The Past is as Good as Fiction

Or why you really should sleep with whoever you want.

I honestly do not think why it should be a problem sleeping with a perfect stranger. It’s a time honed tradition after all, and parents used to love the idea of their children giving their virginity to people they have never met in their entire lives. For some reason or other, they’re totally anal about it now and believe in lengthy, tedious, courtship periods. Courtship is fun, but only, and especially, when you get to test drive the good.

What I am trying to point out is this: There is a difference between sleeping with someone you don’t know, but plan to know better, and just being addicted to fucking someone new every other night.

Not inclusive of group sex, which by it’s nature alone, excuses fucking someone you don’t care to know. In my personal opinion, I believe it’s all in good fun and outside the scope of reality, and I never give a negative thought to one night stands with another woman (as long as they aren’t prostitutes; I really did give that one more thought than was healthy); simply because they come so few and far in between, that whenever I can have them, I will, in whatever context. It makes no logical sense of course, what difference is there between a one night stand with a male or a female? But it does prove one particular point, and that is, if you’re not going to have any absolutes when it comes to sex, don’t even bother to attempt it in any aspect. Because it’s all relative to how badly you want something, and the more you want it, the easier it is to justify it. But at the end of the day, it makes no difference.

Everything eventually will become past, and the past is as good as never existed. It serves to put you into your current condition and present situation, certainly, but it no longer exists. So that relationship I had with the Ex, who was someone I really did thought I loved, then, is really no better then the lone one night stand I had. Either way, they are over and they don’t play a part in my life and nothing they do will ever affect me again.

There are some people who will argue that things would be different if I wasn’t such a romance junkie and a nymphomaniac, which together, make for a life overflowing with more then my fair share of feel-good relationships. This would imply the alternative, which is to have the moral capability to only sleep with one person all your life. But the truth is, a hell lot of us don’t have intrinsically absolute morality, and a hell lot of us compromise. But because of the thought that a person shouldn’t be sleeping with people you don’t truly feel deeply for continually hounds you, you might just end up going back to the same person.

This comes from an analysis of the Ex, who went back to his first girlfriend after I couldn’t bear his stupidity any longer. He’s also such a fuck up he thinks sleeping with transvestites does not constitute as cheating, because they aren’t really women. Nonsense. It’s cheating if she wasn’t going to like it have you had told her.

It is sad when people are chained by convention and pointless absolutes that they cannot accede to entirely. It then becomes a paradox, because moral absolutes are just that. They are perfectly unqualified directives that are no longer perfect when something you cannot control happens and causes you to, put simply, fuck it up. Let the dead bury the dead, and sometimes it will serve everyone else well for people to just let go and get on with their lives already.

At this point, it is relevant to introduce the fact that while I think absolutes are for most people, irrelevant and impossible, and a pain in the ass to everyone around them, I have nothing against a very clear understanding of knowing what you do not want, and most certainly nothing against rejecting something you believe will not be good for you. The latter is an immediate feeling, a present sentiment; if you will get no pleasure in accepting it, then of course you should not. Absolutes confuse the feelings of the pleasure of choice and negate them with the anguish of having chosen the pleasurable choice. The decision was gratifying in itself, but out of some self-righteous mechanism, you decide you must be punished for it, because it went against what you believed you should have done. There is a difference between kicking yourself because you slept with a guy you knew was never going to see you again the morning after, despite you wanting him to, but still slept with him nonetheless; and kicking yourself because you've done it with someone that was genuinely nice to you but is now turned ugly because he caused you to forgo that absolute. (If he really did like you, feeling like that, and telling him so, might only cause unecessary upset.)

I believe that there is only one group of people who have any right at all to critique sexual licentiousness as is termed by this (very hypocritical) society. These are people who have decided that they will only sleep with one person and only that one person all their lives. That I think it is a very unhealthy mentality non-withstanding -it causes couples to take advantage of one another, and according to a particular Middle-Eastern Muslim friend of mine, it is what some men in his country do. They rape the girl so she is theirs, because she has not known any other way to approach sexuality. These people have all the right to say that sex is meaningless if you sleep with more then one person, because they must truly believe it, for in order to be so absolutely faithful all their lives. That they have the right to say it however, does not mean that they are right.

No one will ever know this for sure; if you have slept with only one person all your life and believe he has done likewise, then you would never have known that doing so with more than one person can have meaning too, because I feel it does. And because I have slept with more the one person, I can never say that, doing so with only one might have meaning beyond anything that can be described is complete bullocks. No one can ever have both experiences simultaneously within one life, and can no one can therefore come to a sensible, theoretically accurate conclusion.

But from the way I see it, sex, for the love of God, is just sex. The meaning is in the person, and not the act. So the whole argument is therefore a pointless metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference to the actual facts of real-life as we know them –Oscar Wilde (God I love that play).

It is around for you to take pleasure in, and not something in which to sling your moral bigotry about, targeting people you do not know, and probably have never slept with. My attitude is casual towards sex, certainly, but it is not casual towards people. I take people very seriously, and it is not in my business to hurt them. It is also nowhere casual to my well-being. Certainly, I have made mistakes, but I have also learnt.

I have never regretted sleeping with all the people I have –I know I did say with the exception of one particular before, but after much thought, have decided it was an unjust accusation- although one or two have been completely boring experiences. The virginity is more of a liability then an asset, really, and being the person I am (which is the same person since I was capable of memory and therefore, conscious thought) I cannot imagine a life where absolutes conquer me and nail me with their useless, pointless, meaningless conventions. To which the only pleasure I may find in acceding to its decorum the delight I take in the virtue of discipline, a pretended holiness and moral indemnification. Oh, I swear, self-righteousness does taste good, that’s why people love going about keeping themselves as ‘pure’ as they possibly can; But thou shalt not covet.

I choose who I will sleep with on the prediction that something will come out of it. That it will not be pointless eventually, and that the sex is just a very pleasurable means to that very human desire for inclusion and approval, ultimately. But you must not take this as if I have only ever slept with people who were strangers, and then, thereafter, Not. The only reason why this would matter to me is because I believe that the different ways in which you meet and eventually form relationships (of whatever sort) with people, are pertinent to each other. But more than anything, how they all work out is, at the end of the day, largely dependant on the character of the two people involved. The different verities of tenderness felt towards the same person by different people are all constructed in part from such.

Indeed, enjoy whatever there is to enjoy now. Certainly such joys are transient, but this whole life is anyway, and if how this life works is anything to gauge by, planning for the future, much less, the afterlife, is one of the most aimless tasks. But if you do not think so, then you must not find the idea of killing for the sake of 72 virgins (or was it raisin trees?) absurd.

xoxox

How Impressive is Money and Fame?

Cupido invited me to the opening of his current art exhibit, and of course I went. There will always be good wine and food at any of his parties, and the people at such event are always worth talking to anyway. I had a good time talking to his art dealer about how paintings got sold. But more then anything, I went because it had been awhile since I last saw him, was a little depressed and needed to be with someone who respected me and was sincere about it; all that, plus he is one of those people I just think are completely worth keeping in constant contact with.

There were all these important people sitting around talking about important things and drinking important coffee and all, but for some reason he paid me a great deal of attention nonetheless, which is really one of the things I absolutely like about going to any event he fixes up . Or doing anything with him, actually. The Girlfriend described him well: he’s one of those very sincere sort of people that’ll never go bad no matter how much money they make (which I am absolutely sure he is making a lot off). I like how he always introduces me according to my pet hobby of the month. Of late, it’s been erotic art, and people just get fascinated when they’re told I’m an erotica illustration-ist.

