Friday, October 30, 2009
Old Habits Part II (sequel from “Old Habits”)
They got to the destination and took a stroll in the park. It had rained before. The ground was wet. He reached out to hold her hand. She didn’t resist, she simply felt indifferent. He then wrapped his arms around her waist. She was compelled to do likewise so that they could walk more in sync. She mentally noted the wide girth of his body as her arms was stretched out straight across the back of his waist. They found a bench and sat down. They both knew why they were there.
Small talk they had. She sat on his left. He had his left arm wrapped around his waist. She slung her legs over his lap. She was dressed in her betty-boo-ish black and white polka dotted fitted halter neck dress. She must have been complaining to him about something that had happened to her in the day. He humoured her and cocked his head to one side listening to her but his right hand was slowly moving underneath her dress. He parted her thighs lightly. He stroked her pussy lightly and made no attempt to wiggle his fingers underneath her panty to touch her bare flesh. He was teasing her. She was getting aroused.
“You are not listening to me...” she whined.
“Yes, I am. You are saying...”
They found their tongues inter-locking each other.
He was getting all hot and bothered, his usual heavy breathing way. He tried to caress her breasts and she pulled his hand away.
“Why?” he panted.
“Because...”
She pressed herself against him and felt the growing bulge of his manhood.
Lost in lust, he hastily unzipped his fly and guided her hand to his willie.
He wanted her to do the usual-wank the hell out of him.
She gave a little playful laugh and took out some tissues from her handbag and placed it over his rotund tummy. He was in a black T-shirt and a pair of black Bermudas.
“Baby, you are in black. Best not to leave any evidence...” She meant the possibility of shooting white cum.
“Oh you should know better,” he joked. He was looking at her dress. It was predominantly black.
They both laughed. She took out some more tissues and placed some over her tummy.
She fastened the rhythm of her hand movement over his manhood. He was panting breathlessly.
The love noise of desire titillated her. It has been awhile since she had felt aroused by a man late in the night, an illicit affair once more.
It was the usual-him getting aroused, his breath quickened. He moaned harder and louder. He drew in more breath as she tightened her grip. In that split second, his engorged beast burst into jets of sticky, white goo.
He was satiated. She wanted to move on to the next activity.
Not more than five metres away, there stood a lamppost. She then realised underneath it laid a person in the sleeping bag. That said person was lying there motionless, possibly either in slumber land or trying to keep still. She pointed it out to him.
Why hadn’t they notice the person before?
He looked a little taken aback and told her that from his peripheral view he had all along thought that it was damaged and abandoned umbrella at the bottom of the lamppost. In her sitting position on the bench, she was all along facing the lamppost and she too, had failed to recognise that they had company.
All well, she laughed. Let’s move on and get into the car, she said.
She got him to drive to that car park that the Old Boy and her first had a quickie many moons ago. It was a historically famous car park for lovers and voyeurs alike. Many trucks are typically parked there for various reasons. To deter illicit activities from going on in here, the council have installed some rather powerful and bright street lamps that cast white light on every few cars parked in there. They tried looking for a more strategic position and decided to sandwich their black car between two high trucks. She cautioned him amusingly that there might be voyeur truckies hiding in their trucks waiting to witness carnal actions as a good girlfriend of hers had twice been a victim of such voyeurs in this fateful car park.
She then added on that in case he didn’t realise, oh by the way, oral sex is illegal in Singapore.
What?! Are you serious? He asked.
Yeah, didn’t he know. It is considered as unnatural sex and they could be charged for offending. She laughed.
He must felt a little concern and partially lost his excitement.
In her head, she thought what it would look on the headlines in the Straits Times.
“High profile married expat banker caught engaging in the unnatural act of oral sex in the car with a local lover.”
She was getting amused.
Agilely, she climbed to the back seat of the car.
He was too rotund to do likewise. He got out of the car and quickly got into the back seat.
When he got seated, she climbed on top of his lap, spread her legs and sat facing him.
He inserted his tongue into her mouth and started kissing passionately, holding on to her waist.
Then he pulled his mouth away and looked at her, moving his hands slowly upwards to touch her body and then her breasts.
Don’t touch me there, she commanded.
He was part drooling and part pleading.
Can I just untie the halter and look at them with the bra on, he further pleaded.
She smiled slyly.
She enjoyed watching a powerful man weakening to vulnerability. She liked a pleading lover.
Only if you beg me, she teased.
And he did.
Would you like to untie the strings of my dress, oh Big bad Boy, she asked in her coquettish tone.
He was all excited, the drooling puppy expression not letting up. Clumsily, he tried to undo the delicate knot.
His chubby fingers and over-excitement must have got in the way. He couldn’t yank the knot out. Instead, it did the opposite.
She loosened the knot for him and let him do the honour of undo-ing the knot.
The halter strings of the dress came undone. He stared at the chest admiringly like one who was observing a piece of art.
Carefully and slowly, he ran his hand gently across her chest and stroked her bra cups gently.
They kissed again and in lust, she removed his black T-shirt and left it on the dashboard (which part blocked the lights casted onto the back of the car). She stroked his hairy chest lightly and rubbed herself against him in a riding motion. She liked playing Lolita to Big Daddy.
He undid his pants and got his proud and hot-blooded manhood out of his Bermudas. His arousal was heating him up and he was sweating. Again, she had her grip on his joystick.
What else would you like me to do, Big Boy, she eyed him seductively.
Oh, suck me, he begged breathlessly.
She got out of her position and knelt on his side. She lowered herself down. Her face was at dick level.
With one hand, she held his penis and inserted it into her mouth.
She sucked ravenously at it, first wetting it with saliva. Then she teased him by alternating her oral gymnastics with running the tip of her tongue on his mushroom head. The little aperture continued spitting wetness.
He pulled up her dress to reveal her bare buttocks wearing a thin piece of thong. He spanked her ass harder and faster to encourage further penetration of his dick into her orifice.
His moaning grew with the growing speed and increasing suction of the sucking movement- her manhood was inserted in and out of the mouth. As he continued going breathless, she inserted his cock deeper down her throat.
Faster, deeper and harder it went. He was going breathless from carnal delirium. She was going breathless from lusty exhaustion. Her face was buried between his legs.
I’m cumming, he warned.
She drew in more breath and increased her suction.
He exploded.
She prepped herself mentally (the usual) for the outburst and blocked herself of the taste of warm, potent white liquid in her mouth and took it into the system quickly like how one would down a shot. A protein shot, she privately joked to herself.
He threw his body back, huffing and puffing, still hyperventilating from his night treat.
This is how I had imagined what we could be. I am so going to take you away to spend more time with you, he was mind blown away.
Tit for tat.
Again, she wasn’t one who let the lover get away without pleasuring her.
My turn now, baby.
You want me to go down on you, he looked surprised and flattered with the privilege.
Why, of course. It’s payback time, Big Boy! She laughed.
She propped herself flat against one of the doors, her head resting on the window.
He parted her thighs, pulled up her dress, lifted her panty to one side to reveal her privates and buried his face between her legs. He did the cunninglingus and teased her pussy with the tip of her tongue. She was going wet and she started moaning.
You want to strip off my panties?
It’s ok. Any prior macho ambitions from the earlier sex texts of wanting to strip her to nakedness must have been cowardly dampened by the unthinkable consequences of being charged for indecent exposure in a rather brightly lit car park.
She held his head and encouraged his tongue to venture deeper as she thrust her pelvis towards him. She lifted her bottom up a little and demanded weakly from the pleasures of his tongue to insert a finger up her ass. She wanted to feel that tight enjoyment of having all her holes filled up.
He didn’t seem to understand her (possibly due to her distracted speech from being lost in lust) and for a moment, he misinterpreted that she wanted him to fuck her in the ass. Now, that would have been too full on for a piles-ridden P and the size of his fat cock might well do her in and send her straight for another colonoscopy. She declined his perplexed expression for confirmation by moaning no.
