Sunday, November 28, 2004

In Case You’re Wondering

I’m still alive, despite having being either very hung-over, or very drunk the last couple of nights.

It’s a damn long story, but I’ll fill in the bits I liked the best.

I’d met two fantastically cool guys last night, and they got me completely drunk, as they did themselves, and after Élan left to meet his date, Ty and I went back to Élan’s place to get some stuff we’d left there earlier on before we’d gone out. After all, it really would not have done for him to pull his date home, and having her see another woman’s things lying about.

I had been really sick by then though, and crashed out on the couch, resting my head on Ty’s lap for a long time. He’d lovingly stroked my hair for a long while, and traced the contours in my ear until I fell asleep. After some time, he woke me up and asked me, very politely, if I’d lie down on his chest.

‘It’s been a long time since I done that..’ He said. And I believed every word of it. I really did, and I doubt I had been naive to believe so.

I’d opened my eyes and looked at him without budging. It wasn’t that I was reluctant, of course I wasn’t, it was just that I’d been too knocked up by the gallons of alcohol I’d drowned in.

‘I’m sorry for having woken you up…’ He started, noticing the pause.

‘Oh no, no..’ And then I got up and straddled him, placing my head down on his chest, and my arms around his side. He started stroking my hair once again, and I though how lovely it all felt, and how incredibly sweet it all was.

Then my back. He’d started to trace little patterns down my spine, and I though, ‘wouldn’t it be nice if I didn’t have my top on.’ And so I got it off. He looked at my tits for a little while, a teensy bit shocked, and I asked him to give me the look he’d have if he saw that they were pierced. It was a very satisfying look, and I think I shall get them pierced now, after payment on Monday’s modeling stint.

I found it hard to breathe in that position –been having difficulty breathing lately- and got up to lean back on the other arm rest. We faced each other upon the couch, with my feet propped up against his chest, and he started massaging them. I told him how I found it sad not enough attention was ever paid to my feet. He smiled at me and carried on for a little while, before starting to lick the tips of my toes, and placing them between his lips. And I felt myself thinking, soft, wet, and completely, completely sexy. I can honestly still bring out the sensation in my toes. (Mmm, Mmm, Mmm!)

He apologized for waking me up again, later in the night, and asked if I’d like to go back to his place. We couldn’t have stayed at Élan’s forever, and it was a couple of hours past midnight. I asked him if he had sleeping pills, and he did, so it was a no-brainer. Besides, I really didn’t feel like going home. He was such a sweet boy.

I puked for a long while the moment I got back, and he asked me if I was allright. Of course I couldn’t answer.

He’d got a steaming spot of chamomile tea out ready for me when I was done, and a fantastic aspirin, along with some snooze in a pill. I popped it all in and snuggled into bed. I was having shitty breathing problems however, and couldn’t go to sleep right away. He’d noticed, and asked if I’d like some thing to help with it. Told him sure, and he rubbed my chest down with some spicy balm, which did help. And I knew it wasn’t done out of some odd perversity to touch my chest; you just know these things.

I felt like I had to apologize for being so much trouble.

‘I think you’re an amazing girl.’ He replied in return, and kissed me on the forehead. He’d kissed me on the forehead many times before, and I love it when I get that. Maybe it’s partially due to the paternal transference: that was kinda what my dad always did to me when I was much younger (and before I grew breasts).

I woke up early the next morning feeling fantastic, and looked at myself in the mirror and thought I looked really great without a single spot of make-up on. I was actually mildly surprised he’d told me I was a really attractive girl. I know I’m pretty, but have always thought I looked quite plain when my face was nude. Always the eye-liner, always the drawn and shaded brows. Blush, a teensy bit of lip colour.

“It’s a great morning, isn’t it.’ I said to him.

Who says you can’t have a fantastic time with people you barely know anyway.


Thursday, November 25, 2004

In Other News...

I have been cordially informed that I might win 2 tickets to NY at tomorrow's bartop dancing finals at CU (it's beside The Front Page... dork ;) ) So come down and support me. You'll know which one I am, I'm confident in my absurd and down right dirty behaviour.

Allright, I'll be wearing next to nothing.


One Size Fits All…

Now I remember why I’ve never bought any of those damn SM costumes. They were all made for clearly Caucasian women, with their bigger frames and bigger boobs. The corsets are easily fixed by tying the laces a little tighter, but there is apparently no way to make the ‘boob’ part fit better. But I really needed a piece for the next shoot, so I bought it anyway, and went to get it altered. I told the lady it was for a costume party. I doubt they will fit snugly still though, but since it’s for a shoot, there are ways and means to make it look good, nonetheless. For instance, I could wind meters upon meters of thin leather ribbons around my chest. Heh.

More on photo-shoots, a really cool girl emailed me sometime ago and expressed some interest in joining Suicidegirls. I have no idea how things worked out, but it seems like I shall be visiting her sometime next week in KL. I tried persuading my uncle to shoot for the both of us, but while he’s very much the bohemmie, and flirts from hot babe to hot babe (he’s pretty suave himself) he said he didn’t think it was the right thing to do, and that it made no sense, but nonetheless, I was welcomed to have his place at my disposal, any day.

Am honestly a little excited. She seemed more then game on my little beach-villa fantasy.

Still sick, and very sleepy. Think I'll go have a drink with Mike's ex-roomie late tomorrow night, since the Princess has decided to postpone out celebratory champange dinner till Sunday. Bah. I am fully encouraging anything that might transpire between her and the cafe chef, can anything think menage a trois loudly enough?


Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Why Singaporeans are Weird.

I was on the train back from the bloody exam today, and I started to have a coughing fit. Now this was a real fit, I’m coughing so hard there are tears in my eyes, and they were pouring, and the lady beside me took out a packet of tissue. I though, ah that’s nice, I didn’t know people actually cared.

No, they do not. Your dumb to think they do, she used it to cover her nose and mouth. Sure, that’s going to help stop all my germy saliva from entering your respiratory system. Mind you, I covered my mouth, and I did it as discreetly as possible, but this was one of those coughs where you chock on your saliva. In other words, it was pretty violent, and I was having difficulty breathing. The train doesn’t put up signs like ‘give a person in need of tissue some of yours’ so they don’t do it. I’m not saying Singaporeans aren’t considerate, in most cases, they really are. It’s just that they only do so when they are told.

I suppose I could have asked for it, but by the time I regained enough calm over my shaking body to articulate anything, my brother (who had apparently been on the same train, different carriage) came by looking for a seat, and solved my problem.

Anyway, bastards, I’m a fully fledge Suicide Girl now. I think I shall go make some name cards. At least it’s a honorable title in this occupation.


Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Chocolate Balls!

Let’s see how eventful sitting at a café for half a day can be.

There was this dude who emailed me about my modeling work, asking how much I charged some time ago. He’s called Dr. Seuss, as in, you know, The Grinch eats his Greens, and Eggs and Ham. I thought he was some kinda pervert initially, wanting to do bondage and shit like that, but then I realized it wasn’t very fair of me to have judge him like so. I was the one who had suggested ‘fetish’ and he’d naturally taken it to have implied ‘bondage’. But I decided to meet him this afternoon to get a sense of whether he was a nut cased pervert, and he turned out to be the most normal sorta semi-retired guy with a lot of cash to spare. He’d asked me if I liked older men, and I said sure, as long as they were stylish and generous. And he does seem more than keen to prove the latter to me; very nice. I was quite surprised when I met him though, he looked a lot younger then I had expected him to, but the middle-age weight was a give away, unfortunately.

I wouldn’t sleep with him unless it was on an all expense paid holiday, and he paid me of course. Sure it does sound insanely slutty, but I think it’s a fair trade off. There’s always a motive behind sex (duh), I’m young and sexy, you’re old and rich. That’s not to say I don’t have sex just because the guy is cute, and it just seems like it’s going to be a lot of fun. Of course I do that too, the trade off is the mutual fun, but you all know that already. I just want to get the better end of the deal, emotionally especially, and I’d feel cheated if I fucked a guy I wasn’t really attracted to under normal circumstances. But I like all of them as people of course, it’s not that difficult to like people, as long as they don’t bore me, and are considerate.

More flirting with the chef. It gets worse and worse each time. This time, the Princess was there with me, and it was way fun. He offered us chocolate profiteroles, and I went, ‘Ooh! Those chocolate balls huh?’

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Chocolate balls? I’ll tell the pastry chef that’s what you call them. Hah, chocolate balls.’

They were served, and there were a couple of custard ones, chocolate ones and one single, green pistachio filled one.

‘Cool. Black, white and green balls. Love ‘em all.’

‘Oh? Which do you like best, then.’

‘These are alien balls.’ I tell him, sticking my tongue into the pistachio filled profiterole and licking it like how I’d eat cunt. ‘I like them best. I’m experimental.’

‘You know, you should tell the pastry chef I really liked his balls!’

I know, that was all completely Lame, with a capital L, but I really couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t the one who started it anyway, I’d unintentionally said they were ‘chocolate balls’, and men, being men, will always think of their own genital whenever they possibly can.

The jokes got completely crap from there, and I talked about how I wanted a tattoo of a pau, and he looked at me like I was nuts, and both the Princess and him started making fun of me. Then there was a some banter about his age, and the year he was born in (the most beautiful date in the twentieth century). I thought he was just being egotistical, but apparently if I thought both dirty, and lame, I’d come up with the answer, and did. Took awhile for Princess to get it.