One of the big problems I had whenever I worked with him was how insignificant I felt beside all the other people with a lot more experience then I did, and the other PR people who helped him manage his work, essentially, the ‘serious’ staff. I was really someone whacking about and trying to learn something in the process. But he apparently doesn’t care much for those people, and spent much of the night with myself, and this other completely hot girl* whom I am very sure he would love to sleep with, if he could. I don’t think it’s an assertion; firstly, all men want to sleep with hot women, and secondly, he seems to have been sold to an ideology a friend of his (about 60, very rich, looks like George Clooney) expounds whenever he possibly can. That was, the one thing he regretted in his life was not getting laid at every possible chance he could. Cupido has blatantly told me about it before, and I have two thoughts on it.

One is that, he’d sleep with any woman he desires, just because he believes he should. With a statement like ‘getting laid whenever I can’, you can’t help but think, how completely rude and inconsiderate. But I know he isn’t. The other thing that came to mind was that, he’s easy to snag. And I know he’ll be around for me, or any other girl for that matter, when he can. Of course it helps that I’m content with catching up with him once a fortnight.

There are a lot of things about him I like; he’s not gorgeous, or particularly charming even, and has the dress sense of a destitute artist (paint stained tees and Capri’s), but I really can’t help liking him in that tender slightly beyond friendship sort of way. There was a point in time, for oh, about a few seconds, where I wondered if all this mutual flirting on my part was really just so I could get something out of him. But it passed.

It’s occurred to me many time, the whole, ‘Am I doing this (having sex, flirting, whatever) because I know there’s something to be gotten out of it?’ And I realized I don’t, and I never want to. It has been a good side-effect, no doubt, but I believe it’s only because I never expect anything, and that’s why good things happen. I do think people know if you’re fucking them to get something out of it. But more then anything, it’s completely against my principals. Of course I only bother with people who are worth it, but if I sleep with them, it will be purely because I want to, because I love sex, and because I think I’d like very much to subscribe to the ethic of getting laid whenever I feel like it.

I can safely say I’m not enamored by fame or money or power. All that is extremely sexy, and I have had the luck to have relationships with such, but it was the values behind all that that I find more attractive than anything else. They say women have this thing for paternal transference, where they’d like their men to be like their fathers. And in my case, it is certainly true, and very odd how everything has worked out –I have a much better, less inhibited, more intellectual relationship with my dad now. I believe, the people with money and power, the ones that are worth knowing anyway, have put in an incredible amount of discipline and hard-work (along with generous servings of God-given talent) to get where they are, I had that drilled into me since forever, and there is nothing I hold in greater esteem.

He had been talking about taking a weekend break with a good buddy and two girls (one of which will be me of course) and I suggested renting a villa, and he actually said if I wanted it, it wouldn’t be a problem. I thought the whole idea was fantastic, I liked the both of them, and if the other girl he has in mind was the hot babe* I had drawn a caricature of last night (she loved it so much she asked me to sign it, and kept it), it would be wicked. But nothing has been worked out yet, and I don’t have the time for a weekend getaway for another month at least. But it is a fantastic though… now if only Daph would loosen up with her boyfriend a teeny-weeny bit! It's just some chill out time on a beach after-all. *sigh* (Speaking of which, I will be doing a threesome fetish shoot in a derelict old shop house tomorrow, and hopefully get some PR done for future hetero-homo sexual ménage a trios-s)

The thing is, I’ve never seen him in any sort of way that has been vaguely sexual, ever, but I like him a great deal, because he’s sincere, and real, and not the least bit pretentious. I just like cuddling up with him on the couch and talking about stuff, and eating one-fifty pasta (we worked out the value of really good mushroom, tomato-based pasta last night. I wasn’t hungry, so he didn’t see the point of dining out and spending unnecessary money. Which was a blessing, because I now know how to make really good pesto).

He is, I believe, the only guy that can talk to me so blatantly about money, criticize the art business and point out that it’s really all about having good finance management and business sense –painting is costly to produce after all- be anal about how all women care for is money (‘and that’s why I work so damn hard.’) and not have me feel awkward, or like he’s obsessed with it. I genuinely do not think women are after money when they wish to have some of it spent on them. On my part, it makes me feel appreciated; it’s the feeling that I’m worth spending money on that I like. But what really, completely, gets to me is when a guy wants to go out with me and wants to do what I’d like to do. It’s walking me to where I’m going, calling in late for work because I want to sleep in, stroking me all night because I like it. Or agreeing to the exhibiting a painting he wasn’t particularly fond of, just because I absolutely loved it.

…It’s also about making a point to get a landline fixed so he can easily be reached.

… yep, Ethan has told me nothing I do can upset him. I am sure it is a lie, but perhaps he means that nothing I tell him I do can upset him. I should know him so well.

The Girlfriend has just left for Zurich, she says she will be back in a month, that was what she said the last time she left for Thailand with her guy. I’m guessing she’ll be back after Christmas, I’m sure spending the season with His family would be infinitely pleasant. She actually brought one whole kilo of Bak Kwa (roasted pork) because his mother wanted to have more of it.

Time flies, doesn’t it. I was sure it was just yesterday she told me her air-ticket was confirmed.

xoxox

What-ever.

Yeah, I know I've got nothing of worth to say lately, and I know it. I'm just tired, and maybe a little bored. It's as if I've over-drawn the reserve for my body's capacity to whistand excitement and still function normally the rest of the time. Except the night spent with Mike, the past few nights have been absolute nightmares where I find myself incapable of sleep, feeling so dredfully uncomfortable inside and wishing I could die. I won't, of course, but this must have been the longest bout of depression ever, and it stinks.

I did a completely stupid thing and told Ethan about the whore and my dress and the whole ...thing, because I thought it was funny. I don't really think he wanted to know, come to think of it. Won't he just call me already? Nuts. I hate timezones.

I watched TV for the first time in a long time; Like actually picked out a program and sat down to watch it throughly. It was that cooking show with Jamie Oliver, I like it because it's completely colourful, and the trips to the grocery store on his moped intrigue me. I now know a neat trick oh how to make sure my sponge cake does not stick to the bottom of the cheese-cake tin pans. Plus he's cute and cooks up fantastic recipes with stuff you can find in a moderately stocked kitchen any time of the year.

xoxox

Disaffected

Or perhaps it’s just Mike. He’s fantastic in bed, and we have the kind of sex where we go though all the positions in the Karma Sutra, or Tracy Cox’s Super-sex, either way, many acrobatic situations. And incredibly, they all feel great, which is usually not the case when you try to have acrobatic sex. It’s normally very exhausting, with minimum pleasure, although doing it in a quasi-Victorian bedroom with a huge ceiling mirror does up the excitement ante by a great deal. But for some reason or other, I fell asleep just wanting to be left alone. All things considered, I was far more concerned with getting a solid run of 8 hours then to wake up a few times in the middle of the night because it was uncomfortable sleeping with his arm under my neck. I like him well enough, but more then anything, I think it’s because the sex is great and he lives a full 10 minutes away. And takes the same train to school with me.

I was thinking of getting a new set of bedcovers for him though, because I can’t stand the particular green his current ones are, but ended up purchasing yet another new dress. It was way too good to give up though, it looked straight out of One and Only Dolls. I’ll just find a set that’s lying around in the house; you know how women over 40 have a penchant for buying home-ware on discount (I live with my mom.) I also re-bought the dress the whore stole, and told a rather bemused, gay looking sales-boy the whole encounter.