His tongue rhythm was great and his approach tenacious. Each time, she thought she was reaching the climax and all waiting to do her burst dam extraordinaire; his tongue would miss that secret spot by that mere millimetre. The anti-climax was fast resulting in her losing steam. She wasn’t getting the orgasm that she is so ever prowling for in such makeshift affairs. She found herself winding down in decline.
Gently, she withdrawn from the act by moaning a little louder to “signify” the climax (heheheh;)). At this stage, she already had her legs on his shoulders. She unwrapped them around his neck and he got up.
Did you enjoy it, he threaded the question self consciously.
Wasn’t I wet? She was not her usual acerbic self.
So you enjoy it?
Yes. (She part lied. It could have been better would have been fairer comment.)
Phew. I am glad you did.
She smiled compassionately.
I would really like to take you away and spend time with you. It was just like how I would like us to be.
Baby, you are sweating, she coo-ed sweetly. She grabbed for his black T-shirt on the dashboard and helped him put it back on. They kissed.
From this experience, she noted something. In her their smses tennis of lusty propositions, he had made it clear that he wanted her. He wanted to watch her face as she sucked him. He also wanted to see how lost in pleasure when he would devote his time to pleasuring her.
But, he did not find time or seemed interested to watch her in subordination to his manhood. He was NOT in control. Like others, he was lost in his plebeian lust.
He also did not so much as lift his head to watch her moan and tease her by denying her.
He didn’t take over her as she was hoping he would. After all, he is a powerful man in his daily arena.
She enjoys fucking with a powerful man and the dynamic of being part subordination in bed with her lover on such occasions of oral pleasures.
She nimbly climbed back to the front of the passenger seat and withdrawn back to her usual aloof silence.
Game over, time to go home.
He started the car and drove away.
Like how she experienced from some others before, he reached his hand over to touch her arm gently, waiting for reciprocation as he drove.
Let’s get away and I’ll spend more time with you together. I would see how my diary goes in the next few weeks, that encouragingly sweet expression written on his face.
We’ll see. If you manage to find time, she replied nonchalantly.
He had two hours for them that night.
Time was up.
Time to head home (to reality).
They got to the destination and took a stroll in the park. It had rained before. The ground was wet. He reached out to hold her hand. She didn’t resist, she simply felt indifferent. He then wrapped his arms around her waist. She was compelled to do likewise so that they could walk more in sync. She mentally noted the wide girth of his body as her arms was stretched out straight across the back of his waist. They found a bench and sat down. They both knew why they were there.
Small talk they had. She sat on his left. He had his left arm wrapped around his waist. She slung her legs over his lap. She was dressed in her betty-boo-ish black and white polka dotted fitted halter neck dress. She must have been complaining to him about something that had happened to her in the day. He humoured her and cocked his head to one side listening to her but his right hand was slowly moving underneath her dress. He parted her thighs lightly. He stroked her pussy lightly and made no attempt to wiggle his fingers underneath her panty to touch her bare flesh. He was teasing her. She was getting aroused.
“You are not listening to me...” she whined.
“Yes, I am. You are saying...”
They found their tongues inter-locking each other.
He was getting all hot and bothered, his usual heavy breathing way. He tried to caress her breasts and she pulled his hand away.
“Why?” he panted.
“Because...”
She pressed herself against him and felt the growing bulge of his manhood.
Lost in lust, he hastily unzipped his fly and guided her hand to his willie.
He wanted her to do the usual-wank the hell out of him.
She gave a little playful laugh and took out some tissues from her handbag and placed it over his rotund tummy. He was in a black T-shirt and a pair of black Bermudas.
“Baby, you are in black. Best not to leave any evidence...” She meant the possibility of shooting white cum.
“Oh you should know better,” he joked. He was looking at her dress. It was predominantly black.
They both laughed. She took out some more tissues and placed some over her tummy.
She fastened the rhythm of her hand movement over his manhood. He was panting breathlessly.
The love noise of desire titillated her. It has been awhile since she had felt aroused by a man late in the night, an illicit affair once more.
It was the usual-him getting aroused, his breath quickened. He moaned harder and louder. He drew in more breath as she tightened her grip. In that split second, his engorged beast burst into jets of sticky, white goo.
He was satiated. She wanted to move on to the next activity.
Not more than five metres away, there stood a lamppost. She then realised underneath it laid a person in the sleeping bag. That said person was lying there motionless, possibly either in slumber land or trying to keep still. She pointed it out to him.
Why hadn’t they notice the person before?
He looked a little taken aback and told her that from his peripheral view he had all along thought that it was damaged and abandoned umbrella at the bottom of the lamppost. In her sitting position on the bench, she was all along facing the lamppost and she too, had failed to recognise that they had company.
All well, she laughed. Let’s move on and get into the car, she said.
She got him to drive to that car park that the Old Boy and her first had a quickie many moons ago. It was a historically famous car park for lovers and voyeurs alike. Many trucks are typically parked there for various reasons. To deter illicit activities from going on in here, the council have installed some rather powerful and bright street lamps that cast white light on every few cars parked in there. They tried looking for a more strategic position and decided to sandwich their black car between two high trucks. She cautioned him amusingly that there might be voyeur truckies hiding in their trucks waiting to witness carnal actions as a good girlfriend of hers had twice been a victim of such voyeurs in this fateful car park.
She then added on that in case he didn’t realise, oh by the way, oral sex is illegal in Singapore.
What?! Are you serious? He asked.
Yeah, didn’t he know. It is considered as unnatural sex and they could be charged for offending. She laughed.
He must felt a little concern and partially lost his excitement.
In her head, she thought what it would look on the headlines in the Straits Times.
“High profile married expat banker caught engaging in the unnatural act of oral sex in the car with a local lover.”
She was getting amused.
Agilely, she climbed to the back seat of the car.
He was too rotund to do likewise. He got out of the car and quickly got into the back seat.
When he got seated, she climbed on top of his lap, spread her legs and sat facing him.
He inserted his tongue into her mouth and started kissing passionately, holding on to her waist.
Then he pulled his mouth away and looked at her, moving his hands slowly upwards to touch her body and then her breasts.
Don’t touch me there, she commanded.
He was part drooling and part pleading.
Can I just untie the halter and look at them with the bra on, he further pleaded.
She smiled slyly.
She enjoyed watching a powerful man weakening to vulnerability. She liked a pleading lover.
Only if you beg me, she teased.
And he did.
Would you like to untie the strings of my dress, oh Big bad Boy, she asked in her coquettish tone.
He was all excited, the drooling puppy expression not letting up. Clumsily, he tried to undo the delicate knot.
His chubby fingers and over-excitement must have got in the way. He couldn’t yank the knot out. Instead, it did the opposite.
She loosened the knot for him and let him do the honour of undo-ing the knot.
The halter strings of the dress came undone. He stared at the chest admiringly like one who was observing a piece of art.
Carefully and slowly, he ran his hand gently across her chest and stroked her bra cups gently.
They kissed again and in lust, she removed his black T-shirt and left it on the dashboard (which part blocked the lights casted onto the back of the car). She stroked his hairy chest lightly and rubbed herself against him in a riding motion. She liked playing Lolita to Big Daddy.
He undid his pants and got his proud and hot-blooded manhood out of his Bermudas. His arousal was heating him up and he was sweating. Again, she had her grip on his joystick.
What else would you like me to do, Big Boy, she eyed him seductively.
Oh, suck me, he begged breathlessly.
She got out of her position and knelt on his side. She lowered herself down. Her face was at dick level.
With one hand, she held his penis and inserted it into her mouth.
She sucked ravenously at it, first wetting it with saliva. Then she teased him by alternating her oral gymnastics with running the tip of her tongue on his mushroom head. The little aperture continued spitting wetness.