‘When are you leaving the country?’ I asked.

‘Maybe next year, I don’t really know. If there’s nothing holding me back, I don’t see why I should leave. But of course, if some beautiful girls fall into my lap…’

‘My, my, we are greedy! I noticed the plurality. Oh well, and the (G-Spot) had told me Italian men (and also according to American Girls are Easy) are the most dedicated, loyal, boys on earth!’

‘Oh yes, I am loyal, and exceedingly dedicated. Why would that be impossible with a few girls?’

Anyway, it’s settled then, who I’m going to party with at Zouk Out. Her majesty likes him, and I’m glad. She say’s he’s cool, chilled out, and has a funny accent. I told her that by all means, she should feel free to go for him. I wouldn’t feel vaguely jealous. In fact, I’ve been dying to introduce her to some people, and initiate her into the world of SPG-dom. *evil laugh* And maybe some fun group sex while we’re at it… but it’s allright if she doesn’t wish to. Of course it’s all right. I’ll not stop trying to persuade her into the light with lots of champagne and tempting white flesh, but that’s beside the point.



Monday, November 22, 2004

Status Anxiety

"There goes the Spicer Wilcoxes, Mama! I'm told theey're dying to know us. Hadn't we better call?"
"Certainly not dear. If they are dying to know us. they are not worth knowing. The only people worth knowing are they people who don't want to know us."


Belittling others is no pasttime for those convinced of their own standing. There is terror behind haughtiness, and it takes a punishing impression of our own inferiority to leave others feeling that they aren't good enough for us. -Alain De Botton; Status Anxiety.

Oh yeah. I'm a s.nob. For sure. I discrimiate perfectly against the bastards that discriminate against me. There goes that bitchy air-headed slut being a slut again. Take a look at yourself to see how pure your thoughts are, and don't lie and say the veneer of money, power and fame on another person does not attract you. High status is certainly attractive, and can be denoted by anything from physical beauty and a chic aesthetic, to editing a staple men's glossy. We're all suckers for it. That alobe, however, does not make it a bad thing. The problem lies when it becomes the sole purpose in an individual's motives.

But whatever it is, we will always be fools to flattery. Maybe that's one reason why I'm completely paranoid when it comes to the way I look, I must be grogeous. All the damn time. Trust me, there is a huge difference in the treatement I'm accorded when I look completely hot, and when I'm dressed slack. There is a difference in the treatment I get when people think I'm a smart successful career girl (which I have no problem pretending to me at parties and such) and when they find out I'm only a student.


Sunday, November 21, 2004

Fortunate Meetings

Last night was so fun I do not even feel vaguely guilty for having gone out, when I really shouldn’t have been. But not like it would have made much of a difference anyway, I had hit saturation point with the books. And besides, I had already asked Dee’s boyfriend to meet me.

I was at my new café haunt again yesterday, reading, but not concentrating very much. I’ve simply lost the momentum to study, along with the fear that had driven me close to insanity, not to mention, a perpetual yeast infection, for the last week. The staff kept on flirting with me, and I even asked the chef if he would like to join me at the FHM event I was going to attend later Mr. Big was really sick, and that wasn’t very nice, since I’d not seen him for a great long while and he turned up looking as easy to love as ever, unfortunately he had to leave in a couple of minutes because of a doctor’s appointment. Ugh. Who needs doctors. But he left me with two VIP passes, which I was certainly most glad to have!

Earlier on I had been standing around thinking about how lame the whole thing was. I met Will (my regular photographer), and he was carrying a huge camera bag, and completely preoccupied with taking photographs. There were a whole bunch of other photographers around, and one old guy (they call him the talent-less chee ko peh –local lingo for pervert) that I had wanted to shoot for at some point earlier in this sideline career of mine. I think he recognized me, but I tried my best to register absolutely no recognition for him whatsoever. Not that I really think he’s a chee ko peh la, but I really couldn’t be bothered with any of them. Old guys are cool, only if their white and look like George Clooney. And besides, they were obsessing over their cameras. Photographers really do live behind the lenses and out of the scope of reality. Who was the guy that postponed and execution because his video camera ran out of film?

There were no free drinks either, and I saw this inconspicuous, harmless looking man standing by the Jim Bean counter, purchasing a drink, and went up to him and asked him if he would buy me a drink. How uncanny, but he turned out to be the hubby of the publisher of FHM. And he did buy me a drink –gave me his actually- and gave me more then enough drink coupons (believe me, I got really drunk last night. I am still feeling hung over). Then I thought I saw the NZ Trade commissioner (the G-Spot’s best buddy. I’ve been trying to call G for the past week, but to no success. It’s nearly like he got wiped out from the face of the earth. After exam week, I might have to resort to drastic measures to find him *laughs*) I took a double take and looked right at him, and he looked back.

The guy who’d bought me the drink –he insists he’s a white ah beng- told me that that’s really the editor for FHM. ‘Well, holy god and all things good, he’s hot!’ (And a little to the side, ‘my loins are on fire’, as jokingly as I could manage under the circumstances). And honestly, for once in a long time, I was actually vaguely star-struck. He was young, cute and edited my ticket to fame. I had no problems talking to other big shooters, not if they were much older and thought I was sexy. I stopped seeing the rift between my social-capitalist standing (a student whose only claim to fame is a beach read blog) and theirs (Director of so and so) sometime back when I realized that people were people, and that we are all fundamentally the same. Plus, they were quite sick and tired of women looking at them and seeing money, instead of a person. I’d be lying if I said my mind never registers the fact that they are rich and successful, but I’m not a bleeder and have no formed intentions of becoming one.

So for pretty much of the night, I was wondering how to go about getting his number. The answer came in the form of 3 Jim Beans on the rocks, a little conversation where I spent the bulk of the pageant criticizing everyone except Dee and Candy, with and while the director from some luxury watch company made critical commentary on the winning chances of my two girlfriends, and more Jim Beans.

Of all hilarities, there was an interval and a guy I used to know, a good friend of a guy I spent much of my teenage years lusting after, ended up on stage.

‘How do you like to drink your Jim Bean?’ The pretty chez-o-rama emcee asked.

(Me, to the luxury watch guy) ‘Licked off a girl’s body. Duh.’

‘And how would you pick up a girl?’

(me) “Just use that old joke… the one where you go, how do you like your eggs? Sunny-side, scrambled, or fertilized.’ It took immense will-power not to embarrass myself and give the suggestion from the second level.

I wondered around for a great long while, making pointless conversation with very Italian men who still have those completely amusing and endearing accents (I have no idea why there are so many of them around me all of a sudden. I can say very truthfully prior to the last 2 weeks, I had not known a single Italian). My eyes kept on adverting to the editor though, and I was like, oh my God, I better do it now. It’s either I do or don’t, but there were people around him all the time.

Finally I found him sitting up on the balcony alone, and I was Jim Bean-ed enough to say fuck it and go up to talk to him. It was simple enough, and he wasn’t difficult to talk to. The nice, chilled out sort of dude. There was a girl sitting beside him, and I must have asked him if it were his girlfriend at some point in time. I supposed she was. Any one remember the finger flirting thing in Ally McBeal?

He gave me his card and said we should keep in touch, his number’s on it. That satisfied me enough. I went down to make more pointless conversation with the Italian men, and we went to look at the wine cellar across the atrium. They behaved like geeks in Sim Lim Square (computer mart), and I thought I’d leave after I got to say hi to Dee.

As he (hot editor guy) was leaving, he’d looked at me and said we’d keep in touch. I sure hope so; thinking about it, if he wasn’t really interested, then there would have been no point in saying that right. Just give me a name card to shut me up, and that’s it. But it doesn’t matter, I’m way past the stage where guys play stupid games with me.

The publisher’s husband did tell me something like I could go for it/him, whatever. Girlfriend, wife, fuck buddy, doesn’t matter what he’s stuck with, the fact is, I can.

I found myself telling him, ‘What kinda of life do you lead anyway? You’re hot, you’re smart, and you run a men’s magazine.’ It’s so utterly clichéd, and I know running a magazine is a great deal of hard work, and the women and the content are all fun, but that doesn’t stop it from being very hard work.

Eventually went to CU with one of the wine geeks, and got Terry to come down and join me for a drink. One of the girls I had always thought was Uber cool told me to stop hitting on her, which left me in complete shock, because she looked really pissed, and if she’d not liked it, then couldn’t she have told me so from the start? Like, months ago?


And talk about coincidences, I met Mike’s roommate on my way to the bathroom. I stared at him and he stared back. It was kinda dark, and he was really cute, and whenever that happens, I start wondering if I’m just imagining it all.

‘Do I know you?’ I say, quite loudly and very surprised.


‘Holy cow, you’re Mike’s roommate aren’t you!’

Now this really is something. Toby is everything a high school girl would want in a guy in order for her to shag him. He’s cute, sexy (think the whole muscular works), and dances like a dream. (You used to dance in a gay bar? With a plastic fish around your dick, and that’s it? –I was kidding about the fish-) And I’ve finally found a cute, competent salsa partner! I CAN”T wait for the bloody exams to be over, and there’s still the matter of the dance lessons I won in a lucky draw sometime back. I’m going to take up Tango lessons, baby.

