Old Loves

I woke up in Mr. Big’s bed this morning. It had been ages since I last met him, and I felt like cuddle last night, so I went over to his place. The poor boy was completely sick and looked like he could really do with a massage. Which I was kinda enough to dispense. He was lovely, we talked about how long we’ve known each other (a year and a half to date now! I can scarcely believe how time has flown), about all the experimentation we’ve done since, and what he’s done in the past couple of months while I was out of commission with the exams (Aside from the occasional group sex).

Then in the afternoon, I met this completely annoying photographer who was so thick headed Dee and I wanted to bash his skull in with our shoes. I got the shock of my life when I met him at his hotel lobby, he was completely old, fat, and badly groomed. Not to mention, so tragically ugly and completely bereft of any manners. But the worst was the fact he was so full of himself when he had nothing to be proud of. He kept on taking about the rock bands he had photographed when he was younger, and that he had gone to film school and knew all the guys that ran the agency he’d got my contact from. Then he started going on about how the money he was paying Dee and I was quite a lot for a non-commercial venture, and how he’d pay less, but give us good pictures. I was too nice to say that his capabilities with the camera were not all that fantastic, and that I’d seen, not to mention, done, much better shoots than anything he had (ever done).

One of the things that amused me most was how he expected to be paid half of what I got paid if I sold the photos to say, Suicidegirls. I was like, look man, I know better photographers who’d do it for me just because they want to (because they were great friends and such).

Initially, I had wanted him to meet me at a set place, but he was all, ‘oh no, it’s too confusing, why don’t you just meet me at my hotel lobby’. Which left me thinking, damn man, How difficult can it be to find the place on the directions I had emailed you? Just get into a fucking cab and tell the driver. But he’s really, really stupid.

He was talking to Dee and myself about how it would be cheaper to hire a prostitute and photograph here. And like how it was completely cheap in Thailand to purchase a girl and get her to pose. Yeah whore, then stick to your Thai girls and don’t waste our time. Besides, dumb-ass, a girl at Orchard Towers cost the same price I usually charge for a modeling stint. Only, you get to fuck her. (No, despite whatever other models are doing, I don’t fuck my photographers. Of course if they happen to be romantic interest first, that’s a different thing.)

Anyway, I left him at about 4 feeling completely annoyed because I’d wasted a day with a fat, ugly, old, stupid bastard. I’ve had good conversations with fat, ugly and old guys and never had a problem with that. As long as they have something worthwhile to say, I’m always game to spare some time to listen and maybe learn something. But he was completely not worth a second.

I was contemplating on whether or not to go home because I really did look so pretty today, especially with my new Guess-chic outfit (completely inspired by Dee… I hope she finds the vague imitation flattering). And I thought it would be a complete waste if I didn’t have a guy I knew go ga-ga over me. I know this probably says something about how my ego hangs on the opinion of men, but nonetheless it happens to the best of us. And it’s not as if I desired it all the time. It was just that I thought I looked exceptionally good today, and didn’t want it to go to waste.

***

This is when it gets exciting.

I’d decided to drop into the art gallery to say hi to the guy that ran the place (the one I used to have a silly crush on), since I’d not gone there for a really long time, what with the exams and all. He was busy when I entered, so I’d walked around looking at the new exhibits. Nothing I really liked, although there were a couple of new paintings by one of the regular artists that I loved. I was starting to feel awkward (as art galleries sometimes can make a penniless, parent dependant parasite feel) when guess who the fuck should walk out from behind one of the exhibits but Martine.

I went ‘Oh My God, Hi.’ And lapsed into one of those laughing fits from which is spun purely from incredulity. As a reflex action, he said hi immediately, but I’d a feeling he didn’t really recognize me right away. It wasn’t that he didn’t remember me I think, but more because he’d been in completely deep thought, and I forced him out of it. You must remember I’m half his height, and while it’s easy to notice people much taller, it’s not always the same the other way around. (You can say that perhaps I’m simply attempting to console myself that he didn’t recognize me right away because I never meant all that much to him. Which wouldn’t be altogether wrong, but I doubt I meant any less to him than what he meant to me.)

Of course I’d like to believe that he was simply too much in a shock when I said hi, because he did recognize me, only he couldn’t put a finger to who I was, right there and then. I don’t know how to explain it, but the expression on his face and been one of being caught off guard, completely.