He pulled up her dress to reveal her bare buttocks wearing a thin piece of thong. He spanked her ass harder and faster to encourage further penetration of his dick into her orifice.
His moaning grew with the growing speed and increasing suction of the sucking movement- her manhood was inserted in and out of the mouth. As he continued going breathless, she inserted his cock deeper down her throat.
Faster, deeper and harder it went. He was going breathless from carnal delirium. She was going breathless from lusty exhaustion. Her face was buried between his legs.
I’m cumming, he warned.
She drew in more breath and increased her suction.
He exploded.
She prepped herself mentally (the usual) for the outburst and blocked herself of the taste of warm, potent white liquid in her mouth and took it into the system quickly like how one would down a shot. A protein shot, she privately joked to herself.
He threw his body back, huffing and puffing, still hyperventilating from his night treat.
This is how I had imagined what we could be. I am so going to take you away to spend more time with you, he was mind blown away.
Tit for tat.
Again, she wasn’t one who let the lover get away without pleasuring her.
My turn now, baby.
You want me to go down on you, he looked surprised and flattered with the privilege.
Why, of course. It’s payback time, Big Boy! She laughed.
She propped herself flat against one of the doors, her head resting on the window.
He parted her thighs, pulled up her dress, lifted her panty to one side to reveal her privates and buried his face between her legs. He did the cunninglingus and teased her pussy with the tip of her tongue. She was going wet and she started moaning.
You want to strip off my panties?
It’s ok. Any prior macho ambitions from the earlier sex texts of wanting to strip her to nakedness must have been cowardly dampened by the unthinkable consequences of being charged for indecent exposure in a rather brightly lit car park.
She held his head and encouraged his tongue to venture deeper as she thrust her pelvis towards him. She lifted her bottom up a little and demanded weakly from the pleasures of his tongue to insert a finger up her ass. She wanted to feel that tight enjoyment of having all her holes filled up.
He didn’t seem to understand her (possibly due to her distracted speech from being lost in lust) and for a moment, he misinterpreted that she wanted him to fuck her in the ass. Now, that would have been too full on for a piles-ridden P and the size of his fat cock might well do her in and send her straight for another colonoscopy. She declined his perplexed expression for confirmation by moaning no.
His tongue rhythm was great and his approach tenacious. Each time, she thought she was reaching the climax and all waiting to do her burst dam extraordinaire; his tongue would miss that secret spot by that mere millimetre. The anti-climax was fast resulting in her losing steam. She wasn’t getting the orgasm that she is so ever prowling for in such makeshift affairs. She found herself winding down in decline.
Gently, she withdrawn from the act by moaning a little louder to “signify” the climax (heheheh;)). At this stage, she already had her legs on his shoulders. She unwrapped them around his neck and he got up.
Did you enjoy it, he threaded the question self consciously.
Wasn’t I wet? She was not her usual acerbic self.
So you enjoy it?
Yes. (She part lied. It could have been better would have been fairer comment.)
Phew. I am glad you did.
She smiled compassionately.
I would really like to take you away and spend time with you. It was just like how I would like us to be.
Baby, you are sweating, she coo-ed sweetly. She grabbed for his black T-shirt on the dashboard and helped him put it back on. They kissed.
From this experience, she noted something. In her their smses tennis of lusty propositions, he had made it clear that he wanted her. He wanted to watch her face as she sucked him. He also wanted to see how lost in pleasure when he would devote his time to pleasuring her.
But, he did not find time or seemed interested to watch her in subordination to his manhood. He was NOT in control. Like others, he was lost in his plebeian lust.
He also did not so much as lift his head to watch her moan and tease her by denying her.
He didn’t take over her as she was hoping he would. After all, he is a powerful man in his daily arena.
She enjoys fucking with a powerful man and the dynamic of being part subordination in bed with her lover on such occasions of oral pleasures.
She nimbly climbed back to the front of the passenger seat and withdrawn back to her usual aloof silence.
Game over, time to go home.
He started the car and drove away.
Like how she experienced from some others before, he reached his hand over to touch her arm gently, waiting for reciprocation as he drove.
Let’s get away and I’ll spend more time with you together. I would see how my diary goes in the next few weeks, that encouragingly sweet expression written on his face.
We’ll see. If you manage to find time, she replied nonchalantly.
He had two hours for them that night.
Time was up.
Time to head home (to reality).
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Misery
Miserable.
Last two weeks have been hell.
Today, another lost lead.
I am not winning.
My heart feels congested.
My eyebrows are knitted.
I was told to slow down my game.
I haven’t close in on any really.
How the fuck can I slow down?
Miserable.
I reckon I will never get married at the rate I am going.
Even if I want to.
When the hell is money ever coming in?
Miserable.
Last two weeks have been hell.
Today, another lost lead.
I am not winning.
My heart feels congested.
My eyebrows are knitted.
I was told to slow down my game.
I haven’t close in on any really.
How the fuck can I slow down?
Miserable.
I reckon I will never get married at the rate I am going.
Even if I want to.
When the hell is money ever coming in?
Two Minds
I can’t decide if I love my situation at the moment.
But being my own boss is definitely a lot better than working for someone else.
It stinks being a corporate slave.
If I become successful at what I do, I can change many people’s lives by helping them build profitable businesses.
Current cash flow is running low with all the advertising campaigns.
I have kind of used up my lifeline with my generous folks.
Over Daisy’s dinner party today, someone commented that I am lucky to be able to switch careers (or rather what I want to do) and make the choice of being my own boss.
Lately, whilst walking the dog, Daisy had asked me to stop envying the older sibling (the trophy child) because my folks have pretty much asked her to look for a property. Result: a lovely Art Deco apartment in the dress circle location of the lower north shore, a stone’s throw to the beaches.
Daisy was right. I must have been mildly jealous but nevertheless, I am still excited for the older sibling. I always wanted to own my own apartment before any of my friends or family even remotely considered one. Now I am still homeless.
I am constantly in the state of thinking what I want to do when I grow up.
I am constantly trying to find that “place” or haven that is home to my soul.
I always wanted to be a fashion designer when I grow up.
I still do. I am thirty. I am supposed to have grown up.
I find myself working on the mannequin on the weekend, draping and re-draping and embellishing the unfinished garment. I am still working on my circus theme collection- a project I have set for myself.
It brings comfort for me to seek refuge in creation. Maybe it brings me a glimmer of hope. Whatever that hope is.
A couple of hundred thousand dollars over expended to revamp my life and to unshackle me from the corporate world, I am still not a fashion designer by profession.
Art is food to my soul. I am still feeling unnourished.
I must’ve not grown up yet.
When will I grow up?
I can’t decide if I love my situation at the moment.
But being my own boss is definitely a lot better than working for someone else.
It stinks being a corporate slave.
If I become successful at what I do, I can change many people’s lives by helping them build profitable businesses.
Current cash flow is running low with all the advertising campaigns.
I have kind of used up my lifeline with my generous folks.
Over Daisy’s dinner party today, someone commented that I am lucky to be able to switch careers (or rather what I want to do) and make the choice of being my own boss.
Lately, whilst walking the dog, Daisy had asked me to stop envying the older sibling (the trophy child) because my folks have pretty much asked her to look for a property. Result: a lovely Art Deco apartment in the dress circle location of the lower north shore, a stone’s throw to the beaches.
Daisy was right. I must have been mildly jealous but nevertheless, I am still excited for the older sibling. I always wanted to own my own apartment before any of my friends or family even remotely considered one. Now I am still homeless.
I am constantly in the state of thinking what I want to do when I grow up.
I am constantly trying to find that “place” or haven that is home to my soul.
I always wanted to be a fashion designer when I grow up.
I still do. I am thirty. I am supposed to have grown up.
I find myself working on the mannequin on the weekend, draping and re-draping and embellishing the unfinished garment. I am still working on my circus theme collection- a project I have set for myself.
