pretty near.

That moment, i thought, that was it. So i stepped up, and told her in her ears,

"I thought you look great" A compliement i swear, which had never been more sincere.

She flashed her pearly whites,

and there was a promise of tanned flawless skin

under the scheming and deceiving lights.

Oh i love her pink rosy cheeks,

which probably hinted a

bubbly giggly personality.

Her soft subtle cheeks are so meant to be kissed,

ohh, how i wished.

Not to mention her braces. How exotic.

I was beginning to believe the furtherest i could go

was to give my answers to a smoking survey.

Then she called me late last night,

boy, words laughter connections flowed and flowed.

We talked about virgins, Roy Keane, bra-sizes and our ex-es.

And we even made an indecent proposal about Marks and Spencers.

This girl has certainly got my attention,

for now i seek the day i get to see her in person

And enjoy her charm, company and beauty.

Oh, and without having to break into my wallet for that hundred and twenty.

john

221003 12.16am.

Not one to back down from a challenge

I replied, in 2 minute nonchalance:

So that night i was at phuture,

dragged by friends, or should i say foes?

what i saw was quite a nice picture,

grinding asses, grooving figures, gone were my woes.

Pick-up lines I've heard aplenty,

comments on clothes and bodies had become tacky.

This guy stood out, albeit blessed with a "muggler's" name.

All "John's" till this night, i thought, had always looked the same.

For the sake of money i betrayed my self-imposed rules.

Gave away my number, risking heavy ridicule.

An apprehensive gesture turns into a pleasant surprise,

we talked and laughed amidst the dawn of sunrise.

A survey will mark the end i thought,

but the very idea makes me distraught.

One rule has been broken.

another will be equally forgiven.

ahh... I miss being young, dumb, and full of cum.

The Party Ecosystem - Part II

2008-04-23T06:00:00.007Z

So there we were at the taxi stand. No one standing still and no one talking straight, There was MsHeineken, MsBehaving, Roberto, Mark, me and O (henceforth known as the Big O.) Mark already put 2 other unimportant guys and 2 more drunk girls in a cab to his place and Roberto got into the next cab. I gestured to MsHeineken and MsBehaving to go ahead into the cab. They climbed in, fully exposing MsHeineken’s left boob and right buttcheek. O smiled, nodding towards MsHeineken and said

O: Nice.

Me: (realizing he’s talking about MsHeineken) Well, get into the cab then.

O: (turns and looks at me) awww… you’re mad at me. *jabs a finger in my ribs*

Me: No, I’m not. Why would I be?

O: (looking innocent and baring his palms up skywards, shrugging dramatically) I can’t look at something that’s nice?!

Me: you can’t, you dirty dog! You just won’t give up until I have the fake tits you’ve always wanted, would you?! *people in the queue turned around*

We both laughed.

Mark: You guys coming?

O: Yeah, just give the cab driver the address, I’ll take her there.

Mark: It’s ok. I’ll come with you guys.

O: If you like mate.

Mark: Yeah, seems I like what you like.

*rawr* Now, work your imagination and imagine we’re now in the dry grasslands of the savannah dessert. I was the piece of fresh, red meat of a wildebeest hanging from the trees where I have just been flung onto. The vultures are eyeing the raw piece of dinner, but the eye-contact duel between the hungry young lion and the veteran leopard kept them at bay.

***

We got to a swanky apartment, a cat swing away from town. It was dimly lit and badly furnished in the way most apartments were when in a hurry to be rented out to expats who think anything oriental denotes an exotic appreciation of taste. The 3 minute cab ride had caused all traces of alcohol in me to magically vanish and by this time, Mark was majorly losing points. It was like I was coming down after a wild, trippy ride on the joyluckbus and everything that was dream-like, neon-shadowed and full of stardust a nano-second ago was now a stark, bright, revolting greenish-yellow. Mainly because I heard MsBeHaving utter the words that would cause even Bob Marley to sober up.

MsBeHaving: Babe… I need to … to…. throw uuuuuuuup

Swift as a Suzuki, I guided her to the toilet, pulled her hair back and gave her a nice long rub on the back, my face in a crumpled grimace, afraid of what is to come.

She: orrrrrr weeennnggghhhh

Me: *holds my breath*

She: orrggghhhhhhhHHHH orGH… ORGHHHhhh

Me: *still holding my breath, wondering “whythefuckme? Whythefuckme?”

She: ORGHhhhh… babe, (she said in tears. I reckon it was the gagging) Phil and I… arrrrr arrrrrgghhhhh over rrrrrrrghhhhhh!!!!

Me: Ok ok… there there… try not to talk. Shall I get u a glass of water?

She: I’mmm oookay. No, not Phil, I mean Rookie… hai (she let out a sigh)

Me: (I deflected, but I still caught a whiff of her breath. Argh! gross! Kill me! I imagine my blackened lungs pointing a middle finger at me)

She: (more sighing) I think Rookie’s just not proactive…

Me: okay… erm, can we get out? I don’t think this is the best place to be pouring your soul out. (laughing at my own pun)

She: He’s just… hai… it’s been so long already (them sleeping with each other), and he’s never made a move (to take it to the next level), you know?

Me: Babe, it’s all at Borders in the self-help section. I quote: “He’s just not that into you”

damn, I’m mean when I’m drunk.

She: oooorgghhh my god. I’m drunk. Orrrgh…. Can we go???

Me: What? It was your idea to come! And I got 2 cute guys out there! And we just got here! And you want to go! What the fuck?!?!

She: okok. we stay…. Orrrgghhh…

Minutes later, we emerged from the puke infested toilet – looking fabulous, no less. By now, the party had taken on a life of its own. A couple was snogging on one side of the living room while another girl sprawled on the sofa – snoring like a pig. Ms.BeHaving looked set to join her. The rest were at the dining table having a rather intellectual conversation about the “pressure of every 30 yr old Singaporean to get married” and the guys were busy winding Ms, Heineken up.

FYI, Ms.Heineken is not the sharpest crayon in the box, nor the brightest bulb in IKEA, nor the hottest girl in Attica. She can be highly defensive and deadly boring to talk to.

Mark: I bet it’s because he knows that you will stop giving him sex after he proposes. – and steal all his money

Ms Heineken: no.

Mark: of course it is. Singaporean girls – u just want to get married to a rich man

Ms Heineken: no, that’s not true. I DOWAN to get married!

Mark: oh please! You’re dying to. He just never asked

Ms Heineken: He HAS okay. I said no.

O: Oh really.

Ms Heineken: In fact he asked twice, (she muttered) you assholes.

O: ohhh, you. (he squinted his eyes and pointed at her) are a very angry girl. YOU however, (he pointed at me) are a happy girl. are u always so happy?

Me: haha. Stop pissing my friend off you two.

It was all very clear to me now – after 30 minutes of no alcohol and vomit air – my head was clear as the Tuscan sky. O was the more charming of the two. We have a winner.

(Overheard: The fastest ONS negotiation in the history of Xin City.)

O: Shall we leave this party?

Me: Yes.

O: Let’s go.

***

We get to his place. And THIS is what I call taste. Putting up a random vase or painting and calling it art is bullshit. O had proper oak chests and cabinets, exquisitely carved by the hands of virgin Mumbai female slaves, and some ornaments carried by the warriors of the late Roman empire. Coasters carved from crocodile skin and mats weaved by the blind shepherds of the Saharan oasis – or so, I like to think. He had at least 50 visible pairs of shoes all neatly lined up. He had the latest gadgets a man could possible surround himself with and he even had wholewheat bread and green tea in the kitchen.

Basically, I like him and he can do no wrong.

So even though he served me water from a 1.5l mineral water bottle (not evian) and even though I saw a pirated DVD peeking out from his collection, and even though he didn’t rinse the kettle before putting it to boil, it was all very “rugged” to me. Yes, I am so very biased.

You are a sexybeast until proven flaccid.

He made me green tea and we spoke more. He told me about his love for football and I totally impressed him with my knowledge. (Read Football Diaries) I told him about my yoga classes and he made me promise him I’d give him a private viewing. He told me about his semi-retirement plan to quit the job and I promised to keep it a secret. I told him about Roberto saying “Keezzz mee” and he leaned over and kissed me.

Me: NO…! I’m saying RO-BER-TO said… “Keeezzz meee”

He: *kisses me again*

Me: *pushing him away* nooooo…

He: But you just said to kiss you?!?! *he shrugged in innocence again*

Me: I said. ROBERTO. Your Italian friend. said “Keezz mee”

He: *kisses me* you said it again *kisses me more*

Me: stop kissing me, or I’ll write an email to your company and rat on your plan to quit

He: but you promised not to

Me: No I didn’t.

He: How about I do something for you and you promise not to tell?

Me: ok. How about you dance for me?

He: How about you shut the fuck up, you chatterbox? *he presses my lips together*

Me: *struggled free* How about you show me a football trick, little puppy?

He: ok! *suddenly excited* I’ll show you a card trick. *like he stumbled on a great idea, and he sped off to get a deck of cards*

He proceeds to show me the coolest.fucking.card.trick in the world! Somewhere, 5 apartments away, a tortured maid could hear me scream

Me: FUCK OFF!!! OH MY GAWD! U FUCKING DEVIL! HOW DID U FUCKING DO THAT? UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE! You’re Satan. Hang on hang on… you couldn’t have… I was watching you… but then again… but no… HOW HOW HOW? SHOW ME AGAIN!! Please! you.have.to you.have.to!!!

He: *shakes his head satisfyingly and kissed me again* now u promised to promise.

I was totally charmed. Truth be told, I have seen fucking cool card tricks before and I know, I know, that it can all be explained and only Houdini and Jim Morrison, and some say my Crazy Auntie Lucy really possessed magical powers. But he was just sooooo fucking charming in the way he dealt the cards; the way he held each one up; the way he took my hand to hold the card while he shuffled; the way his eyes burrowed deep into mine to catch me trying to peek… I could replay his icy magician stare in my head all day. THAT, boys and boys – is foreplay.

One motherfuggin sexy helluva foreplay.

It was 6.50am

The sun was threatening to creep up and expose all the tension we have spent the last 5 hours building up. In an instant, all the things kept sexy by the night sky would soon be blasted by the brightness of the day and made silly by the clarity of it all.

The bewitching hour was over.

It was time.

His kisses became a harder, and mine just got hungrier. The cheeky little ones planted a minute ago, that was meant to tease, taunt and torment, were now becoming seriously hot and bothered. Each grip felt tighter, each brush more deliberate, and each kiss lasted longer, than the last… the heat was on. I tugged fiercely at his shirt, drawing myself close… but only close enough to him to keep him at bay – the ritual of pulling his lust close only to push his eagerness away was something that always drove me over the edge. “Put your hands away and take your dress off” he said, ever so rash to be in control… and with my eyes fixed on him and a smile tugging the corner of my lips, like his ten other requests, I shook my head from left to right in the most excruciating pace I could muster. “Come on…” he gently coaxed. And still I wouldn’t budge.

