Thursday, September 30, 2004

Break Already.

Break breakbreak break.

Martine's texted me and asked if I’d like to watch the Importance of Being Earnest, by the British Theatre Playhouse (not that I’ve watched anything by them previously), with him. I suppose I must have hinted that it was my absolute-est favourite-est play ever sometime back.

Me (after being offered to be brought to watch the play) Yay! I’m happy for the rest of the night.

Him: You will sleep soundly then!

Me: ‘Suppose so. Sleep… well, (Oh, I had to say this) and till we get to do that together…

Him: Lord knows I’d love to penetrate you… But I must have restraint.

And for some odd reason, the flirting over text messages turned me on. Especially with mention of the penetration bit. The word just strucked me so hard and made me shudder.

Me: Um… Why do I have this strange, warm feeling spreading from between my legs.

I wasn’t teasing any longer, and I could feel myself getting wet. There was such a heightened sense of sexuality in me. Not being able to get what you want definitely causes any mention of the prize to result in aggravated, irregular heart palpitations. Amazing how so much of sexual excitement’s really all in your head.

Him: Stop teasing.
Please, please, please, please!

Me: Oh God. Trust me, I’m equally as tortured… (but I’m ever the masochist).

I really had wanted to suggest sneaking over to his place by saying that no one need fucking know. But had thought better of it. I’d knew he’d say no anyway, and I’d just come off across as childish, and terribly selfish. And I didn’t want him to think that; nothing to do with me being genuinely considerate. I cannot even possibly see how his fears can come to realization in the first place anyway, so there was no way I could have been.

Me: All-right, I shan’t give you blue balls or anything like tonight. Bah.

Him: Thanks? Wet, generous goodnight kisses for the space between your legs.




Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Heterosexual Pre-adolescent Romancing

It would seem that a number of people from my distant past have finally contacted me. One of them was my ex-best-girl-friend. She’s of an exotic breed, a very eclectic mix of a number of East Asian races, with a natural beauty that resembles the conventional form of a Korean high-school graduate right after she’d gotten her graduation present –Plastic surgery. Only, Coco is absolutely, 100%, natural. With breasts that are too round to believe – but they’re also natural.

She’s always been pretty, and she’s still drop dead gorgeous. She’s smart, certainly, only she spent all of it back in Secondary school on the art of military stratagem. One of those computer games boys will always be into, no matter how old they get.

The guys loved her of course, in fact, they were in perfect awe. She was extremely sexy and sassy, her tongue could rival theirs any damn day, and she could beat them up both literally and with the computer mouse. You know how it is when kids are 14, where the guys have only just started growing physically, and the girls are already half way there. Coco was tall for her age group and played any number of sports.

We both liked the same guy, a particularly pretty specimen of the male race that looked like he was a direct descendant from the Angel Gabriel. Or any one of them angels of good tidings. He’s also among the smattering off Asian males I know I wouldn’t mind finding myself in bed with, mostly because the feelings of pleasure I had felt from looking at him as a 12 year old never really went away. He is very pleasing to look at, the first time I saw him, I really did think he was an angel. The morning sun had been directly behind him, and he was wearing a pure white tee shirt. Now when I think about it, I find the whole idea of how I had felt then terribly amusing, yet it still does not cease to incite wistfulness.

Oddly enough, we (Gabriel and I) did find ourselves, years after we’d not contacted each other, lounging about in our underwear ,smoking Saproenas with another female friend of mine. We had some how ended up on a South East Asian beach resort, entirely by coincidence.

He had started dating me initially for a couple of months when I was about 12, coming on 13. We had started of by me attempting to give him advice on how to get a girl to feel up (He was the first boy I liked, but I’d already had prior experience. My second encounter with having my nipples licked had not been a week past -the first had been really quite some while before; while I was in Kindergarten I think). Strangely, we never really went past first base, and now when I think about it, we didn't actually kiss till many years later. I suppose it was because I was incredibly shy and had no idea how to get about to get it on. I was also insanely insecure, and despite him telling me I was really ‘very chio’, I still didn’t think I was pretty enough to kiss him. He was much too beautiful.

If he’d been catholic, they’d have sodomized him every day.

I’d showed his picture to Coco, and a number of other girls in my class, and just about everyone then was in love with Gabriel. But I swear to God, no one was pretty enough, save Her. And she was my best friend, and she kept on insisting I had to let her get to know him.

I deliberated about it for a few weeks. Sometimes I think I was too grown up for my own good. Always had insane idyllic ideologies such as: If he really loved me (at this point, we were sort of dating each other, and he’d bought me a few trinkets) he’d not go for her. Of course I fucked up and of course he went for her. I wasn’t bitter about it though, and it was then that I came up with the no guy was ever worth the friendship of your girlfriend theory. It was a good philosophy, we’re still great friends today. Not as close in the sense that I nearly never see her, but we practically grew up together, and shared any number of sexual digressions since we were, oh, 11. I shall still be attending her wedding, that's for sure. She wanted me to be her future kid's god-mother once.

At some point in time, I introduced her to the guy whom I had thought could have been the one responsible for the breaking of my cherry. We had had a lot of phone sex, and he’d told me I should try putting ‘something up there’. I didn’t do it right away, but I’d always been far too comfortable with myself since the day I was born, so I’d attempted it in the bathroom. Nothing exciting like the handle of the toilet brush though, just my little finger. It didn’t feel like absolutely anything, only an annoying sort of pain because I hadn’t bothered to cut my nails in awhile.

Oh this is so fucking lame, I’d thought, and proceeded to jill of in the manner more suited for little girls. The next day, there was a little bit of blood, and I had quite a fright.

Well, serve you right you silly little slut. No one’s asking you to do unnatural things like putting your finger up your cunt, now see what you’ve done.

I don’t think I’d ever prayed so hard all my life.

Oh lord, I hope I don’t bleed to death. Maybe my nail cut me inside, I hope it won’t get infected. Have I lost my virginity forever? To myself? (But it didn’t really matter, I had never wanted to keep it till marriage anyway).

Turned out a couple of day later it was my first period. Weird shit.

Anyway, the phone sex guy had been about 5 years older then me, was a pathetic pervert, and is still a pathetic pervert. Cute though, great build, and very eloquent, which always made me wonder why he always seemed to have such a difficult time finding a lay. We never did anything more then phone sex, and he’s still in the routine of calling me up about four times a year, but we’d stopped with the phone sex slightly under half a decade ago.

He called last weekend, and started with what he always starts with. Have you been masturbating lately. I asked him what kind of fucked up question is that? I’ve grown up, and it was time he realized that. I wasn’t 12 any more, and I wasn’t going to play his stupid games. I’d been telling him the same damn thing for two years already.

I really do think some guys are incredibly stupid. I had been so way underage then, and they’d still insisted on attempting to do me. I was never dumb enough to meet this phone sex person obviously, but… nevermind. Those are stories for another day.

Coco blamed me for awhile, after introducing her to him. I don’t know why I did it, perhaps it was out of a need to please him. (Cut me some slack, I was 13 and one of the most insecure 13 year olds you would have ever met. Just too eager to please.) Last weekend, he’d ask me to introduce some other girlfriend to him, since it did not seem like I was ever going to meet him.

‘Yeah right. You scared the first girl I introduced to you off, of course I won’t ever introduce another one, ever. Is that how you behave when you try to pick a girl up? Ask her if she masturbated? Because that’s is one of the most incredibly inane approaches, ever.’

He didn’t have a good answer. In fact, he didn’t have any answer at all.

‘I’ll pay you for it.’

‘What? So I’m to barter my friends for you? I'm afriad you don't have enough money to pay for that. After that incident, it’s going to cost you a lot. And I don’t want your money anyway.’

‘I bet I could give you more money then you’d ever expect.’

‘Oh please. Firstly, I don’t want your lousy money. You’re not making a great deal, and it will be a cold day in hell when I give you another girl’s number. I suffer and intense loyalty for my species.’

I don’t hate him, honestly. He just incites a mix of repulsion and pity from me, despite all his aesthetical qualities. Both him and the ex are one of the reasons why I can never ever be sexually attracted to good looking Asian men, ever again. And since I am not attracted to ugly people whatever race they are, I simply refuse be attracted to this one particular species forever.

It's called a behavioural pattern highway.

I think.


For some odd reason, all this recalling the past made me dig out Aerosmith's Permanent Vacation. He was my induction from an insipid fair of boybands into the evil world of bad ass rock music.

Oh Simorahh!! *laughs*


Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Contempory Art

It's anything that's made in the last 40 years. This was made not even 24 hours ago. You have no idea how inspiring everything is when you're forced to read pages upon pages of crap about the IS-LM model and the economy of God's people in the desert where Manna was the only good available for consumption. Good lord.

I'd read the most facinating article on art investment in this month's Prospect Magazine: The Price of Art. (modern) society people trade in cultural capital in a manner analogous to the trade in goods. [...] We acquire cultural items - a trendy wardrobe, a collection of great CDs - to make ourselves more valuable...