It brings comfort for me to seek refuge in creation. Maybe it brings me a glimmer of hope. Whatever that hope is.
A couple of hundred thousand dollars over expended to revamp my life and to unshackle me from the corporate world, I am still not a fashion designer by profession.
Art is food to my soul. I am still feeling unnourished.
I must’ve not grown up yet.
When will I grow up?
Friday, October 23, 2009
SEX
As some of you know, a big part of this blog records the sexcapades of P. The theme of flings, affairs and rampant sex has summed up my life to date here P personifies the modern, wanton woman who constantly thinks about sex, indulges in the pleasures of the flesh with strangers and half-strangers and possesses the sexual curiosity and independence to pleasure herself more with toys.
What if I tell you that the truth is, I, P in her usual, emotionally stable state will be just like that prude you know (from church or across your work desk) with no libido?
Does that surprise you?
*****
In recent months, I have begun to come out from that pendulum-ic state of emotional instability. It has taken a good long decade for my disturbed soul to ebb. Even so, it is still ever so fragile and this week, I felt my emotions stirred.
I reflected upon my growing up years and my more-than-a-decade old experience in the intimacy department. I was around 15 when I first started having my first sensual contact with a boy. This year I turned 30.
All my teeny bopper relationships had been short-lived. They mostly ended abruptly before the honey moon effect had even subsided. I was left still feeling hot and bothered like a cat in heat whose mating session was curtailed by an intruder. So I continued fantasizing and replaying the scenes late at night whilst nursing my broken heart. With every next guy that came along, I went straight for that delirious factor of physical excitement and pleasure and repeated the cycle all over again.
Each time, by chance or misfortune, I went out with a cheater or what you would call a two-timer.
So DL came along- a lovely boy-next-door with a long time girlfriend back home awaiting him. He met a fun-loving girl called P who could be assertive and yet charming at the same time. P was merely feeding her Ego (because the tone of that girlfriend’s voice offended her over the phone once when they first started hanging out as friends) when they started having a bit of hanky panky.
I have always been independent. I never longed for a boyfriend like most girls did. I’ve always felt young and always wanted to be free.
“All the honey of matrimony but none of the sting”- I picked up that quote in Literature class from “The Cavalier”.
Affection and companionship would be nice. But nothing more.
*****
Throughout my life, I imagined endless adventures and thrills that I could embarked on.
The thrill of voluntarily being someone’s lover (instead of my previously hapless fate of being played out by my then boyfriends) was that new liberating social experiment I needed. I felt in control of my situation this time.
So like most couples, especially illicit ones, we had rampant sex in interesting positions and places. I opened his mind as he did mine. We were in that honey mooney state for what seemed like forever. A whole semester, actually and still we just couldn’t stop being in love and loving each other.
We even bought a matching pair of silver rings with carved with a naked couple in the “69” position. Friends around us knew what sex machines we were. We didn’t care what other approved or disapproved. We were in a world of our own.
Our burning passions fired up our imaginations further.
I was at a mentally difficult place in my life before DL came. I reckon he had saved my life. I had stopped eating for a while and was at that stage, clocking in two 2-hour gym sessions each day.
I started eating again when we got together. In fact, I ballooned. I was happy- romance does make the world goes round.
What started off as casual grew serious. DL had prided himself as a man who could never cheat, hitherto to his unchallenged mindset. The guilt got the better of him and he decided to take a decision. He walked away from his girlfriend and me. Somehow, I found him back in my life not long after.
So we continued our loving. That summer, I even stopped thinking about Mr. London, the so-called guy of my life who had got away and whom I couldn’t stop thinking for a good four years by that stage even when I was Down Under and he in London. DL and I had too much loving and it was that one and only summer we were both home together in Singapore. That year was 2000.
I introduced him to my parents and vice versa.
The second boy in my life.
*******
It was a first for me. A relationship turned overly serious. I hadn’t quite mentally prepared myself for such a committed undertaking. I was one who always had a plan. Allocating room for a serious boyfriend was definitely NOT the plan.
I was growing into my young adulthood and being overseas meant I had to learn quickly to grow up. We moved in together by the time I turned 22, thinking that we would bask in our own little love nest. What I didn’t factored in was managing the bills, bills and more bills. We even made bold and adopted our pet-child, Fluffball. Then there were also our different living habits and our opposing pet peeves overlooked on our quest to joint domestic (un)bliss.
Not to mention the fundamental contrast in our characters. I am as much an industrious go-getter bent on winning as he was an ultra laid back relaxer. I resented what I called his laziness in many aspects, initially with his studies and more so later with his initial resistance at looking for a part-time job, with our surmounting expenses. I found myself retreating to the study room a lot as I couldn’t bear the sight of my sloth-boyfriend on the couch watching TV or playing the Playstation.
My stress levels were rising and so was my blood pressure. I was a time bomb waiting to explode.
Those were my dark years.
I kept away from friends at home- I went missing. I was trapped and broke and vulnerable.
I stopped wanting sex. Every attempt at initiating physical intimacy from DL as he wrapped his arms around me affectionately and teasingly moved his fingers to stroke my privates were rejected by my breaking away.
When I did obliged, it didn’t feel right. He knew and I knew. Once, his dick must have literally felt like he was rubbing against sandpaper when he was inside me. He pulled his manhood out in sadness and I didn’t know what to feel except I didn’t feel like it. I was dry as a desert.
I thought this was it- the story of P’s life.
This is how it would be in a real relationship. The honey moon is over.
I would never enjoy sex again.
******
In the dark years, a big part of my spirit was broken.
I felt disillusioned.
I was a Living Dead.
I felt trapped in the mundane realities of joint domestic responsibility,
In hindsight, I was very unwell. I lacked emotional support from close friends and family from home.
A big part of my survival instincts hung on to a conflicting relationship.
DL loved me in many ways-he just couldn’t make me happy or gave me the comfort I needed to make me feel contented.
Now I have learnt that the key to happiness lie within myself.
*****
Somewhere deep in my artist soul, I craved adventure in order to live.
The quest for puer aeternus, Enternal Youth.
I needed a shake up and I wanted to feel alive again.
So I travelled alone and to places I dreamt of going in my childhood, alone to find myself planning and finally embarking on my adventures again.
I called these trips time out for myself.
*****
In Paris, the city of romance, I was truly happy with my art. I devoted most of my energy in my fashion designing- I sketched ceaselessly and I was hardly out of ideas. But I was still a pained soul, not knowing what to do about my relationship with DL back home. I continuously carried the burden of financial worries for him.
The growing anxiety meant that I found every quick fix opportunity to forget my worries and make merry from the indulgence of friends, alcohol and weed. I found myself wanting to indulge and experiment in short, casual romantic affairs. I wanted to feel young and free again. Inevitably, I was having sex with different people. I was mostly drunk.
When I sober up, the guilt of infidelity meant I would repeat the vicious cycle with dawn upon me. I would get drunk to forget it all, then get into some hapless or random encounter again and then repeat the cycle for the next outing. I psyched myself to think that the more I do it, the more I would be resilient to guilt. In my tipsy state, whilst my half-stranger of a lover and I were in the act of copulating, my mind often wander to another person or thoughts. Sometimes, I hear my own voice in my head musing, “So now you are doing it...” or “not another one night stand...” I even made a mental note about my getting wet down there.
Still I felt no excitement or pleasure like I did for when DL and I had first started.
I would do what I needed to do to make the other person cum. I would mentally make another note that I would make a good sex worker. Still, whatever excitement it had stirred within me from the pashings or foreplay earlier in the night that led us in the bedroom direction, the actualisation of the sex act, with the hardened cock in my lubricated pussy (who would gradually tighten up in anticipation to the climaxing of the male member) would kill it. One part of me is left feeling irritated and wanting to hasten the finale. “Next please...” I heard that voice in my head.