And if there’s something that beats watching someone be reduced to a desperate state of yearning by you, it is when you witness them snap right out from it - like an injured leopard, cheating death, by making a final attack. O knew the game exactly. He didn’t want to take any more of my nonsense like a horny schoolboy.

In all Calvin Klein perfume ad seriousness, he took me by my wrists as if to say enough is enough, and strappingly peeled them off his shirt and hoisted them above me – pinning me down, rendering me powerless, and said gruffly,

“Let's quit fucking around, shall we?”

Underneath it all, I could tell he was a tender, passionate lover. But the idea of if was too gay for him to admit. With his one free arm, he held me down by my ribs, easing his weight on me. He kissed me on the neck and kissed me on the ears… All my words of protests he knew were meant to be music to his ears, and all that struggling to break free merely served to remind him that he was in control. He definitely appreciated me returning his gestures, but he was sure to let me know that he knew just how to work a girl. So even though my two hands pinned above me were struggling to break free, only mock pressure was needed, because he and I both knew

That I wasn’t going to go anywhere…

at least nowhere he didn’t intend for me to.

That’s what nature has always been about. That some must die in order for others to live; that losing a sheep could mean perpetuating another species. – The sustaining ecosystem. Now I know why wildlife photographers don’t burn in hell even though they sit there in their digital SLRS and snap at the process of death. Because really, they are capturing life. And it’s all part of nature.

Why am I cryptic all of a sudden, you ask?

Because, for the analogy-challenged, the veteran leopard sinking his teeth into my neck and going for the kill, equates to when I was begging O to stop playing and start humping. When that happened, nature had it that a loud bang was to be administered by a nearby hunter. i.e. Our about-to-happen love making was cut short when I knocked over his namecard holder on to the floor, with a plastic-sounding “clack”. I caught a glimpse of his name, but more importantly, his company.

My life was sucked out of me, the same way a leopard drains his victim of blood.

O’s company works with mine. We're work associates!

All rationality came charging into me like Robinson Sales transactions to my credit card. For months, we have been on emails!!! and someday we will more than virtually meet. I was incredible horny, but not horny enough to let my professional reputation be jeopardized by one.maybe.orgasm. Plus, I could already imagine the enjoyment of mentally undressing each other for the first time if we ever met in the boardroom someday.

Sleeping with him now would ruin it. And I’m all about the moments.

So again, the cock teaser of Xin City strikes.

“I’m hungry”

He looks at me, studies me for a while, making a mental bet if he should carry on making out with me; whether by ‘hungry’, I meant “hungry for food”, or “hungry for meat”… if I was testing him, and if I was just being a big tease, and most importantly, if I was worth it.

O: “Let’s get you something to eat then”

Me: “I’ll have a vodka tonic and a poached salmon”

O: “Done.”

And he did it! No questions asked. I had a full spread. Poached salmon, lemon butter herb sauce, baby spinach salad dressed in balsamic vinaigrette, and a juice, instead of the vodka. I attacked the food like a Neanderthal while he sat there. He took one long drag on his cigarette and said,

“You must have a boyfriend. Or you’d be in my pants by now.”

I stopped eating, wiped my mouth and said

“I like to eat slowly – at my own pace.”

And he repeated.

“You must have a boyfriend.”

The Party Ecosystem

2008-04-04T04:18:00.003Z

An ecosystem is a natural and functioning unit consisting of all living organisms and non-living factors in an area interacting with each other.

Central to the ecosystem concept is the idea that living organisms are continually engaged in a set of relationships with every other element that makes up the environment in which they exist.

Introduction of a new element(s) into an ecosystem has been known to impose a disruptive effect. In some cases, this can lead to ecological collapse - i.e. resulting in the death of many species – of the said ecosystem.

Often, however, ecosystems have the ability to rebound from a disruptive agent. This ‘rebounda-bility’ is determined by two factors - the toxicity of the introduced element and the resiliency of the original ecosystem.

Now children, let’s apply what we’ve learnt about the ecosystem to the natural habitat that is home to many a heterosexual and intoxicated homo sapiens – Attica.

On any given Saturday night, the club’s a-pumping, drinks are a-flowing and people are a-prowling. At the top of the food chain… there’s me (and possibly hundreds of others) - taking in the delicious sights and smells characteristic of a club in premium mating season; I’m swaying to the dark base which is pounding and thumping to the beat of my hunger; Interacting with the elements that form the core of my existence - Alcohol.Music.Men. I want to beat my chest and let out a triumphant cry, but I got more important things to do. On a night like this, say around 11pm, the grassland ecosystem of the hot and dry savannah is in full view and about to be challenged… lazy cats come out of hiding, nonchalantly giving their faces a new lick of life and lust. The dry, cracked grass threatens to burn and sizzle as the heat spirals out of control. - And then there’s silence - A pregnant silence, before a loud thud pumps liquid freshness into the room and drums a shade of neon green across the land. Suddenly, we are in the heat of the tropics. There are tigers and monkeys, and crickets and bees, and bushy-tailed things hanging from fat juicy trees.

That’s when the club has reached FULL HOUSE status.

By now, any self-respecting ecosystem would have maintained a patterned behaviour. The weak have already been eliminated - knocked out by earth’s natural litmus test – vodka. And the strong are left standing, actually, circling, their injured quarry. One by one, a hunter finds a prey, someone drops like a fly, and a cheetah sinks its teeth into a slow bird’s neck. The onlookers know not to interfere with nature and the cycle is a sustaining complete one – a natural, functioning, ecosystem

So there I am, interacting with the surrounding species and elements, like nature has prescribed, via the Natural Selection Process. I have a vodka tonic in one hand and the other one’s waving at the bartender, telling him that I can taste no vodka. And along comes a guy – hunter or a prey?

He: soooh wat eeeeezs yo nammeee?

Me: XX

He: wat eeeezs det?

Me: XX

He: oh, XX, eeew haf deee sam nam mer azzz mai axe garl friend der.

(you have the same name as my ex girlfriend)

He’s Italian. And a very bad hunter.

Me: Oh, Is that right? Is she pretty?

He: aye teller ew one tzing, awride, shingapor re gerl, all verrry prredddy ya, but dei brake ke my hart te.

(I tell you one thing, alright, Singapore girl, all very pretty ya, but they break my heart)

Me: Aw…. You poor thing!

He: yezzz… aye amm veddy upset, but I steeeel believ ve in love ve.

(yes, I am very upset, but I still believe in love.)

Me: That’s good *rolls eyeballs takes a long sip*

slight pause

He: ew arrr veddy vedddy, fem-meee-nin-ne.

(You are very very, feminine)

Me: Oh, thanks.

He: eww, arrr adreal woooo-marn-o

(You are a real woman.)

Me: Erm… thanks?

He: all deeee odder woooman-o ere… rrr veddy preddy… butz no one fem-meee-nin-ne likey yew.

(All the other women here are very pretty but no one feminine like you.)

Me: *in a half frown, trying to interpret his accent* hahaha. Oh, thank you again.

He: I run a rezztah ront ta, wen eww can, kum by ya. Eww an eeyor preeeddy girlfriendzz, I tayke carrie of eww.

(I run a restaurant, when you can, come by, you and your pretty girlfriends, I take care of you)

Me: Oh, sure! Where is that?

He: Keeezs me.

(Kiss me)

Me: what? noooo.

He: kum on ah, Keeezs me.

(come on, Kiss me)

Me: noooo.

Suddenly, I was saved by a dark horse. He was strong, he was intriguing, he was enigmatic. Most interestingly, he appeared out of nowhere. He must have charged right up to us, (because that’s what I’d like to think) and confidently said, “hey Roberto, introduce your friend!” Roberto, not believing his luck rolled his eyeballs and said, “Deeezz ees XX” I stretched out my hand, but Mr. New Guy ignored me and shouted at the bartender “Hey, one jug of JD and Coke please!”

He is the new element in the ecosystem. Disruptive, uncontrollable, and rowdy. A complete hunter, equipped with the guns.

He had my 100% attention and he knew it. Mr. Italy was like a hyena in the face of a lion, backing-off with a sheepish grin and a helpless stature.

And all that was left was the new element and me. He waited for his drink. And he looked and me. He looked past me, and gave the bartender hell again. And he looked at me again. Right into my eyes, before he gave me a quick once over. It felt like an hour of silence, both of us baiting each other.

Two hunters at the gas station.

Finally he said:

He: What are you drinking?

Me: Vodka Tonic. (he smiles) I usually order something else though, and I’ll tell you what it is, but you mustn’t laugh… (he looks interested) It’s a vodka diet coke. I call it a “Skinny Russian” (he doesn’t have a reaction, but still looks interested) and I am on a one-woman mission to spread the word to all the bars in Singapore. (he nods) probably in seven years time, you’ll see it on the menu. Then you know I’ve been successful.

He: *pulls in close to me, I could feel his breath on my face* Do you always talk so much? *slaps me on the bum*

Me: *punches him back on the chest in playful rebellion* Oi!

He: very interesting story, I like it. Tell me more.

Me: no, I should shut up. Why don’t you tell me about your dieting habits?

He: I like JD and coke, I like my salads, I like my burgers, *makes a helpless face* that’s why I look like that *lifts his t-shirt up slightly revealing his toned as washboard abs*

Me: *making a face like I wasn’t impressed even though I clearly was* you might want to switch to diet coke too.

He: what? Do you see this? *still lifting the t-shirt*

Me: yes I do babe. And this jiggly thing is not something you should be proud of, now now, let go of your hand. *and I attempted to pull his t-shirt down.*

He: Are you always so talkative and so difficult?

Me: What is your name?

He: Olivier

***rudely interrupted by Roberto who brought a friend along

Roberto: eeeeh!!! XX, meeeet maye frend de.

Friend: Hello. Nice to meet you. I am Mark. Roberto is right. you are very cute.

Me: Hi.

Roberto: Weee arrr wanting to leeeve ver this place cer. Dooo eww

Friend: Yeah, we are going to have an after-party at my place! Just round the corner! Come along! (he’s very very cute, by the way)

Me: erm, no, I don’t think so, I have to make sure my friends are ok.

Friend: You mean them? (He points to my two girlfriends, MsBeHaving and Ms.Heineken. who waves at me and start making blowjob charades moves) They already said yes.

Me: Oh, did they? Well, I, er… I am not done here… with my drink

I really meant I’m not done with Mr. Olivier new element, and with the arrival of yet another disruptive agent, it looked like this could be a potential ecosystem collapse or perhaps we could spawn a new golden age. Even Stevie Wonder could see that I really wanted to finish my chat with Olivier before jumping on this after party which had no shag-guarantee. So Mark tried to recover me before I was lost to the new element. This whole time, he just stood there studying the situation. And inside me, something was telling me I might lose my prey too. Finally,

Me: Oh, I forgot to introduce, Mark, Roberto, MsBeHaving, Ms. Heineken, this is Oliviero. Oliviero, these are my friends.