Now this is completely American Pie, but I swear to god, the first time I had seen him, I was like, aw shucks. He’s so cute, but I’m screwing Mike. I shouldn’t be a glutton, and anyway, the sex is more then good enough to keep me happy, so never mind about that.

I actually told Toby that. That I’d always wanted to shag him, and that I’d entertained the thought (note, I did not say fantasy) of having both him and Mike all over me, although I will stress at this point that I’m really much more into FFM threesomes, and the idea of having two men together, on me, kinda turns me off.

‘Hey, did you think I was hot the first time you saw me?’

‘Well, I was in too much of a state of shock the first time I saw you. You’d barged into the bathroom while I was shaving with only a towel around your waist.’

The whole situation was completely surreal. I had wanted to get his number so many times (because I just KNEW Mike was going to leave soon) and he didn’t matter much to me anyway, but couldn’t. There was no way of ever getting to see him again, short of waiting outside his place at 7 a.m. to catch him before he left for work. Which is something so stupid and pointless I will never bother with. And what am I supposed to say then? ‘I think your hot, and I’ve always wanted to shag you, and now that Mike’s left…’

Sure, I did say it eventually, but the circumstances are not the same, and that makes all the difference. I, however, went home last night and made a very drunk post (100 word recount of what I did last night). The truth is, I just don’t want to shag anyone new for the time being. I have no idea why, I just don’t. (Check back a week later and see the binge that ensues after the exams. Heh.)


Friday, November 19, 2004

Royal Tim-Sum

The Princess managed to bugger me into going for Zouk Out this year, and I though, fuck you am I gonna pay $45 for a damn ticket to a rave party. $45 can buy me tickets to the theatre, it can buy two bottle of wine, it can buy me lunch at Lawry’s, although the last is of not much consequence since I don’t like steak anyway. But there are sweet advantages to being a girl, and one thing’s that you don’t have to get the tickets yourself.

After persistent reminders, I finally got down to asking some dudes if they got free tickets (those ang mohs in the Beverage industry –think the alcoholic sort- tend to have them). I think I was a complete idiot yesterday when the chef at the café asked me if I was going to Zouk Out, now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure he had been trying to invite me. Instead, I started some diatribe about how Zouk Out might actually be better then the Koh Sa Mui’s full moon party, because the gender ratio was more equalized (too many white males att he full moon rave, apparently. This was Mr. Big’s opinion). My sensibilities had been apparently completely prorogued by caffeine; I had a total of 6 espresso shots yesterday, and only managed to go to bed after a long midnight jog.

I set about asking a few guys if they had free tickets, and Terry offered! I was overjoyed, he’s so nice. (‘It’s not pushing it if I ask for one for my girlfriend, is it?/ No problem. Say thank you to daddy’).

I’ve been hanging out with the Princess a great deal these days, she’s simply lovely. We’ve got a special sign that has a steamed pau and little brass bell side by side that marks some personal belongings, and I’m thinking of working on it, so we can get a tattoo together. I suppose I’ll paint it in oil first: it’ll be a single steamed pau in one of those tim-sum vats, with a pair of bronze bells tied around it in a red silk ribbon. I think it will be lovely. Alternatively, I could just beg Cupido to do it for me, I could easily pay him in kind *laughs*.

Before I went for that mad 10 km jog last night, I had been thinking of all sorts of weird things to do after next week – My essay on the Dialogue between the Soul and Body went very well today, thank you very much- and I thought of embarking on a research project for a novel that just might be fun to write. I only need two additional willing parties, a chilled out female and many, many rich, pleasant looking males.

The concept behind the novel goes something like, two female kids with nothing better to do with their lives go on long-haul holiday trips with old(er) men they barely know. And it will be a fair number of men, however, they are never going to have sex.

Basically, the girls just want to have fun with each other, like each other, and want a never-ending honeymoon year, completely sponsored by bored, rich, uh… Tom Fords? (Of course if they were all sexy Tom Fords, I will gladly be possessed by each of them). Oh, and those bored rich guys get to have a lot of fun with two cool bi-sexual women.

I think something like that would be completely unbelievable if I pulled it out of my ass, so I thought I'd live it. And I think I shall. The only problem is, the only girl at this point in time I want to spend that much time with on a perpetual honeymoon with, doesn't seem too into it all.

The Princess is the only girl I know who has nothing against really old guys. The Girlfriend goes, thinks I’m just too much into guys who are old enough to be my dad, she goes ‘eee’ on that. Her majesty on the other hand, seems to think 10 years of an age gap is not enough.

We both love Tom Ford. And I’ve been persuading her to join me in my beach sex fantasy.

It was been a good day. My dad’s in Bangkok attending a cooking lessons, I have no idea why, but it sounds amusing. I hope there’s a big dinner part this weekend.


Thursday, November 18, 2004


A few days ago I chanced upon the nicest café with the yummiest desserts and the sweetest serving staff, and I’ve been going back there since. Just about ever other day. I went out with Luce two days ago… or three, I don’t really remember now, and apparently he recognized the chef from the Halloween party he took me to. It was odd, because I had wanted to go say hi to the chef, but Luce did the job for me instead. And because business has been slow there recently, he (the chef) is always coming by to chat with me and offer me drinks. He’s really cool, I like him. Ain’t it a small world.

I cannot think really. I’m completely paralyzed with fear and caffeine.


Wednesday, November 17, 2004

And I Find These Erotic...

Fluorescent tubers,
Trapped on a wooden lattice,
Strangled by nature.

Sun coloured street-lights
Through the leaves of trees by night,
Breach their filaments

Silk-and tar-ed paved roads,
Double-lined no parking signs,
Bright red crimson car.


He held my hand as we made our way to the train station, for once I didn’t have much to say. What was I supposed to feel? You were nice to me, it was fantastic sex, and fucking you was as a morning cigarette and thick coffee that was just the right shade of milk. Only I stopped smoking a long time ago when I realized I was allergic to nicotine.

We got on the train, and I started talking about Michel Houellebecq’s Platform, which I had given him to take on this trip to Thailand. It was about being alone in Thailand, pretty much anyway.

We had been seeing each other for five weeks, and now it pretty much just feels like one long, over drawn one-night stand.

His stop. He got up.

‘Well, see you in the far-flung future. Maybe our paths will cross. If you decide to stay on in Singapore, you can try calling me.’

‘Yeah. Um, it was nice knowing you, cutie.’

He hugged and kissed for what might just be the last time, and he left, well before the ‘doors closing’ segment started to play.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

It was kinda nearly as if he never existed in my life, and I wish it wasn’t. I hate it when people just fall out of your life like that, but there’s always more to look forward to. Writing about it makes me feel queer.


I had packed a parachute for today’s paper, only I didn’t practice opening it, and I most certainly did not double check it before I jumped. I had been too busy fucking the pilot. I mean, not like it mattered, the plane was set on auto anyway. Lots of trouble opening it, but I think someone’s coming to get me. Although I must say I never really understood the thing about the velocity you reach where you start to free-fall.

Ethan tells me to calm down and that it’ll be allright. Exams always turn out better then you expect them to be. I’m thinking of alternative career routes. I’m also thinking of getter married for an EU passport. He wants me to be near him anyway…


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Why I’m in a Daze…

I’m not really prepared for this bloody examination. To start of with, I wasn’t made to take exams. I’ve always been quite terrible with them, and always leave them feeling like it was just too mediocre. They usually turn out slightly better then mediocre, but they’ve never been stellar.

Then there’s Mike, whose leaving this Friday, who is still wondering if he should come back next year. We’ve kinda not been doing anything aside from fucking three times a week, which to me, is a rather pleasant way to conduct a relationship. There are no frills, no arguments and no expectations outside the sheets. I’ll really miss that. I liked it a lot. Great sex with a nice guy every night I wanted it, and terribly convenient too. Well, fuck. There he goes. Another one bites the dust. Whatever-you-will.

I’ll be going over tonight, but I’ve got a yeast infection apparently (yes, the stress really is getting to me). Maybe it’ll hurt. But there’s just something about the mandatory goodbye bonk that’s just so appealing.


Sunday, November 14, 2004

Absolutely Busy

I’ll tell you what’s my problem is with the Christian conviction in the absolute.

My dad was running a tape by a somewhat famous Christian apologist called Ravi Zacharias in the car on the way to church today, and in it he propounded the purity and the need to be found in the absolute. The chastisement for the lack of it is always the same; and that is nothing. My dad says I don’t understand what he’s getting at, this man whose read Dostoevsky , Tolstoy etc. etc. While I don’t even bother to crack open the bible in church. So? I’ve read a lot of other things that he hasn’t, and I don’t like to think they are all trash literature.

But I digress. The common case constantly placed forward against the lack of absolutes in the world today, is because there is a lack of absolutes, and we need to bring back principals and laws, and a moral code to live by. We think we can live without absolutes, but to do so would destroy us. The message in the world today is to do what you feel like, and no one sees the need for a moral code.

That’s what they all say. The tell you that the world lacks it, they say it in such a way that because of this lack, the world will go to hell, but they never, ever tell you why! But I’ll tell you why I don’t believe an absolute moral code is really just a fantasy. It is the biggest, most insane fantasy we ever come up with, and it will never be achievable.