On to thieving whores, Ethan has finally told me what happened to his fake Tissot.

xoxox

The God is in the Details

This is one of those times I start to think my life is so filled with sensual excess that nothing is particularly exciting anymore. I enjoy it all, in a number of different ways, but I think it would take something like an offer for getting whipped senseless in an isolated villa set-up for an SM orgy to make me go, ‘that’s impossible’. Mostly because I simply won’t do it; the SM bit is fine, the orgy isn’t.

For some reason, there had been a series of coincidences Friday night to have made me think the event was something that was just wrong. Setting spiritual beliefs and social conventions aside, there was very bad weather, and no way to get a cab from the Esplanade to any of the whore places, regardless of whether we called or not. He had wanted to go to Geylang just for a look-see but it wasn’t possible now, and we actually had to walk under the rain from the train station to get to the Four Floors of Whores (sound like a cheesy movie title, eh).

We went into this club that Vic had told me, explicitly, was where the transvestites hung out. I was a little too intrigued by the situation I had been in to recall that piece of advice, and at any rate, when I think about it now, he was probably wrong. The same establishment runs two different clubs, and the one for the lady-boys was probably in the less prominent location.

The girls at the club we went into were mostly very hot actually, and half of them probably had plastic surgery. Mr. Big though there was one particular girl who was the hottest, but she said she couldn’t do me. Then there came along that Laotian girl with a Carmen Electra figure, she looked cool and a lot more liberalized then the rest, and was –to me- probably one of the hottest. And anyway, she was so sexy I would have been happy just to have seen her dance naked. There was some boring negotiation done, where I agreed on $250 ($200 for me, $50 for the Farang, or whatever it is they call white guys in Laos). It was only later on when we were in the elevator to his apartment that she told us she’d wanted to leave at 2:30 to meet her boyfriend at Zouk. I figured she wasn’t lying, because I don’t think there’s a lot of soliciting going on at Zouk, although I can’t really make a definitive judgment since I find it to be one of the most boring clubs in Singapore and have only been there once.

I was quite drunk by the time we got seated around on his couch, and threw off my dress. Mr. Big went to use the bathroom and the whore asked me then to fix her a drink. It was the only time she was alone and possibly when she stole my dress. Now that I think of it, it does seem like she planned it all along. Am still anal about it.

She had taken off her dress after I had done so, and I had been coming on to her when she curled up and tucked her knees under her chin and said one word from her limited vocabulary, ‘Money.’ Oddly, you’d think something like that would ruin the mood, but I was just too fascinated by the way she had asked for it, especially how she managed to do it, and look endearing at the same time. Part of the reason could possibly be because it wasn’t coming out of my wallet.

Much of me touching her and sucking her tits are all gone now in a sort of haze, but I did remember putting a condom onto my dildo and fucking her with it, then changing it and using it on myself. I felt her up at one point in time and thought she had HPV (that’s genital warts, for the ignorant, 3 in 4 people have some form of it by the time they’re 50, unless you’re talking about two virgins that had never had any sexual contact with anyone else, ever.) She closed her legs when I tried to feel her up again; to me, it’s all very strange. Because plastic surgery is so cheap in Bangkok, it wouldn’t have been a problem to have had the wart removed.

By this time I was impossibly drunk, and surprisingly, without being pukish. The best thing about everything was when I sat on the chair facing Mr. Big and her, and jilled off as she got finger-fucked. For all the sinfulness of the whole situation, I thought it was one of the most pretty things I had ever seen. The moonlight had cast a sort of silver glow onto her body, and she looked completely surreal.

Much of what else happened is all quite a blur to me now, but I did recall them trying to count how many orgasm I had had.

He sent her off, I felt like eating a biscuit and a granola bar, and did, and promptly went to sleep thereafter.

We had some pretty mediocre sex in the morning –I don’t lubricate well right after I wake up, and the bottle of Astroglide was in the living room-, and talked about it all, and prostitutes, and things.

I still find it absolutely fascinating that he had paid a whore for sex in the past just because he had wanted to have sex. I suppose that’s why people would pay for whores in the first place, otherwise they’d be called escorts, and even then. But most of the other guys I have known who have slept with prostitutes – the G-Spot and Ethan in particular- did it for something else other then. I know Ethan was just being a bastard and wanted to see if he could persuade her into giving him a free fuck, but it wasn’t in Asia, and I told him she could have had asked him for money not because she was a full-time whore, but because she’d wanted to make a quick buck. I think it was something like 50 Euros, which I don’t think is very much, considering the standard of living there.

I remember telling B oral sex could result in getting AIDS actually, although it is not very likely, and from this discussion of a fucked up bastard who decided to knowingly infect a bunch of kids with HIV, apparently the chances of a man infecting a woman is 1 in 100. Although I am still wondering if this is with or without a condom. Nonetheless, he’d admitted that when some men get horny, they don’t seem to think very much at all; but he’s gotten tested a few times since then, and we’re really all allright.

It was Sunday yesterday, so I went to church, but didn’t feel particularly repentant, although it did make me feel better. And not just slightly. I am insanely spiritual, especially when the sermon is capable of appealing to my logic… Text B to wish him a blessed Sabbath, and told him I had gone back to that ‘hell hole’ (Orchard Towers) to try and get back my shopping. He didn’t quite agree with me that it was a hell hole, ‘just an ancient form of commerce thriving on the lusting of men’. I don’t want to sound moralistic, but I have been there three times in the past week, and each time, I had gotten a feeling of unnatural repression while I was there. There was just something wrong about it, and it wasn’t my conscience, because it doesn’t work any more when it comes to sex. More then anything, I think it was the idea that every single girl there was out to make a quick buck, and didn’t give a shit about anyone they were going to sleep with. And more then anything, it was the way the men looked at me.

Saturday night was just terrible. The club was even more crowded out, and there were all these old bastards that shoved past me, with the most impatient of ‘excuse me!’s. And as they’d walk past, I could feel them checking me out. Not in the way I get checked out at Cayote; you could feel them evaluating every cent that you’re worth, and them thinking their fucking cash is just so great. They stank of obnoxiousness, after all, for once, there were all these hot women clamoring for their affections.

The Pakistani fetish photographer I had gone there with had told me he was sure a lot of the girls hated nearly all the men they slept with. It makes sense to me; they’re being reduced to the status of an object each time, and they know it (a lot of girls are, and don’t; remember, ignorance is bliss) and to me, nothing would anger me more. It is, after all, one of the most blatant insults that could ever be had, You’re not human, period. The attitude with which we’d approached the whole situation in the first really proves the fact. Like I had said, we thought that it would be easy to get a girl for our experiment, just because we were paying.

On my part, it was also because I had never had a problem sleeping with another girl, it’s completely natural to me, so I can’t understand it when other girls wouldn’t think so. I grew up in an all-girl environment where the teachings on how all boys would rape you and get you pregnant were so extreme (don’t you know, they puncture condoms to increase their chances of impregnating you, then you’d be theirs forever! Hahaha!) it actually felt ‘less sinful’ –if such a thing is actually theologically feasible- to sleep with a girl then with a boy.

I don’t know what to think anymore. How does it feel like to be a shadow in the lives of so many men? I think I might just have a semblance of that feeling, and it does make a girl feel used. I know it’s more social convention then anything else, but we are all social creatures, and the crap that we were brought up with, rubbish though it may be in reality, actually does matter. Sometimes.

Whatever. I’m going to bed. It was an immensely unhealthy experience, although I won’t say I’m sorry to have done it. I’ll always be extremely Wilde–ian in my beliefs on the pursuit of ever new experiences, but I know up to what costs I am willing to pay for them, and I know what I won’t do.