Well, investing in my own art is certainly something I hope can happen in the future. Cupido is absolutely contemptuous of paintings by artists he believes have yet to acquire definitive skill in the discipline. It was impossible for me to convince him that it wasn’t technical finesse but rather the appeal a piece of art had on it’s audience that mattered. Art write ups are not necessarily all the time the truth of the artist’s intent, especially when it’s something as simple as ‘because I felt like it’ basically because the price of art increases when people relate to it on a philosophical level.


Case in Point

<>Martine and I were completely exhausted last night. He called it quits before 10; I was yawning half the time (making sure it wasn’t while I was chewing my food. He really hates that). For some strange reason, he’s always terribly apologetic whenever he refuses me something. He knows I’d, more then anything, would love to do him, but I wasn’t particularly pushy. Not even vaguely. There were some obscene hand gestures over the table, by the salad bowl, but that really was it.

I had walked my fingers across the table in that man impersonation fashion and abruptly spread the index and middle finger apart before looking up and him, raising an eyebrow and biting part of my lip. That was as far as I went, I swear.

Before he sent me off, he’d said he hoped I was ‘fine’.

‘No. I’m suffering from severe attention deficit.’

‘You’re playing me along again.’

‘Of course I am. But getting a little something else would really hit it. I doubt that possibility though, even if I employed all my feminine wiles. And I do have an extensive range.’

‘My heart goes out to you, in particular, your… thingy.’

‘Honestly, My thingy, would appreciate something else other then your heart.’

‘Then it can only hope that some other part of your body works out the circumstance we’re stuck in at the moment. I am cruel only to be kind…’

(I texted him on my way home.)

Clichéd, darling. Cruelty is nearly as noble as poverty.

Don’t know if he got the message, but I was trying to imply that there was a self-righteousness to be found in validated cruelty.

He called me before he went to bed, and showered me with more then enough flattery to last me the night. There was a peculiar discourse in which I was compared to Nabokov’s Lolita, only that I was incredibly aware of what I was doing, and that it was strange when my adolescent build contrasted against my in-your-face, experimental attitude towards life. And sex. And how everything seemed to be at odds with my taste in literature.

I could not see the discrepancy; So I treat my sex lightly and my literary tastes with dead seriousness. In this case, it must follow that I do enjoy a perfectly balanced lifestyle. (The truth is however not quite so. Sex plays too big a part in my existence to be crassly considered.)

There was more mention of how he’d really love to have a romp in the sack with me, and that it was entirely regrettable…

‘Oh, I’m not assed about it. I’ve got the next half a dozen years to screw you in Singapore, and many more years on top of that before you go out of service.’

He laughed.

‘You know, I love being a woman. You can say rude things like that, and guys will think it’s funny, liberating, and no big deal at all. But oddly, for all my candidness, I wouldn’t be able to stand it very well. I’d take insult, I wouldn’t show it, but I would. It’s intrinsic.’

Mr. Big and I had had this conversation sometime back. It was while we were street-walking whore watching. I’d mention that I felt no obligation to sleep with someone else again if he sucked in bed, and close to no compulsion whatsoever to treat him like someone I’ve slept with before. I wouldn’t feel like I needed to call him, or do anything particularly nice for him if I realized I didn’t quite like him after all. And I wouldn’t even feel vaguely guilty. (I would still be polite and as considerate as I possibly can though, until he got on my nerves!)

Men on the other hand (bless those creations of God *laughs*), the nice ones I have gotten the good luck to know anyway, nearly always feel obliged if they hadn’t paid for it, and if the girl seemed to like them quite a bit after. What a headache; but they should stay that lovely considerate, slightly guilt conscious way. I’d be sorry if they started becoming mean, self-serving bitches.


Monday, September 27, 2004

Wild Abandon

I need sex. It’s this inordinate, irrepressible desire that starts out from that soft space between my legs and proliferates into every part of me. I want to be fucked. Brutally but with consideration; be subjugated, while forcing submission to my desire.

Martine’s asked me out for dinner tonight.

Me ’About time, it has been a few days. Too long.’

‘I know it’s been awhile, I’ve been trying to keep on the straight and narrow.’

‘I quite prefer the winding, crooked route. It’s usually more scenic.’

The more I can’t have him the more I want him. Why must he be so afraid? No one needs to know. I could sneak over to his place in the middle of the night, and leave at dawn, and no one needs to fucking know. I don’t care if he doesn’t take me out, I don’t need dinner and dates and Dahlias. I just want that piece of him.

He’s very tall, twice my size, slender though. I want to pin him down like the little imp I am, and straddle him with my insanity. Dig my nails into his flesh and grit my teeth and stare at him like I’m going to tear him apart. I want to match my youthful body against his. Notice how young, and lithe, and supple I am. How perfect the perkiness of my breasts, the colour of the aureoles, the undulation of my belly where my womb resides. Staple all that against his less then perfect, far from perfect self.

I want him with such selfish, reckless abandon. For all the most selfish, thoughtless reasons.

Fuck me on the table, on the bed, draped over the couch, in front of the mirror, upon the floor. I want you to look like you’re absolutely consumed by me, I want to spur you to irrationality.

You told me, in the slightest whisper over the drum beats of an obscure Brazilian artist, how men just love to fuck many, many women. And how women would want to snag one guy, and fuck him many, many times.

I’ll not give you rest.

If you’d just let me.



Sunday, September 26, 2004

Monogamy and the Bible

It’s the Sabbath yet again. I asked Mr. Big and the Boy (whom I had an exhausting conversation with till 4 a.m. last night) about their take on pre-marital sex –they both agree to a number of Christian doctrines-. Interestingly, it’s always the same argument to protect their stand. That the whole idea of pre-marital sex is biologically unnatural and socially antiquated.

Strangely enough, The Economist has another article, The History of Sex, that supports the idea that monogamy is not a natural human state. I think that newspaper has something against the blind preaching of lifetime monogamy (as opposed to serial monogamy). The article essentially suggests that biological studies have shown that

a few men in each generation contribute the bulk of the Y-chromosomes to the next […] over the years, half as many men as women have passed on their genes […] (in this case) the old canard that males are actually, on average, more promiscuous than females cannot be true […] (however) in most species males want to be more promiscuous than females. What holds them back is that females are choosy. And females also tend to be similar in their tastes.’

So from time immemorial, it is a small group of men that are getting fucked a lot.

<>At least week’s sermon, the pastor briefly mentioned the very interesting point that there is no word for wife in the languages the Bible was originally complied in. According to him, Hebrew and Greek are two of humanity’s most expressive languages, yet, they never bothered inventing a word for wife. If people had actually bothered to translate the bible directly from those languages, What will read, in place of wife, would be woman. Or ‘your woman’.

What I rationalize from this is that, denying yourself sex for the sake of conforming to interpretations you don’t particularly understand is an unnatural state, but that people do it, because it gives them a sense of nobility. Along the line of this particular argument, I would think that as long as someone is ‘yours’ or you’re willing to give yourself to another individual, it is legitimacy enough for sex.

But of course when the pastor preached it, it was most certainly not for propagating promiscuous behaviour. I’m all for having sex for the fun of it, and being experimental, but I must admit that the noble intonations of the ‘your woman’ in the biblical context just might be far flung from mine. I’m serially monogamous in the emotional sense, with a time span between different people to love of about 5 minutes to a day. But of course, it didn't set a standard, a criteria for belonging to someone in the first place. (read: Every relationship is different) I’m not going to be promiscuous all the time, and I am absolutely convinced of my capability to be entirely absorbed in someone, given the right prospects.

There are a lot of things the bible is against, and most of them are not natural to the human state. Things like murder, or stealing something that belongs to someone else. Essentially, people are altruistic beings and there are some things that pertain to this aspect of human nature that would make actions against it unnatural. Under most circumstances, and in most societies (lets not consider war, famine or a heretical environment), people would tend not to do such things. But in the case of sex, it would seem that even if you’re stuck in a setting where all day all you see are pretty virgin boys with flawless skin and pristine, shapely asses… People desire it all the time and desire many people over the course of their life-times simply because it is natural to do so. So how can something that’s so human be against God, if we, indeed, really were created in his image?

That’s quite enough ranting for the day. By the way, I hate theological debates, so don’t send email regarding Christianity, unless it supports my stand. I grew up beliving sex was not biblical and an evil thing and have read just about every damn thing on that side of the fence, so don't bore me.

A good book to note would be Sense and Sensuality. Where Jesus Christ talks to Oscar Wilde about pleasure and pain. Most certainly not from where I'm coming from, but very well written at any rate, not antagonistic in its tone.



I had the oddest wet dream where Mr. Big was wearing a condom that looked like it was made out of fishnet stockings. It woke me up just after the sun rose, when I realized I was rocking my hips and touching myself semi-conciously. He was half-awake and looking at me like he didn’t quite know what I was doing. I stopped immediately and went back to sleep, not knowing what else to do. I actually felt mildly embarrassed for some reason.

He’d asked me out the night before, to catch a couple of movies: Seeing other People (which he thought was rather pertinent to our current relationship) and Whose Your Daddy. We were having dinner at the Marriot when he’d ask me what I’d brought along inside the pockets of my brother’s sweater.