Firstly, according to conventional Christian wisdom, Christ died so we can be saved. If we could save ourselves by through self-qualification, there was no need for his death. An absolute moral code is impossible for us to follow, therefore he had to die. Why so many Christians keep on propounding the need for it is beyond me. If we can never match up to it, we can never match up to it. It’s not a question of why bother. There’s a difference between giving up on something to which there is hope, and knowing the impossibility of something, and saying, screw it. It is a fantasy.

Then it’s the human nature. I am sure many of you have had that repetitive morning experience where you look at yourself in the mirror right after you wake up and think, wasn’t I just doing that yesterday. Look at the calendar, it’s November, isn’t it, and very soon you’ll be thinking that on Christmas morning; Has it been a year already?

What I am trying to get at is that we live form a day to day basis. Our nature is an existentialistic one. We might have utopianist ideals and traditionalist sentimentalities, but we live in the present. That’s why a whole lot of us don’t ever get things done till the last minute. Keep principals, because it’s good for you. Good for your future, and well, just good for you. I believe in having some sort of principal in life, it’s the law of doing what you feel is right, based on a fair bit of sensibility, that is more often then not crafted from experience and self-reflection (i.e., put yourself in the shoes of that other person/s). But to have absolutes of which I know not it’s outcome, except a denial of some of the most fantastic experiences I probably could do without, but now that I have had them, would not have liked to be without…?

The reality is in the present and what I feel, not in some vague nobility to be found in keeping discipline according to laws I cannot see the sense in anyway.

All these crazy proponents of the trade, they think they’ve got it. They think they know. I can say truthfully I’ve been through that. A state where I feverently attempted to keep every commandment. But I doubt they’ve placed themselves in that state where they don’t have to keep them, and see that there’s really nothing wrong with it. And see that it makes more sense, and is more natural to the human state.

They say the truth will set you free, that by doing what you feel, you will be under bondage. Then why, when I am not doing what I feel, I feel as if I’m under bondage, and when I am, I do not? Perhaps it is because of some higher meaning I cannot perceive now. What you feel does not account for anything. Fuck you, what I feel is ALL there is. Your senses are what pull together the experience of life, by the second, by the minute, all coalescing into a singular lifetime. I am living in feeling, and that is the only way I can see sensible to live by.

Doing what you feel is not a road to self-destruction, not if you don’t feel like destructing yourself. Besides, we’re all going to reach that point of death someday, preferably when we’re ready, but the thing is, as much as the media romanticizes death and all, will we ever be as ready as we like to be, or can we be ready anytime if we put ourselves to it.

And as a side note, I read something else by another Christian author that on the one hand preached sexual restraint, but extolled the virtues of Ray Croc –founder of McDonalds-. I’m not saying either one is right or wrong. You have too much wild sex with anyone (anytime, anyplace, but not just anyone is one of my principals) you get into shit, you eat too many Big Macs, you get into shit. Another bloody scary thing that freaked me was how he carried on with George Bush’s win. ‘It’s God’s blessing!’ But the guy is killing people through polices he pulled out of his ass. It’s people like these that make me truly believe God is completely impassioned. Because, as scary as this may sound, I do believe God has blessed George Bush. But because this world cannot accommodate victory for everyone and blessings for all, his victory has to be balanced with a fall, with failure and pain on someone else’s part.

The idea of blessing is completely selfish anyway. How would we know we are of a better lot unless there are people in a worse lot then we are?

There is such an insanely frustrating balance to things indeed.

Hey look, at least I’m not a starving African child in the middle of Sub-Saharan Africa.

Does it make a difference when I’m stuck in the middle of Hollywood image hell, and there are all these pink frosted donuts around me but I will be tormented if I take even one bite?


Stressed. Much work to do.


Saturday, November 13, 2004

Oh Dear Me

Someone has emailed me about the flippant comment I made about Hinduism a couple of days back. I was completely shocked when I got it, but reading the post again, I suppose I was horribly full of Christian dogma when I made it. I said that the images created to represent their belief(s) would induce me to queasiness if I were around them all the time. True, they would. But it’s not because I can’t respect their faith, or because I believe my God is the one true God ( it’s nonsense anyway, we are living on the same earth, so we must therefore have the same creator).

I’ve just be raised to dislike sculptures with human/animal likenesses on them. I grew up believing they had real spirits in their hand-painted eyes, and I still do believe they are inhabited with spirits. I know it’s fucked up a normally rational person (that is, if you think I’m normally rational in the first place) can presume such things, but hey, commonsense is really just a collective of prejudices we accumulate over the course of our lives. I can’t help having these prejudices despite the fact that I think they (the sculpture and the art) are beautiful creations from a completely aesthetical sense.

I have nothing against there having been multiple representations of God, and I think it’s wrong of my parents to have ingrained in me the sense that all multiple representations of God are false, and are thus idols. If you really want to look at it in that way, Christianity is really kinda polytheistic in it’s own right (it’s the holy trinity after all… and Christ was as much a man as you and I, only just more Godly, but nonetheless).

This is tiresome. I have got too much work to do, but I felt compelled to explain some things. I hope I have insulted no one else by doing so. Gah.

Religion is a pain. Just believe what you believe and don’t put down anyone else for theirs. It was never my intention to do so!


Friday, November 12, 2004

Dreadful Days to Come

Believe it or not, I have been holed up since 8 am studying. I can say I am simply not prepared enough. I just seem to keep on forgetting the things I’ve put into my head every time I pick up something different. Tragic, tragic, tragic.

But no matter. I’ll be pleased to get a good enough grade to made it to design school. I was never very academic anyway, and besides, that was what I’ve always wanted to do. Aside from the time I felt like doing medicine with my cuzzie (he’s a day younger than me, and we were quite close) or when my mother had persuaded me that studying law was a cool, prestigious thing to do. I doubt I can make it to either now, and don’t want to anyway. The last I heard, Ju was thinking of dropping out of Med after repeating his second year, and my mother had actually asked me to give him a ring and offer some encouragement.

Me? Encouragement? I’m at my wits end thinking about the bleak prospects for my academic future. I am NOT going to do another year. I called him, nonetheless, but I doubt anything anyone can say to him will do any good. He’s just got to get a hold of himself.

Hah, talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

I realized I don’t actually know what I want to do with my life. I’ve got no immediate goals, no vast ambitions. I won’t say I like it to be simple, what can be defined as simple anyway? But it certainly never feels complicated. Who I’ll love, who I’ll marry, how I’ll survive when I’m no longer entitled to my dad’s credit card, all that will work itself out. You just have to be sufficiently passionate about living I think, and it’ll turn out allright.

I really do think anything is possible.

Was watching the news today; I’m always awed by the power some people have. Ramallah looked like a huge mosh pit.


Thursday, November 11, 2004

I look up my blog stats from time to time to see who’s linked me, and sometimes they have pretty fun blogs I think we all deserve to read. Wannabe Sugar-Baby is pretty cool. It’s got a nice outfit, is compulsively readable, and very real. Gold-digging is not something you do in cold blood, it would seem. Plus, she’s called Tiffany. Who can resist…?

The truth is, I have never, I swear not even once, actually actively tried to look for a Sugar Daddy. It would be nice if they were falling out of the skies (after mass banishment for de-paving heaven’s roads to exchange for money) or growing on trees, but finding them really is more like panning for gold. In other words, not easy. I just want to have fun anyway, and although the idea of having someone pay me through an expensive foreign degree is extremely alluring, I’m still not going to bother to look for it. I always seem to get what I want anyway, without actively doing much, aside from being nice. And anyway, at the end of the day, there’s still Daddy. (The biological one, whom I have just discovered is back from India. He was simply not keen on celebrating Deepavali in Hyderabad. My mother says it's a terrible thing for him to have gotten the project there, because it's just overboard with the paganism. I love the quirks of human culture, but when they go against my own spirituality -the clean, quiet, idol-free monothesitic sort- and I have to be around them for weeks on end, I can see how they would induce queasiness. But nonetheless, I'm still pestering him to let me tag along, on the next trip after my finals.) *apology made on this completely bigoted, flippant statement!

Anyway, I’ve kept up quite well with Dan, the yank who picked me up at the KL international airport nearly a month past. I had given him my cell phone number then, along with my email, and promptly forgot that I had. Two days ago, I got a couple of missed calls. It turned out to be him calling from São Paulo (one of the cities in the world I am absolutely dying to visit!), we talked for a bit. Apparently he’s written two books, and I did a run on Amazon just for the fun of it, and they do carry his titles. I was slightly boggled. He’s coming back to Asia sometime early December I think, and we’ll work things out then. He dresses like a slack, but I’m pretty sure he’s loaded, and not tightfisted about it.

I honestly don’t know what I want to get out of it, but hey, much-older-men have to make up for their lack of youth by having two distinctive characteristics: More world-smarts (it’s just like street-smarts but in terms of frequent flyer miles, among other things) and money. Not in that order, but mandatorily together. All that, can be equally as sexually attractive, and we all know the why from a biological, evolutionary standpoint!

We had an odd conversation about getting gooey blueberry cheesecake eaten off my naked body. For a trip to São Paulo, with what seems to be a pleasant enough person (who’s also written two books, although I doubt they are the sort I’d want to read; and anyway, everybody’s getting published these days), having blueberry cheesecake eaten of my breasts is a price I’m willing to pay.