No more emails on AIDS, please.

ffff

Irritated and Sad

<>The truth is, last night was the second time I stepped into Orchard Towers (you know, the four floors of whores) and I cannot say how unbelievable I find the whole situation, each time. To have sex blatantly for the sake of making money is something I find extremely sad. The cab driver was telling me about how he’d pick up these couples coming out from the ‘mall’ and the guy would be asking the whore things like, where are you from and such-like, and sometimes the girls couldn’t speak English very well (one would presume they knew enough though. Essentially, yes, no, money and condom.) and they’d just look at the guy blankly and say, ‘We sleep together?’. Of course cab-drivers aren’t the best source for an opinion on anything, but nonetheless, just to get a point across. That’s how I feel about it all.

I know these girls aren’t forced into it, and they are making a great deal of money for a few hours of work; The pretty ones are definitely not poverty stricken, but I can’t help thinking, Christ, Must they, really? How many men they fuck in the few weeks that they are here? Thinking about that freaks me out. I don’t think I could do that, and I really hate counting the people I’ve slept with. I hate it even more when re-look the list and realize I missed someone out. Does sex mean so little? Sleeping around, group-sex, all of that to me, is, honestly, fine. As long as you genuinely like the people you’re doing it with. But the girl last night? Of course I’m not stupid to expect compassion from a prostitute (the fact that she took my dress says a lot), but when you’re just sleeping with people for a bunch of paper notes, and sleeping with so many of them; Makes me think of a factory line, really.

But all that moralizing aside, when you break it down, I guess it was a fascinating experience. I hadn’t seen Mr. Big in a great long while, and he has been a very naughty boy since (he probably has always been, I was simply unable to believe it). I was honestly rather ambivalent about the whole hiring a whore for a threesome thing, firstly because I’m paranoid about STDs. But I figured if we implemented some very simple measures (like, don't finger fuck both her and me with the same hand), then everyone will go home with a peace of mind. Besides, I had said I’d do it since the start of the year, and I hate people being wishy-washy about things and hate it in myself even more-so.

Secondly, the nature of their profession regardless, not all women, and definitely not the ones from developing, and intrinsically spiritual, nations, can bring themselves to be with another female. It was definitely not as easy a case of, I’ll pay you want you want so of course you’ll sleep with us and do whatever we desire (we are reasonable people, and while I am completely into hurting myself, I don’t do it to other people. Unless they ask for it, of course), so there was no reason for me to see why that would be a problem. I suppose I can identify, I had been reduced to a fit of giggles the first time I kissed at girl at 14. We had spent nearly an hour eating an absurd amount of mints and laughing every time our faces came within an inch of each other.

There were some things in the whole situation I found absolutely fascinating. It was intriguing how she asked for money without ruining the mood, how mechanized her moans were, and how her body moved when Mr. B had pinned her down on the couch. I suppose I am very voyeuristic intrinsically, and that was the bit I liked the best; When he’d started kissing and masturbating her while I sat on another couch with my legs thrown wide open, a knee over the arm-rest, working myself to an orgasm. I felt like a complete slut, and it was completely erotic.

Sadly, the morning started off with me being completely annoyed at having lost a gorgeous dress (bet she stole it. Damn whore.) An over-priced journal, and a linen shirt I had bought for Ethan. Who had, uncannily, texted me something about missing looking into my eyes while talking and drinking coffee in bed. To add to that, it was yet another hot and humid afternoon, and I felt completely heated up internally (and not because I was over-sexed), and Mr. Big wasn’t going to have breakfast with me.

He just sent me a text, something about how we should meet up next week so I can return him a bunch of his personal belongings that I had borrowed over the course of the last 7 months. I can’t help but get the sense that he’d been messaging me consistently the past week just because he wanted to do this three-way thing; that otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered. It sounds incredibly harsh, but I don’t blame him. After all, I hadn’t been seeing him because I had been busy with work, and a bunch of other people. Well, one thing’s for sure, if relationships do have an ending point, ours certainly ended in a bang. *laughs*. He has started dating other people, and I do hope they are better suited for him than I was. But I shall not make any judgments.

I think one big problem I have with this relationship is how I always seem to think he doesn’t do his best for me, which is probably true; but still, he tries to be nice. But he never puts me first, and I cannot stand that, no matter, It is of no consequence. This is scary, but I want to be good for Ethan. Even though he says he doesn’t love me despite what I am, but for what I am. *shrugs*.

I called the G-Spot up today and it would seem that the desire to be monogamous is in the air: he was talking about a nice, sweet girl and romantic walks in the park. I’d ask him if he’d ever felt like there was simply too much debauchery in his life, and if there eventually comes a saturation point where enough is enough. Like, the last bit. Ah, it would seem so. Him and his Grecian goddess. He’s working towards it, so he tells me.

Thinking about Ethan makes me feel melancholy.

Goodnight.

xoxox

Huhh??

I think that whore stole my dress. Really! How the hell does one manage to loose 2 pieces of very good clothing in one damn night? And I doubt her breasts could have fitted into that number. I'm, as if you would care very much to know, a cup B minus, she was something more of a C plus. Big difference.

The alternative explaination for it's dissappearance would be that I was so completely drunk when I took it off and tossed it aside, I tossed it out of the window. Either way, I am annoyed, and either way, the chances of me getting it back are nearly Nil. I suppose I'll go back to the club to see if they retained the shopping bag with my shirt and novel in it. I can't possibly see why a whore would want to steal that. but they steal everything.

My Dress! Whaat...?

xoxox

Women's Magazines are Stupid

My computer is moving like a rusty piece of scrap metal, but no matter. Our local paper has a pointless new addition to it called Urban. It’s really just another frivolous addition to the country’s already extensive range of badly designed, shoddily planned magazines. Content wise, it tells you stupid things like How to Marry Millionaire, and actually gives you an A-List of rich Singaporean twenty-somethings. I think it’s tragically sexist and the author probably pulled it out of her spangly thronged ass.

When I read it this morning, I went, ‘ah hah!’ All women want money, and they want it with doing the least possible work as is feasible. Some guy I used to date (smart, very enterprising local fellow who decided we were ‘together’ because we had had sex after a bout of too much alcohol) told me he always starts to feel a little disenchanted with the female race every time he reads whatever I have to say. In particular my recent post on the Yank wanting to pay for a holiday and on-top-of-that to have company for a weekend.

With respect to that, and very much to my surprise, Yank is very keen on it and has been emailing me constantly and called me up once to apologize for being unable to arrange a date in till end November. It’s just something I want to do, and will. My taste of being the Postmodern Courtesan, at least just this once. It’s not something I plan to do very much of (if ever again), after this one.

I thought about it, and realized that it didn’t matter if you were male or female, but sometimes, you have sex, and end up feeling shortchanged. A total of two men have told me so in the past week; given the scenario where they were to have sex with women old enough to be their mothers, they’d do it, because sex is just generally good for you, but nonetheless, still come out feeling somewhat cheated. I have definitely slept with guys just because I like them and they rocked my ass in bed; for certain, I have wondered, occasionally if they were just using me. But I often tell myself if that were the case, then I was guilty of it too, although the truth is I still cared for them in my own way. And as such can be sure that they saw me beyond booty, because I did likewise for guys I didn’t really care for deeply, but liked, nonetheless.