I figured that fire within me would never re-ignite again.
Finally, I met the French, Aura and he did something magical.He had the moves so to speak.
Our physical chemistry fitted like a hand and a glove (to use the cliché).
I was a ravenous lover and he had the moves too.
We were two charged lovers with the horsepower in the night.
It was awhile since I felt I had a good workout on the bed.
I was satiated. The next morning, I woke up a convert, knowing full well I found my mojo again.
I was alive once more.
*****
I came back to Australia and found my libido with DL again.
“Terrorist”, he would call me affectionately.
But I was never the same person again.
A part of me in my quest for that “high” meant I could never stopped becoming that compulsive shoplifter, always looking for that next fix/ thrill to keep my soul alive. I had come to like having affairs and flings to keep my libido going and my relationship feeling “normal”. Then, I also did developed feelings for some (or was it the “high” that some have kept me addicted to their company?)
I was becoming increasingly numb and better at compartmentalising the guilt of my infidelity.
But some days, it would insidiously creep up and in one big dump, I get the big heart squeeze of a panic attack hit me regarding my integrity as girlfriend. Oh, what have happen to me?
*****
Recently, I took a mental headcount of the number of affairs and flings I had.
I noted that I was mostly tipsy. I needed Dutch Courage like most people.
I remembered in my warped state of mind during that period of my life, I wanted to prove to myself that I was one who could handle having casual sex when I am sober. So the next day, after one drunk and rampant sexcapade with Ted from the previous night, I made sure I didn’t drink enough to get a buzz when I did him again. That night we did it in the moving vehicle with other passengers and more when he walked me into my bedroom.
What the FUCK was I trying to prove?
*****
So as many of you know where my story went, my guilt did get the better of me and DL and I split up for close to a year.
I was hurting and then I got on with the Old Boy.
There were also others including Koran and the Norweigian.
I was officially single so I could sleep with whomever I pleased.
I needn’t feel guilt. I wanted to make sense of my infidelity and desire for intimacy with strangers.
Did I truly like sex or do I simply crave for new adventures?
I needed to dig deeper to understand myself.
In those affairs, I thoroughly enjoyed my intimacy with the Old Boy.
It wasn’t like an instant chemistry that makes you go “wow” like I did with the French. Aura the first time. That was the ultimate sexual compatibility I think I could ever have with someone, albeit short-lived. One in a million, really.
But what I realised was this.
That same enjoyment and passion I gave the Old Boy was one and the same I had with DL. It bore out of a level of comfort I felt with him about my body but also my emotional state. He was my best friend, just as how DL and I started off as good friends.
But I do have problem. I have a short attention span that renders any sexual gratification I desire to get to be instant. To ignite that part of me, the nature of this exchange of intimacy has to be thrilling, hence my attraction to illicit affairs. But for me to ultimately enjoy and get a good orgasm from it, I have to trust that partner enough to feel comfy about putting whatever physical reservations of myself on hold.
My affair with the Old Boy, too had been short-lived. With no other relationships with similar dynamics to gauge, I too wonder if my sexual wanton-ess for the Old Boy would too peter out if we were at it long enough, just like DL and I?
*****
I am currently in a more mentally stable state of being.
I neither feel my imagination being fired up nor do I feel a sense of restlessness to embark on another on-the-side thrill.
Docile, I would term my current state.
Hence, I felt no libido.
The number of times I make love to DL since my return to Australia from Singapore in July can be counted on my one hand.
Immediately when I touched down in Australia, we started unpacking and moving into a new house with a big lovely garden and generous living space. Somehow, we’ve never done it in the house.
Making love since to only be part of the milieu for when we do weekend getaway trips.
Today, I mentioned to him again about our lack of.
Somehow I know a big part of me has a pivotal role to play- I have been lazy and perhaps too comfortable, talking about it but not putting real action into making it happen.
As for him, he had said he never really knew where he stood (in my heart), e specially after learning about all my on-the-side affairs. He once said that if he had chosen to get back and be with a (infidel)person like me, he had pretty much chosen to relinquish his bargaining chip. Twice over. I have been “cold” for so long. Perhaps one part of him is waiting for me to initiate a concrete move. Who likes to be knocked back with another rejection right?
For me, having the lack of sex for the most parts in the year meant that I have grown used to the state I am in. Perhaps I seek comfort from it because sex can sometimes fuck up one’s emotions.
Or maybe in my “normal” state plus possessing a short attention span, I am just someone with a very low sex drive.
******
Each day, I am healing from the self-destruction of my past.
I reflected on the pattern of how my past excessive indulgences had a direct correlation to the extreme temperature of my deluded state of mind.
Somehow, the lack of sex feels almost right now.
I am relatively angst free.
That is why any propositions that came my way in the last few months failed to stir me to excitment or fired up my imagination to action.
But hopefully, I will find that mojo with DL again- slowly but surely.
No more quick fix indulgence to mask my debilitating emotional state.
But right now, I prefer deriving instant gratification from this simple push button publishing technology.
Yes, I know I am turning into a prude;)
As some of you know, a big part of this blog records the sexcapades of P. The theme of flings, affairs and rampant sex has summed up my life to date here P personifies the modern, wanton woman who constantly thinks about sex, indulges in the pleasures of the flesh with strangers and half-strangers and possesses the sexual curiosity and independence to pleasure herself more with toys.
What if I tell you that the truth is, I, P in her usual, emotionally stable state will be just like that prude you know (from church or across your work desk) with no libido?
Does that surprise you?
*****
In recent months, I have begun to come out from that pendulum-ic state of emotional instability. It has taken a good long decade for my disturbed soul to ebb. Even so, it is still ever so fragile and this week, I felt my emotions stirred.
I reflected upon my growing up years and my more-than-a-decade old experience in the intimacy department. I was around 15 when I first started having my first sensual contact with a boy. This year I turned 30.
All my teeny bopper relationships had been short-lived. They mostly ended abruptly before the honey moon effect had even subsided. I was left still feeling hot and bothered like a cat in heat whose mating session was curtailed by an intruder. So I continued fantasizing and replaying the scenes late at night whilst nursing my broken heart. With every next guy that came along, I went straight for that delirious factor of physical excitement and pleasure and repeated the cycle all over again.
Each time, by chance or misfortune, I went out with a cheater or what you would call a two-timer.
So DL came along- a lovely boy-next-door with a long time girlfriend back home awaiting him. He met a fun-loving girl called P who could be assertive and yet charming at the same time. P was merely feeding her Ego (because the tone of that girlfriend’s voice offended her over the phone once when they first started hanging out as friends) when they started having a bit of hanky panky.
I have always been independent. I never longed for a boyfriend like most girls did. I’ve always felt young and always wanted to be free.
“All the honey of matrimony but none of the sting”- I picked up that quote in Literature class from “The Cavalier”.
Affection and companionship would be nice. But nothing more.
*****
Throughout my life, I imagined endless adventures and thrills that I could embarked on.
The thrill of voluntarily being someone’s lover (instead of my previously hapless fate of being played out by my then boyfriends) was that new liberating social experiment I needed. I felt in control of my situation this time.
So like most couples, especially illicit ones, we had rampant sex in interesting positions and places. I opened his mind as he did mine. We were in that honey mooney state for what seemed like forever. A whole semester, actually and still we just couldn’t stop being in love and loving each other.
We even bought a matching pair of silver rings with carved with a naked couple in the “69” position. Friends around us knew what sex machines we were. We didn’t care what other approved or disapproved. We were in a world of our own.
Our burning passions fired up our imaginations further.
I was at a mentally difficult place in my life before DL came. I reckon he had saved my life. I had stopped eating for a while and was at that stage, clocking in two 2-hour gym sessions each day.
I started eating again when we got together. In fact, I ballooned. I was happy- romance does make the world goes round.