Oh for Christsake’s who am I kidding.

It’s not a price, even.

I really do like blueberry cheesecake.

I’ll call Luce and see if he wants to meet for tea at this Uber cool looking Victorian Tearoom at the Esplanaid. I wish it were in a cozier location though! Have I ever mentioned the inordinate delight I take in drinking chamomile tea out of very finely decorated china?


Tuesday, November 09, 2004

It’s a Small World After-All

So one of my blog readers has taken to sleeping with Mr. B. Aint’it weird? So that was how she knew it was me Sunday night (she had just left his place to return him his key, and I had been making my way up). Can you believe that? Two completely unrelated people; My God. I feel like a vortex for idiosyncratic twists of fate. I think he asked her if she’d like to join in the next time round. He texted me to tell me that today, and that he thought it was sweet of me to have baked him a cake made completely from almonds.

Let’s see. Join in… Sunday night… After we took up the party from the pool. I popped in some R and B music, and there were three naked girls dancing and flashing ourselves in all our glorious nudity by the full length window. Candy couldn’t stop yelling at every bum-boat that came by, and we all probably made a hell lot of noise.

I stood by the edge of the coffee table, couched down, placing my hands against the edge, with my bum lifted up and my back arched.

‘Spank Me’.

And when Mr. B spanks me, he really, really spanks. Come to think of it, he was also the first guy to ever do so (although the first time round, it was more of a pat *laughs*) For some reason, I had been toying with the idea of getting whipped before we had commenced with this particular (group sex) experiment, and I asked him to take out a belt, since both Dee and I were into that kinda thing. So there I was with my ass obscenely raised, and before I knew it, there was a sharp, stinging lash planted onto it's left cheek. Of course it hurt, and I had to cry out. Pain is allright if you get to scream, I think. Crying out makes it much more toleratable. I had five of those, before begging 'enough', although I was absolutely sure I could have taken more (my dad had been a relentless disciplinarian) You see, I wasn’t really in an SM mood that night, but had wanted it simply because I couldn’t stop thinking about getting whipped for so much of the afternoon preceding the party.

Right after I said enough, Dee came up to me and grabbed me into a the most complete embrace and smothered me with kisses. That, I really love. It’s my favourite thing about pain, that someone comes in to give you some respite thereafter.

All this while, it had never even occurred to me that I should fuck Dee’s boy. Firstly, there were two guys, and of course it was just more natural that I should do Mr. B. I’m not a glutton, one is sufficient. And secondly, I thought I would be a little pissed if I were Dee. Not so much (if at all) because of the jealousy, but rather because… well… let’s just say if he came, it would take awhile for it to get up again, and I doubt it would be as hard. Very oddly, he called my up this morning, asking for a favour.

‘You have to tell me what it is first of course, I can’t make promises based on no information!’

‘I’d like to fuck you this Friday. Alone.’

‘Alone? Does Dee know?’

‘Yeah, we decided we’d do one other person.’

At this point, I’m not too sure. Is it allright to do one other person, or to do many other persons, as long as they told each other all of the time. But to me, of course it is of no importance. If you want to do other people, just do them already. Big deal. Don’t get me wrong though, I would never sleep with a girlfriend’s boy if I knew she would be against it. I didn’t promise him anything though, if I felt like it, I would.

I actually asked Mike how many people he’d slept with last night, after some of the most fabulous sex ever; again. He’s so completely uninhibited, and so completely great in bed I figured it must be some a substantial number. Most people never get over a whole lot of inhibitions until they had done a few people anyway. But apparently, it was less then 8. I was officially shocked. But I can see how that’s possible. Like for example, they could be really cool girls who talked dirty in bed all the time. As opposed to many boring women who just let you fuck them since it’s part of what dating would eventually entail. *shrugs*

Digressions aside, we had wanted to take the party down to Cayote, but it was closed, as it is every Sunday. Pity. I thought it would have been fun to wear a huge, baggy, white tee and get drenched such that it was like a strip show, only, we weren’t violating any laws.

All I can say at the end of the day is this; I really did think the whole experiment was a lot of fun. Sure it was wild, but it felt so completely right at the same time. The thing with the prostitute had actually felt sinful and pointless, this didn’t. I knew the people, and I like all of them. They rock. It wasn’t something I think about and go, ‘oh, how completely degenerate and deranged’. It’s nothing like you read about in stories, or watch in porn videos - Dee had been talking on her cellphone as she got fucked. ('The Boy is fucking me and there are three people watchin' ') That was funny.

It was how it would be if we never ate the fruit of the tree of Good and Evil, and carried on procreating in the Garden of Eden. Where we’d would of course, all be naked, all of the time. That, and not a Sodom and Gomorrah accidental experiment just before the burning of the cities. There is sex that can make you feel good about yourself, and about people, and sex that’ll make you hate the world and drive you to depression. This was definitely the former.


Monday, November 08, 2004

Fantastic Family Fun

That’s what group sex feels like and it’s probably because the people were all so cool. Quite odd, but I enjoyed I better then any threesome I’ve ever had. It was good group sex. It had blood, whipping, skinny dipping and dancing about naked, along with just the right amount of alcohol. At least this time I was pretty much sure of what I was doing, and it felt nothing like a depraved sex binge, that’s for sure.

Mr. Big was freshly back in town and I arrived at his place a little earlier then the rest, and he was in a flurry of trying to get his place in shape. I had so wanted to sneak in a quick one, but he insisted he had to shower first, and by then they’d arrived, so whatever. We managed to do some random catching up, and he’s apparently been playing the field, with –get this- two girls that know me. I have no idea who they are, although I am sure one of them shares the same photographer as I do, and the other one just might be a girl who knew an old classmate. Such a small world; what uncanny coincidences!

The meeting started off mildly awkward, we stood about in the hallway of his apartment staring at each other with Dee demanding to know what was going on, even though I was sure she had a very good idea of what was about to happen. I found out soon enough that it wasn’t anyone’s birthday, it was an anniversary thing, and her boyfriend wanted her to have a good time. I like anniversary presents like that. Very creative.

We sat around the coffee table drinking wine and quick-fix lychee martinis, and I figured things were not going to loosen up unless we headed for the hot-tub, which we did. I took off my top and put on my bikini in front of them. Dee probably knew for sure what the hell was going on by now. There was a little fuss over her boyfriend’s garb. Dee couldn’t stop screaming and laughing at the same time when someone suggested he went down in his underwear. I took a peek. It wasn’t even a G-String. It was just a pouch that covered his dick, and his dick was standing. It was a very huge dick. I eat my words, some Asian men do have fucking huge dicks (he’s a Polynesian mix actually), but it’s still Asian. (If you’re wondering how big is big, it’s 8 inch, and thicker then my dildo.) Beautiful.

Let me say that again.


It didn’t matter anyway, what he wore. We got into the tub and in about 10 minutes no one had any clothes on. I felt myself thinking about what a fantastically gorgeous situation this was, for anyone to be in. Three models, two cute guys, in a tiny hot tub with the reflection of the city lights on the sky casting a glow onto all of us (there was no moon unfortunately, so I am very sure the sky-lights were all city illuminations).

I loved watching the girls make out, I loved going down on them, and for some reason, it was making out with them proved extremely effortless. It was 5 people, but it was a great deal less stressful (if at all) then the threesomes I have had. No one expected anything, that was the part. For some reason, I remember this one particular take better then the rest. It was when Candy had her ass (and boy was it a beautiful ass. Tight, and glistening wet) well out of the water, her body curved like a cat stretching, her arms around Dee’s neck, and they were kissing, as Mr. B ate her out. And all this was while Dee’s boyfriend was giving me the best hand job I ever had all my life.

We went about out nonsense for a good long while, and as these things usually turn out, someone went, ‘Oh shit! Got people. Got people! Get down man!’ I turned to look, but the guy had already left. Candy (being the oh so cool girl she was, which I though was very cool, for a girl that spent half her life in mid-western China) went, ‘Oh fuck people.’ (Good attitude. What else are you supposed to do with people anyway?) And she got out of the tub and went to the edge of the balcony, in all her glorious nakedness, and started waving to the people on the other side of the river. Dee and I got out and joined and the two guys sat in the tub looking amused. (Their excuse? ‘No one wants to see us butt naked.’)

It was completely hilarious. Took the party down to the pool and Dee and I swam topless, despite there being a bunch of other people around. They must have all thought it was a completely weird situation. Candy wasn’t even in a bikini, she was wearing my ‘Desire me’ panties –I sacrificed them, it was all right for me to go home without underwear. And Dee was in a pair of panties made out of what looked like stocking material. You could see her butt crack.

‘Maybe they think you hired three prostitutes and a toy-boy.’ I told Mr. Big.

I floated about the pool with my tits facing the sky, and the world felt really good.


(I’ll continue tomorrow, I’m really horny these days, and I must get in a jog, squeeze in an essay, then head over to Mike’s for a good fucking. In case you are wondering, I didn’t have dick meat last night. By the time the girlie foreplay was done, I was far too sore to do anything more.)

Sunday, November 07, 2004

I make a sucky Voltaire.

Some random observations.


When I had met Luce for dinner, he had been talking to me about Dawkins, and after dinner, he bought me his book. Basically, he agreed with Darwinism, and the whole idea that it was essentially our genes that controlled us. Natural selection works for the sake of passing on the best genes. Trail and error.