You can’t put a finger to where exactly or in what case a person would feel shortchanged. If it happens, then it just does, and the person that feels that way can only blame herself. The thing is, if I had to sleep with someone, and pretend that I found him sexually attractive, I would require a great deal of incentive before I could possibly bring myself to do it. It’s not about the ‘going rate’ for certain; I am more concerned for my sanity, and if I’m going to get paid, then I must do a good job. Higher wages prevent people from skimping, we all know that. Although I am still wondering if it’s really possible to find someone sexually unattractive when you’re having sex with them. As long as they don’t look like Doctor Von Doom. And besides, I used to have weird sexual fantasies where I got to fuck Boris Vallejo’s incubuses that came in from my bedroom window as a child.

But the article in the paper just made me cringe. I am all for marrying a millionaire (even thought the truth is, I don’t really care for it. I have no love for branded clothes or expensive cars nor for Sunday brunches in Ipanema. I am content with supporting local designers and bakeries, as long as they continue making me pretty dresses and good bread). It is nice if a millionaire comes your way, but a measure of affluence is sufficient, honestly. I am completely sure there are many other women who feel likewise, and must be incensed at the paper portraying us as retail whores.

There is something inherently wrong with Singaporean culture, and I think it’s how so many of us look at purchasing things, spending money often and as much as we possibly can (discounts regardless, we just end up buying more of something that’s not needed) as a sort of enthusiastic, escapist fantasy. It is the experience of purchasing, or buying that we enjoy, and possibly enjoy more then the product we do eventually pay for. (Food and sex can be exceptions because they confer an immediate, un-dissipated, biological pleasure. They cannot go out of fashion.) Cupido likens the problem to Singaporean women not getting fucked enough, and from the emails I receive from some of them, it will most certainly seem this way.

You are stupid. Don’t you see, if men annoy you, don’t listen to your every whim, don’t buy you nice things, no sex! Why must you fuck them just because you like them and be the low-maintenance whore you are?

Holy Cow.

I don’t need to explain that sort of logic to you. Is that a good exemplum for the problem I’m trying to point out?

There is really no need to encourage this sort of stupidity in the local paper. So a many housewives now know who owns 67.7 Million dollars worth of ornamental fish (Apparently the Luo Han is truly a harbinger of good fortune. Am sure they brought Kenny Yap his fortune.) Um, allright. Does anyone even know who is to be awarded this years Nobel Peace Prize? Not that knowing that perfectly pointless piece of information will change anything, but if you want to have a good conversation with you’re soon to be millionaire husband, I think you had better start learning from Becky Sharp.

How bright can you be if you need The Straits Times to teach you how to snag a man?

xoxox

What's Wrong with These Damn Kids.

This is funny; My little sister is in a spot of trouble for making fun of her form teacher some two-three months ago by saying some rather nasty things about her in a bogus personal ad at Friendster. Only in Singapore can it be a crime to lampoon authority for being plainly plain and stupid. I doubt my sister said anything blatantly false, everything was generally a matter of opinion. That the victim of her childish wit was likened to have the physical aesthetic of a local pastry (if you’re wondering, it’s the ang ku kueh) cannot possibly be a good enough charge for liable. But the laws of the world do not apply to a cloistered, conservative, anally orthodox Methodist institution (can’t help it, religion is stupid. So There.) that still thinks it’s a bad idea for any one to follow in my footsteps. That bitch, whoever the hell she is, actually told my little sister that! Apparently I’m utterly notorious, even though I honestly had no idea I was… something to do with having a boyfriend a decade older then me, of particular man-hunt caliber (but with the brains of a pickled hearing) always waiting outside the school gate after dismissal.

My parents are so sick of it, and they are sick of everything to do with the system. And rightly they should. My sister is most certainly not stupid, was a very nice child that caused no problems whatsoever until she entered her current school, also my alma-matter, of which the only thing I like about it is the lovely pinafore uniform that was absolutely kinky to have sex in (and still is). My dad tried explaining to the retarded people that run the retarded institution what a downward behavioral spiral was; but insinuation does not work with them. He eventually summed it up rather angrily at the end, ‘Just stop picking on my daughter!’.

It would seem that my final report for the term just came in, and it’s extremely tragic. According to them, I have absolutely no imitative or resourcefulness, provide work of mediocre quality, have lousy human relations, no drive or determination, am absolute irresponsible and undedicated, cannot work in a team, am lousy at oral expression, cannot cope with stress, cannot make decisions, and cannot lead. Well! It does seem I am perfectly useless. Certainly explains the money I’ve won from every commercial art competition I have ever ventured, definitely elucidates why Cupido would ask me to help him film when there were media graduates at his disposal; oh, and I am so undedicated to anything I do, I’m the only person not involved in a sport in any school I have ever been to, getting medals at every cross-country. Go to hell you pieces of shit.

And I, of all people, have bad human relations? It’s not my fault they think I’m a slut and don’t want to have anything to do with me because it would make them seem like bad, immoral people. That was all your fault, stupid-people-that-made-the-system. You taught the lot of them self-righteousness over acceptance. Oh, and one more thing, you also gave all my friend terrible final-year assessments. We don’t have bad human relations, it’s your little pets that have bad relations with us. Dip shits.

You know what? I got through much of school entirely by my own merit, I don’t need your fucking appraisals, and I will still get the hell to where I want to.

I suppose this would be a more effective post if I were more level headed about it, but it is the truth, and I am just so ass sick and tired of the way things are being run. You cannot expect people to be good leaders when they are placed into jobs they feel they are over-qualified for. Don’t you read anything on how to manage people? One way to get people into doing a job well is to make them feel like they are going to own part of the final product, while making the entire process as stress free as possible. Which will also mean there is no point in threatening someone with expulsion from the project when they are to come in late; they’d just end up calling in sick, hating everything about it, and producing shitty work.

It’s not an education system so much so as it is a mechanized factory to produce people meant for filling up swivel chairs in the civil service. Sure, the meager top few institutions and specialized schools might be liberalized, and the system is being revamped, on paper (Yes, I read the local news, it’s very pretty these days. New design. Again.) But the problem still lies in the sort of bigoted, self-righteous, by-the-book, perfectly uncreative educators that have no sense of the world beyond the classroom.

I hate the whole system with such violent abhorrence if it were a real person, I’d strangle it, mount it, and piss all over it’s lousy, battered body.

Good-morning to the lot of you.

xoxox

Mad-capped.

I spent the last couple of hours writing yet another piece of erotica that I do not think is particularly fantastic. But it wasn't easy to maintain focus while I wrote it, and that completely annoys me. I'll carry on with it later in the day. It's loosely based around two points, the first of which is, what if Christ sinned after he was ressurrected. In this case, his death would have still been pure, and the blood shed at that time, clean, despite what happened after. Also, is it not a problem to say that he was human precisely so that he could know what humanity was all about, without sinning? (This was apaprently what I was taught in Sunday School. Jesus knows how you feel because he was a little boy once.) How is that possible, then, that he can know our torment, if he never even knew coveteousness. Perhaps he does, through some divine power, but it was certainly not because he was completely and wholly human.

The second point the prose is based on is my sudden desire to have sex with a loaded gun in my mouth.

Among other things on my to-do list, which also includes stuffing a boiled egg at breakfast up my cunt, making creamed egg with my come and feeding it to whoever I'm with, going to an unknown stranger at a bar and having him stick his fingers up my beaver, and maybe sucking a virgin cock.

Apparently it would seem that I have been reading more Georges Bataille. He always drives me to insanity, and I self-pierced my lip last night with a 19-G needle. Which is really quite thick. It immediately proved to be a terrible idea when I mis-calculated and the needle did not go through the thinnest point. Instead, it decided on a diagonal course and went through my lip instead of escaping into my mouth. Put simply, it was an inordinate amount of flesh that got injured. I got freaked out, pulled it out, and stared at my reflection for a moment in a complete daze. Then I felt my heart racing and my vision blackening, so I went to lie down. I started shivering and feeling horribly ferverish for about 15 minutes, then all was fine. Despite a rather sick feeling in my gut.