What started off as casual grew serious. DL had prided himself as a man who could never cheat, hitherto to his unchallenged mindset. The guilt got the better of him and he decided to take a decision. He walked away from his girlfriend and me. Somehow, I found him back in my life not long after.
So we continued our loving. That summer, I even stopped thinking about Mr. London, the so-called guy of my life who had got away and whom I couldn’t stop thinking for a good four years by that stage even when I was Down Under and he in London. DL and I had too much loving and it was that one and only summer we were both home together in Singapore. That year was 2000.
I introduced him to my parents and vice versa.
The second boy in my life.
*******
It was a first for me. A relationship turned overly serious. I hadn’t quite mentally prepared myself for such a committed undertaking. I was one who always had a plan. Allocating room for a serious boyfriend was definitely NOT the plan.
I was growing into my young adulthood and being overseas meant I had to learn quickly to grow up. We moved in together by the time I turned 22, thinking that we would bask in our own little love nest. What I didn’t factored in was managing the bills, bills and more bills. We even made bold and adopted our pet-child, Fluffball. Then there were also our different living habits and our opposing pet peeves overlooked on our quest to joint domestic (un)bliss.
Not to mention the fundamental contrast in our characters. I am as much an industrious go-getter bent on winning as he was an ultra laid back relaxer. I resented what I called his laziness in many aspects, initially with his studies and more so later with his initial resistance at looking for a part-time job, with our surmounting expenses. I found myself retreating to the study room a lot as I couldn’t bear the sight of my sloth-boyfriend on the couch watching TV or playing the Playstation.
My stress levels were rising and so was my blood pressure. I was a time bomb waiting to explode.
Those were my dark years.
I kept away from friends at home- I went missing. I was trapped and broke and vulnerable.
I stopped wanting sex. Every attempt at initiating physical intimacy from DL as he wrapped his arms around me affectionately and teasingly moved his fingers to stroke my privates were rejected by my breaking away.
When I did obliged, it didn’t feel right. He knew and I knew. Once, his dick must have literally felt like he was rubbing against sandpaper when he was inside me. He pulled his manhood out in sadness and I didn’t know what to feel except I didn’t feel like it. I was dry as a desert.
I thought this was it- the story of P’s life.
This is how it would be in a real relationship. The honey moon is over.
I would never enjoy sex again.
******
In the dark years, a big part of my spirit was broken.
I felt disillusioned.
I was a Living Dead.
I felt trapped in the mundane realities of joint domestic responsibility,
In hindsight, I was very unwell. I lacked emotional support from close friends and family from home.
A big part of my survival instincts hung on to a conflicting relationship.
DL loved me in many ways-he just couldn’t make me happy or gave me the comfort I needed to make me feel contented.
Now I have learnt that the key to happiness lie within myself.
*****
Somewhere deep in my artist soul, I craved adventure in order to live.
The quest for puer aeternus, Enternal Youth.
I needed a shake up and I wanted to feel alive again.
So I travelled alone and to places I dreamt of going in my childhood, alone to find myself planning and finally embarking on my adventures again.
I called these trips time out for myself.
*****
In Paris, the city of romance, I was truly happy with my art. I devoted most of my energy in my fashion designing- I sketched ceaselessly and I was hardly out of ideas. But I was still a pained soul, not knowing what to do about my relationship with DL back home. I continuously carried the burden of financial worries for him.
The growing anxiety meant that I found every quick fix opportunity to forget my worries and make merry from the indulgence of friends, alcohol and weed. I found myself wanting to indulge and experiment in short, casual romantic affairs. I wanted to feel young and free again. Inevitably, I was having sex with different people. I was mostly drunk.
When I sober up, the guilt of infidelity meant I would repeat the vicious cycle with dawn upon me. I would get drunk to forget it all, then get into some hapless or random encounter again and then repeat the cycle for the next outing. I psyched myself to think that the more I do it, the more I would be resilient to guilt. In my tipsy state, whilst my half-stranger of a lover and I were in the act of copulating, my mind often wander to another person or thoughts. Sometimes, I hear my own voice in my head musing, “So now you are doing it...” or “not another one night stand...” I even made a mental note about my getting wet down there.
Still I felt no excitement or pleasure like I did for when DL and I had first started.
I would do what I needed to do to make the other person cum. I would mentally make another note that I would make a good sex worker. Still, whatever excitement it had stirred within me from the pashings or foreplay earlier in the night that led us in the bedroom direction, the actualisation of the sex act, with the hardened cock in my lubricated pussy (who would gradually tighten up in anticipation to the climaxing of the male member) would kill it. One part of me is left feeling irritated and wanting to hasten the finale. “Next please...” I heard that voice in my head.
I figured that fire within me would never re-ignite again.
Finally, I met the French, Aura and he did something magical.He had the moves so to speak.
Our physical chemistry fitted like a hand and a glove (to use the cliché).
I was a ravenous lover and he had the moves too.
We were two charged lovers with the horsepower in the night.
It was awhile since I felt I had a good workout on the bed.
I was satiated. The next morning, I woke up a convert, knowing full well I found my mojo again.
I was alive once more.
*****
I came back to Australia and found my libido with DL again.
“Terrorist”, he would call me affectionately.
But I was never the same person again.
A part of me in my quest for that “high” meant I could never stopped becoming that compulsive shoplifter, always looking for that next fix/ thrill to keep my soul alive. I had come to like having affairs and flings to keep my libido going and my relationship feeling “normal”. Then, I also did developed feelings for some (or was it the “high” that some have kept me addicted to their company?)
I was becoming increasingly numb and better at compartmentalising the guilt of my infidelity.
But some days, it would insidiously creep up and in one big dump, I get the big heart squeeze of a panic attack hit me regarding my integrity as girlfriend. Oh, what have happen to me?
*****
Recently, I took a mental headcount of the number of affairs and flings I had.
I noted that I was mostly tipsy. I needed Dutch Courage like most people.
I remembered in my warped state of mind during that period of my life, I wanted to prove to myself that I was one who could handle having casual sex when I am sober. So the next day, after one drunk and rampant sexcapade with Ted from the previous night, I made sure I didn’t drink enough to get a buzz when I did him again. That night we did it in the moving vehicle with other passengers and more when he walked me into my bedroom.
What the FUCK was I trying to prove?
*****
So as many of you know where my story went, my guilt did get the better of me and DL and I split up for close to a year.
I was hurting and then I got on with the Old Boy.
There were also others including Koran and the Norweigian.
I was officially single so I could sleep with whomever I pleased.
I needn’t feel guilt. I wanted to make sense of my infidelity and desire for intimacy with strangers.
Did I truly like sex or do I simply crave for new adventures?
I needed to dig deeper to understand myself.
In those affairs, I thoroughly enjoyed my intimacy with the Old Boy.
It wasn’t like an instant chemistry that makes you go “wow” like I did with the French. Aura the first time. That was the ultimate sexual compatibility I think I could ever have with someone, albeit short-lived. One in a million, really.
But what I realised was this.
That same enjoyment and passion I gave the Old Boy was one and the same I had with DL. It bore out of a level of comfort I felt with him about my body but also my emotional state. He was my best friend, just as how DL and I started off as good friends.
But I do have problem. I have a short attention span that renders any sexual gratification I desire to get to be instant. To ignite that part of me, the nature of this exchange of intimacy has to be thrilling, hence my attraction to illicit affairs. But for me to ultimately enjoy and get a good orgasm from it, I have to trust that partner enough to feel comfy about putting whatever physical reservations of myself on hold.
My affair with the Old Boy, too had been short-lived. With no other relationships with similar dynamics to gauge, I too wonder if my sexual wanton-ess for the Old Boy would too peter out if we were at it long enough, just like DL and I?
*****
I am currently in a more mentally stable state of being.
I neither feel my imagination being fired up nor do I feel a sense of restlessness to embark on another on-the-side thrill.