Me, ‘Uh.. Stuff?’

‘That’s all? Just wallet and keys and such?’

‘And a dildo.’

‘I knew it.’

‘How did you guess? Gosh, I don’t surprise you very much anymore do I.’

‘You did mention it sometime back, and I suggested bringing a sweater along because it would be fun to muck around in the Cinema. You know, we should go to the sex shop if it’s still open later and choose a strap on, then make a trip to Orchard Towers.’

We didn’t eventually, but I did try persuading him into getting the girl who’d been street walking back and forth throughout our entire dinner to approach him, just for the heck of it. He had started noticing her and alerted me every time she’d snag a new potential customer and when she got rejected.

I personally found it amusing to watch how she talked to just about every other fat, white guy walking by. She employed every single classical feminine wile; from the tilted chin and bambi-eyes, to the way she twirled her hair and rotated her ankle as she bit her lip. ‘I don’t usually do this, but it’d be so nice to get paid tonight because rent’s kinda due.’ Yes, she was a sweet, beautiful thing.

Because I’m so Singaporean, I’ll valuate her- not so much based on how she looked (from where I was, she looked worth at least over a thousand dollars. She seemed capable of rather coherent English too, assuming that she was Thai in the first place)- but rather from the fact that she was street walking, and not exclusively escorting; she was worth six-hundred.

We got back to his place without her eventually, because he looked at me like I was being extremely naughty in a nasty, inconsiderate way, when I suggested getting the girl to attempt to pick him up.

There was a lot of talk on prostitution the last few days. Sometimes I really think these things find me. Because I’m interested in it (not to do it, mind. I would sleep for money, but I wouldn’t go actively looking for it.) and all of a sudden, everyone I talk to talks about it, and the four floors of whores, of course.

Cupido made up for forgetting to remind me of his gallery opening (wasted wine and chocolate! I am still very upset about it) by inviting me to the debut performances of a girl working at his company. I thought the play was fantabulistic. Initially, I had thought all the characters in it were dogs, and it was just an excuse to do something thoroughly provocative and absolutely sexual. At some point during the performance, I’d told Cupido I was sure it was a production about perversity. Bestiality, homosexuality, necrophilia and group-sex. It also made me wonder about the dilemma of being Muslim and playing a homosexual dog. (Disclaimer* Am not racist or anti-Islam!)

It turned out to be a story about a girl who was unable to have a child, and whose husband took respite in adopting a dog, and eventually falling in love with it. But trust me, it was way sexual. Everyone thought homosexuality had a great deal to do with it.

A friend of his started an odd conversation on the whores at Orchard Towers. Apparently part of the reason why the government lets these Thai prostitutes in on ‘vacation visas’ is so that they would lay white guys do that they’d leave the local women alone. Obviously it doesn’t work. And I do believe he’s not simply making it up, because the Singaporean government is full of weird shit when it comes to pro-natal policies for the local women that will benefit the population growth of the country.

I personally think a lot of them get a whore simply because they can. Because it’s cheap, sexy, and certainly possible. Besides. the idea of being able to purchase flesh accords a sort of power that I’m sure I’d love to feel. But of course I know it can be more then that. Some people just don’t want the emotional baggage, and with anal women proliferating around under the guise of feminism these days, men are fearing for their penises. ‘


Friday, September 24, 2004

Food Fuck

You know how there are some awful, whiney women who complain all the time and hold sex hostage because they’re not getting what they want? It just occurred to me that I’m not any more low-maintenance then them because I don’t do that.

I have nothing to whine about because I know very damn well what I want from the start, and pick a man for what he already is. There may be some things I might not like about him subsequently, but the important things, like how considerate he is, how generous, the level of virtuosity in bed, and of course, the satisfaction I get from being with him in general, can be easily figured out in the first few dates.

Those women are the worse sort of women. They’re clearly stupid and selfish, and all I can say is serve them right when their man leaves them. They should have stopped frustrating and started fucking him instead, a long time ago. (In the first place, they should have been more perspicacious in their choice.)

Men are really incredibly easy to please. Just make sure they’re fed and fucked, and they’ll tend to be rather contented. At the end of the day, when you’ve been with someone for a very long time, and all that has to be said has been said, you’ll just have to depend on things that need to be renewed daily; referring to food and sex.

It occurred to me this evening, while I was swimming and letting my muscles fantasize about doing biathlons (I’m afraid of bicycles. Simply more inclined to sport where I have complete control over my movement), that there was only one thing (that I knew off) that made Mr. Big upset. Which would also tend to make me upset, especially when he makes his disconcertment apparent. He doesn’t like it when I’m late for dinner. He usually dispenses forgiveness 30 seconds into his apartment after sufficient wine at dine though (the precise amount of time it takes me to strip the both of us).

See, food and sex. Easy.

I don’t know why I’ve gotten so many emails from self-righteous, self-contradicting, not to mention rather barmy-nutty feminists lately. Fine, I’m sex crazed and am absolutely revolting in my perversions and my wild abandon. Well, so are you.

Don’t forget, darlings, repugnance is simply a variation of fascination.


Thursday, September 23, 2004

Her Love Comes Cheaply.

There are some men who react very violently when you mention the word slut in their presence. I love men like that. They are considerate, and more importantly, know that having sex does not demean a person.

Everyone has different intentions each time they have sex, and satisfaction from sex is the most price discriminate good you can purchase, and the price cannot possibly be set on dates, flowers and a promised eternal loyalty. Sometimes you just want to have sex for fun, and I cannot possibly see how that should make you any cheaper.

Some people say it cheapens the sacredness of sex. Well, it’s been proven that people can love in an infinite number of ways (the economist has classified it into three), in which case it would also mean that people can have sex, and feel a different emotion, each time, and with each different person. Sex does not have to be sacred all the time for it to fufill it's function, althought it does have to be satisfying. It's at your disposal for you to use in order to attain satisfaction, not something to taunt and torment you; Money is for you to spend, not keep for Kingdom Come and your children to burn on the seventh month when you've gone to hell.

<>I believe in knowing what I want from each endeavor as an individual, and knowing how I can get the exact price in satisfaction paid. It’s the same for everyone, it just requires different combinations in uh… the basket of goods you wish to trade (dinner, wine, prior relationship with the person or how well you know each other etc. The good is not sex, it’s satisfaction, and sex is one of the ways through which you obtain it. As in the case of the acquiring of anything, there are ethical ways to do it, and therefore intents that can be spawned of either selfish or compassionate thought.

Well, here’s a thought: ‘Smutty’ people are more capable of compassion simply because they’ve been blessed by so many other people that they have more to give. Poverty is not holy, and maintaining celibacy, even though it may be a torture, and it makes your mind sick, is not noble. But it must be noted that there is a difference in the genuine conviction of wanting to keep yourself pure for the right one and a blind devotion to something you don’t quite understand yourself. Aside from the fact that it sometimes makes you feel superior to the people who lack self-control. (Ahem, and you lack commonsense)

Of course while thinking about the price of the sort of satisfaction you wish to acquire through sex, I always thought, well, what about the prostitutes?

Firstly, I do not think anyone that sleeps for money is cheap. In fact, I do not think anyone is cheap at all. No one has the right to judge another person’s self-worth. You CAN have pity for them, if they have a lot of mindless sex for the sake of reaffirming their self-worth, or have to do it to live; in either situation, they just need someone to come in and help them out. But you’ve no right to value them, even if you do know them. It upsets me sometimes, that some people can separate sex from their emotions, and will do it, even if it disturbs them.

I do look at some girls and think that they ARE cheap. But then, that’s what a lot of people think of me too, and I don’t think that way of myself, obviously. Not anymore, anyway. Perhaps I’ve just lost the reservations I’d used to have years ago; which is to me, a good thing. Since I’m a lot happier now that I’ve stopped thinking of sex as wrong. I was going to have as much of it as I wanted, regardless, anyway.

And the truth is, even after I’ve slept with a number of people, I’ve still managed to have sex and feel intense love, and a passionate sense of self-sacrifice. Self-sacrifice is a terrible word to use in this case, it’s something more like, a passionate spiritual, sexual moment. Think an eros-agape emotion. Sex, for me, has not loss any of its meaning. It’s just acquired more then one.

Without meaning to go into theology; but I am very Christian in my beliefs and thoughts, if everyone was precious to Christ, then no one can possibly be cheap in his love. The little whore selling herself for the newest Nokia phone might look cheap to you, but she’s precious to someone else, so don’t go trying to value her worth.

Besides, valuing something as intangible and more then anything, grounded wholly in emotion as satisfaction is, is simply impossible. And honestly, the best investment (note I did not use payment) any one can put into sex is emotion, because it’s what it’s all about in the first place. Tangible commodities are certainly important to any female, because it’s biological to be attracted to providers with the capability to provide, but it’s more then that. There is a criteria, a minimum price for sex in each female individual, but after that has been met, what matters is the generosity of spirit that is revealed.

As long as I know that spirit exist within the other person, he doesn’t have to be showing it to me all the time.

Honestly, the whole idea of labeling someone as cheap is just extremely antiquated, and completely callous.