Went to visit Mike, nonetheless. He apparently lives a couple of train stations away from where I do, and it has simply been excessively convenient to get laid these days. But I think we have gotten quite sick of each other already, and he is so very German it's annoying. Completely. But nonetheless, it has been some very good sex, and he is in most respects, quite nice. Only, I told him off for being a dick by lying to me that he was going to be around for an indefinite period of time when he knew he was leaving in a couple of months. Of course I don't give a shit, but I just can't stand the idea of him cheating another girl. Guys shouldn't do things like that just to get laid, it's inconsiderate.

xoxox

Sappy Sunday

Right, so I’m a little off the schedule by a day, but no matter. The Sabbath is always sappy, because that’s when Ethan has, apparently, made it an absolute habit to call. I had been feeling completely depressed yesterday, and couldn’t make it to Cayote (and I did really want to, especially to show of the lovely new green dress that’d I’d bought; and I actually wondered how it’d be like if I turned up for Christmas at Ethan’s wearing it, and a bright red pair of stilettos. He said he was sure his grandfather would love it. Talk about sentimentality).

<>

Part of the reason (as to why I felt depressed) was because my mom, had, being the loving, considerate person she is, told me that if I didn’t exercise tighter reign on my morality, very soon I’d get some fucking STD and Ethan couldn’t possibly love me then. Of course one can presume that I do everything to reduce my chances of getting an STD, but even so, something like that just hits a note. I really believe in him after all, or in the idea and imagining of our relationship. And if it were all a pretense, I’ve been pretending for a year, and that much of make-believe can make anything arrive into actuality, of that I’m certain.

I had tried to get Ethan to call me, but an ex-girlfriend had apparently come down from Paris to have lunch with him, so he couldn’t talk to me for very long. I told him I’d felt like killing myself; I had been in one of those states where I was so self-absorbed it doesn’t occur to me that my death would actually affect anyone but me. He told me to please not do it, because I was the most important person in his life. I was most certainly overcome with unbelief because that was the first time it was ever made known to me, and I was absolutely speechless. I wasn’t frightened or comforted by the thought though, it was just so foreign to me all I could do was to roll the idea about in my mind and attempt to comprehend it.

I am still stunned when I think about it. I don’t see why it should be a surprise, but I suppose I’m just so used to being a fleeting moment in the lives of so many people, am so used to not expecting anything from anyone beyond the next few hours of their attention, that the time-frame in which he thought about me was completely unfamiliar.

He told me he slept with someone else he’d met at an office party last weekend. Apparently she’d slept with him because he’d told her he wasn’t ‘looking’ for a meaningful relationship and she just had wanted to fuck someone other then her boyfriend that night. It is odd, but I’m actually pleased that he did sleep with someone else, because if he doesn’t, I’ll feel it’s unfair, and that I’m the bigger slut. I’m probably just weird, or libertine, or whatever, but the image of him fucking someone else doesn’t so much disturb me as it amuses me. Especially when that someone else turned out to be a woman in her late thirties – Ethan is not quite past the quarter-life crisis, if you assume the average life expectancy in Western Europe is 80. I asked him if he was bothered with STDs and things, and he said not really. After more thought, no, he never gave it any consideration outside of using condoms, and he had never gone for a test before.

I had texted the G-Spot to asked him the same thing, and he had a perfectly cute answer. Something about occasionally waiting for the test results while continually being reduced into a gibbering mess. But he was fine every time; both answers proved satisfactory and assuaged my fears.

I’m quite blogger burned-out these days really.

I’ve got an odd story about being hit on by a little virgin boy, but that’ll have to wait. Am in bad mood. Gained 2 kilos. Very bad mood.

xoxox

Being Good

My unnaturally promiscuous lifestyle has started to nag at me lately, and I’m going to the women’s clinic for a checkup this Monday. Since the last time I went, I’ve only ever had very safe sex and been sleeping with people I know who are safe themselves. But nonetheless, it still nags the fuck out of me, and I must do it to get a bloody peace of mind. It’s that stupid newspaper article in Today: Tanjung Pinang, Where the Boys Go.

In some strange proceeding of circumstances, the guy I met on the train on the way to KL has emailed me and offered me a pair of tickets to somewhere in Asia. Of course with an offer like that, you’d suspect some other motive, and as things proceeded and as I continued IM-ing him, my idiot proof suspicion came to light. Inclusive of this time, I have been asked how much a night with me would cost, a grand total of 5 times. I don’t fancy the idea of sleeping for money, unless it’s a lot and a lot of money, and I wouldn’t do it just to up the bank balance in my account either. I hate sleeping with someone and feeling really violently the next day that I really should not have. In the grand total of one time this has happened (nearly a year past), I can safely say I completely regret it still, and it can possibly be the only time I have ever regretted sleeping with an individual.

I always quote an absolutely outrageous price each time, and it ranges anything from $1200 to $5000 a night. Yank told me he felt the price was steep, and I said that’s what I believe one night with me is worth, and what I would need, before I would even consider getting intimate with him in any possible way. Of course all of them decided not to after I cite what I needed. And my point is, look, if you want only to get laid, go to Orchard Towers or Pat-pong or something, girls are something like 30 to 90 percent cheaper, you can have their way with them, and they are not opinionated. You don’t need an opinion when you’re having sex, and they don’t say things like, ‘by taking so damn long to come, you’re really not pleasing me- just making me extremely sore.’ (Of course if I were paid that much for sex, it’d keep my mouth shut. But there are other ways to make him hurry up *laughs*) These girls… they’re used to getting abused. There’s absolutely no point in paying for a plane ticket down, paying all that money, and trying to ‘get your money’s worth’ out of it by fuck-busing me. Sure, I am absolutely confident about my caliber between the sheets. I’ve always gotten rave reviews, and it’s one of the silly reasons why Ethan is still completely into me. But the sex really isn’t the point. It’s part of it, but not all of it.

There is an inherent irony in the situation. Because sex is so easy, and so cheap to get in Asia, if all you want is a girl to abuse, you can get it for oh, four hours of work in the office or something. Especially if you’re on an expat salary. In fact, what the hell. If you’re a heartless bastard, all you have to do is go to a club and find a girl to lay by pretending you’re going to be around in the country for a few more years and will take care of her and buy her an apartment. In fact, you don’t even have to pretend all that. A great many Asian pussies (in Asia) are willing for all men, as long as they aren’t Asian. (Yes, I am actually making fun of myself.) You can argue that, maybe, it’s because we’ve been underprivileged for a great many years dating the guys we have had to.

As a digression, has it ever occurred to you that the western ideal of the perfect stiefmeister (alluding to American Pie) might actually be a case of the world trying to even it’s populations out? I mean, if a huge part of the world’s population today is made out of every other race except those of Caucasian progeny, and women tend to want to fuck the same sort of guys, and being white is nearly a pre-requisite to fall into this category, then in a few centuries, the balance would be brought back.

So as I was saying, if I ever do have sex for money, I am nearly sure I won’t be abused, because it’s just cheaper and easier to do likewise elsewhere. And it is ironic, because paid for sex in Asia is just so dangerous on so many counts, for the girls that have no choice. But like they say, nothing is ever really safe. Regardless of whether I do it because I want extra cash to splurge on a holiday in Europe or because I need it to buy the next bowl of mee-pok.