Docile, I would term my current state.
Hence, I felt no libido.
The number of times I make love to DL since my return to Australia from Singapore in July can be counted on my one hand.
Immediately when I touched down in Australia, we started unpacking and moving into a new house with a big lovely garden and generous living space. Somehow, we’ve never done it in the house.
Making love since to only be part of the milieu for when we do weekend getaway trips.
Today, I mentioned to him again about our lack of.
Somehow I know a big part of me has a pivotal role to play- I have been lazy and perhaps too comfortable, talking about it but not putting real action into making it happen.
As for him, he had said he never really knew where he stood (in my heart), e specially after learning about all my on-the-side affairs. He once said that if he had chosen to get back and be with a (infidel)person like me, he had pretty much chosen to relinquish his bargaining chip. Twice over. I have been “cold” for so long. Perhaps one part of him is waiting for me to initiate a concrete move. Who likes to be knocked back with another rejection right?
For me, having the lack of sex for the most parts in the year meant that I have grown used to the state I am in. Perhaps I seek comfort from it because sex can sometimes fuck up one’s emotions.
Or maybe in my “normal” state plus possessing a short attention span, I am just someone with a very low sex drive.
******
Each day, I am healing from the self-destruction of my past.
I reflected on the pattern of how my past excessive indulgences had a direct correlation to the extreme temperature of my deluded state of mind.
Somehow, the lack of sex feels almost right now.
I am relatively angst free.
That is why any propositions that came my way in the last few months failed to stir me to excitment or fired up my imagination to action.
But hopefully, I will find that mojo with DL again- slowly but surely.
No more quick fix indulgence to mask my debilitating emotional state.
But right now, I prefer deriving instant gratification from this simple push button publishing technology.
Yes, I know I am turning into a prude;)
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Snippets
of my thoughts darting past me...
*****
Watched (500) Days of Summer...
the other day and somehow I find myself relating to the female character.
*****
Last night
I met and had to sit down to make small talk to an eighteen year old girl who moved out of home...
She is such a girl... still childish and whiney in her speech.
She was playing with her straw in her glass filled with water where she blew bubbles...
I wonder how the Old Boy could fuck young girls that age... it almost feels criminial...
An eighteen year old is really still a kid, even if it meant they make their own living... she was telling me about her debts and more...still in college she is...
I looked at that girl and imagine the ones the Old Boy had fucked... he could be their daddy.
Big Daddy O...
Wait a minute, did I once call Big M that when i sat on his lap, both of us half naked in his car?
*****
Disturbed...
my mind felt earlier in the evening...
I wonder if I could have done more to help the man with that smart arse mouth to outwit himself so he could be helped?
I saw that as my failure- I think I almost got him across the line.
Why the hell did I stop myself where it mattered most?
of my thoughts darting past me...
*****
Watched (500) Days of Summer...
the other day and somehow I find myself relating to the female character.
*****
Last night
I met and had to sit down to make small talk to an eighteen year old girl who moved out of home...
She is such a girl... still childish and whiney in her speech.
She was playing with her straw in her glass filled with water where she blew bubbles...
I wonder how the Old Boy could fuck young girls that age... it almost feels criminial...
An eighteen year old is really still a kid, even if it meant they make their own living... she was telling me about her debts and more...still in college she is...
I looked at that girl and imagine the ones the Old Boy had fucked... he could be their daddy.
Big Daddy O...
Wait a minute, did I once call Big M that when i sat on his lap, both of us half naked in his car?
*****
Disturbed...
my mind felt earlier in the evening...
I wonder if I could have done more to help the man with that smart arse mouth to outwit himself so he could be helped?
I saw that as my failure- I think I almost got him across the line.
Why the hell did I stop myself where it mattered most?
Monday, October 05, 2009
Bagful (of tales)...
spilling out like forgotten letters from the overstuffed mailbag abandoned by a runaway postman.
Even I am beginning to grow forgetful...
So let me sieve through that bag and make out a few stories or more. As far as my memory can read the fading words and nuances...
******
The day the Old Boy met the Big Boy,
it was a Wednesday evening in the July of 2008.
Kitty and I had earlier gone for dinner with Jose, my friend whose acquaintance I first made when the Big Boy and him first picked B and I up.
Afterwards, Jose took us to a birthday party. I was waiting for the Old Boy to come take Kitty and I for drinks. He was having bass classes. It was that period of time where he was stony broke.
We got to the party- it was held at a big restaurant/ bar. The birthday drinks gathering was taking place in a private-ish room. A few girls in black of the birthday girl’s entourage had already kick started the drinks.
Kitty stepped into the room first, then she turned back to me and we headed to the birthday room. Her eyes had widened and she was fast hyperventilating. She couldn’t calm down and exclaimed that the bitch who has been doing her sugar daddy of a boyfriend (the Old Boy’s cousin) and managing his numerous properties at the same time was there! What should she do, what should she say to her when introductions are made later. She was fuming and dying to get back at her.
Relax, I told her. You are the one that have your boyfriend. Just be gracious, ok.
I don’t understand jealousy so there.
Having re- composed herself, we got back to the room. Kitty took the initiative to shake her hand and introduced herself.
“Oh, you are T’s agent, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” The Opponent beamed widely, unaware of what was to come.
“Oh, I am his girlfriend!”
The Opponent’s expression turned a shade darker.
I didn’t like being caught in awkward social situations as such (since I couldn’t see it as a worthy battle to fight for, not over a jerk really) and decided to get myself distracted by introducing myself to other girls around. I was beginning to think that she was about to shit stir and get herself into a catfight.
Frankly, I had no interest in petty quarrels, especially not over a man.
One part of me was distracted. I was worried about my Old Boy. I knew he would be uncomfortable in such social settings anyways- too richy pooh for him! The irony was most of these people had probably earned their yuppie social standings from the merit of their careers. The Old Boy came from old, old money. The poor little rich boy who grew up with amahs running after him, chauffeured rides to school, squash sessions at home and at the prestigious country club with an equally long history and the grammar boarding school breeding (“why are you so anti-establishment?” he once said to me during one of our online arguments).
The Big Boy suddenly turned up. It was not quite expected. He looked really sharp in his well tailored white shirt. He must have attended court that day. He had the height and built to carry a suit well. His wife could not have been prouder to have married well- a man who has earned his stripes in society from having done well in his chosen profession. His social tenacity in hanging out with the smart set and being involved in the committees of some respectable clubs and societies have put him in the “right” place. I even once saw him on Tatler.
As anticipated, the Old Boy arrived and upon awareness that group of strangers in pretty clothes and smart, yuppie dress styles did his usual-he clamped up and became a social hermit, the complex of social inferiority written all over his expression. I love the Old Boy and all I wanted to do was to shield him from discomfort. I even became uncomfortable and socially awkward. I kept my silence and loss my usual volubility. The Old Boy sat on my left on the couch. The Big Boy sat on my right on another couch at right angle to ours.
Corks of Moet Champagne bottles have been popped. The Big Boy must have earlier offered me a bubbly flute earlier on. When the Old Boy arrived, the Big Boy offered him one in which he declined. The Old Boy doesn’t drink. I tried to make him feel better at ease and tried to pour him some water instead. But he also declined. Instead he pulled out his mobile phone and got into his usual anti-social behaviour and showed me something on youtube. Then he spent a good part of our stay outside the room, smoking one cigarette after another.
What happen to the Old Boy’s usual private school stealth wealth charm?
Stark contrast in between the two boys every sense. The height, for starters. The dress style and which one is the high flyer making the good money here? No prizes for correct answers.
Even women preference- one desires fair maidens, the other lusts over brown sugar.
Who look like the rich man’s son?
****
Tittle Tattle
It was during one of those small talks that I made with someone.
“You know how he can talk, he can’t keep a secret. The Old Boy is a good lover but that’s just about it. Forget him.”