Men who do it are prone to rape, and not necessarily the sort that’s not condoned by the law. They are those that go, ‘She’s a cheap slut, lets just fuck her’. They clearly lack maturity, and obviously do not get laid enough.

Women that do it are the worst sort of feminists possible. They are so edgy, anal and materialistic they feel the need to humiliate women who understand that there’s more to sexual satisfaction then just the tangible basket of goods they demand. Because they are clearly a threat, when in reality, they are their own adversary. But what I feel most ironic about women like these is that, on the one hand, they are pimping girl power, screaming, you’ve got pussy so subjugate the men with it; on the other, they criticize people when they use it. Because it’s always ‘too cheap a price’. But it’ll never be the right price, because you’ll never see what was really exchanged. All this while feeling very violently about how sex should be extremely sacred to a woman, and only given in the face of promised eternal loyalty (oh, but also along with the basket of good, of course).

Sacredness my ass.

Because it is pretty enough for you to worship.


Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Bursting With…

I have no idea what’s bubbling up in me today, but I just woke up filled to the brim with excitement. It usually happens when someone’s made you feel immensely appreciated the night before.

Martine took me out for dinner, a movie, and some drinks. Since the day I met him, I knew there were parts of us that simply wouldn’t go together. For one thing, he’s just far too disciplined. Cupido certainly knows the problems that will come out of liking, and behaving affectionately towards, me, but when I asked him if the rest of his employees found it queer, and maybe just a little bit prejudiced, he said, ‘You know what? I don’t give a bleeding damn.’

I CAN understand Martine’s reservations, and to me they are beyond reason, but when I look it from his point of view, they aren’t. In fact, if I were him, I’d not have anything to want to do with me, ever again.

It was all rather strange. I figured, well, all right, so we’re not to be seen together, so… can I like… hold you hand? In the theater, it was even more peculiar. The thoughts that ran through my mind were, anyway. Don’t laugh. It made me feel like I was 12. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to provoke him a little into taking me home. I was, certainly, but it wouldn’t have been a problem if he didn’t. So for awhile, I wondered if I should cuddle up in the theatre. But he initiated it anyway and couldn’t let go of my hand the whole time.

He sent me home. And just before he’d left me, he actually asked for a kiss. Which I gave most generously. Too generous I think, for his taste; there had been a couple of people around.

There’s the little evil girl in me that’s trying to lay him, just Because. The more you are denied something, the more you want it, and I’m frustrated just thinking about it.

It must be noted that when it comes to non-sexual relationships, I am perfectly useless at understanding how things work out. I’ve never dated anyone ‘for a time’ before sleeping with them. I’d asked Martine if this was a little odd.

‘Oh? You mean people here actually date for awhile before them have sex? How peculiar.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve always had sex, then decided to date. If the sex is going to be shitty, why bother.’

Without sex, honestly, I’d be too lazy to bother to date. Dating is tiring. You have to put on nice clothes and go out and be in public places where you have to observe all these codes of conduct. I’d take eating pizza naked over a DVD any damn day. With the occasional dinner and holiday, of course. I enjoy dating, and I enjoy looking pretty for my date, and guys have to do that sometimes, for the sake of reaffirming their appreciation though wanting to do nice things for me. But sex is the easiest, most pleasurable, non-stressful way to pull a relationship together and make it stick.

I used to think that maybe I need to sleep with people because it gets them to like me more. It does, certainly, But it’s a like you more in a romantic sort of way. It depends on the sort of relationship you’re aiming for. I’ve never slept with my best friend. Well, I have actually. We shared the same bed many times on holiday, but that’s beside the point.

People have their faults, and I don’t like seeing them. Women who see too many problems with their partners are clearly not having enough sex with them. And uncannily, this is not a hypothetical situation.


Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Sleep Together

Was at Mr. Big’s last night. I hadn’t seen him in awhile, and he’s gone on Atkins (with which I try my best to help him with) and has managed to lose quite a great deal of weight in about a week. I was looking at him last night, and thought, Damn! He’s really quite small built after all. His hair’s all grown out now, and I thought he looked really cute with all the little curls.

Every time I spend the night with him, I always wake up feeling like all men are so incredibly easy to please. And I honestly am not referring to the sex alone. I think he really likes cuddling me at night, although it does make for some very restless sleep! He doesn’t like it when I can’t stay over; falling to sleep in that embrace where the curve of my back fits onto his body, with his hands holding my breasts (you can do that with small, perky Asian breasts) is just too priceless.

Sometimes, I feel like he just wants to be with me. You know, sit on the couch, talk, watch a DVD, drink wine. I say sometimes because, you must remember, that I grew up with the precept that all men never ‘just’ want to be with a girl. Of course that we do it naked is part of the reason, but you really can’t separate wanting to be with someone and sex. Not for me anyway. I couldn’t want to be with someone, badly, otherwise. I would like his company, but there wouldn’t be a yearning (Face up to it, a lot of yearning is done by our loins).

On that topic of sex and people, I found the perfect song that should pretty much sum up my attitude on sex. I’ve listened to it countless times before, only, I never really listened to it. It’s Sleep Together, by Garbage.

If we sleep together
Will you like me better
If we come together
We'll go down forever
If we sleep together
Will I like you better
If we come together
Prove it now or never

Make me a pretty person
Make me feel like I belong
Make me hard and make me happy
Make me beautiful

The emptiness
The craziness
Satisfy this hungriness

The truth is, if we did sleep together, we’d probably like each other better. And I like liking people much, much better. One lifetime is certainly not enough for me to (make) love all the people I want to. I couldn’t explain to Martine when he accused me of making sex such a big deal, after I had told him my beliefs about it. But now I’ve got it. It’s not the sex, duh, it’s because I really like you, and want to like you more. And I’m frustrated because I can’t.


I’d sprained my ankle in the morning because I was concentrating on how yummy the granola bar I was eating were, instead or watching my step, and slipped a stair to find myself sprawling on the ground, unable to get up. There were loads of people that could have helped me up, but didn’t. We live in a very altruistic society indeed.

There was once my ex and I had been walking about somewhere and a girl slipped, right beside us, on his side. It would have been instinctive for me to try and grab her to stop her fall, but he just jerked his head and looked. She caught her balance anyway, and when I asked him why didn’t he do anything, and would he have done something if she’d really fallen, he said he wouldn’t. Why? Because she might accuse him for molest. (Oh for God’s Sake.)


Monday, September 20, 2004

Hollywood Melodrama

All right. Some people have started wondering about the 'reason' Martine gave me.
This is to clear up all the unwanted 'of course he doesn't want to sleep with such a slut' emails.

To give a very simple explaination, it's in the context, but not EXACTLY of -so don't go speculating- the situation where you find out that the person you're going to sleep with is the daughter of your client's boss.

Now you know it's a good reason.


Tête à Tête Twilight

Last Night.

‘What time’s it now?’

Me: ‘Three.’

‘How would you know?’

Me: ‘It’s when all the losers go home after having stayed out their invites because they couldn’t pick up a lay, and don’t particularly want to pick each other up either.’

Wanted to drop by Mr. Big’s before my pumpkin turned stale, but aside from the fact that I was completely broke and had to find someone to spare me cab fare; I couldn’t bring myself to leave because every time I did, I found myself fascinated with some odd artifact. The worse was the witch hat and the Oochabaga (you may insert any obscure African tribe name) fertility doll. Which was a curved wooden staff that looked like a Moray eel. I ended up walking around with the witch’s hat with pleas for me to cast spells with the fertility doll. It was extremely absurd. And I was doing all of this in an Alice in Wonderland-ish dress. The one she had probably won for the Mad Hatter’s Unbirthday.


At three, I found myself half-drunk, and reading an email the Boy had just sent me that nearly forced me into tears. I felt compelled to call him. I doubted that he was doing anything, anyway. He had spent much of the evening in an internet café ran by a guy who looked like Osama Bin Laden that made all his customers listen to Middle-Eastern pop tracks and who possibly, consistently, served everyone heavily sugared tea.

He wasn’t doing anything, and he didn’t want to put down the phone. It was absolutely the first time I had to tell him I really had to go, because it was 7 a.m. and my brain was most certainly not functioning anymore, after having gone though a whole range of discussions ranging from how long it took me to reach an orgasm (slightly under a minute with him egging me on) to stupid people that lambaste globalization without thinking. All this while I was drunk, sleepy, and emotional, with the Girl from Ipanema playing in the background.

He’d also bought the Da Vinci code (and was reading it when I called), which I will try to force myself through now –strangely, I think my dad’s borrowed it, as much as he is against it-, since he’s reading it, and also since a lot of people have been comparing it with Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose. Which I’ve finally gotten down to reading, courtesy of the G-Spot. It’s proving to be absolutely engaging insofar!

The Boy asked me what my favourite book of the moment was. I doubt he would know who China Melville was, but he’s read Anais Nin, so I referred to Henry and June. His was The Perfume. Some European cult classic with reviews that read relatively dysfunctionally. Sounds like my cup of tea.