Mark: Hi, hey, you’re alright, you can come to the party too.

Me: *I did an imaginary mini-somersault of joy* oh yes, you wanna come along? They are all heading to Mark’s place for an after party.

Olivier: *leaned over and said to me* Three things (he held up three fingers) One, I’m going to break this guy’s neck, two, I’m coming because you haven’t told me your name, and Three, my name is Olivier. I don’t know who the fuck Oliviero is.

*rawr*

the alpha-male battle. Truth is, I wanted them both in one place. Makes it easier for me to decide who had more charm, charisma and cock. Mark had much toxicity in his looks, But Olivier was 10 time more resilient and just took the throne by the balls. Everything he said and did reflected the ways of a bonafide alpha-male. I was ready to have him pull me by the hair and riding me down the stairs.

He was my hunter and I was his prey.

To the after party and beyond!

(to be continued)

Dog Meat

2008-02-28T09:45:00.006Z

So the footballer obsession I had was fed.

It was as though I had some dog meat. (Again, my penchant for irony and my knack for witty puns really impress me) Dog Meat – you know, somewhat unattainable, somewhat utterly available. Some sort of a need-to-try delicacy, yet also a feast befitting of a callous Neanderthal. Some of you may scowl in disgust, yet under that grimace, you wonder, is it like beef + chicken, or like pork + mutton? Of course, you may never care about it enough to entertain the thought, yet when presented with the odd chance to try it out… you would – just so you can say with a brush of your hair and half-closed eyes, while lighting a cigarette, in complete nonchalance, “dog meat? Sure I have tasted it. yes... it’s daring of me... but no, it’s no big deal, really.”

Question is: Would I try it again?

Rumours, urban legends and some taxi drivers claim, that once you’ve had some dog meat, when a dog so much as walks by you…… it knows. Some recoil in fear because they smell the barbaric air you breathe – while others find your rotten air of cold death slightly nauseating, slightly dominant, but unreservedly provocative. These dogs want a taste of you – whether it is for revenge sake, for self-gratification, or for a forbidden taste of power – we’d never know.

I just know they do because shortly after…

***In a work environment***

Sounds of typing keyboards, soft chatter, msn chat pop-ups, phone rings, facsimiles and coffee machine… My female colleague ShortSkirt says:

ShortSkirt: eh, what are you doing after work? Got 2 hours to spare? Need your presence at a meeting.

Me: is this official? Send me an email.

ShortSkirt: It is for work, but we can’t pay.

Me: do I look like a child prostitute or Mother Theresa to you…?

ShortSkirt: *ignoring my rudeness* You are so gonna thank me! I’m interviewing two guys who are sooo your type. Come and help me give them a hard time. PLEEEEASSSE… YOUR GORGEOUSNESSS.

Me: aiya. Hate it when you do that. Can never say no to you. What time and where?

***after work***

I enter the meeting room and I see ShortSkirt (with more make-up on than usual) and a BigGuy and a SmallGuy. BigGuy was big. Firm handshake. Nice smile. Sexy. Evil. Rough. SmallGuy was small. Handshake and a kiss. Cheeky grin. Cute. Harmless. Needy. Both are local football somebodies. With an air of indifference, I say

Me: hello celebrities…

ShortSkirt: *giggle*

SmallGuy: Please don’t call us that

BigGuy: Hello.

BigGuy 1 0 SmallGuy

Me: So, let’s proceed…!
ShortSkirt: blah blah blah
Me: blah blah blah
SmallGuy: blah blah blah
BigGuy: *silent. Looks intently at me*
ShortSkirt: blah blah blah
Me: blah blah blah
SmallGuy: blah blah blah
BigGuy: *silent. Looks intently at me*

*Finally…

BigGuy: *to me. Completely ignoring ShortSkirt* I’ve seen you somewhere before…. Now WHERE have I seen you?!?!

ShortSkirt: maybe…

BigGuy: *with a wave of the hand* shuddup, I’m trying to think. Think it’s some trashy, disgusting, men’s magazine.

*all laugh*

Me: very funny. I’ve never seen you before tho. And they say you’re a celebrity. What a con-man.

BigGuy: what can I say, the cab I took here, the taxi driver didn’t take my money! Sigh. It’s fame. I gotta try not to be so famous sometimes.

SmallGuy and ShortSkirt both try to say something

Me: *calmly* Maybe cos you were holding on to your money too tight.

BigGuy: Eh, Chinese woman, pls don’t make racist comments.

Me: What you gonna do? Get drunk and beat me up?

BigGuy: No… I’ll just rape your sister.

Me: OR Your own, by default.

SmallGuy and ShortSkirt look a little frightened.

BigGuy and I erupt into peals of laughter.

BigGuy 2 0 SmallGuy

***

BigGuy: Go for drinks?

Me: sure.

ShortSkirt: sure.

SmallGuy: ok. We both drove. So you (points to me) take my car and you (points to ShortSkirt) take BigGuy’s car?

BigGuy: No. This chilli padi should take my car. Cos you don’t take spicy food.

BigGuy 3 0 SmallGuy

At this point, if any of you feel sorry for ShortSkirt, please don’t be. She attracts her own brand of men. It’s just that today, these two just drove up my alley and right into me. She totally understands. So you should too.

***drinks after drinks after drinks later***

For some reason, at this point, BigGuy already has his hands on my waist. The crowd in the room has changed three times over. ShortSkirt has left, more friends have arrived, SmallGuy is busy buying everyone drinks and getting everybody a glass of champagne, and BigGuy was busy talking to my chest. I was leaning into him on purpose whenever possible, laughing at his jokes, making fun of everything he said or did, and basically, teasing him endlessly, I even did the occasional eye contact and the mandatory touching of his arm and cheek – like how Cosmo teaches. And lo and behold, I run into an old friend. He’s a bit of a shit-stirrer and a mahjong kaki, but still very much loved by me.

Old Friend: Hey you! How’ve you been?

Me: Good good! And you?

Old Friend: Good la. Still getting some. So not complaining. You? *he looks at BigGuy then says*, into footballs now, no more regular balls?

Me: haha. No la.

Old Friend: Be careful ya? He’s married you know.

Like someone choking on tofu

- I sure didn’t expect there to be a bone.

What the fuck.

How dare he be so audacious? Or did I ask for it? Did I egg him on? Am I fat? Is that girl my secondary school friend? Was I acting easy? Did I turn off the gas at home? Am I the Home-Wrecker type of girl? Is it my mannerisms? Does my dress say “Come all ye married?” Am I only fling-worthy? Do I look like a Weekend Blockbuster special? Have I paid my credit card bill? OMG! Do I know his wife? Did the bartender just wink at me? Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then again. Men are dogs. He’s an arsehole. How should I dispose of his body? He’s the one coming on to me. He’s obviously desperate for some outside food. He obviously FORGOT to mention it. Should I torch him? Should I perm my eye lashes? He obviously also didn’t wear a wedding band. He obviously is trying to get into my pants. Can I just find out if he’s a good kisser at least? He’s a world class dick!

I will not let him have me. I will not let him win. I need to pee.

See! A woman, despite consuming copious amounts of vodka, still can be very rational.

Night’s over. He insists on sending me home. I say no need, he say need. So next thing I knew, we were back in his car on his way to mine. He pulled up and said he needed to pee. I made no comment. He asks “Can I come upstairs? Need to pee.” And I was thinking to myself this guy is lame. After that conversation with Old Friend, I saw nothing sexy in BigGuy anymore. I saw a DOG. An ugly, drooling, pathetic, Rottweiler of a dog. Upstairs, he take a leak, checks out my place and sits down at the sofa with me. I gave him a courtesy glass of water. He says thanks. He says nice place you have. And he tries to kiss me. I push him away, and he comes on to me again. – like a dog – I push him away and after 3 pushes, I say: Go home and kiss your wife.

BigGuy: Hey, don’t say that.

Me: Why not?

BigGuy: Anyway, how did you know?

Me: You swine.

BigGuy: No, really, SmallGuy told you?

Me: Look, it doesn’t matter, just finish your drink and go.

BigGuy: Hey, let’s keep this separate, please. You look like you want to have a great time, and so do i. so, no commitments, alright?

Me: Sorry, not my thing

BigGuy: Come on… *he kisses my neck and my body goes weak* I’ve been thinking about fucking you the whole night.

Me: unghh… please stop. It’s really not right.

BigGuy: hey, you know you want some.

Me: no I don’t. please stop…

BigGuy: See what you’ve done? Just let me fuck you.

Me: no.

BigGuy: You’re such a cocktease.

I stood up. My top was nearly thrown over my shoulders and my skirt was halfway down my hips. To be honest, I really really wanted some. Every time he said the word fuck, I wanted to sit on him. I wanted to have him in my hands and I wanted to live for the moment a little. Halfway through thinking how horny I was, I figured I looked a little silly with my half peeled clothes. So, I took my top off. At that, he sat back and smiled. So I leaned forward, and slipped the skirt down to my ankles, and kicked it off. He sat up and smiled even more, chuckling to himself a little, not believing his luck. I put my hands to the back, and paused a long pause… I smiled at him, and he smiled back…. And ‘pop’ the bra went. We were both quiet for what felt like 5 aching minutes… and I did what was necessary to be fully undressed. And there I was, standing, full monty, in front of a man, clearly driven to the brink of madness. And I wanted it so so bad!

And then I did it.

I chased him out.

With a raging hard-on.

Yes! I think his last words were, “you fucking bitch, you can’t make me leave looking like that?!” And mine were “yes.i.can”.

Haha.

I had dog meat. I even ate the bones. Why would I do something so cruel again? Besides, this dog had an owner. Bitch’s Honour, though non-existent, must start somewhere.

The Football Diaries

2008-02-11T03:45:00.000Z

There was a time... a time
when man played mahjong, and the woman watched,
when man asked for a hand-job, and a blow-job he got.
when man played Sunday sports, and the woman thought he was god,
when man wielded the remote control and the woman's slot.

I was a woman of that time.

Dating a male-chauvinist, football-betting, car-loving, wrestling-watching, mahjong-playing, Hokkien-speaking, family-doting man for 4 years didn’t turn out to be an unbelievable waste of my time, as you would presume this blog entry will be about. Instead, these four years, unbeknownst to me, was life’s way of putting me through the University of Patriarchal Repression, of which I graduated with a double degree in Asian Submission and Women’s Assets Capitalisation – with flying colours. In retrospect, I even did a cross faculty module and earned a minor credit in Male-Banter-Ology.

To think I spent months crying my heart out when it ended.
To think I thought life was over when it’s only lust (I mean just) started.

Today, I live to tell the tale of my life after male domination.