I don’t believe in trail and error. If you recall anything that has been done by trail and error, you know it’s the most painful way to learn. But the world is really too beautiful and too perfect to look like something borne out of trail and error.

Then after that, while we were having coffee (not very intelligent thing to do at 11 p.m. at night, but he says people should sleep when they wish to, and not because the night made it right to sleep) he starts talking about structure in nature. About how complex the functioning of some creatures were. In the way they built their houses, in the way they organized themselves as a community. And all this, without self-awareness. And when you put self-awareness into the picture, the human capability for logic, then it is impossible that we are made out of random selection. How can we be such existentially rational beings, with the ability to even place logic behind the most illogical things, and yet be biologically random. Perfect societies (in that societies have form and function, that they work out or not is inconsequential to the point I’m trying to make) from random biology? So our fundamental being is haphazard, our grounding, our foundation is just chance, while the surface is so structured?

Even the most haphazard architecture stands because, and precisely because, it’s grounding is perfect!


Forget all your theories on God. Love, Justice, Peace, Wrath. You put that altogether, and what you’re going to get is a being that is neither here nor there. If we are truly made after his image, and a person can never be entirely defined as good or evil, then God is neither Love or Justice, or is Love and Justice. Either way, that makes him a perfectly impassive creator. The best sort of art is art with structure, not art with feeling. Sometimes, I think he does everything to amuse himself, just as I feel the purpose in life should be. A constant search of newer and newer experiences and expressions. Amusement is neither good or evil; Anyway the argument cannot be validated, because we are in no position to judge what is good or evil.

Are there really choices that are of God and not of God?

Is there really a wise choice and an unwise one?

Or should all choices be made on the basis of what brings pleasure? Because if life is transient, and capricious (as we all know it is) then whatever we do does no matter, because we all die eventually, and the decisions we make have, possibly, as many good outcomes as they have bad. But you are eventually beholden to yourself and only yourself. That quality is intrinsic, that is why we must seek to follow the whole doctrine that greed is good, and believe in a win-win situation. Before anyone else, we desire for ourselves. And if we desire for others, and for their happiness of others, it’s because it gives us joy to see them being happy. It atones for some sort of moral bias we have.


Justification. People with no absolutes in their lives (read: me) try to justify everything they do. Well, people with absolutely in their lives try to justify the need for absolutes just as much as people who don’t rationalize why it should not be.


Morality makes misery out of people. Immorality makes misery out of people. Looks that way if you define if from an absolute standpoint. If you started doing what you felt like, you might at least be sure of immediate happiness. In the long run, you’re going to be miserable anyway, just as much as you will be happy. Outcomes are of no importance to the individual, it’s what is made off those outcomes. It is preferable if you have an idea of what you want in the first place of course, but it’s fine if your idea of what you want is to never know what you want.

I can never respect or appreciate you, but there will be someone out there who will.



Woo Hoo. Group Sex.

Well, weird shit.

I went out with Luce again for dinner. I am definitely going to get fat if I keep on dating like this, we had wanted to go dancing, but somehow found ourselves nursing cups of hot chocolate and pecan pie instead. It was the first time I had pecan pie, can I definitely say it is not easy to work through. I really like him, and I like talking to him, and he makes me think. Really hard too. We took a stroll around the bookstore, and he purchased a book for me, The Selfish Gene. I will get down to it after the finals.

In more important news, I have been attempting to get booty for my beach villa group sex fantasy. I met a girl at Halloween who has returned my text messages, but I have absolutely NO idea how you get down to asking someone to have sex with you. Oh, with men it’s so easy, (You Tarzan, me Jane *grunt*) not the same can be said for girls though. It takes work.

However, out of some major oddity, someone else has done me the favour and arranged a whole lesbian orgy; not for me, but I was invited, and of course agreed. The first thought that came to mind was, ‘great time to network and do some hunting for beach-villa fantasy’. He had originally suggested hotel 1929, but I thought it would be way too small. I wanted to kick myself when I remembered Mr. Big was not in town, because his apartment rocks ass, and it would be so much fun to have both him, and oh, 6 other women around.

So I called up this friend of mine Friday night (haven’t really gone out with him in months, bumped into him at the pub a couple of weeks ago) to see if his place was available. I asked him like it was a favour, although I wonder why it should be. Most guys would die to find themselves in that kinda situation. And I am talking about really hot women here, like Playboy playmate hot. Like fetish model hot (of course they would be. They are fetish models.) He asked if he could join in; I told him certainly, he can watch, but the girls just want other girls (it’s some anal thing where they are all attached and don’t want any guy but their boyfriend to come within a mile of their pussies). And he says that it should not be a problem, but just call the next morning anyway, to see how it goes. For some reason, I found myself offering to fuck him after all of that. Not that I would feel obliged, but rather just because he would want it. I won’t say out of sympathy, but perhaps. He’s been chasing me forever, and I know how that feels like.. I feel too stupid to go on about it anymore, but if you’ve ever been in a situation like that before (and I know many people have) you get my point. He's nice, but not my bag.

But! as things would turn out (rather beautifully too) the party was postponed till tomorrow evening, and Mr. Big will be back then! Hurrah! I hadn’t seen him in a long, long, long time, and I actually kinda miss him.

‘So you are telling me there will be 5 models and you at my place tomorrow, making out with each other, and I will be the only guy there?’

‘Uh… no. The guy who prearranged it will be there too. He’s the boyfriend of one of the girls, and it’s a mad hatter un-birthday thing for her. And you don’t really get to participate, because the girls don’t want to get fucked.’

‘But I thought you said it was an orgy!’

‘Yeah. It’s an all girl thing. But I’ll be there (read: you can’t fuck them, but my little cream-puff has nothing against your nowhere little *ahem*) We’ll be playing some sex games, like spin the bottle to see what goes into where, and who gets to eat out who… And there’s the hot-tub… Besides, with enough alcohol, I don’t see why you won’t have fun. Everyone loosens up with enough alcohol.’

‘And the guy who arranged this is OK with it being at my place?’

Um… I didn’t want to tell him this, but the guy, and the girls, are a lot happier that it is at his place.

He asked me how I sold his place to all of them for tonight.

My sales pitch: It’s spacious, has a great view of the city, is permanent home to an adorable teddy bear, along with a hot-tub at our disposal.

And the other guy who'd be watching on?

Me: Oh, don't worry about Mr. B, he's very sweet, pleasant looking, slightly blonde, completely harmless. (This was apaprently a very important detail for them. One of them actually asked me, specifically, if he was a gangster.) You're average bloke working down in Shenton way. I've had group sex with him before, and can say with surity that he's not hell bent on fucking new girls. No one will be doing anything they don't wish to.

For some reason, where it was located seemed to matter a lot to the girls too. They wanted somewhere dead convenient and chic. It makes sense. Having group sex in a crappy HDB apartment is like a bunch of fucked up school kids with nothing better to do (reminds me of the time I played kissy lesbian games at 14 with my girlfriend and some other classmates). Having it somewhere like at Mr. Big’s is just too Sex and the City. Although I have never recalled them doing anything like this before. Which makes it even cooler.

He has just texted me to say that he is more then honoured to host the girls *grin* I liiike!!

Now I just have to hope very hard no one backs out, or I will be so upset.


Friday, November 05, 2004

Wow. The US election was really none of my business, and in fact, I'm mildly pleased at the fact that Asian stock markets rose. Not like it's a big deal, if his Middle Eastern policies are going to continue being as tragic as they currently are (actually, tragic really doesn't quite describe it) -I was thinking about oil prices, not Iraqi children dying, although that's not the most pleasing sort of news to have with my Starbucks Fair-Trade coffee at 8 a.m., but no matter.

You know what? It almost feels as if a wet blanket were lifted off the world for a few days, and the majority of the world could breathe with an uneasy air of optimism. Uneasy, but at least they could breathe. Now it's returned, and we're all back to a sort of sleepy depression wherein we have nightmares about China's economy overheating, faint wet dreams in which the demagogues of the world meet in a monastery and talk about nuclear waste disposal (while being entertained by Kim Jong Il's Joy Division) and day-dreams of starving Iraqi children bathing in clean water.

I don't know what to make of anything anymore, and I don't really care, because after having to write an essay on how nothing reported in this day and age can ever be objective, I figured there's really no point in attempting to argue about anything at all. Because someone out there is bound to be able to come up with a reason as to why you're wrong. I would say, let the situation speak for itself; and the situation sucks. But that's how the media entertains these days, no? We were really fond of tragedy about 5 years ago, with Titanic. Now they've taken it to the news, and Hollywood's back to happy endings and stories like Sky Captain. So we will never really know the truth.

I like this cartoon. It's probably how a whole lot of people feel like at the moment.

You know something? You're probably as bored of this as I am. It's over.

But sometimes I still wonder how it would be like to have breakfast with The Man (the one Jack Black fervently tells you to stick it up to). Bacon, Eggs and a Big-azz Sausage baby. All smothered in oil, and lots of it please.


Thursday, November 04, 2004

Smell my Pineapple!