We talked about our plans for next year. He wants to travel around Asia with me, and hopes I can do some prior planning. I immediately pointed it out to him that he was asking a girl that lived for the pleasures of the next 5 minutes to plan.

‘Anyway darling, I don’t care what we do, as long as I get to be with you for a relatively long while, and get to have lots of sex.’

(Him)‘We could start in the airport broom closet.’

‘You know what? We should rent a villa on a nice sunny island in one of those Indochina countries and stay there for awhile. I don’t know what we’ll do, but it’s just so terribly romantic thinking about it!’

‘I don’t care what we do, as long as…’

‘There’s a lot of sex. I know, I know. Such fond memories.’

(Have I mentioned this before? We must have near locked ourselves up in a hotel room on some obscure tropical island last year for two nights and did nothing but. It was fantastic. Everyone should do that many times in their lives.)

For some odd reason, I told him my perfect wedding would involve a Bentley, and he *laughs* replied as if we would really get married (Oh dear, I don’t think I’ll be able to afford that). Happily Ever After is certainly something I love to fantasize about, and am sure has rubbed off on him lately. I’d tell him to shut up and just pretend along with me every time he became too much of the realist.

But he did then say that he’d not regretted spending everything he did on me. Which he didn’t think was much, but which I had felt, at points, embarrassed about because I thought it was; Plus the fact that he was nearly always accommodating to me.

He makes it so easy to love.

I tired to hang up every time the calling card beeped away an hour and the sky got lighter and I got more exhausted. But for the first time, ever, he told me that I mustn’t, that he did so love to hear my voice and it didn’t matter if I had nothing of worth to say. He’d still want to hear it, because my voice was simply the loveliest thing he’d listened to in ages.

We wondered a lot over how strange the passing of time was. It’s been nearly a year since we met, and neither of us could have expected to much to come out of expecting nothing. We thought it would be a interesting to try and commit and see if anything came out of it, and so it did. I told him I genuinely believed in the power of conviction. If you really want something to happen, it will happen.

I love him, insanely. I don’t know why I do, but he just behaves the way a boyfriend should. He makes me feel like the most wonderful thing existing.

I’ll never forget this particular incident. It wasn’t a big deal, but it meant a lot to me. I’d been looking into the huge wall mirror he’d had in his room, and thinking a lot of negative things about the way I looked. And I thought aloud about how terrible I thought I looked. He’d rolled his eyes and turned me around to face him instead and said that he thought I was gorgeous, and was pretty sure he was far more honest then his mirror.

Sometimes I think part of the reason why I’ve been unable to really like someone fully the whole year was because I chose not to. But also because none of them made me feel that way about myself.

Like I was the best thing, ever.


Sunday, September 19, 2004


I would like very much to be able to attribute it to PMS, only, I’ve lost count of the days, and I am sure that it’s the god-awful tropical weather that fucked up the cycle. So I don’t really know what it is anymore.

I would also wish I could blame it on the whole Martine affair, but while I suppose it is the trigger to this particular bout of depression, I honestly doubt it plays a huge role. Everything and everyone’s to blame, I suppose. I think we’re just both blackmailing each other, without intending to do so, which I find a real pain in the ass. And there’s just something about his personality that just strikes me as one that’s easily bullied, and I try as I might, I couldn’t help but exploit it just… a little.

He called me up, and I felt so awkward there was nothing of worth I could say, initially. I must have started gabbling about the most pointless things, like the wine sale going on in the atrium below. And then I got a little out of hand and said something stupid like, ‘I’d love to drop by your place now.’ before getting back to some other pointless babble that involved isolated south-east Asian islands and pirates. It was terrible.

Then he said he ‘hoped I was recovering’. He clearly meant, recovering from the fact that we cannot possibly see each other.

‘Recovering? What? Oh, you mean from the party. Yeah I guess, although I didn’t drink too much really, and it was not particularly exciting.’

‘Oh yeah, the party.’ Bewildered(?) laughter on his part.

Of course I knew what the fuck he was referring to. But I’m just absolutely terrible at getting to the point when it comes to ‘talking relationship’ to the people I was actually having relationships with. (The G-Spot is quite an odd exception, like he says it- we’re totally chill) And I’m so bad at it because I thought guys hated talking about things like that. And I still do think that most of them do, only because they aren’t used to it, which is precisely the same reason why I feel uncomfortable about it too- It’s simply not something I do. Unless I’m really, terribly, comfortable with the other person of course, but I really do not like going about the ‘we have to talk’ business.

Martine insisted on it anyway. I suppose it was a better course of action then pretending nothing mattered, since I feel all the better for it now. I told him part of the reason why I was so upset was because my ego felt rejected. And this is where I thought it got rather weird.

‘Look, I didn’t reject you all right. You know that. It’s just that the present circumstances don’t allow for a relationship, you mustn’t say I’m rejecting you. I like you a lot, you’re (insert cacophony of pleasant descriptive words, not all of which most other girls would find pleasant in any circumstance) But… And it’s not fair to me for you to say you feel rejected! Besides, I do believe I need friends more then I do lovers; and for all your sexual liberation; I find it odd that you’re making it such a big deal. I just can’t have any sort of physical relationship with you, that’s all. It’s not a big deal, you said so yourself!’

‘So I did. It isn’t, really. But I feel such comfort when I’m intimate with you, you’re wrong to call it just sex. And besides, the more you can’t have something, the less of not such a big deal it becomes. I know I’m being incredibly stupid and childish, you don’t have to tell me that. I understand where you’re coming from, and I respect that. But I can’t help how I feel, okay?’

He promised to take me out to dinner sometime soon. But I swear, I’m just way too used to believing that people don’t keep their promises (They usually do actually, I just don’t seem to believe in it) to really look forward to anything.


Saturday, September 18, 2004

Kick-Ass! :D

Isn't my diary all pretty in Blue and Orange now? Complimentary from Charlene over at Reflexive Disorder, and a little bit of common sense -She coded and I copied and pasted- along with a little help from Jae at Squirrelled, it's all fixed up.

I love Orange and Blue. They are complimentary colours, I think.

Cupido (he recommended me a magazine by the same name. I love looking at the pictures, but cannot understand the language well enough to read it) has invited me to his Birthday party. He's freshly back from Europe and ready to get smashed. I purchased the loveliest garden party dress yesterday. Absolutely perfect for the occassion, I think. Tinker with some face paint and glitter... it'll be so much fun. Doubt I'd match up to his girlfriend though, she's a clown. Literally; think white face paint, red nose and green wig.


Please Don’t Feel Obligated

So it’s over. Of course it’s over. I still like him in some way, I suppose, but I’d hate it for him to feel obligated to call me and ask me out. If he doesn’t want to, he should not have to. And I can very well tell when a guy calls you up because he feels that it is his duty as an ethical, compassionate human being. There is nothing more annoying then that. It undermines my personality. You should only call me up because you want to hear my voice and have a good conversation with me.

But calls out of the need to fulfill obligation are more annoying then that. Not only are they emasculating to my personality, they are also denigrating to the belief in my ability for a substantial conversation. If you’re going to be busy and call just to say hi for 5 minutes to remind me that you’re still alive and that my feelings matter to you (they do, obviously, otherwise he wouldn’t even have felt obliged to) forget it.

However, oddly enough, I’m glad he did. Because it made me feel annoyed, and made me realize that he really can't, and therefore doesn’t, want anything more then a sort of cerebral, celibate, and most certainly not romantic, friendship. Because if it were to get even slightly so, it would be a bad idea, and all hell will break loose. (Have I mentioned that his reason for not wanting to see me otherwise was really damn good? Because it’s really damn good. It’s the most fascinating reason, ever, and for it, I am glad to have liked him for awhile.)

It does seem to a great number of people who have emailed me that I have been ‘used’ and ‘taken for a ride’ -all puns intended. Well, think what you will. The only thing that really upsets me about it is that for all I am, I simply haven’t been able to make him irrational enough to want to carry on dating me. It’s an ego thing that upsets me, but all that is easily gotten over with after a nice long run and a good look at how sexy I can get.

Feeling like someone’s calling you out of obligation is really one of the most unpleasant feelings, in my books. I know very well that I unintentionally made him feel obliged to. It’s just something girls do, but I honestly didn’t had not meant to. I was just hurt, so I told him so, despite knowing full well that it would make him feel bad.

But I’m over that. It’s not a nice thing to do and it’s incredibly stupid and exceedingly childish. Women who do it to get what they want are evil.

'You tricked me into liking you! Now you owe me the world.'

He didn’t trick me into liking him, we really had something going on, it’s just not something presently sensible to indulge in, that is all. Girls who do that without feeling sorry for it (and I am sorry. Apologetic to him and to myself, because it’s made me feel stupid and evil) really should know that the guy genuinely did like them, Then. Only, they turned out manipulating and scheming eventually, and gave them no choice but to have left them.

