Inner Sanctuary

Has anyone else noticed the insides of Olinda's thighs on the MRT doors at the Orchard station? That's rather provocative in my opinion. The insides of a woman's thighs is a very sexual visual. She's looking gorgeous these days, I hope Singapore Idol stardom takes her beyond being a poster girl for some slimming company. Such a great voice and spunky personality, and the only news I have of her recently is that she's lost a whole lot of weight. Something is clearly wrong with our priorities.

Last night, I’d finally gone out with the Girlfriend, after a rather long period of avoiding having anything to do with her. The day she decided that shopping for a pair of shoes should take precedence over a decent conversation with me was the day I’d decided I’d wasted enough time with her and her vast insecurities.

But it had been two months since, and she’d called me up the night before, clearly upset over what seemed like a break-up with someone that wasn’t even living in the country, asking me out, and I couldn’t refuse. I tried my best to cheer her up, which basically meant knocking down glass after glass of whiskey on Emerald Hill while stuffing our faces with candied cherries.

Élan’s been messaging me quite frequently these days, and it just so happened he’d asked me what I was up to just about the time the Girlfriend and I were nicely wet and slightly tipsy. When I’d met him at the bar by his apartment, I was already sufficiently drunk and definitely dead bored. Which subsequently led me to the realization that so many people end up fucking in club bathrooms precisely because of that. Drunkenness and boredom are sure fire recipes that will stimulate the need to get laid. All you need is the right type of readily available person in order to secure the deal.

The four of us, The Girlfriend, Élan, his mate, and myself had taken it back to his place after we’d gotten even more drunk at the bar, and the whole thing exploded the moment the front door was locked.

Élan woke me up with a start at 6 in the morning, and without intending to, I’d punched him in the eye. He’d pulled away from me with a start and covered his left eye as I apologized profusely before asking him what the hell had happened last night. All I had remembered was ending up on his bed, whipping his mate silly, before going out to the living room to be greeted with his half-naked from the bottom-down self. I remembered passing out on the couch and someone tucking me into bed in the guest room, and that was it.

He looked at me puzzled, and shook his head like it would help get rid of the fog in his brains.

‘You got crazy last night man. God, I feel like shit. Don’t you remember? You were having candle wax poured down your back and whipping my mate and shaking up the entire room.’

‘And my friend? Is she allright?’ I asked.

‘She’s allright, she left right after. He told me, and I didn’t bother to ask right after what.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Slightly past 6 in the morning, I feel like the pits, but I’ll have to get down to work. Shit. Can you stick my washer into the dryer before you leave later?’

‘My pleasure. I’ll even sweep the candle wax off your floor, it was my idea after all.’

‘You’re a darling.’

After a conversation with that mate of his last night, I have found out, much to my gratification, that he speaks very fondly of me.

He’s such a dear really, and for reasons unknown to me, really turns me on all the time. I never think about him sexually when he’s not within my immediate vicinity, but whenever I’m hanging out with him, my senses normally end up exploding. Perhaps it’s something to do with old factory remembrance back from my adolescent years, when cigarette smoke and Polo Ralph cologne meant the boy I thought I loved. And his entire apartment stinks of cigarette smoke and Polo fragrance.

He dropped by later in the day while I was still at his place, and we watched a pirated DVD of Sin City with really bad subtitles clearly written by someone who’s first language was definitely Thai. We watched it for a total of a few minutes, before something else took us over.

And it was a hot, silent afternoon. The air-conditioners were turned off and I was sweating on top of soft Burberry sheets, my back arched and the upper half of my shoulders thrown off the bed, my head hanging from the side, facing the curtains. I could hear myself breathing, and hear his breaths and him saying my name as he held me tightly. The curtains rustled and the sunlight that fell on them went dark to light to dark as the folds of the cloth moved. And all I could feel was the most pleasurable feeling in the whole wide world inside me, and me breathing his name, again and again.

And it was a hot, silent, steamy afternoon.

The door clicked shut.

‘See you after the weekend, babe.’

xoxox