But then again, nothing is ever safe. In this world, you can only ever do things to reduce your risks. So what if you’re going to be in a loving marriage. Oh Bullshit. Didn’t you know, you’re husband-to-be goes to Tanjung Pinang to screw wanton Polynesian girls. At least I’m sure when I do marry, I’ll give him not one whit of a reason to lie to me, and even less reason to sleep with prostitutes. What for, when you’re girlfriend’s brining back her friends anyway. What a pleasantly plausible way to risk-reduction.

People are way to hell bent on aggressive strategies. The way to fight terrorism is not to attack a singular state, or embargo obscure African nations. The way to do it is to make it not worth it for the terrorists to attack. To reduce the ratio of damage to cost. It’s the same thing with just about everything else. From German soccer, and on to sex. You don’t tell people not to have sex and wreck them with guilt and fear. All strategies based on fear eventually do no good to mankind, it is, after all, absolutely unhealthy.

And I definitely feel extremely frustrated right now and like I need to throw myself off a mountain.

Let’s not even talk about Mike. He’s nice, and there’s nothing what so ever that’s wrong with him, but I just really don’t want to be with someone new. I feel nothing for him and want nothing from him. Fuckity fuckity fuck. I am WAY to annoyed at myself and my own flippancy with relationships. Sometimes I think I use Ethan too much as an excuse. I always tell myself everything will be allright when I get to meet him again. I will stop wanting to sleep with other people. Perhaps I won’t (sleep with new people), but how about the ones that I’ve been seeing for so long, and really, completely like? And Martine? That IS a mess. Because I still do want to see him.

Apparently he called me to ask for my bank account number. Remember the play which I watched with the G-Spot eventually? He presumed I had already paid for the tickets and asked me if $200 was able to cover it, because that was the price he’d seen on the postcards advertisements. I had just spent quite a great deal of money on this year’s Halloween outfit and a dress that looks like a Gucci rip-off, but is completely beautiful. So I didn't tell him that my dad had already paid for them.

The dress and shoes are absolutely amazing. I have been looking for a complicated lace dress just like so; and cannot believe I managed to actually get it at one of the most conventional retail places ever. It is so Death; Dream’s sister for Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series.




Well, at least I got $200 for sleeping with Martine, and causing a lot of unnecessary evils along the way as well. Heh.

xoxox

100% Guilt-Free

Woke up yesterday, and my mom had not gone to work again. That really always annoys me; her sticking around and meddling in everyone’s affairs. She started talking to me about how I really shouldn’t be sleeping with someone unless I was absolutely serious, and started trying to freak me out with a little discourse on STDs. It worked, I was freaked out for about half a day. Especially after she wondered aloud if I was sleeping with Cupido. I was like, Mom! No way in hell. My mom's met Cupido; did I mention he's weird? Yeah, he's really weird. You don't want to be in bed with him.

In most cases, I’m god-awfully responsible about the sex I have and very conscious of what I do and who I sleep with. That they are not out to have suicidal sex is always a pre-requisite. But I’ve got this logic that generally says the more people you sleep with, the more diseases you’ll have. I know it’s fucked up, but think about it. On a very biological count, the space between your legs really is a fantastic breeding ground for all sorts of nasty things. Most of the time, yeah, your body fights them off easily, but the fact remains that sometimes there’ll just be something there, and you’ll spread it. In most cases, they do nothing. I know a couple of people who have had herpes before, big fucking deal. It’s there in you for the rest of your life, but 99.99% of the time, you aren’t even aware of it. But it was definitely food for thought at breakfast this morning, and I was in a pretty bad mood for the rest of the day. Not to mention guilt ridden.

I figured there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I’ve slept with the people I’ve slept with, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. I’m probably going to sleep with a few more people in my life, but I suppose I could start/should revert back to observing a higher measure of discretion. It’s such a pain in the ass that everything in the world is out to ruin you from the day you were born.

Oh for certain, life is just a euphemism for the inevitable decay of our bodies.

Ethan gave me a short ring-up yesterday evening during his lunch. He’s driving me nuts. I am dying to meet him again, and to allow myself to be perfectly, completely absorbed in one singular person. I looked at some old photos yesterday and thought we appeared unforgivably cute in them, especially the ones where we’re nuzzling in bed. Too cute. Ugh.

Met Mike for dinner. I’d sent him a text to tell him I was going to be late, but the new phone is function overloaded and for reasons still unknown to me, I ended up sending it both to him and Mr. Big. How embarrassing, and just that little bit mildly upsetting. But I honestly can’t be bothered to think about it.

Mike’s cool. He comes across as incredibly sincere and easily persuaded, very engaged in me (it doesn’t matter if I have anything to say or not) and polite, without infringing on my right to be a perfectly uncivilized Singaporean. For starters, it’s fine forgetting to close my mouth when I eat. Although it has started to become something I’m unnaturally aware of ever since Martine went into a very graphic discourse on why not doing so is just gross. He opened every single door, likes long unnecessary walks, and thinks my eyes are my prettiest feature, among other things. And finds just about everything I say amusing.

He had been completely exhausted after work yesterday, but met me anyway, and didn’t even show a whit of rotten disposition, because I’m too pretty, too funny, and in a constant state of good spirit. I was actually horribly exhausted on my part, but he didn’t make one wrong move, so I reigned in the bad temper and all was fantastic.

Went for drinks and left him at about 1. He called at about 4 a.m. to tell me he’d just got home. Apparently he’d forgotten those annoying cardkeys you needed to get into the condominium (my condo is still thankfully extremely low-tech) and had waited around at the gate till his roommate got back. Interesting, so he presumed that I would care what time he got home? Not that I didn’t, but it was something fascinating to have noted.

I don’t feel particularly much of anything for him, it was just too easy to have met and gone out with him and gotten him engaged in me. But I really quite like it. Along with the fact that I don’t seem to care very much for his opinion on and about me. It’s positive, and that’s sufficient enough.

Am just reminded of this hilarious website documenting two girls adventures around Europe. They have a guide to dating European men. Not very accurate on some counts (from personal experience) but mostly true anyway. I found enough for comparison to amuse myself anyway.

xoxox

My Own One

Ah, The Importance of Being Earnest was as fantastic as I expected. My daddy had apparently procured the tickets for me eventually (in light of Martine holding on to the other pair; we were originally meant to see it together), and it was fantastic. I could invite one guest, and got the G-Spot to go along with me. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would appreciate it as much (there was no one else I knew who had read the play beforehand- Mr. Big’s not particularly into literature prior to the 20^th century and it took a little convincing on my part before he decided Oscar Wilde was surely dead) And besides, it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually ever done anything particularly special or nice with/for the G-Spot, so why the hell not. At any rate, I am fully convinced that wordy plays are no fun watching unless you’ve read the script prior, otherwise your bound to miss a whole lot of some of the best lines. I really did enjoy getting to hear some of my favorites. But Frances O’Conner definitely made a better Gwendolen, although the British Theatre’s Cecily was better the Reese Witherspoon. Who was too much of an air-head in the movie and less an impish, deviant 18-year-old. But it was a trade off, Witherspoon is much prettier. The only complain I have (and so does the G-Spot) was that the actors were all just too unattractive. In fact, they were ugly, but no matter.

I have no idea what sort of tickets I had been given before I got there, but when we reached, there were all these police men around and barriers set at the entrance of the Jubilee Hall that scanned you for weapons and things, just like in the air-port. I thought it was mighty tight security for a play, but apparently the Senior Minister and a bunch of other politicians were there watching it with us. Cool. That meant plenty glasses of good champagne at the reception. At any rate, the registration was amusing. I probably looked too young and when the girl at the counter turned to the G-Spot to ask who he was registered under, and I’m like, oh, it’s under me actually; that was amusing.