This person must have hinted along the lines that he wasn’t worthy of my feelings (and implied that he is not to be trusted). Like this person knows anything about me unless the Old Boy had been flapping his mouth.
This person brought up the subject first. I didn’t even try digging.
" Everytime I see him, I feel that I love him all over again. But don't worry about me.I'll be ok some day. Thanks..."
I didn’t realise this person had actually gave some thought to my welfare. We are merely acquaintances but very cordial with not many common topics in our typical lifestyles.
I always view this individual as having little opinion and was definitely more of his ally.
Were the thoughts voiced, this person’s own or merely what the person might have delivered on behalf of someone close?
*****
The first time I was addressed as Mrs Z,
we were at the foot spa. Early October 2008. The Old Boy had booked an appointment for us.
The second time, I was mistaken as the wife or possibly having some form of relationship with him. June 2009. I went to the country club to meet him. One British expatriate, his father’s friend mistook me for his wife. The other, also Brit, thought we had some relationship going.
“ I don’t have such good taste,” he smiled in reply.
“P is a good friend and one of the few friends from overseas who would look me up when she’s back....”
My heart was wrung hard and bled dry.
The guys were cooling down from their sports at the outdoor seating. I joined them for beer (barring the Old Boy) and chips.
Later, the Brits invited us to join them for dinner in the country club. We accepted and the four of us had to walk a little distance to the club restaurant. We walked behind them.
The Old Boy whispered tenderly (his usual-trick-girls-to-fall-for-him-through-flattery-way).
“I’ve never been invited by them for dinner. It must be the company tonight...”
I merely smiled.
I always knew his tricks to make himself be desired. Still, I was flattered.
Sucker, I was.
Although I never quite aspire to be the Old Boy’s wife, fancy I always secretly did for being “mistaken” for (the secret) Mrs Z (in our make-believe world where time and our stark differences were temporarily suspended)...
spilling out like forgotten letters from the overstuffed mailbag abandoned by a runaway postman.
Even I am beginning to grow forgetful...
So let me sieve through that bag and make out a few stories or more. As far as my memory can read the fading words and nuances...
******
The day the Old Boy met the Big Boy,
it was a Wednesday evening in the July of 2008.
Kitty and I had earlier gone for dinner with Jose, my friend whose acquaintance I first made when the Big Boy and him first picked B and I up.
Afterwards, Jose took us to a birthday party. I was waiting for the Old Boy to come take Kitty and I for drinks. He was having bass classes. It was that period of time where he was stony broke.
We got to the party- it was held at a big restaurant/ bar. The birthday drinks gathering was taking place in a private-ish room. A few girls in black of the birthday girl’s entourage had already kick started the drinks.
Kitty stepped into the room first, then she turned back to me and we headed to the birthday room. Her eyes had widened and she was fast hyperventilating. She couldn’t calm down and exclaimed that the bitch who has been doing her sugar daddy of a boyfriend (the Old Boy’s cousin) and managing his numerous properties at the same time was there! What should she do, what should she say to her when introductions are made later. She was fuming and dying to get back at her.
Relax, I told her. You are the one that have your boyfriend. Just be gracious, ok.
I don’t understand jealousy so there.
Having re- composed herself, we got back to the room. Kitty took the initiative to shake her hand and introduced herself.
“Oh, you are T’s agent, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” The Opponent beamed widely, unaware of what was to come.
“Oh, I am his girlfriend!”
The Opponent’s expression turned a shade darker.
I didn’t like being caught in awkward social situations as such (since I couldn’t see it as a worthy battle to fight for, not over a jerk really) and decided to get myself distracted by introducing myself to other girls around. I was beginning to think that she was about to shit stir and get herself into a catfight.
Frankly, I had no interest in petty quarrels, especially not over a man.
One part of me was distracted. I was worried about my Old Boy. I knew he would be uncomfortable in such social settings anyways- too richy pooh for him! The irony was most of these people had probably earned their yuppie social standings from the merit of their careers. The Old Boy came from old, old money. The poor little rich boy who grew up with amahs running after him, chauffeured rides to school, squash sessions at home and at the prestigious country club with an equally long history and the grammar boarding school breeding (“why are you so anti-establishment?” he once said to me during one of our online arguments).
The Big Boy suddenly turned up. It was not quite expected. He looked really sharp in his well tailored white shirt. He must have attended court that day. He had the height and built to carry a suit well. His wife could not have been prouder to have married well- a man who has earned his stripes in society from having done well in his chosen profession. His social tenacity in hanging out with the smart set and being involved in the committees of some respectable clubs and societies have put him in the “right” place. I even once saw him on Tatler.
As anticipated, the Old Boy arrived and upon awareness that group of strangers in pretty clothes and smart, yuppie dress styles did his usual-he clamped up and became a social hermit, the complex of social inferiority written all over his expression. I love the Old Boy and all I wanted to do was to shield him from discomfort. I even became uncomfortable and socially awkward. I kept my silence and loss my usual volubility. The Old Boy sat on my left on the couch. The Big Boy sat on my right on another couch at right angle to ours.
Corks of Moet Champagne bottles have been popped. The Big Boy must have earlier offered me a bubbly flute earlier on. When the Old Boy arrived, the Big Boy offered him one in which he declined. The Old Boy doesn’t drink. I tried to make him feel better at ease and tried to pour him some water instead. But he also declined. Instead he pulled out his mobile phone and got into his usual anti-social behaviour and showed me something on youtube. Then he spent a good part of our stay outside the room, smoking one cigarette after another.
What happen to the Old Boy’s usual private school stealth wealth charm?
Stark contrast in between the two boys every sense. The height, for starters. The dress style and which one is the high flyer making the good money here? No prizes for correct answers.
Even women preference- one desires fair maidens, the other lusts over brown sugar.
Who look like the rich man’s son?
****
Tittle Tattle
It was during one of those small talks that I made with someone.
“You know how he can talk, he can’t keep a secret. The Old Boy is a good lover but that’s just about it. Forget him.”
This person must have hinted along the lines that he wasn’t worthy of my feelings (and implied that he is not to be trusted). Like this person knows anything about me unless the Old Boy had been flapping his mouth.
This person brought up the subject first. I didn’t even try digging.
" Everytime I see him, I feel that I love him all over again. But don't worry about me.I'll be ok some day. Thanks..."
I didn’t realise this person had actually gave some thought to my welfare. We are merely acquaintances but very cordial with not many common topics in our typical lifestyles.
I always view this individual as having little opinion and was definitely more of his ally.
Were the thoughts voiced, this person’s own or merely what the person might have delivered on behalf of someone close?
*****
The first time I was addressed as Mrs Z,
we were at the foot spa. Early October 2008. The Old Boy had booked an appointment for us.
The second time, I was mistaken as the wife or possibly having some form of relationship with him. June 2009. I went to the country club to meet him. One British expatriate, his father’s friend mistook me for his wife. The other, also Brit, thought we had some relationship going.
“ I don’t have such good taste,” he smiled in reply.
“P is a good friend and one of the few friends from overseas who would look me up when she’s back....”
My heart was wrung hard and bled dry.
The guys were cooling down from their sports at the outdoor seating. I joined them for beer (barring the Old Boy) and chips.
Later, the Brits invited us to join them for dinner in the country club. We accepted and the four of us had to walk a little distance to the club restaurant. We walked behind them.
The Old Boy whispered tenderly (his usual-trick-girls-to-fall-for-him-through-flattery-way).
“I’ve never been invited by them for dinner. It must be the company tonight...”
I merely smiled.
I always knew his tricks to make himself be desired. Still, I was flattered.
Sucker, I was.
Although I never quite aspire to be the Old Boy’s wife, fancy I always secretly did for being “mistaken” for (the secret) Mrs Z (in our make-believe world where time and our stark differences were temporarily suspended)...