I’ve been terribly bogged down by work lately. I’ve just about done a Homer Simpson (i.e. made an ass groove into a couch) at this lovely new café I’ve found, resting under the shadow of a posh new office building by the sea. It’s got great coffee and fantastic falafel wraps, all for under 10 bucks. It’s also a fantastic spot to do some white guy executive watching. The Princess and I have a bit of fun when we get bored with Japanese equity by thinking about a different sort of stock. None of them are cute though, but they probably live in that pretty new condo just beside the café… How absolutely convenient.

Mr. Big offered me tickets to the FHM event this Saturday, but there was just no time to meet him before he left the country again. I’ve not been seeing him awhile, and honestly don’t know what to make of it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too weird to think about it, and it isn’t as if it were vaguely exciting even.

The Princess suggested watching D-Lovely yesterday, and I absolutely recommend it. Especially if you like jazz musicals. I had been feeling a little broke and wanting to eat wood-fire pizza with Ruccola salad on it; so I rang Luce up after that. He’s god-awfully free these days, it would seem, having just quit his last job because his boss was an ass-hole, because he wanted to learn Japanese, and also because of a sudden desire to embark on some no-brainer get rich scheme. He says he wants the money so he can sponsor obscure film directors. I tell him I am glad to have him as a friend. He’s free nearly all the time and likes to listen to me talk. He also spent much of his twenties smoking pot, studying theology, playing the Sax, and reading a great deal of just about everything that was supposed to be bad for him.

We have an odd, mildly sexual relationship where we’d tell each other filthy jokes and criticize religion and it’s treatment of procreation and other relevant activities. It occurred to me a couple of times how interesting things would be if I could just fuck him; I’m not particularly attracted to him in that manner (he kind of reminds me of the Girlfriend’s boy), but he completely stimulates me, and I imagine it.

But I’ve been a good girl, and the perfectly ordinary relationship with Mike has been all there is lately. I was on my way to his place (which is conveniently about 10 minutes away from where I live – I was so bored I timed it) and I started wondering why the hell I was doing what I was. Going to some guy’s place at about a quarter to the Cinderella hour with a pile of bed-things in a huge shopping bag. He just moved out of his old place and hadn’t the time to do up his room, and I absolutely cannot stand sleeping without my own pillow, and since I wanted all the bed clothes to match, I brought along the whole set.

I was tired, grumpy, and wondering why the hell did I asked him to meet me in the first place. Then we got down to it and I remembered why. Because I was horny. Duh, and because the sex was so fantastic. Mike looks fine, a little too tall for me (something like, oh, forty centimeters taller), far too skinny for my tastes, and we don’t really have much to converse about. I talk, he listens, usually.

But he is good sex, in fact, he is fantastic sex. It’s so fantastic I felt myself thinking I could live on it, and breathe it, and would gladly have that sort of sex as the last thing I’d get up to if I were to die tomorrow. Along with that, he’s also one of the few guys whom I can talk dirty with without things turning weird. I’d say cock and he’d say pussy, I’d say jack it in, and he’d say fuck you bitch. And we did that for awhile like some sort of mad game.

I love the word Jack.

I am convinced now that when I feel completely good about the sex, the guy is bound to feel so too. Oddly, the quality of sex with the same person can fluctuate, within a relatively restricted margin, but still. I think I flatter him too much and he probably feels like a sex god now; the Girlfriend tells me to lay off the adulation for awhile.

The next morning we were walking past some old shop-houses and there was this completely blacked out club called 52, or 59 or something of the like, and beside it was a whiteboard that said ‘Smell my Pineapple! $2.95’. I nudged Mike and we started laughing out ass off. It occurred to em after awhile that of course some guy usually sold pineapples right below the spot, but hey, we’d just gotten out of a night of obsessive dry-runs. You know, where I practice how to make little bundles of joy. I’m being very Kiasu about it, I suppose, but one can never be too prepared with things like uh… the future of out nation.


Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Mediterranean Rose

It had been left unfinished for a long time and I felt like doing a little re-decorating of my room and thought another painting would be nice. 12 by 18. Oil on canvas.

Luce found it quite amusing that I didn't know Rilke was male. But we all learn, and at least I got some pretty good poetry recommendations from him, and a low down on his military background. I shall now know better then to allude to artists I am not entirely familiar with. But on the flip-side, I would never have found out anything more about him had I decided to be a little more careful. But go ahead and take a good laugh at my ignorance anyway; how would you know I have pronounced cHa-Os wrongly if you've never thought of it that way yourself?



Tuesday, November 02, 2004

The Nobleness in Life...

Found a really old book in my father’s rather extensive, and un-doubtly very varied, library (The Encyclopedia of Jewish Customs, 1985, Dune, to ah, Maria Rilke).

<>Sex is difficult; yes, But they are difficult things with which we have been charged… If you only recognize this and manage, out of yourself, out of your own nature and ways, out of your own experience, and childhood and strength to achieve a relation to sex wholly your own, not influenced by convention and custom, then you need no longer be afraid of losing yourself and becoming unworthy of your best possession. – Maria Rilke, Letters on Love.

*Edit: Yes, Rilke is male; I wasn't able to tell. But it's probable that because I thought he was female, I went through his work convincing myself it had something of the feminine about it. Not that it matters; Art is androgenous, after all.

Sometime back I wrote an email interview about my views on pornography and sex, and have just gotten it sent back to me via article format, and reading the excerpts of my interview, in the context of the article, made me wonder if I really did write all of it. Not because I was lying in it, but because I’ve forgotten some of the ideas I’d put across, and they all seem on the one hand familiar, yet still refreshing.

Here are some excerpts:

(I have modified them a little, for a bunch of boring reasons.)

Q: Are you concerned about juveniles gaining access to nudity? Why?

A: I think it's stupid for people to see nudity as explicit. They see used to see their mother's breasts all the time, they see themselves naked, and they see their siblings naked. Of course I understand there is a difference between seeing people you're so used to nude and people you don't know, nude. But I feel that desire is a very natural and pleasing thing, and part of what makes life worth living.

I grew up with a lot of sexual images around me and I started learning how to paint the female nude form at about the precise age of 10. I'm glad to have been so attuned to my sexuality at a young age, because it's given me time to develop it through adolescence, where I was sure I didn't want to have sex yet, knowing fully well I was too young (my body clearly did not resemble the voluptuous, clearly sexual nudes in any of the art I was exposed to).

Because I was exposed a lot to eroticism, I knew exactly what I want when it came to sex, and I think a lot of juveniles should not be denied that. I think a lot of them end up entering this whole business of sex (when they fall in love etc… ) prematurely, irresponsibly, and under pressure.

Q: If our government imposes laws on pornography, will it affect the arts scene here and the freedom of expression?

A: No. If they can distinguish between the pornographic and the erotic. Pornography has nearly no value aside from a fun time in the sack, which I have nothing against. But it should only be let to people who can distinguish the fantasy from reality.

If they cannot make a clear distinction, and overdo it, it will certainly affect the arts scene. Because such a huge part of human expression draws it's inspiration from sex. It is for a reason that lust is one of the seven deadly sins!

Q: What would you like to see about the society's perception of artistes doing pornography?

A: I think you need to make the distinction between eroticism and pornography! I would love to have people accept pornography as a fact of life, a tool that can be used to enhance their sex, but nothing more. Where eroticism is concerned, however, I would hope that one day we will start to learn to how to use it to develop and understand our emotions better. Understanding your own psychology towards sex can be very liberating.


November 2

Vic reminded me of a particular acquaintance coming back from camp this weekend, and I found myself looking at him, going, ‘Has it ALREADY been three weeks?’. It’s of mild significance to me because the night before this dude left for National Service, I had met Mike. Not like it’s a big deal, but it sure doesn’t feel like I’ve been sleeping with him all that much. Actually, I’m not; because in 16 days, the finals start, and by the time they are done with, I am sure they wouldn’t have yet decided the winning candidate for the US elections by the.

But who really cares on this side of the world if you don’t actually have a vote anyway? (although one forthright journalist did offer his vote to anyone who could give him a good enough reason as to why either twiddledumb or twiddledick deserved it). It’s just something amusing for cable TV to give all day coverage on, and for people who are too tired after work to do anything else but couch potato about and be dumbed down with. I have to admit though, I am sure it will be far more entertaining than Ariel Sharon shocking with his evacuation of the Gaza strip. It would have been fun to see how the media would have handled it, had he tried to upstage the elections; but somehow, these things just fit in smoothly.

Strangely though, it is important to me. The fact that I bet a hundred dollars non-withstanding, that made in America democracy… or any form of democracy for that matter… is of no relevance in an autocratic state, and that how either way I am sure whatever the outcome, we are not going to get a holiday, or a day of mourning (despite Bush’s FTA being somewhat essential to the country), it is important. Because for all my cynicism and hard-headed belief that the world can and never will be a better place, I actually think it will be slightly more toleratable with the challenger in charge. I did have such hope for Iraq turning into a shining battalion for Friedmen policies! Honestly, however, I must say now that this war has got to be a ‘sensitive’ one, as much of a paradox as that is. The shock tactics did not work, and the Iraqis are past shock now. The idea had been a quick wham-bam overhaul, which probably made very much sense to a president hell-bent on always doing something, while never actually thinking about anything. On a certain level, I did subscribe to it, in a very Singaporean way. The faster you do it, the faster it’s done with. It might hurt a lot more, but at least the shit doesn’t trail off your ass.