When it hit me, it hit me like the tsunami hit Phuket. With some warning signs, but still totally unexpected. For many, engaging in conversation with random guys after getting out of a long relationship must be like Chewbucca trying to string a sentence. But for me, it was as easy as getting tits on your pc screen.

I was not interested in men anymore. All of them looked to me like Sloth in The Goonies – eager and pathetic. Nothing more than bumbling fools, hungry for love, acceptance, and someone to stroke their dick. I had developed a serious condescension for them, one that was downed with a bitter shot of vodka and pity.

And that seriously drove the men nuts.

One especially. I know so, because he told it to my face. We just met in the pub after a quick introduction by a friend and I didn’t even bother catching his name. (although I did catch a longer than needed view of his face). Minutes later, he walks up to me, in all grown-man casualness and offers me his beer. I declined with a disapproving headshake, the kind my primary 2 form teacher used to give me. And he said:

He: You look angry. Do all men annoy you?
Me: *managing a weak smile* No.
He: Only me then?
Me: *smile getting politely impatient* No. *looks across the bar to display bore*

*awkward silence*

He: *Using his chin to point his attention to a couple at the end of the bar* aren’t they having the most electrifying date?
Me: *laughs appreciatively, then gesturing to a ladyboy who was pulling her moves on a man next to the couple* Watch Out. Man ON!
He: *throws his head back and laughs out loudly* that’s so funny! *shouts across the bar* Balls! Do you see what I see?
Me: oh, looks like it’s going to be a stalemate.
He: Nah… She’s going to score.
Me: A hatrick perhaps? *all laugh*

He: My name’s _______. We met earlier.
Me: Ya, I kn…. OH MY GOD…. Are you who I think you are?
He: *looks skywards cheekily* I am NOT David Beckam.
Me: OH MY GAWD! It’s you!

*** he is a famous local footballer. A bit of a celebrity.

He: Yes. Yes. I see you are friendlier now.
Me: Oh, sorry about earlier, I was a bit out of it. All good now.
He: So, you know your football! Good girl!
Me: Just enough to impress you.
He: You must have a boyfriend. That’s why.
Me: yeah, I did. He taught me lots. For instance, the offside rule.
He: you did? So, that means he’s not here today?
Me: I saw you, so I told him to go home and have a wank.
He: haha. which is his favourite team?
Me: Spurs.
He: That’s a good team. Your favourite team?
Me: Leeds.
He: WHAT?!?! I take it back, you don’t know your football.
Me: Hey, that’s why we broke up. So don’t go there. Ha. Actually, it’s Liverpool. I say Leeds, because Harry Kewell is sooooooo cute lah. Oh, maybe Blackburn then, cos David James is so.goddamn.yummy.
He: *wipes the imaginary drool from my chin, and gives me a first bolt of eye contact stimulation* David James can suck my dick. ha. Kewell, I know him. Do you know he’s Aussie?
Me: Do U know George Michaels is GAY?... *more laughs* He was a KING, until he became QUEEN
He: smart cookie. Come’on, let’s go to my place. *and he took my drink from my hands, put it on the counter, scooped me at the waist and led me out of the bar* watch some football.
Me: *followed him like a lamb following a blade of grass to the slaughterhouse*

Every now and then, women who are witty and acerbic, headstrong and full of scorn need - like lambs - a goddamn skinning.

He got in. didn’t turn on the lights. Neither did he offer me a drink. He just sat on the coffee table, pulled me closer to him by the hips and said, “So, where’s that witty girl gone?” and he lifted up my dress. “Tough cookie, not so tough now, huh?” and he undid his own pants. I pushed at his chest and he took my wrist, and put it behind my back. Every move I had, he countered it with a sexy animalistic aggression. He did as he pleased, ignoring my mini protests and working me at his own pace. When he wanted me to kiss him, he guided me to him by pulling at my neck. When he wanted to stop kissing, he pulled me away and smiled. When he wanted more, he got it. And when I wanted anything, he made me beg for it. I was totally dominated and it felt fucking good. I let that submissive girl in me take over and it was bizarrely arousing. I allowed him to dictate the flow and it felt strangely empowering. It was mind-blowing and I was the one on my hands and knees causing it. “Sit here… Show me… keep going… good girl” was all he needed to say, and I’d shoot him a defiant look, only to be contradicted by my actions that complied with his instructions. He was the alpha-male and I was riding him. The irony amused me. And my lack of power stimulated me. He wouldn’t let me say no. Well, even though I did, he paid no attention. He was an animal and I was his prey. Like a lamb to a wolf, I was food and he was exacting his right. I could run, but he would win. We were just letting nature take over.

One by the master, one for the slave, and one for the road, by the errant knave.
I enjoyed myself 3 bags full.

And alas, after what must be 3 hours, we were lying down on our backs with a pant of finality – smiling from ear to ear.

He: You know what I like about you?
Me: My flat nose.
He: ha. That too.

He: You’re the kinda girl who thinks you got it all, all men are wrapped around your finger… every guy wants to get into your pants….
Me: Hey, that’s not…
He: And you are. You are.
Me: Wow. Thanks.
He: you’re not from Singapore.
Me: I am!
He: I mean, you’re not like a typical one.
Me: Oh, I see, you have slept with enough to make a random sampling of the population?
He: ha. I like you. You talk like a man. but you kiss like a girl.
Me: that’s cos I AM a girl.
He: I saw you tonight, and I knew I had to fuck you.
Me: what?!
He: So glad I did. *laughs to himself*
Me: hang on, let me check footballer off my list.
He: aw… that’s mean.
Me: you should really stop relying on your stardom to get laid. Over-rated
He: *tickles me*
Me: why do guys do that when they don’t have a comeback?
He: *tickles me again*
Me: it’s ok. Brute strength got you this far.
He: your nasty mouth should eat this…

It went on for another 2 hours… these footballers have so much stamina, and I have so much to give.

***This entry would like to thank my ex-boyfriend for his contribution. For without that 4 years of football trivia training, the author might have never had such a crazy night with a football star.

Seek. Engage. Destroy

2007-08-20T04:33:00.000Z

My Boss: X meet my friend, Eric… And Eric’s friend…
I shook Eric’s hand warmly, but my gaze was fixed on his friend firmly.
The friend had the sweetest smile. Charming. Poised. Confident. He let Eric give me an extended handshake, (extended being the operative word) and turned to continue chatting and laughing with some other guys. His hands, I noticed, he kept one relaxed by his side, one firmly on the wine glass. Occasionally, the resting arm gave whoever he was having a conversation with a swift and manly pat on the back and went back to its relaxed position. When he ordered drinks, he was friendly to the waiter. When he laughed, he threw his head back. When he spoke, he leaned close and relied on his voice. When he was interrupted (which happened only because a girl tapped him on the shoulder), he welcomed it. He looked into her eyes like she was the only one in the room – but only for 5 seconds before he went back to his conversation with the boys – and dismissed her like any American idol reject. That, I thought to myself, is how a cool guy’s body language should be.

Mainly because he openly IGNORED me.

So Agent Provocateur says TARGET locked.

When Eric finally let go of my hand and wiped the lusty smile off his face with whiskey, I was relieved. But I also realized I was standing there like an idiot, waiting to be noticed. As I quickly looked around for a contingency look-cool plan, Mr. Confident looked at me quizzically, squinted his eyes like he just spotted a Siberian husky in India and said:
“Oh you broke free... I didn’t think my friend was going to let go of your hand.”
“That cos I him there were free jolly shandys at the bar”
“oh? I thought tonight is Hooch night?”
“Hooch? Ha! You just gave away your age, without even giving away your name”
“I did not.”
“well, tell me, and answer me very… very honestly” I said, leaning in closer and looking deeply serious into his eyes “do you. like. U2?”
“I’m the biggest fan in this room” he smiles and says confidently, but carefully curious about what he was getting into.
“ok. Fair enough. Well, who’s darker, Sundram Moorthy or Sasikumar?"
He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Sasi… you know Sasi…” he mumbled
“right. think I got what I want. Thanks padawan.”
“ahh… the force is strong in you…!”
“thirty-two”
“what?”
“you’re thirty-two years old”
“you’re sure about that?”
“super sure. I just administered my self-drawn age test on you.”
“I’m 31, and my name’s T”

We shook hands. It was firm and warm and lingering. He looked right into my eyes and smiled appreciatively.

Agent Provocateur gets target ENGAGED.

***

The red car in front of me crawled slowly to the left turn. The impatient me does a swift overtake, and a swifter left turn and enters the kiosk before the red car. I got out, popped the cover and said:
“Uncle, 98, forty dollars”
Owner of the red Alfa steps out, and says “V power, full tank”
I took one quick scorned look at the mofo that was trying to upstage me and I see a familiar face.
“Hey, it’s you!” he says happily. And put on a deep look, like he’s been waiting by the banyan tree for 15 years for me to show up.
“It’s me” I said, the scorned look, quickly replaced by a crazysexycool one.
“how are you?”
“very good. And you?”
“good good.”

*Awkward silence. Cue to flirt*

“Hey, I never took your number that night”
“biggest mistake of your life. But I’ll let you redeem yourself”

Agent Provocateur SEEKs out target (by chance)

***

*insert polyphonic psychedelic tone* I’m driving. But because I am a multi-tasker and an outlaw, and I had a feeling it was him, I read it while engaging the fourth gear.

His SMS: Next time, just ask me out. No need to follow me.
My reply: it’s my pleasure. You look much better from the back.
His SMS: Are you going to the event at Velvet tomorrow?

I didn’t reply. What a disappointing SMS.
Asking me to a free-flow event shows - He’s not brave enough to ask me out. Not into-me enough to ask me to dinner. Not generous enough to support my drinking tab. Afraid of rejection.

He never SMS-ed again.

Target LOST

***

Many nights and many vodka shots later, I was partying like a rock star at Singapore’s definitive club. I was waving my hands in the air, giving air-kisses to good looking strangers and using my elbows to create dancing space, when a guy, in his late 30s, says: “Hi, can I get you a drink, dancing queen?”
“Sure!” I yelled! Not letting an intruder interrupt my sequence “A mojito please! And vodka cranberries for all my friends” and I laughed like I just threw him a challenge.

The sucker comes back with a mojito and beckoned us to the bar where he ordered a bottle of vodka. “Grey Goose” I told the bartender. And looked at the sucker, slightly offended, slightly annoyed, slightly disgusted. My friends enjoyed the drinks, and I was left to speak with him. I was not interested one bit. But I kept it polite. And by polite I mean,

Sucker #123: “you’re very cute”
Me: “Thanks.”
Sucker #123: “Do you come here often?”
Me: “nope”
Sucker #123: “Well, Can I see you again?”
Me:
Sucker #123: “I mean, I did what you asked. The least you can do is give me your number”
Me: letting out a deep exhalation “here’s my card”
Sucker #123: took it politely with 2 hands “Thank you. You’re a beautiful girl. Remember that.”
Me: rolling my eyeballs at his 1980s lines. “Thanks”

Apparently, sucker #123 left the bar, and his bottle of vodka behind to join his friends. One who whom was T. He flashed my card to T and friends and said “I just met the girl I want to marry”

T takes the card looks at it and says: “Dude, lemme guess. Long hair, short skirt, flirty and rude.”
Sucker #123: “How’d you know?”
T: “ha. She eats guys like you for breakfast. This card doesn’t even have her mobile number!”