Any girl can keep her man as long as she stays attractive to him (get off your ass and work your fat butt in other words. It’s good for you anyway) and doesn’t behave like a horrendous bitch from hell when he cheats. Oh people are all cheating bastards, male or female. There’s nothing you can do about it. Which is more important? Forgiving, and thus making him go, ‘oh man, she’s so nice. She doesn’t give me a reason to leave her (i.e. she’s not making me sleep on the couch every night) despite me being such a dick’ Or thinking you can get somewhere by screaming at him all day, which will only get him incredibly annoyed, and even more reason to leave the mad hag for someone that’s treating him better. And it’s terribly easy for anyone else to treat a guy better. You just have to choose not to ask him constantly why he thinks with his dick so much.

Because it’s pleasurable and natural, that’s why.


Friday, September 17, 2004

Exhaustingly Eventful

Why the hell does the skin of the papaya in my fridge make my fingers smell like pussy? I need to get my maid to do a through scrub down of the damn thing.

That aside, I’m really quite allright. Mildly upset that Martine and I cannot maintain anything more then a cerebral relationship for the time being until things get sorted out, but while, principally, I am not hoping for anything in particular at all (not that I honestly give a damn), it still makes me a little sad that I can’t sleep with someone I really like. Sex makes all the difference in a relationship to me, and I find it extremely difficult, impossible in fact, to be denied indulgence. It took me awhile before I could understand what he meant.

Me: That was quite like a quickie romance wasn’t it.

Martine: That’s not the way I see things, not in the least…

Me: I do suppose we don’t ever forget the people we really shared something with. But it’s now that I want you, and every inch of you, all puns intended.

Martine: It’s just that the present circumstances conspire against the possibility of an affair.

Me: Je ne regrette rein! It will be like old school courting again. It’s been awhile since I slept with someone after getting to know them better over a few months first. (Not that I’ve ever managed to wait a few months ever since I felt ready to have sex)

I told him not to comfort me by telling me it was silly to be sad, since he’ll be around for a long time anyway. Because I felt sad presently, and telling me about the possibility of things could do nothing to change how I felt, Now.

The G-Spot called me up late at night and Tori (my little sister) picked up the phone and told him I was in the shower. I wasn’t bathing, really, just jilling away my sadness, and I told him so. He always has a way of getting me at my most neurotic, and am I ever glad for it. I hadn’t seen him in a long while, due to a number of commitments on his part. Chiefly, his girlfriend. But he was such a depraved little boy when he went back to London anyway, so he figured, screw that; screw me. Funny thing was, he didn’t really think he would, when he asked me over. He’s very generous in dispensing cuddles (and contrary to what you think, I am perfectly capable of sleeping with someone without having sex, so there), and I’ve always been glad to be at the receiving end of this largesse of affections.

Had insufficient sleep. He’s still suffering from jet lag, and woke up at 7 in the morning. We ended up watching a brutally candid film about club etiquette called The Swingers, that got me thinking about the why I hated getting picked up in a night club, and why I hate picking up in a night club. I have not dispensed my number to anyone in a club for, oh, months.

How many days should I wait before I call her?

How often do you think I should have sex with her?

How often to take her out on dates? Is it necessary to do so every time before I take her home to have sex?

Christ. Who cares. That’s the problem with meeting someone in a club; more often then not, you’re too drunk to judge the vibes you get accurately, and you end up following some stupid 2 day no call rule. I suppose because club pick-ups are impressed upon with that ‘try not to seem desperate’ rule so everyone has to abide by it, even if they feel they really like the other person for reasons beyond sex. This is however something I have yet to experience for myself. No doubt, I’ve had a couple of relationships that came out of club pick-ups. I met Mr. Big at a club one damn year ago. But the reason had always been initially, chiefly, sex.

We tried to get breakfast at Cedele Depot (my absolute favourite place for brunch! I was mildly surprised when he suggested it), but it was closed for business till 11, which is awfully strange, since I think bakery cafés should be opened for breakfasts. Had it at Coffee Bean instead. Sucked. I forgot to tell them not to nuke my damn scone, and scones are just more lovely eaten hard and slightly stale.

A friend of mine (white guy, been around Singapore for nearly a decade) had apparently read my essay on the attraction of the occident, and had called me up yesterday evening telling me how it inspired him so much he’s started writing one himself, from the ang mo men’s point of view. ‘You Never get over Asian Women’ (especially me). HIliarity. I told the G-Spot about it, but I’d knew he wouldn’t feel the same way. Firstly, where he came from, there were already a lot of Asian people. Secondly, his List had started to resemble a Colours of Benetton ad ever since he graduated. An attractive woman is an attractive woman, and he was absolutely indiscriminately promiscuous.

I got the weirdest message as the G-Spot was walking me back to town.

It went, ‘The longer I haven’t seen you, the more I miss you, and the more I love you’

I thought, no way. It couldn’t be.

‘Mein Schatz, I finally got a phone in London, this is the number.’

Oddly, I hadn’t been able to sms the Boy back when he was still in Switzerland. So this was quite a surprise indeed. He’s been behaving rather extraordinarily the past few days. I feel pretty much rather consistent about him, but he has all these peculiar emotional peaks and troughs when it comes to how he feels about me. And I do find it extra-extraordinary, because he’s just gotten a new job, made a new bunch of friends, shouldn’t he be too absorbed to have time to think about me?

But romance does always play such an important priority in our lives.

It was no fun walking past where Martine lived, I felt upset for awhile.


I got one horrid e-mail today, over the whole Martine ordeal.

What do you expect? You're soiled goods. But yes, there will be many in line for a free fuck.

Okay, so I’m soiled. Big deal. Better slutty then bitchy, malicious and ignorant. Because nothing in the world is free, dumbass.

It’s people like you that cause women to be so stigmatized. Oh No! I mustn’t have sex unless he does all these 101 things for me, otherwise, I’m a free fuck!

Even if I don’t feel a rat’s ass for the guy, I still most certainly derive pleasure from getting fucked, and that’s payment enough if there’s nothing else going on between either person. But usually it’s more, oh so much more. Barter trade indeed. Your pleasure for mine, sex for intimacy. Any idiot can see that.


Thursday, September 16, 2004

Ouch, Ouch, What the Fuck Ever.

BLEAH. Martine doesn’t want to see me ever again. Well, no, but we’re just to stay friends, that it, period, nothing I can do about it. Fine. I understand, I really do. And unlike most girls, when I say that, I really mean it.

We had a rather odd, rather long conversation that had me laughing, crying, feeling denial, followed by apathy then a I can’t care less attitude.

‘Was it difficult for you to say all that to me.’

‘Yeah it was. It wasn’t easy. But it had to be done. I was wondering how to break it to you. Texting just seemed like a good idea because I wouldn’t feel inhibited, and would get it done, but…’

‘Oh god. That would have been such an absolutely mean thing to do. And telling it to me in person would just be a bad idea. I’d cry and laugh and behave like a total psychopath. You would probably be freaked out, and I would be freaked out. No, It’s good that you called.’

That was the SHORTEST relationship, and yet so amazingly powerful. Talk about a drive in romance. Do you want a lover with that Long Black?

There’s nothing I can do about it, so I fucking won’t. I’m upset, of course I am, but I’ll get over it. Give me a few hours.

I’m over men, they can’t do anything to me, the bastards.

Ha-ha, but God I love them. I love the dating, the sex, the intimacy, the worship.

I’m COMPLETELY nuts now. I don’t know what to think. I’m on PMS, I’m drunk, and I’m DEFINITELY upset.

Oh right. Mr. Big. He might read this, I have absolutely no idea how often he reads my junk (yes, I’m feeding the lot of you terribly bad, trashy literature in the likes of silliness like ‘Babe in Toyland’, and ‘Shopaholic dies of an overdose’ Who writes that crap anyway.) And I’m thinking, this IS fucking weird. So he knew I liked someone for a couple of days, and now I’m rejected, so what now? Nonono, I won’t ever use anyone as a rebound, or a second play or any bull-shit like that.

I’m really just Only saying that.

I try not to, but I do, oh I know I do. But it’s not like I can help it. Can I just hide all my inherent scheming under a veneer of biological imbalances?

I don’t give a fucking rats ass shit about any fucking dick. If anyone wants me, I’ll be asleep.


Don’t feel sorry for me, don’t say I told you so. We really had something going on, but it was simply pointless to try to have made anything work. Not that I really believe in making things work, because I don’t.

But you can still send me sympathetic email.


Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Help Please :(

Jesus Christ %#$%^

Fixing up a blog skin should be SO simple right?

What the fuck is wrong with people these days anyway. Don't they invent simple, practical skins anymore, minus the hassel of all those damn multiple boxes with scroll bars? is so full of shit I can't find anything to rob the code from!

What I want is This.

It's relatively simple isn't it. Technically, I should know how to do it, if I just had some simple code I could adjust to fit my needs. But I haven't touch any sort of computer code for so damn long I don't really know any longer.

Well, any help will be ABSOLUTELY appreciated. I'm just SO fustrated about it. And when I want to do something, it doesn't ever get off my back till it's done.