The thing is, economic policies matter. And they matter very much if you’re having your businesses stolen and auctioned off just like how it’s done in bankruptcy court. I am sure a lot of state owned businesses were mired in debt, but it’s still no excuse; Sell off America’s economy then. Just look at the translation of graffiti in Baghdad, and a whole load of them have Bremer’s name in it. It isn’t just about people dying (although it is extremely central to the problem), it’s about them having lost their jobs. Hey, if unemployment is such a terrible thing in the developed world, what more a war-torn country? Was there any necessity to rob them of their livelihoods? They don’t even care if they work for well below the minimum wage! Hypocrites.

Outsourcing is a problem; over-paid steel workers can’t afford as many big-macs as they used to, or drink a gallon of soda with every meal. Abortion is a problem; what has that innocent thing ever done to you? It doesn’t matter that it’s got the sentience of a calf (I love being on Atkins, you get to eat a lot of those), it’s a potential human being, Damnit. (Don’t get me wrong, I am against abortion, but acknowledge it’s necessity.) Oh hmm, children in Iraq, well, sacrifices have to be made you know, if we are to secure security.

Come On. Peace is an on-going process, and it is ever fragile. It’s not something you can just purchase with a huge deficit and a hundred-thousand lives.

But the president truly has god-given gifts (his god, not mine). He’s a real Machiavelli, for one thing. One of the arts of leadership is after all in pretending a capability of determining the future. By selling the idea that what is negotiable (as is the nature of peace) as non-negotiable. Peace, my dear Watson, has to be fought for. The calm before the storm, my love, Iraq is an impending doomsday. Saddam is one of those maniacs who’s really into martyrdom hiding under a façade of secularism.

By the end of it all, I am absolutely sure that more people would have been dead then if both Saddam and one of his heirs were to rule the regime consecutively. Tell me, how can a person coalesce laissez faire economic policies with heavy handed strategy in just about everything else?

We cannot do without leadership, but we could probably do without leaders. It is the requirement of all human organisations that some individual or group take responsibility for ensuring direction and secures the interest of it's members. But it does not mean we need leaders; IF that implies a group that is permanently distinguished from the rest...
Keith Grint

Remember Oceania, Eurasia and East-Asia?

As one realizes by the end of 1984, Oceania's continuous wars in Eurasia and East Asia serve no particular purpose, aside from providing the stimuli that allow the population to be confused, manipulated and ruled.

… The struggle against international terrorism by military and other means need not have been defined as a perpetual war of good against evil. We are a country "at war," as Bush likes to say, and he is a "war president." This is not a description of a particular action or mood, but of a permanent existential state. The hero of 1984 "could not remember a time when his country had not been at war." Should Bush win the presidential election in November, the youngest generation of Americans will soon be able to say the same. As a society, we are less peaceful, less free and less informed than we were a few years ago.

War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.

Oh boy, saying that aloud nearly brings me to orgasm.


PS: I completely suck at politics, November 2 is none of my business, and I have exaggerated my dissent to quite an extent, so before you send any email, please be considerate. I am completely open to disagreement, but no personal attacks. Maybe I have made some, but at least I am not forcing it down your throats by sticking it into your mailboxes.

Monday, November 01, 2004

Look at What the Cat Draged In.

How... passe. We all knew this already, do we not? So I'm pandering for the ang mo, but how blame worthy is that in a society where Asian men have to wear dress shirts to prove they can afford lunch at Chez Chic and white guys can go in dressed in sandals.

But no, it's really all about looking it. Asian men, generally, just look more destitute in the eyes of their own race, no matter what they wear. Blonde hair, blue eyes and an over-sized nose (frankly, no one I've dated has an oversized nose, and thank God) is nearly as good as a Zegna suit. Heh. The reasons why I'm partial to white expats are many, but at least I can be sure it's not (or at least, no longer is) born out of social and cultural astigmatism.

My opinions on dress code are far simpler though: Men should avoid shorts altogether, regardless. Unless you're a Nike Model, and Black.


Ruined Stockings

Halloween this year was fun, despite it having been a pain in the ass trying to figure who to ask out. Everyone seemed to be tied up till late, and I bet the G-Spot was out hanging with his Goddess (although I might be mistaken on this count; due to multiple hickeys inflicted upon him by a particularly unstable individual, he could possibly be trying his darnest to avoid unnecessary suspicion), and Mr. B hadn’t contacted me since the ménage a trios. Eventually, I settled on an old friend I had not gone out with for awhile, although I did bump into him a couple of times not too long ago. I thought it would be a great opportunity to catch up, called him, and found out he was more then happy to make it for dinner at CHIJMES before hitting a private party I was most certainly welcomed to crash.

We used to attend some weekly literary event that I stopped going to eventually because I found other things to occupy my time with and he stopped because he’d gotten bored with it but had stayed on as long as I kept on coming. According to him. Was sure it was just unnecessary but perfectly welcomed flattery.

Everyone loved the slutty witch outfit I had, and it was a lot of fun being told off not to do dirty things with the banana. The wackiest get up was this dude (barely) dressed as Alexander the Great, he was wearing the breast plate, and thankfully, a leather skirt as well. Samwise Gamgee was also present. My heels were giving me blisters and Luce seemed to find it amusing carrying me about the car-park after we left the party to hit the clubca. There were a whole lot of people standing around staring, and I started making weird fainting noises, pretending that I had eaten a poisoned apple.

I was very pleased with myself last night; I had a cool outfit, Luce seemed to be enjoying himself and was content with doing whatever the hell I wanted, and I also had a good time listening to his theories on religion half drunk. He had apparently been studying theology and was once upon a time a wannabe Catholic-priest-something-or-other, and had thought religion should just go screw itself over half-way through and left. It was all very well for me, because I did something I’ve always wanted to do, last night. It’s extremely silly, but I had my fun and am content.

You see, what had happened was, while I had been at the club, Teddy came on the bar dressed as the King of sin, or the duke of hell, or, put more simply, Lucifer. I thought he looked cool, and by this time had started to like him, for reasons yet unknown to me. Maybe it was because he had so many ‘ho’s and was generally a nice guy who really knew how to have fun. I started dancing with him and lifted up leg up and touched my thigh on his tummy. Wonders of wonders, the damn stocking got caught in a button and I found myself in one of the most awkward situations ever. So we were both on the bar top, trying to untangle my stocking from his shirt.

We danced for a bit, but he got stolen by Catwoman. I have no idea what’s Her problem, but she kept on cutting in between us. Teddy carried me up, and some girl sprayed me with water. I hope they do it out of fun and not because of some silly bitch politicking. I am a customer after all, and just there to have fun!

It wasn’t till later while I was in the cab with Luce that I realized there was a huge gaping hole in the stocking. I doubt he was drunk, but we both definitely had had enough to drink, and he couldn’t stop trying to hit on me. I didn’t mind the whole stroking my leg bit, I love having my legs stroked after all, but I didn’t feel like kissing him and it started to get extremely embarrassing when he started coming on to me, literally (as in, trying to straddle me, in the fucking cab), I told him to please sit down and behave. He did, but picked up my right leg and placed it across his, and started stroking my ankle. My other foot was rested on the headrest of the passenger front-seat, and I suppose the cab driver could have seen my underwear, if he looked in the headboard mirror. Luce started stroking the insides of my thighs and fingering the torn edges of the stocking. It was very bad behaviour, and I knew the cab driver was peeking at us whenever he could, but I didn’t tell him to stop because it felt rather nice. He started fingering me over my panties and I shivered and found it all very exciting. It went about for an unnecessarily lengthy period of time until I came, in the cab, my pussy possibly in full view of the headboard mirror (I had been wearing a dress, and my skirt was hitched up all the way to my stomach). I made no noise, but my body gave a little lurch as I reached orgasm, and I leaned back against the seat, my hand cupping my mouth, trying to calm down a little.

I started laughing and Luce started laughing, and I told him what the weird thing was, and that was how I didn’t even think I was vaguely drunk. Not very sober, no, but for the most part, not drunk. The driver stopped at my place and demanded payment. Perhaps he had had his modesty outraged. I suppose we could have been sued for such bad behaviour; I had wanted to fuck him in the cab, just because I was horny, and there were points I considered going back to his place, but thought against it. I do try to observe restraint, and besides, I wasn’t particularly interested in sleeping with anyone new. The driver must have been surprised we weren’t getting off together.

If there was one thing I felt did not make the grade for the night was how Teddy simply refused to kiss me goodbye after I had told him I was leaving. I thought it was perhaps because he was seeing another bar-maid, or sleeping with one of them, and it simply would not do. Understandable. When I had first gotten to know him, I always had this peculiar theory that he slept with all the bar-maids. It’s not true of course. And he explained to me why he could never kiss me, late last morning. Despite him thinking that I was most certainly very sexy, and every bit the charmer.

All I can say is that it would be fun if I had the lord of the greasy poles to hell as my paramour. Simply put, he’s married. D’oh. Not like that really bothered anyone, and it most certainly never bothered me, although I would be extremely freaked out if a man actually told me he’d wish to leave his wife for my sake (one of those impossible, hypothetical situations, and it’s not even something I would like. For that matter, I would probably hit him on the head till he decides otherwise).

My internet connection has been pretty fucked lately.