1 hour later, after an encouraging SMS from T “You’re position in Velvet has been exposed. Come take cover in Zouk members now” I was drinking and partying like a rock star, nonetheless, with T and a very embarrassed Sucker #123.

Target: FOUND

T grabs me by my waist, pulls me close and says “I’m not losing you again, Miss play-hard-to-get”
I was like “WHAT?!”
And he shouts “Can you drive?”
And I say “Of course!”
And he says “Good!” and he finishes up his beer.
Next thing I know, I’m driving his V-powered car and we approach a fucking road block.

Target: DISARMED

He leans over and pushes the window button for me.
“Good evening ma’am. Where did you come from?”
If I had balls, I just discovered them at my throat. “er… er…”
T leans over me again. And in a drawl, he says “Velvet”

*pregnant pause*

“Have a nice evening” and the TP waved us through.
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?!?!”
“relax… it’s all about confidence” and he rests his hand on my thigh… and rubs it comfortingly… and he leans forward and smells my neck… all this time giving me travel directions… to his place.

We kissed in the car… the nicest kiss ever. He knew when to hold my neck, when to run his fingers down my back, when to grab my hair and pull it right, when to let the kisses go soft, go hard… linger… or tease… we kissed hungrily, tenderly, and hungrily again. I had one palm on his chest, the other behind me, propping me up from the seat he smoothly wound back. My hand pushed him away, but my kisses pulled him closer. We were snogging in full blown Hollywood fashion and I said, in between breaths “you, are, suuuuuch a gooooooood kisssser.” And he said, “it takes two.” And kissed me again. We kissed from the carpark to the apartment. From the kitchen table top to the sofa. From the sofa to the bathroom. From the bathroom to the bed.

I know this because of the litter of clothes we left on the way.

Target: CONQUERED

The Short Date

2007-08-03T10:04:00.000Z

Er… he’s short. i.e. vertically challenged. Try to keep up. Tsk.

Horkay, so I went against some rules because it was a lame Thursday night.

On hindsight, I’m always prey to those post-ladies’-night nights when the loneliness of the night wind lulls one into settling for second best. Like how you travel 18 kilometres for wanton (no pun intended) noodles only to realize it’s closed. Then settling for the yummy hor fun (no pun intended again) albeit satisfying, is never considered a prized treat.

Point is, I accepted a drinks date with Frodo, the witty one I met at the Martel Party. Witty. Check. Clever SMSes. Check. Looks. Sigh. So I guess he deserved a Thursday night – cos there’s nothing good on TV and it’s the night with the lowest probability of getting caught by the paparazzi.

We met at a bar I will not mention, at a time I will not reveal and I was wearing a dress I will not take off. (at least that’s what I swore to myself). He was surprisingly laid-back. Who wouldn’t be, compared to me? I was as nervous as I would be, going on a date with Sting, Feeling like that on a date is great news. But it was for all the wrong reasons. I kept wondering if I should’ve wore shades, a fake mole and an oversized straw hat.

The first thing he said was “hey gorgeous, think you forgot the rest of your skirt.” I was wearing a long skirt which I pulled up as a mini tube dress - cinched at the waist with a fat leather dominatrix belt and dear me, I had no clever reply. So I did what I did best - I deployed a disarming smile and hit him playfully on the chest.

And I looked nervously around, ready for a reputation whipping.
Which happened fairly quickly.

Bartender yelled:
“Hey! Miss Whiskey Water!” I looked up and saw my favourite bartender from another bar.
And I said “Oh hello! What are you doing here?”
“Same management.” He quickly replied, waving his finger in the air, dismissing my question.
“your boyfriend ah?” he jerked his head up towards my date, raised his eyebrows and gave a cheeky grin.
“NOOOOOOOOOO” I said too quickly.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it buddy” he butts in. “help me out and get me a beer and give the lady her whiskey water will you?”
“Sure sir. Good choice” And the bartender winks at him.
“make it strong, so I have lesser work to do, she’s a tough one” and we all laugh.

I was mildly impressed. Here sits an ugly guy. With no looks, no height, but a pocket full of cash and a brain full of crack. He’s really very suave. And like the first time I met him, I found myself constantly studying him with renewed interest. Every time he spoke, he ignited the charisma his looks extinguished. And after 3 whiskey waters and one of the most-engaging and stimulating conversations I’ve had in a while, I did something that shocked even myself.

“Give us a tray of sex on the beach shots” I said to the bartender.
“I thought someone wanted to step down from the AA?” he said.
“Parting shots” and I giggled at my own joke.
“we celebrating anything?”
“my incredible legs and good conversation.”
He looks down condescendingly at my legs “hmm… give it another 2 months, we’ll drink to good conversation first”
And I did it again – I smiled and hit him playfully on the chest. Gestures like these irritate me tremendously. I still don’t know why from time to time I do bimbotic things like that, just like times I say “Oh dear” and realize it’s not cool.

“Come on little drunkard, game of pool.”
“I’m not sure your ego can take a beating”
“it’s ok,” he slides up close to me, breath on my face “there’s no one here to see you win”

So he racked up and as he did, he looked up at me and smiled. My stomach was a knot. And I found myself angrily wondering WHY CAN’T HE BE CUTE?!?!?! WHY WHY WHY???

I won the first game. Balls and me? Come on.

“let’s play for something. Best of 3 games. It’s 1 0 for now”
“ok… loser will have to rip his underwear out and cut it into shreds”
“and if I’m not wearing any?”
“it’s gonna be painful then.”
“deal.”
“okok. Loser just takes the underwear off for the rest of the night.”
“deal. Winner keeps it?”
“no la. Don’t be sick. I don’t want your crocodile underwear in my bag”
“Deal”

And he won the next two games. Fucking Hustler.

I had so much fun. It was so simple, so casual, so unpretentious. Maybe because I had no expectations. Correction. Maybe because I had bad expectations… I laughed a lot. I talked a lot and I asked a lot. I listened a lot and I hit him on his chest a lot. I wasn’t even flirting the whole night. And he certainly wasn’t trying very hard. I was me and he was him, and we both know we can be great together. Again I talked a lot. And I asked a lot. He listened a lot and he asked a lot. He had all the right answers. He made me feel like a little girl. He played with my hair. He looked in my eyes. He was looking better as the night wore on, and I got more uninhibited.

OH MY GOD. I’m drunk.

Next thing I knew, we were at his apartment. At the rooftop. By the Jacuzzi. (oh yes. Nice pad) I was on the deck chair and he was sitting in front of me. We were facing each other and there were no more words left to say.

Shanghai - Home of Courtesans, host of the mistress

2007-06-18T06:38:00.001Z

It was the October of ’06.

It was 5am.

With shaking hands, puffy eyes and tasteless buds, I sipped my hot coffee impatiently. Impatient to burn the stale whiskey smell from my breath; impatient to perk up after a heavy night of partying; impatient to fill my empty belly with thick, hot coffee; impatient to find a hangover cure;

Impatient to get on the plane.

***

I took a deep breath. I could smell amazing culture. I could smell years of air pollution. And I could smell the old-world-meets-new-world appeal of modern Shanghai. Skyscrapers and stacked highways cast a heavy shade of grey on the low-rise has-been nightclubs, big cars swung out around corners, barely missing the thousands of cyclist by a hair, and the occasional arm-less kid lurked around the concrete corners looking for a hope to cling on to.

Shanghai – home of the courtesans - and its modernization, crawled to a slow completion.

I took another deep breath, and I could smell the approaching air of burnt rubber.

Hello Shanghai. Hello Grand Prix. Hello Boys.

***

We were at the Grand Prix. We understood this to be an event with lots and lots of men. Lots and lots of booze. And maybe something to do with cars. Ten gorgeous girls on the prowl at the grand prix meant the air was full of testosterone and what some scientists call – promiscuity. We hopped around a bit. Stood up and cheered at the right moments a lot. And flirted very much. By the end of Day One Heats, we were exhausted, but we knew the night had just started.

***

A shower, and ten perfume sprays later, wearing the smallest black dresses, we arrived at the Hugo Boss Party. It was game on. There was no pretense, no excuses and no embarrassment. We see. We like. We conquer. Princess M and Hottie-two-shoes and I stood by the side and watched the other girls at work. They were getting drunk and snogging each other, while the crowd cheered on. What an effort, we thought.

I took out my latest pick-up tool. A Chinese fan and fanned it out. And like Chinese magic, the cute guy I’ve been eyeing appeared next to me and asked me to cool him down. I graciously obliged. Hottie-two-shoes got busy talking to his friend who was clearly more interested in a conversation with her tits. Princess M on the other hand, took one for the team and spoke to the pimply 16-year-old who hasn’t quite got over the chewing gum phase. 6 of us had 18 shots. 6 of us took 3 cabs. 6 of us went to the definitive club in Shanghai – Bar Rouge. The night was getting wild, and lucky me, had the cutest guy in tow. He was attentive… and generous and… whatthe#@&*%^

He kept kissing me in mid sentence

Me: Wow. This place is wild! Look at tha…
Him $%^$%# *pushes his face on mine and starts kissing me*
Me: *successfully pushing him away* whoa… haha. Slow down! Where’re your fr…
Him: &^%^#$% *kisses me again*
Me: hey hey hey! Noooo!
Him: kiss kiss kiss
Me: okok, we get it. You’re a great kisser but can we n…
Him: %$%#$& *kisses my neck instead*
Me: ahh….

No girl should fight a cute guy off when he kisses her neck.