Minding my Mouth

Dinner with Martine last night. I have no damned idea why he asked me out to dinner, even though I genuinely appreciated it, and enjoyed his company. I called him up the day before but he wasn't available, and apologized profusely about it and set a dinner date for yesterday. But it was incredibly short, and he spent more time that it made me comfortable lecturing on suicide, depression, human laziness and being too American. Basically, I talk extremely loudly even though the bar wasn’t particularly noisy and his ears were less then a foot away from my mouth, and I ate with my mouth open.

Martine: ‘It’s like watching your laundry through a washing machine, and it ruins my appetite.’

(Me, with my mouth full) ‘Okay, I know, but it’s just the way…’ (swallow food upon realization that I was annoying him even more)

Him: ‘I don’t want to impose on you, but I simply can’t stand it. It makes me nauseous, and I think it’s better I told you instead of trying to pretend it didn’t bother me.’

(After having chewed my food very consciously) ‘It’s all right. I think it’s time I re-learnt some manners anyway. I used to eat with my mouth close as a kid, but the girls in my Primary school though I was putting on airs. And after awhile, you realize people don’t bother to wait for you till you’ve chewed your food to listen to what you have to say. And I always have a lot to say.’

After awhile and a little lecture on laziness over how he hoped I wasn’t going to waste my future away, I sat around rather sullenly and for once didn’t feel like talking.

‘You’re sad. You can’t be sad. Why are you sad?’

I smiled. He’s so sweet when he thinks he’s hurt someone.

‘Oh, it’s no big deal. You lecture me too much, that’s all. People have parents for that.’

He gapes at me for a moment, picks my hand off the table and kisses it.

‘I don’t mean it. I lecture everyone, I can’t help it. My parents even, but they need it more then you do sometimes.’

We talked about hierarchies for awhile, and how he hated the way Singapore was such a laddered society . That it was really unhealthy because people become so accustomed to only respecting one form of authority, and that the moment it was softened, people have no idea how to go about with giving respect. Respect was meant to be given to the people who commanded with hard-power, and in many cases, it would tend to transcend beyond childhood and on into the workplace.

‘This girl working under me told me I was perfectly lousy today.’

Me, ‘Oh? Why’s that? She didn’t really mean it, I’m sure.’

‘Yeah, it was some silly banter, but I thought it was terribly rude of her. I’m not into the whole decorum of, I’m your boss so you better obey me or else. But I’d never insult someone else’s intelligence. Ever.’

Me, “That’s good. I can tolerate all other insults, slut (he cringes and tells me that no one’s a slut, he hates the word) bitch, asshole, whatever, but nothing that insults my intelligence. Your balls are absolutely safe, since it’s not something you do.’

It was still early, but he insisted on sending me home right after dinner. I was very reluctant to leave him, and it made me rather upset that it was only 10. The fact that he hadn’t even kissed me properly yet offended me somewhat too.

‘Well fine, I’ll leave you now, but I’m hurt.’

Him, sounding rather shocked and a little hurt himself (I could be imagining this.) ‘What?! No, you’re kidding me. It’s just like when you told me you were used to rejection yesterday. Nonsense.’

‘No! I really am. I really like you, and I’m hurt.’

‘But I have to work tomorrow, and I’m absolutely exhausted. I’ll get fired soon enough if I make any more blunders. I really like you too, you know that.’

“Yes I do. Say it again.’

‘I like you.’

‘Say more.’




Tuesday, September 14, 2004

The All Boys are Bad for you Paradox

Has anyone ever thought about how stupid it is to tell your daughters that all men are jerks? Most parents know that most men aren’t jerks, and as a responsible older sister and a blatantly shameless one too, I constantly make sure my little sister knows that. My mom hates it of course, she says I’m poisoning her, but I think not.

Parents (Singaporean ones anyway) are terribly weird and wrongheaded when it comes to sexuality. They presume that adolescents do not know any better about things that pertain to sex and to relationships, but If I’m anything to go by, at 13, I clearly recall that I was most certainly very sexual, experimental and very aware of what I was doing. And I never did anything unless I felt thoroughly comfortable with doing it. I was lucky, I suppose, that I had parents that were rather candid about all things erotic.

As most other Singaporean girls, I was stuffed into a horribly orthodox Christian institution where I was expected to receive a relatively acceptable education, and conscientious religious care from daily prayer and a continual mental impoundment when it came to issues of morality.

Sex, Sex, SEX. I SWEAR. This whole society is so fucking obsessed with it, of course it’s not a wonder we’re all inherently perverse. It’s an absurdity. Moral education lessons, 30 minutes a week, and the topic any one paid any attention to was when the discussion fell on *drum roll* sex.

I’m not saying we should avoid it, I acknowledge that in most cases it would be even more detrimental. The ‘moral education lessons’ have had a positive effect as a forum for young people to discuss their sexuality. However, there is always the dilemma of whether teaching nothing is preferable to teaching something terribly erroneous. And I think that the context in which sexuality has been analyzed from in schools have been perfect nonsense.

I got into trouble with the authorities-that-be sometime back for criticizing the structure of these ‘moral education’ lessons. I thought that what they were teaching was clearly discrimination, hypocrisy and self-righteousness.

What is the more important focus in a ‘moral education’ lesson? Acceptance of other fallible human beings, just as you are, or bigotry, because they do not conform to the absolute morality you were forced to obey all your life.

Of course there are people who think about sex in a far more sanctified ideal then I do, and I personally do not have anything against that. If you really believe in it, then you should be respected for it. But if you don’t, and are only pretending through taking a moral high ground based upon that charade, and going about gossiping and criticizing for the sake of indemnifying your secret sinning, then you clearly are in no position to be taken seriously in your preaching

The authorities-that-be had a rather strange, pointless answer to my accusation (that they were teaching discrimination).

‘We are a Christian school, therefore we must teach Christian values.’

But… but…Christ never portrayed prostitutes and adulterers as pathetic, insecure, evil, morally decadent creatures! Sure, he told them to sin no more, but not once did he tell them they had repugnant, poisonous thoughts. He never taught anyone that they ‘deserved their lot in life’ (think, oh serve you right, you have a fucking STD because you were such a slut).

What they should be teaching, instead, is to be responsible about sex. The government is clearly idiotic in it’s censoring of movies with sexual content. People, and especially young people, are sexual creatures, whether or not they are allowed to see naked people on the Big Screen, and they will always find ways to obtain sex, in whatever form.

If you go about refusing them first-rate art, expressions of the human psychology that pertain to sex, material allowing room for thought and for the formulation of a morality that individuals can ascribe to, and instead propagate the indiscriminate distribution of the virtue of abstinence, you are denying young individuals a substantial way through which they can develop sexual understanding and responsibility.

What results is instead an intensely warped view of sex. The consequences are different for different individuals, but on my part, they have turned out to be something that make me go, ‘I wish I’d know that earlier’.

So much of sexual introduction for a girl revolves around guys being bastards, horn-dogs and inconsiderate dicks. The idea, evidently, was to turn girls off boys so much so that they wouldn’t have sex with them. Apparently, these clearly disillusioned thought that girls would never desire sex in themselves. Part of the reason being that they were taught the same things as adolescents, and never saw sex as an act that could be mutually beneficial. These are the bitches from hell that accuse their men of ‘using their bodies’.

I am proud to say I constantly use my men for their dicks, and they do not mind it at all. Instead, I am constantly reciprocated for my selfish expediencies with tenderness, respect, care and a lot of good wine and numerous foot-massages.

We are all commoditizing ourselves, but the belief that someone necessarily has to loose out in order for someone else to gain reeks of egocentricity, and is essentially very unhealthy for anyone to have that. For one thing, it turns girls into bitter, bitchy, bitches.

In some cases, such warped socio-sexology (i.e. all guys are inconsiderate horn-dogs) has the intended effect. The girls grow up and do not sleep around all that much, for fear of ‘being used’. Here I must stress again that having absolute morality, because you truly believe in it, and that it is genuinely intrinsic within your being, deserves respect. But being forced into it out of fear, I feel, is unhealthy.

Then there are mad anomalies like me, that decide they want to have sex anyway and that it doesn’t matter if they are treated well or not, and they go into a relationship expecting to be treated badly.

Suffice to say, I was quite surprised when the guys I ended up with took me to nice places for dates, called me up often, and generally behaved in a very human way I was never taught possible.

Of course I expect a lot more now, then I did then. I’m not very particular, and am possessed of a rather compromising personality, but I certainly know how I deserve to be treated now. And most certainly, I make sure my sister knows how she should be, too.


Monday, September 13, 2004

Reading Rossetti Reversed

What is it with getting pick-up-ed at the bookstore? It’s starting to become such a common occurrence it’s no longer any fun.

I bumped into the guy I used to dance Salsa with. He looks young, but has hair that’s so white you’d think he was nearing 60. It was a pleasant surprise nonetheless. He told me I was still as beautiful as he remembered, and that he’d like to hire me to do some negotiating for his company over dinner and drinks. He was sure I could do it, all that was required was to get the investors drunk enough so that they’d be willing to pump in a few million dollars to build a factory that striked me as something straight out from China Miéville’s New Crobuzon.

I told him it sounded strangely like something out of a SF novel. Me, set up as a Moulin Rouge burlesque trying to get a bunch of Germans drunk, in order to have them invest in a plant that produced a highly classified substance that he initially told me he couldn’t reveal (He did so in exactly 30 seconds after he said that).