But whatever it was, he looked as gorgeous as he always did, and smelled as lovely as ever. Like I said, he was the epitome of the sort of stud you’d find in a romance novel, although I completely disapprove of most of them, and he would certainly not encourage me to pick any up (we’re both literary snobs I’m afraid; ironic, since much of my life reads like trashy b-grade literotica). Tall, dark, good looking, and completely stylish as ever. But then again, it’s not as if it’s been many months since.

Apparently he was there to buy a painting. Partially because he really liked it, but mostly because he thought it would be a fantastic investment. He asked me what I thought of it, and while I did think it very much a gorgeous piece of art… realism usually isn’t my bag. And I didn’t notice it then, but now that I think about it, and after Martine planted doubt about the absolute sincerity of the people at the gallery, I did think I got much more attention when they realized we knew each other. But that’s only natural. Sales people are sales people, whether you’re selling a vacuum cleaner or an Andy Warhol. Anyway, I got offered champagne, so am certainly not complaining.

For some odd reason, the talk (and this was not just between both him and me) got turned to the gays in Singapore, and I got the shock of my life when he mentioned that he gave his number sometimes to some of the gays that asked for it. I don’t think he bothers (or dares) pick up their calls, but it’s still odd. And then the other guy shared this story where he was coming out of the bathroom and some guy bumped into him and said, ‘Hey dude, I got a really big cock.’ He just replied, ‘Oh? Show me then.’ We finally settled on the score that either the dude was gay, or he was jealous that all the white guys were taking his women with their huge dicks. (But any guy who’s so insecure as to bump into another dude and tell him that he has a big cock cannot possibly be secure enough to find any woman.)

Martine asked me if I’d like to grab a drink after and inside I was like, ‘Duh! Why do you think I’ve been standing around waiting for you and listening to all that banal talk about gaydars and hot pick-up points for homosexuals.’ Outside, I just said ‘sure!’, with a really, really big smile that was almost too eager.

I kept my distance all the way though, because I honestly didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. That I was still the silly, inherently childish little girl that just wanted him to lay me. Oh for sure I’m still the silly, childish little girl I was a few months back, sure as hell I wanted to fuck him more than anything, and more than anyone else, in the whole world. Lust doesn’t hide itself all that easily in me, and there’s something about a relationship that ended as abruptly as ours did. You just don’t forget, and it breeds inside you.

For a long time now actually, I’d always been thinking about him here and there. It was always, ‘Oh, it’s going to be easy for me to be faithful when I want to… but what about Martine.’ Or ‘Ah, I’ll be good for Ethan, how hard can that be. But what about HIM.’

Anyway, we got to the bar and were presented with the option of sitting either outside a-la alfresco, or inside, with the intimate couches and all. I thought, well, since I’m trying to keep my distance so I don’t give him the wrong idea, I’d better NOT suggest the couches inside. But… I do what his hands all over me!

Of course I still had enough sense to make the decision to let him decide, and he chose the couch. Now there were couches outside too, and there were some inside. It wasn’t a warm night, that was for sure; in fact it was quite cool, and I worried about freezing my arms off inside the bar, which he did take into consideration when we were choosing seating places. But I eventually decided that freezing my arms off was well worth seeing where he’d go with me. Was he still as proper about the fact that he had worked with my dad and all. I think they’re still at it, but it’s about done already, anyway. However, he did tell me that he’d want nothing to do with me, until it was completely over.

Anyway, I made sure there was about half a foot of space between us, and made not a single attempt to hit on him, until he did so first. It wasn’t easy, especially after three glasses of champagne, but I managed it for a good half hour (no easy feat for me). He solved my problem by starting the nonsense first. I was a little apprehensive initially. Was he just being a little friendly… Yeah, probably was. Silly girl, don’t expect too much.

Then another half hour passed, and his fingers had started to stroke the sides of my breasts. It was a given then, he wanted me still. But I still kept a little distance, this time partially because I still didn’t want him to get the wrong idea (that I was still trying to lay him, although I most certainly was) and also because I knew the more I held back, the more he’d want me.

Then he suggested making it back to his place.

‘The problem was never me, Martine. It was always you. You know more than anything I’d love to love you, and to do it as often and as much as I possibly could.’

He started on the same old boring excuse about my dad and his job and bla-bla-bla. But, now that the business agreements were coming to a closure, and every decision that could have been influenced by my position between these two bloody men in my life, had already been made when I wasn’t involved with the both of them, simultaneously, it didn’t matter. It was then I realized this thing about people, and something about him. Our morality, ethics… everything, is so easily comprimized whenever we think they can be, and whenever it can be done so to suite our lusts.

xoxox