Me: So what are you guys doing in Shanghai?
Him: I live and work here, but my mates work in Hong Kong, so they come up here to party a lot. Much like you Singaporeans party in KL
Me: oooh. You know your stuff.
Him: They’re here for the Formula One. So it’s gonna be a weekend of partying.
Me: Oh really?! So are weeee!!!!!!
Him: Everyone’s here for the Formula One, beautiful, half the people you see in this club are going to be there.
Me: well, I’m here for more than that.
Him: that’s where I come in… &^#@&*^

*

Him: So who do you support?
Me: Alonso.
Him: Ooh, not sure I can fraternize with the enemy.
Me: keep them close, remember?
Him: Good answer. I intend to do just that. Is this close enough…? &^%$%#

*

Me: Stop it, we got an audience.
Him: they’ve forgotten how to kiss. We need to give them some ideas
Me: Very.Funny.
Him: Can I get you another drink?
Me: Yes.
Him: After this kiss… &$%#$%

*

Him: You’re soooo good to kiss
Me: *takes a deep breath and quickly answers* thanks. #*$@$^

*

Him: After party at mine.
Me: Now?
Him: Yes. Now. If you’re scared, you can invite your nanny. *points to Princess M* But let her know we will be in the bedroom if needed.
Me: haha. How sweet of you.
Him: Anything to get you home. ^&$#@

*

By now we were all over each other and just a layer of fabric shy from a shag. The people in the club have chosen to ignore us, partly because some Russian chicks decided to get on the bar top and start pouring beer on themselves. The club was pumping. And I was to make a decision quick. I looked to my left and Princess M had already disappeared with some dude. I looked to my right and Hottie-two-shoes was preoccupied with yet another guy. I looked at my guy. He’s cute. I entertained the thought of him being a psycho killer but I balanced it out with the fact that he’s a good kisser. I thought about finding myself in a bathtub of ice and a missing kidney and decided I couldn’t be so lucky. Drinking makes me a brave girl. So one thing left to find out. – I reached down and teasingly brushed the back of my hand against him. W.O.W. what a deal-sealer.

***

his place was like something out of the set of Fifth Element. White leather and silver bars. Spiral staircase. Glass door in-house office. Automatic everything. And the other deal sealer: a Jacuzzi in the middle of nowhere. We took a bath – Shanghainese style Ginseng and Ginger bath bubbles sizzled like champagne on my skin. More drinks. More kissing.

I got back to the hotel at 8am, to a cafeteria of girls at breakfast. Hottie-two-shoes was not back yet. I missed breakfast and was smiling all the way to the tracks.

It was the October of ’06.

I was at the Grand Prix.

Fernando Alonso and Michael Schumacher had a tight match - But who came first?

The Little Black Wish List - The Actor Part I

2007-05-07T08:43:00.000Z

We all have a Little Black Wish List which we want to tell Santa about. But 98% of us know Santa doesn’t exist and the other 2% has him on the list.

So this is the list that holds the markings of your dirty mind and the desires of your twisted ego.

The clever people know better than to have this list inked. The stupid folk are still looking for the pen that can write on black paper. And the generous one (me) shares it.

Because I know - We all have a Little Black Wish List. But whether the items on the list get transferred to the Little Black Book…? Is the question.

Dream Shags, Crushable Egos and the Seasons’ Absolute-Must-Haves:
(Not in order of shaggability because my racing mind is faster than my full, pouty lips and my deft fingers.)

0) An Athlete
1) A Big.Black.Man
2) A Model – (make it underwear model)
3) A Surgeon (or better, a gynaecologist)
4) An Actor
5) A Rock Star
6) The Office IT Geek
7) A Mafia
8) A Male Stripper or A Personal Trainer (same difference)
9) That badass biker dude that always smokes outside your place
10) A (few) Total Stranger(s)
(watch this space – once conquered, subjects will be replaced. Like old people who buy 4D. it gives hope. And hope, keeps you alive. )

today’s story, boys and girls, is about how number 4 made it to the Black Book.

It was finally, the summer of ’06… the country had just seen weeks of rain - Where road juice permeated our cork wedge heels, sex drive was at a low and hot chocolate, roti john and pirated dvds were pasar-malam’s top sellers. The wet spell had just been broken by a piercing ray of sunlight which brought promises of sun, sex, sea and allowed glimpses of bronzed bodies. The hot and wet mix in the air and the frustration of staying-in, fused with the warmth bubbling inside would have killed any self-respecting party animal. Anjali called: “Babe. Let’s get out. Haven’t seen you in too long. Plus… Ineedtogetlaid.” I asked another friend along. Let’s call her Ms.Behaving. and it was GAME ON.

In the tightest white boob tube, nicely stretched over the naughty bits and a flirty floral excuse of a skirt, I was ready to add heat to the eclectic blend.

It was mating season again.

The club was pumping. And it was only a Wednesday night. I was on WingWomanWatch so I scanned the crowd for a potential guy for Anjali. But minutes into my job, I realized she didn’t need me around. She was sex-on-heels that night. Beating guys off with a stick; teasing them mercilessly.

Like a proud mum whose daughter made it to the song and dance item, I nodded in her direction - Only to see a guy tip his bourbon coke glass towards me, returning the nod. I smiled at the mix-up. And he smiled back. And I laughed at the royal mix-up. And he laughed back. I signaled and mouthed a “no” and pointed to Anjali and he gave me a yeah yeah, don’t lie, look. And then we both stared at each other. Confidently he gave me a very appreciative but very torturing once-over. Clearly, he had been looking for a while now. I swear… I blushed. I looked away and did what a decent cock-teaser would do. I started giving the best performance ever. I was dancing for him and he knew it. Whenever someone walked past and stood in his vision, he cocked his head to one side and continued looking. The look was lingering but not psycho. The eye-contact was amazing. I was happy.

Then I made the well-timed toilet break, which meant I had to walk by him. he seized the opportunity. (So not a complete himbo.) He grabbed me real hard by the arm and pulled me close and said

Himbo: “let me have your number” (okay, he’s a himbo.)
Me: “aren’t you gonna ask my name first?”
Himbo: “oh, ok, what’s your name?” (so clueless! what a Himbo!!!)
Me: “xx”
Himbo: “I’m xx”
Me: “I know that, Mr. TV star”
Himbo: *he laughed and looked mildly embarrassed* it’s just a part-time job.
Me: “And your full-time job’s terrorizing girls on a wednesday night?”
Himbo: “er, no. *innocently* I’m in the fashion line” (Oh.My.Gawd. he’s a HIMBO fo sho)
Me: “no, I mean, is this what you normally do? Come here and give ransom girls on the dance floor lusty lingering looks?”
Himbo: “er…I come here with my friends. It’s her birthday. And another fren flying to Tokyo next week. so celebrating farewell.” (note: grammar errors are actor’s own)
Me: “right”

I wasn’t going to let the lack of brains and conversation skills get in the way of our hips because it was already pointing towards each other. He had a very raw sex appeal about him, which made ignoring the bad conversation very easy. Plus, he’s an actor! I took a quick mental check at my wish list and decided to soldier on.

Himbo: “so can give me your number?”
Me: *stooping to his colloquial standards* “caaaan. But you must promise to call, otherwise I’ll set mediacorp on fire.”
Himbo: “no need to be so serious la"
Me: “I’m.just.kidding” (roll eyeballs)
Himbo: shoves his phone to me and as I key in my number… “I give you mine too”
Me: I saved his number under “Random Actor” and showed it to him. he wasn’t too mad. I suspect he doesn’t know the meaning of “random”

Funny enough, despite the bad conversation, the magic didn’t dissipate like I always imagined it to. I concluded he was just better with his mouth shut. And it turned out to be a series of truths. He called the next day.

Actor: hi. It’s me
Me: hi you.
Actor: remember me?
Me: yes. Of course. It says you’re the random actor from last night?
Actor: haha.
*silence*
Me: So, what’s up?
Actor: Nothing.
Me: okay.
*silence*
Actor: Just call to talk. Had lunch?
Me: yes. And you?
Actor: yep. I had takeaway
Me: o…kay… look, I got to go…
Actor: so fast put down?
Me: ya. Unless you got something you want to discuss?
Actor: no la. Er… want to go velvet this Friday?
Me: hmm… sounds good! I’m out with my girlfriends, maybe I can ask them to velvet
Actor: up to you. I can bring them in. cos I am a member.
Me: okay, show-off.
Actor: huh?
Me: nothing.

Waste of brain cells huh? Haiyoh! Exasperating.

Friday came…

I dragged Ms. Behaving and Bix along. After 10 kiddy sms-es, we all met at the front door. He was looking smoking hot. Ruffled hair, tight white tee, black washed jeans, high-cut boots, a black rocker cuff and a great jawline. Very flamboyant dresser. I like. He was drawing a lot of attention. But he was pretty damn humble about it. And he was VERY attentive. Gave me his 100% attention and even told me he loved what I was wearing. Highly commendable. The girls were loving the spill-over attention passers-by were lavishing on us. It looked to be a damn gooood night.

And it was...

(to be continued)

Dolls of a Feather and Little Miss Ironic

2007-02-27T03:32:00.000Z

Like most conservative asian girls (with a game plan), I subscribe to the outer-nun-inner-slut school of thought. Which basically means: I can’t go to your place but let’s give you a blowjob while you drive. I can’t put on a cat-suit for xmas but oops, my skirt fell off. I can’t text you first because a phone set on vibrator mode has other uses. You can’t cum all over my face, no. you.absolutely.can’t…. but oh, you just did, and boy, does it taste good... Debbie does Dallas? is that a travel documentary? Oh, by the way, I won the spelling bee spelling bukkake backwards.

I can’t give you my mobile number, but please… take down my email.

You get my drift. It’s the Bi-Polar (dis)Order of the IT girl.

The physical-angel-mental-wildcat act, playing the traditional-on-the-outside, tigress-on-the-inside girl…. the girl most men would have a soft-spot and a hard-on for…. Little Miss Ironic. Little Miss Me.

It’s these girls that give them men some sort of validation. At least they know, getting into her pants, or even better, her mind, requires some scheming, some charisma and some magic. After all, it’s the thrill of the chase. If I was the going to be the prize, my willpower is my fortress.

Now now… which of the three dolls managed to tear down that fort? Was it hard-core strategizing, or a stroke of luck?

So Little Miss Ironic, i.e. Little Miss Me, gave out 3 cards. And I got 3 emails.

Mail #1 (cut and pasted and unadulterated, for your reading pleasure): Post-War Doll

Hi xx,

I really enjoyed talking to you last friday night, and I really would like, if we could have the chance to meet for lunch or dinner. As you told me, I would have to send my CV / application first, so here it is :-) :

Objective:
I felt good and comfortable talking to you, and I would like to get to know you and to find out, if you are as sweet as you look.

When I met you:
friday night 27th Jan 06

Please find below my data:

Name:
You know

Address:
Im an Eastcoast boy and i love it there, so normally i stay in a tent on the beach

Place of birth:
The wrong place .... i love to live in the tropics

Race:
Chinese angmo

Date of birth:
10 years earlier than i would prefer

Contact number:
+65 9XX XXXX

Nationality:
Danish by passport - rojak by heart (I have stayed in Singapore 7 years now)

Carrer:

........ can i skip this one !? ...... ok i guess not

-1 marriage which had to come to an end 2 years ago
-2 wonderfull children who lives in Denmark with their mother / my ex-wife
-1 ex-girlfriend

Education:
1965 until now: -school of life

Computer skills:
They call me "The Wizzard"

Languages:
Danish, English, German, a bit of french ... I can also talk non-sense, and after 5 bottles of Stella Artois im convinced i can speak fluently Mandarin

Skills:
-Very very loving guy
-Sincere
-Caring
-Responsible

Activities:
I love outdoor activities but its nice to relax at home sometimes ........ "its boring to be bored and its fun to have fun"

References:
If you wanna hear the bad things: - call my ex-wife
If you wanna hear the good things: - call my mother

PLEEEEEEASE! GIVE ME A CHANCE TO MEET YOU !