But in the mean time, I could start of by asking him out for dances more often.

It was great meeting him again, he helped me get through a rather difficult celibate period early on in the year (before I rekindled the affair with Mr. Big). He’s an all-right dancer with an incredible expertise when it came to flattering women.

My daddy was with me (had the obligatory Sabbath Brunch with him yesterday) and he’d wanted to visit the art gallery. I didn’t know what to do, since the Guy I’d flirted with was working yesterday, and I really didn’t want to be with my daddy and have to say hi, and… it would be terribly awkward. I managed to escape the ordeal, but he caught sight of me walking past the gallery’s entrance, and we stared at each other for the 5 seconds it took for me to do that. That was weird.


Contemplated buying a collection of poems by Christina Rossetti. I’d lost the one I had previously, but decided I had far too much un-read material I had yet to plough through.

There was a crappy looking guy in a crappy looking clothes in unwashed pastel colours looking at me and following me about. He didn’t creep me out, but it was most certainly annoying. I have nothing against Asian guys chatting me up, as long as they look presentable. This one looked like, well, an unwashed sack of laundry.

He was obviously trying to get my attention, and I was obviously trying my best to show him that I wasn’t going to give it. Then, out of some insanity, he sat right in front of the shelf I was browsing. It would have appealed to the little malicious Minnie in me to have told him to get his ass off, can’t you see I’m trying to shop? But it would be a bad idea to have even said anything. So I shut up and walked on to the shelf behind.

He got up, stood half a foot away from me, and asked me in Hokkien, where could he find poetry in Chinese. My dialect’s terrible, but I could pretty much guess the words that referred to location and mandarin books. I pointed out the right direction rather crudely, implicitly saying, it’s over there, can you fuck off now?

But he didn’t get it, and proceeded to sit in front of me again!

I supposed I should have walked off to somewhere far, far away, but this creature was simply too fascinating for me to not to observe. So I stayed firmly planted to where I was, looking like the perfect literary snob with a thick collection of feminist poems at hand. And quite to my amusement, he goes and source the book I was skimming through and proceeded to stand by me and flip mindlessly through it.

Then he said the most fascinating thing to me. Still in Hokkien.

‘This book very good to read’

Basically, that was it.

I did a double take, and it took me a substantial amount of effort not to laugh out loud before I was well away and not within an ear-shot.

Of course I think I’m terribly snobbish. So? Most other girls would have done the same thing anyway. All women are mean *grin*


That aside. I have NO idea why I’m so fucking attracted to Martine. I woke up thinking about him, tried not to think about him, and ended up thinking about him even more. He’s really not particularly gorgeous, just extremely stylish, and incredibly funny, in a sort of quasi-serious sort of way.

I suppose he’s got a lot of cash at hand, but that’s not even it. Like I’ve said before, not being broke helps; having the money to carry yourself well, to enrich your life with the finer things. They are all very good for you, and people are naturally attracted to a groomed personality.

I do wish he’d sms me, ask me out, do something, anything. Bleah. I want to satiate myself on him. For some strange reason, his approvals mean a great deal to me. When he agrees to something I’ve said, it’s heartening. Calling me up would be an approval. Wanting to go out with me again would be an approval. What does see you soon mean, anyway.

Hopefully this evening.

Sms me, Damnit.


Sunday, September 12, 2004

Yoghurt Strap-Ons

Mr. B and I have had a tiff. I don't dare to call him, he freaks me out. He'll just sound pissed and say very little. I'm pathetic when it comes to arguing with people I feel passionately (in that sexual sort of way) for; I always think I'm wrong when they confront me. But I'll bitch about it no end to everyone else.

Uncannily, he's the only guy I'd want to live out some of my filthiest fantasies with, for some damn reason. I thought about it, and it seems that way.

I wonder...

I shall invent a strap-on I can fill with yoghurt I can 'come' with. You can have different sizes each time by filling it up with less yoghurt. How to get it rigid consistently with different amounts of artifical come is still a little dilemma I havn't figured out an answer to. But I think it's got potential. Yoghurt is supposed to be really good for vaginas.

It's a very pleasant cure for all sorts problems caused by natural Ph imbalances. Freeze yoghurt in a tampon and *grin* stick it up. Fun.


Sex is NOT A Big Fucking Deal

I’ll just call him Mr. Martine, after Benedicte Martine, but only partially because his tastes are so effeminate You know, metrosexual (and the other bit has to do with sexual politics). He’s rather good at playing the part too. Just the right amount of design sense, feminine compassion, immaculate literary taste, while being possessed of a terribly tender, yet wonderfully strong opinion on just about everything.

He’s got this perfect way of telling me how he believes in one thing, while still being able to completely understand it from an entirely different view. I spent hours just listening to him talk, and he doesn’t make me feel stupid when I don’t understand anything, or when I say something insanely clichéd (all my opinions on the world turn trite when he starts telling me all these things I never saw previously). Most local men can’t do that, because with them, it’s always either right or wrong, where everything is so damn hierarchical: if I’m younger, I must be dumber.

It’s just the way we’re taught how to in schools. And that’s where they’re so incredibly stupid, because hard-sell (just like hard-power) is not the best way to push your views across. People don’t like to think they’re wrong or too stupid to think for themselves; but this whole damn society’s wrecked with it, from the PAP to… No, I must not rant.

Back to the fantastic date and brunch: Portobello mushrooms and a Virgin Mary at the bistro for breakfast, with prefunctionary cups of coffee. I got a little too excited over talking about the Iranian revolution and greener fuel, and he told me to tone down (that’s the only thing about him that ticks me off- that he thinks I’m too loud) I look at him and say, with much sugar sweetness, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ And he gets into a most disconcerting fuss! But of course I can perfectly understand his reservations; I do look underage. Up to the point where he asked if dating me would cumulate into a crime.

He told me, last night, right after he’d sent me off, there were all these Asian guys staring at him in a most vicious manner. The sort of, ‘steal our jobs, steal our women’ attitude.

It just upsets me when I think about how our society stereotypes every damn thing and tries to compartmentalize people into all these little categories. Is there’s no such thing as liking an older guy for the perfectly acquisitive rationale that he’s got so much you can learn from? And also because they’ve seen so much nothing can shock them, and have an accept-it-like-it-is-because-chances-are-you-can’t change-it attitude. I love shocking, but that’s not a fantastic recipe for a comfortable relationship. And you can never dare to be completely truthful because you know people simply do not like things they are not used to.

I don’t know about other older men, but the ones I know (who also coincidentally, have slept with many women. Which is only natural, since the longer you live the more women you sleep with, in the absence of any particular sexual-moral code that you believe you should ascribe to) are usually very accepting and accommodating to a whole lot of female personalities and femininely constructed situations.

Younger guys seem to date to get laid, these do not. They’ve simply had too much sex for it to be a big deal, and that’s the way it should be.

It Isn’t a big deal. It’s not a big deal if you do it, and do it with a lot of people, and it’s not a big deal if you don’t. Even if you have been dating for half a year and the guy isn’t a virgin, and is probably screwing around with someone else (only you don’t know it). Of course a billion women have a billion reasons to tell me why I would be terribly wrong, but the truth is, sex is just sex.

It fulfills the basic human needs of inclusion and physical desire. Sex is not the problem, the problem is how it’s acquired, and what is expected from it. As long as it’s mutual, and you don’t lie to get laid (if you did, go to hell. You give sex a bad name) I cannot possibly see a problem; and the world should be a happier place.

Why should an illustrious sexual history necessarily be a bad thing? Oh I can see why it would be a problem if you want to get married, and you’re a man, because so many women are too damn uptight about things like that.

And that’s a pity, because they can’t understand that these are the men they can be the least self-conscious around. They’ve fucked all sorts of women, and have had all sorts of sex and so much of it that when they finally pick you up, and want you, it’s beyond sex as a physical need. It is, but it’s more then that. And also, you’re not going to be the least attractive one they’ve slept with, and all the weird physical imperfections –fat gut, hair on your tits, what the hell ever- cannot possibly be shocking. And you don’t have to be embarrassed about any single damned thing.

These men know women, love women, and want to treat women nicely.

So what if they are blatantly promiscuous, and might possibly sleep around with someone else? You’re stupid if you think that people never cheat on each other. Some people do not, certainly, but it’s stupid to assume that yours won’t. Even if he’s had a relatively celibate record. The higher celibacy is place on a moral high-ground, the harder it will be to ascribe to it. Period. And most people do cheat.

Being exclusive should not come from the need to conform to social convention, and not even from the desire to save your partner hurt. You never wanted to hurt your parents, but you did at some point in time anyway, even though you loved them. Those reasons are insubstantial. Being exclusive should come from the desire to just BE exclusive. It’s what you want to do because your love for the person makes it the natural thing to do. And if it does not, then don’t bother. Talk it out, be truthful to yourself, and work things out.

Sex has been made into such a big fucking deal up to the point where it takes precedence over truthfulness of feelings. Is that not absurd?