It put a smile on my face. But that’s because he spelt “career” wrongly, and my lord! He really sent an application! Now, that’s a first. Flew right into my venus flytrap. 2 stars. Minus one for the age and spelling mistake tho.

Mail #2: The Baby Doll

Hey, you're everywhere! - The pub on Friday, Orchard Road, a website, and now pages of a magazine?!?! it all adds up. You’re the girl my mum warned me about before I set foot on this island. I’m surprised I haven't spotted you in my office building, but I'll keep an eye out for you in Angola next week.

So had a good night on Friday?

Attempt at being funny not gone unnoticed. And a not-so-subtle mention of his activity for next week as conversation stirrer. 3 stars. Haha… and with the email, he attached a picture of me he grabbed from a website and scanned picture of me he grabbed from a magazine. It’s official. he googled me. Plus one for effort.

Mail #3: The Cocky Doll

Hi,

I think you’re very sexy. Do you like big cocks?

*major eyeball-rolling*

5 points. For being short, sharp and spot on.

and Little Miss Ironic, replies them all, in bipolar (dis)orderliness.

The (Controversial) One Night Stand Part II

2007-02-07T08:53:00.000Z

And then there were 4. Mr. Oohlala, Bix, Mr. Rock Sugar and me.

Back at Mr. Oohlala and Rock Sugar’s place. - It was the penthouse of some condominium. Nicely done, I say. – our drinks were refilled and round 2 of drinking started… the boys were slowing down somewhat, probably because they had more important things at hand – come on, we all know, nursing that hard-on after drinks means no more nursing that whiskey. So there we were, drinking, Bix and Mr. Oohlala on a nice big bed and us on a couch. All eyes on the plasma TV, so we think. Bix was decently drunk. By that I mean sober enough to predict the chain of events that might follow, but drunk enough to let it happen. And I was thinking if Rock Sugar’s arms were bigger than my thighs.

Mr. oohlala was a bloody octopus. Roving hands that knew no boundaries on Bix’s porcelain skin. She let out a little yelp, a little giggle and snuffed it with a soft moan. Rock sugar and I turned our heads to each other and let out a cheeky smile… We had already done the mandatory introductions and hurled the necessary insults and taunts at each other. All our amateur pick-up tricks had been successful and it was time to shed the civil banter and get a little wicked.

So we kissed… A long, hard, hungry kiss.

I like alcohol. It has always been more of an ally than an adversary. it dissolves my inhibitions and absolves me of all blame. Like a true friend… I… like… alcohol... Did I say that already? Because by now, rock sugar had already gone past my lips, my neck, my shoulders, had most of my clothes expertly peeled off… and was heading for a home run. bix and mr. oohlala were just two metres away… but it didn’t matter… I was miles away.

Not enough alcohol.

Cos I sat up, held him by his shoulders and gave a light jerk. He looked at me, half-dazed… and with my half closed eyes, I gave a very debatable shake of the head. His eyes reflected a remarkable understanding of my shoulder-jerk, but his actions spoke otherwise… the home run was thwarted, but that didn’t stop him diving south. I threw my head back, clamped my eyes shut, arched my back and was further away than ever.

But I sat up again. Panting. The fact that I was about to be an exhibitionist was the least of my concerns. It’s the thought of having to face Bix the next day that jolted me. But that’s not why I’m panting. *wink* Anyway, as if sensing my signals once again. He picked me up (easily with one hand) and carried me into his room. This guy can kiss... I was in for a proper treat.

When we got to his room, there was a renewed sense of sobriety. Fearing it will affect us dramatically, he quickly put on some tunes. very.good.tunes. Still, kissing him had a dizzying effect on me, so we started from square one anyways… and something in me snapped. And I said “I can’t” he pressed his forehead on mine, trying to study me. See if all I needed was a proper forced fucking or if I meant that. When he spoke, his breath fell on my face and I actually liked the cigarette-laced dry breath.

Him: “Are you fucking serious? What, you got a boyfriend?”
Me: “no… I don’t”
Him: “you know, I would force myself on you anyway”

I looked at him nervously and he smiled

Him: “just kidding, what do you think I am, some horny horseshit? Hey, if you don’t want to, you don’t want to, it’s cool.”
Me: “it’s just (long ass pause) I’ve…. never had…. a one night stand” I finally blurted (told you this was in 2003. my sex life has since changed very much, not to worry.)
Him: “we’ll do it a few times. Spread it over two nights”
We both laugh…

*pregnant pause*

Him: “wanna smoke?”
Me: “yeah, I got my own”
Him: “no sugar… in my place, we smoke something else” and he takes out a survivor kit
Me: always a fast learner “ohh…”
Him: “bet you’ve never done this too Ms. One-Night-Stand Virgin…”

He taught me a life skill that night - how to roll a tight, fat joint. and we spent the whole night… you got it… talking. Unfuckingbelievable. It’s one of my best nights ever, really.

Postscript: If you must know, the author actually dated Rock Sugar for a few months after that. he was her supplier and she was his junkie. it was truly months of drugs, sex, and rock n roll. they split up for a very good reason - she needed a change. He has since re-located under her egging-on and raking in the chips across the causeway. They remain friends - with benefits. He visits checks in on her every 6 months or so and the relationship has been kept purely sexual and chemical.

Dolls of a Feather

2007-02-06T04:00:00.000Z

Once upon a time, there were 3 guys in a bar.

All friends. All born and bred in the same country. All in the same industry. All had the yellow fever. And all were blonde hair, blue-eyed Carlsberg-drinking dolls. Each with a different brand of humour. Each with a different charm. Each with a unique strategy. Each from a different age group. One’s in his 40s. another, in his 30s and the last one… you guessed it… in his 20s

Once upon a time, I was by the same bar.

This is a story of very individual cocks - pointed in the same direction.

The Post-War Doll i.e. the one in the 40s

He is old-fashionably handsome, with a regal quality to him. He could very well be some form of untapped royalty. Strong nose, strong jaws, and towering at 1.9 metres, he is made for an Armani suit. But the minute he opened his mouth to speak, the air or refinement he worked up in that 5m walk towards me, dissipated.

Him: *shouting* “er… hiieeee… iii saaww you. Walking… heeere to there… there to here… and I wanted to tell ew… ew look… er. great.”

Do I friggin look retarded?
I later found out that he talks like that all the time. And after every sentence, the vein on his forehead will throb cos he was borderline shouting. It’s the accent. It forces him to speak English like every word needs to make a dent in the wall.
He was first to approach. So not very cool. Plus he was talking to me like I’m a deaf retard. Could be something to do with the old geezer handbook of pick-up-strategies, I don’t know, but from there, everything he did lacked finesse, charisma, and finishing touches.

With exaggerated eyeball rolling, I jokingly replied.
Me: “argh… I’m sick of people liking me for my body”
Him: disbelief in his eyes “haha… and you’re funny too!”

He caught on fast though… and for the next 15 minutes I was on interviewer mode. Like most interviewer-interviewee interactions, I hardly had a chance to give out any interesting bits of information about myself - like my interest in killing pets of all sorts, finishing people’s sentences and my fixation on ben & jerry’s cookie dough ice cream. Why?

Because post-war hero here was telling me his life story.

And what did we find out? Post-War Dolly sits in an office two streets away from mine. Also, his career pathway for the past 8 years. His proficiency in Singlish. Some of the antics of the psycho-girls he has dated. And his divorce.

15 minutes, a saliva-peppered left cheek, and one perforated ear-drum later, I was sending out attention-deficit-damsel-in-distress signals. This included looking over his shoulders, making random eye contact and checking my phone for booty calls. Of course, he takes the last act as a cue for him to ask for my number.

Him: “Orh…. Yeeees. Giver me youuur nummer…” throbbing vein
Me: “no”
Him: incredulous. And with one raised eyebrow and same throbbing vein “what no?!... carrmmon… I’ll take ew out to luuuunch.”
Me: “Girls here are skeptical about giving away their numbers to dodgy, trashy, tacky white guys. You need to send me your resume first.”
Him: loving the taunt, “I af tooo sind ew an applicashen?!?!?! Okok lah… I’ll do that…”

And I gave him my card. Just as I did it, his friend conveniently slipped into the picture, ignoring Mr. Post-War Doll who’d just spent 20 minutes badgering me for my number. He looked me right in the eye, with a swift check at my cleavage, and said cheekily, “Don’t I get one too?” How smooth. Of course he gets a card. Let’s call him The Cocky Doll. – *wink* I’ll explain that.

The Cocky Doll – The one in his 30s

He’s hot. Under the pressed shirt and pants get-up, there was a soccer-ruffian dying to get out. The shirt was white and the pants brown. And ugh… great shoes. Nestled on his throat, a chunky Georg Jensen pendant peeked out from his brusquely undone collar, and the hair looked expertly styled. I seldom pay such compliments, but this guy has great style and exudes a processed amount of sex appeal. Squinty eyes and a small sharp face… he has the face of a rat – a very crafty rat. Don’t get me wrong, he looks pretty darn good really.

Me: “so you just hijack chicks your mate chats up, that’s what you do?”
Him: “yup. I let him bore them first”
Me: “ha, you’re mean.”
Him: “and you’re sexy.”
Me: “oh, you’re discerning too. Discerning skirt-chaser”
Him: “oh come on… I have other interests”
Me: “please. Like what? killing babies?”
Him: “half right. Killing baby seals”
Me: “oh but in Singapore you could get a fine for that. And a jail-term for a blow job. Depending if you’re giving on receiving though”
Him: “no la. I heard they castrate you”
Me: “oh yes. With a butter knife”
Him: “a rusty butter knife”
Me: “you can talk shit!”
Him: “yeah you too. We should get married. (pause) oh, but I’m not free on Saturdays, I got football practice, get married on a Monday?”
Me: “no can do. I got yoga class.”

We both shrugged at the cruel joke the heavens have played on us. He took my card, stuffed his into my hand and left to talk to some other chick. All the time making timely eye checks at me. What a player. I like.

And just as I’m about to leave, another doll appears before me…

The Baby Doll – The one in his 20s

Baby smooooooth skin. Megawatt smile. Straight teeth. Bright eyes. Typical young punk expat who’s wondering how to spend the unbelievable amount of money he’s making. I mean, there’re only so many play stations and ipod one needs. He’s what we call fresh meat. Loving the asian attention and believing he’s living the it life right now. He is the shit, although he’s terribly sincere and earnest and a puppy at heart. Undeniably handsome but nondescript. You get the impression that his face would be otherwise lost in the sea of white guys.

“you want to be wary of those two guys” he said
Me: “oh, thanks for the advice doll, I’m sure they have more to be afraid of.”
Him: probably not used to any girl making a comeback “Oh really?”
Me: “yes. Really.”

And I left. The next day, I get 3 emails.

The Beautiful Boxer

2007-02-02T08:01:00.000Z

Me: “Oh myyyy gaaawwwwd!!! This guy is fuck.king.hot.” nudging my homegirl. hard.
Anjali: always quick to react, snaps her head 360 degrees. “Oh, I know him. He’s hot. But he’ll never like you babe…”
Me: took one last look at him and turned to Anjali… zeal in my eyes and in a nothing-is-impossible-for-a-seven-year-old tone. “and why is that?”
Anjali: I’ve been dying to fuck him. But he’s a close family friend. So he’s out. Super hot, super shady, heard he’s done time before. big time badass... And… he only likes Indian girls babe. He’s dated all these girls that are fucking beautiful. They got nothing up there of course, but yeah, fuck-ing beau-ti-ful. *biting her lip in an attempt to be a ventriloquist* shut up. He’s coming this way.

He makes a beeline for Anjali. Holds her by the waist. Forceful grip. Check. Defined jawline. Check. Tight butt. Check. Intense eyes, sharp nose, charisma. Check check check. He playfully rubs his thumb on her back and goes, “You gotta stop looking so goooood, girl…”

one.sexy.motherfucker.

Anjali took her time flirting with him and laughing at his jokes before remembering to introduce us. One handshake later, he was on his way.

Me: “so, is he smart?”
Anjali: “he has his moments. A pathological flirt though. Good thing is, he doesn’t sleep around. He’s very selective about who he fucks. I soooo wanna fuck him.”
Me: “Me too!”
Anjali: “I have a slight advantage, I’m afraid.”
Me: “just cos you’re half Indian?”
Anjali: unapologetically “Yup.”

Anjali: “So we’re on.”
Me: “what’s on?”
Anjali: “W.F.H.F”
Me: “what’s that?”
Anjali: “Who’ll. Fuck. Him. First. I’m going to win.”
Me: “Screw you. I’m going to win. Loser buys beer.”

trreeet titit treet. That’s my SMS tone.

Anjali: gonna give tonight a miss babe. You girls have fun. Big kiss.
Me: ok. I’m stuck with ms. Hanger-on tonight. Wish you were here. Next time then. X
Anjali: if I’m not there, you stand a bigger chance. WFHF.
Me: Fuck you. But thanks anyway.

So I walk into the club with Ms. Hanger-On and headed straight for the bar… on the way to the bar, I see HIM. He looks at me, and gives me a stern nod, followed by a teasing smile. I throw him a flirty frown and said “don’t I know you stranger… Remember me, anjali’s friend?” and he said, “of course I do… face like yours, how to forget?” and we stood there, for three full seconds soaking in the sexual tension, before he leaned in to give me a kiss. He pressed his cheeks against mine and planted a dangerously lingering one. I could smell his perfume. Strong and masculine. From the corner of my eye, I saw ms. Hanger-on having a successful night getting the 20 yr old ah beng of a bartender to buy her drinks… I was just thinking she’s learning the ropes fast, when he said something that completely jolted me back into game.

Him: “What are you doing later?”
Me: “huh? later?” like i’ve never heard the word before. What a complete pillock.
Him: “I’m going to pop by another club first. And I’ll be back here at 4. will I see you?”
Me: “Will you?” (fucking dumb blonde I just turned into. I’m usually a lot more engaging. The promise of good cock sends my conversational skills into space)
Him: “Give me your number.”

And so we met at 4. I was careful to make it look like I had lots of stuff to do in between, although all I could think of was what to SMS Anjali after I scored. He walked in… and with fluttering eyes, mock surprise and a weak smile I said “hey, you came back… just in time to say goodbye… I gotta go…”

Works like a charm. Cos he puts me in a cab, climbs in and says… “Where do you live again?” I looked at him, no words came out of my mouth. He put his arms around me and I obediently buried my head in his chest, and he gave the taxi driver his address. 20-minute cab ride and we were kissing like teenagers.

Pretty Fucking Mind Blowing.

I woke up. Seeing him in the day for the first time; his body for the first time. His back was inked with various tattoos. Some on their own, some a kaleidoscope of colours and some were obvious cover ups of memories best forgotten. I looked around his place from where I laid, I saw old trophies. Some pictures, and made a quick deduction that he was a one-time professional boxer… explains everything, I thought… then he woke up. We looked at each other for the first time in sobriety and daylight, and we both smiled, probably both thinking thank god he/she looks the same. I ran my finger on a name inked on his chest. He looked down, as if he needed to remind himself what he tattooed on his chest, gave a grimace and said. “ex-girlfriend” I gave a nod and pointed to another. And he said “that’s my favourite”… then I said, “so, I hear you only date Indian girls”, to which he replied. “your source is rubbish”… He made me wear his oversized t-shirt and his size 11 flip flops and brought me down for breakfast. He showed me his hood, brought me back to his place, popped in a dvd, told me his mini plans for his bachelor pad, told me Jamie Foxx and him are similar, and we made sweet shag again.

The minute I got away. I SMSed:
“babe, we have to meet tonight. I’d like to claim my beer.”

Mr. One-Liners

2007-01-30T08:38:00.000Z

The key words were “Free Flow”. And only a world class literary expert like me would point out that it’s a clever use of alliteration. The rest are at the bar already.

My homegirl Anjali was newly in love. She arrived, fashionably late with her boy in tow, both of them wearing black tops (gotta be a coincidence)… She slowly raised her arms up high above her head, swung her head to one side, stretched the neckline, nestles into the most smoking of eye-locks… puts her hands round the back of her neck and sways her hips towards the new love-interest… he spun her around, pulls her by the top of her pants, closes the gap, plants a kiss on her lips and they burst into giggles. I noticed she wore no make-up - her quiet indication that she was outside the pick-up radar, and I knew I was on my own tonight.

So there I was, at the Martel Rise Above Party… a cable car ride away from civilization, free flow whiskey and a WingWoman down. It’s like being at a Ben & Jerry’s vending machine with no tokens. In times like these, the party-prodigy in me knows to hit the bar and knock back a few shots.

On the way to the bar. I got hijacked.

a) This dude didn’t have a drink for me. (I don’t do ugly guys when sober)
b) He had a horrible opening line (I don’t do people with no strategy)
c) He is lighter than a feather. (I don’t do skinny boys)
d) He is shorter than Frodo. (I try not to do short boys)

Rule #37: Never hijack a girl on the way to the bar if you look like that - unless you’re intercepting her with a worthy drink.
Two words: Bad. Start.

Him: (shaking a finger at me and faking a thinking frown) I’ve seen you around before
Me: Yeah, I got a common face.
Him: (like a rocket scientist) BALA! Balaclava.
Me: Oh, perhaps.
Him: You’re always there.

This is a sure way to irritate me… because I HATE being known as a “regular” of any place. I’m a chameleon. I am a shape-shifter. I am mysterious, unpredictable and elusive. I’m never ALWAYS at a place.

Me: nope. Think you got the wrong person.
Him: (catching it fast) Ok, maybe we met through work then.
Me: You think? So, what do you do?

I hate that question. Above that, I hate people that ask that question. It’s a rookie mistake. But I wasn’t intending to impress this guy, so I was risking my image with a run-of-the-mill question.

Him: I hate people who ask that question... I’ll answer Advertising. And you’ll say you’re in Sales. We’ll exchange namecards – with two hands - and you’d say “email me” and I’d never see you again. Ever. Not even at bala now.
Me: *picking my jaw up from the floor*

Inside me, I was playing the worlds’ smallest violin. A butterfly in my stomach did a somersault. And my toes were dancing… I studied this guy, this time with renewed interest and a bemused smile, suddenly very interested in what he has to say…

Me: (After a very flirty pause to compose myself)
Well, I ask it to people I am not interested in.
Him: With looks like yours, you have every excuse to be rude. I’ve seen how you shut guys off. But take my advice and give people a chance.
Me: You’ve seen me around? What are you, a stalker?!
Him: if you should be so lucky.
Me: oooh. Aren’t we cocky? YOU’RE chatting ME up, I’d advise some vodka and humility.
Him: *suddenly soft* I’ve seen you a few times. Tell me... why are you always in a group, but always alone…?
Me: *the surrendering eye-lock*
Ok. What can I do you for?

*laugh*

Him: Don’t be so presumptuous.

*laugh*

We exchanged numbers and Frodo scored a drink date.

The (Controversial) One Night Stand

2007-01-11T07:21:00.000Z

This happened in 2003. And it was a Wednesday. I remember it’s a Wednesday because this was a point in my life where I lived for 2 words. “Ladies’ Night”. It was my final year in the Uni, I was fresh out of a 3yr relationship (Read: 3 years of unfulfilling sex), and my best party pal - codenamed “BIX” was back in Singapore with her perfect tits, her slender waist, her porcelain skin and her amazing stomach for alcohol - ready to show the boys what they were missing out.

On hindsight, this was one of the coolest phases of life in Xin City. I was single and under de-construction (wearing braces). I had blonde streaks right down to my waist and a ridiculously well-paying part-time job. I was a student with a supplementary-card. I was managing Bs in school. I could afford to sleep in, get a tan, and make party plans.… and now I even had myself…… a Worthy Wing Woman.

If you ask any self–respecting party animal of the millennium they would be able to tell you that the cool people of this time (and possibly even now) all flocked to Zouk. Having great foresight, they played Hip Hop RnB in Phuture while synchronized dancing to bananarama which is, like, soooo yesterday, dominated Zouk.

So we were in Phuture… bix and I chose our weapons carefully. She opted for cleavage and I opted for the mini-skirt effect. All good. She looks beyond me and tells me

Bix: “Oh my… Your 6 o’clock… YOUR kind of guy”
Me: “I know!!! Saw him the moment we stepped in. how cute is that?!”
Bix: *rolls eyeballs* “Don’t know what you see in guys like that. So gross. He keeps looking over”
Me: (to self) “ok. Act cool. Gyrate gyrate, flick hair.”

His friend, Mr. Oohlala, walks up and talks to bix instead.

MY kinda guy in 2003 goes something like that: He is to have rippling muscles, complete with near-popping veins that would put a magnified peanut to shame. - This guy didn’t only possess that, he also had the face of a badass angel. Now all he needed was to be able to hold a decent conversation and pay for his own drinks, and the target can be pronounced locked.

Mr. Oohlala is outrageously generous. And also having a very intense conversation with bix’s boobies. 10 illusions, 2 tequila shots and a yawn later, Mr. Muscle Mary finally breaks the ice. Instead of launching into a clichéd opening line, like most meatheads, he impressed me by simply smiling… holding his arms to his side, sliding up behind me, presses his bulging chest on my back and flexed his muscles… I threw my head back, giggled at his heaving steel chest and he said...

“I saw you looking.”

What a cocky guy. Right up my alley. Target locked.