He forgot to turn his phone on to silent after the interval though. Embarrassing, in a tragically comic manner. I can still tolerate it if it happens in a movie theatre, because they’ve all said their lines already, but during a play? Oh well, it’s something to note for a couple of weeks at least. My cell-phone rang in a play the senior minister of an inconsequential SEA country had been attending.

what they do look so perfectly un-rehearsed and natural. Especially when they have to memorize lines upon lines. Although I do not think there is any other play I would be so glad to memorize!

After curtain close, the G-Spot had to rush off though, and that pissed me off mildly for about an hour, but it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. His girlfriend had just been placed on a respirator (Ventilator? Which-ever is more tragic). He did mention he could have been simply exercising a little of his Burnburying techniques though, but I choose to doubt it. I wonder how much into that girl he is; Am honestly not jealous. He feels more like a great friend that coincidentally happens to be pretty damn good between he sheets, that is all.

Had a great time catching up. And he confirmed a fact someone expounded to me the other day. If someone wanted to sleep around, whether or not they knew you were doing likewise, they’d still do it anyway. I had apparently been musing over the fact that Mr. Big might actually be screwing another girl, now that he knows I’m not monogamous, and I honestly do not know. But it doesn’t matter. The point is, whether I am or not doesn’t make the difference.

Back to the G-Spot; He picked up a girl a week past, and she’s just a little too much into him for comfort and he’s wondering how to go about putting it out, because she’s the emotionally invested sort. I had better not make any assumptions, but I think if he wanted to, he could easily see her once in awhile and it would still work out. Then again, he’s not a bastard, is probably not particularly interested in her, and said something like it’d be better to put a stopper before it escalates into unnecessary emotional drama. I found it amusing though, that she’d asked him what he was going to do last night, and he said he was going to catch a play with a girl-friend. Then she’d actually asked if he’d fucked me. Hehehe. Okay, I’ll stop being silly. Just because it doesn’t bother me doesn’t mean other people aren’t allowed to their own preferences.

Teddy asked me to Cayote, but I figured if I was going to drop by this Saturday, there wouldn’t be a point. Plus, I definitely did not have enough money for a mid-night cab. He told me I was wild. Uh.. huh? You own the Cayote Girls, and I'm still considered wild in the whole spectrum of things? That's very flattering indeed!

Oh, and as a side note, did I mention I like someone new? I had been knocking down some drinks with the Best-Buddy (Girlfriend’s ex) at a bar and saved this dude from two Filipina women who had been consistently hitting on him all night. We started on the dance floor (and we were the only ones, but it was allright; no one really gave a damn, and he could salsa fine) and they looked at us for a great long time and started dancing very self-consciously, on and off, trying to get his attention. It was weird. He thanked me quite nicely for that and bought me drinks and some chocolate.

I just remembered him because I’d called him up after the G-Spot left to see if he’d like to grab a bite to eat, and he’d apparently just only gotten back to me (like 5 minutes ago) to tell me that his flat-mate had managed to persuade him into another pointless getting-wasted endeavor on Ladies Night at one of the worst clubs in the whole country you can ever imagine. It’s terrible if you’re expat. Oh, you’re bound to get a lay, certainly, just like you are at nearly 99% of the clubs, but I wouldn’t waste two seconds trying to have any semblance of a conversation with the regulars there. *Bigoted observation ends here*.

I’m also up so damn late because I just got a new-old phone (it’s second hand, I would much rather use my money on something like a kinky set of something for Halloween! –Will go take a look with Mike tomorrow, I think. If I’m not too tired and don’t have too much shit to do). It’s been a lot of fun putting in pictures of naked Suicidegirls into my photo-album. But goodnight for now!

xoxox

Rubber Ball

Isn't this odd. The first time in my life I'd heard of what exactly was a Rubber Ball must have been yesterday, and I log onto Lithium Picnic and there's this whole new set on the festival itself! Medical Table is simply gorgeous. And on Suicidegirls, Voltaire has done a beautiful new set, and she always drives me wild. I highly doubt Ethan attended anything because he didn't breathe a word, which is all extremely disappointing. But he never did agree to any of the madness I'd suggested (the sort that make a bloody mess). I can't quite remember why, I'd have to ask him. This is highly annoying. I want a cool fetsih outfit for Halloween, but they're all just so bloody expensive. I am however, seriously, seriously thinking of getting one. I'll have to ask the guy at the tattoo parlour if he can see to any discounts! I nearly know who I'm going to ask out ont he 31st already. Halloween is apparently my third favourite festival, after Christmas and the Mid-Autumn fest. I shall go as Lady Deathshag.

In more pointless news, Daph rang me up for a photoshoot with a Parkistani photographer this weekend. I think it's cool, although I am absolutely sure that the word Parkistani sounds more exotic to me then it's people can ever look (they resemble Indians, one would assume). But it sounds fantastic at any rate. And speaking of which, I have apparently discovered this fantastic Middle-Eastern cafe that serve imported tobacco you can smoke from water pipes, wicked Turkish coffee, homemade hommous and all on hand-made Persian carpets. I doubt we can shoot there, but there never was any harm involved in asking!

xoxox

KL

A number of things have happened since Sunday night. Namely, I flew down to KL for a nearly-blind-date. I won’t get into the specifics of who introduced us and the months of none-too-exciting correspondence up to the time he started calling himself her highness’s humble servant; but perfectly out of the order of things- as much of my life is- a week ago, he suggested meeting in KL. I think it must have been right splat in the middle of the whole Martine ordeal, and it didn’t take me two seconds to consider. I thought it would have been great to do something I’d never done before. Something exciting, and –for me- had a certain amount of risk.

Of course I had a back-up plan, and I’d called my uncle on Sunday night to tell him I’d be in town. Although I had sever doubts as to whether he knew I was his niece when we hung up. There was a rather odd tirade on being drunk Saturday night and not being able to take me out for drinks anytime soon. I’m still wondering if he’d thought I was one of his ex-girlfriends. Which is something like very many, and then some.

So I found myself on an SQ flight Monday morning, sitting beside a Yank who started talking about the inherent fear in American society and anti-Bush porn (Bush has prettier girls so it’s more sellable); and for some strange reason, I was absolutely confident everything would turn out fine.

I reached the new Hilton about half an hour earlier then he did and it was only then, when I had to fill in my personal details into some form that came along with registering yourself at the reception, that I started to wonder, oh no, what if this was all a really mean joke. It would be such a hassle. Namely, there might have been some service cost I would have had to get someone to cover (pertaining to the room he’d booked) if it got all botched. Probably my uncle, or I could have attempted to get the Yank to switch accommodations from the Le Meridian (which was adjoined to the Hilton). I was so very nice in recommending him the fastest means to the Sentral station anyway. Heh.

But all was fine, and he turned up. The conversation might have been awkward for something like 3 minutes, and it was allright thereafter. He was a little fatter then I’d expected, but it wasn’t a big deal, he was easy to talk to and that was way more important in the scale of things. I didn’t want to spend the next 24 hours feeling god-awfully discomfited, oh, certainly not.

Dinner was a mildly amusing affair, and I can safely swear that the sort of service you get in even one of the better restaurants in KL can be absolutely incredulous.

‘So what’s on the mushroom sandwich?’
‘Normal mushrooms.’
‘Uh, okay. How about the grilled vegetable sandwich? What’s on it?’
‘Normal vegetables.’
‘I Know it’s normal vegetables, probably GM-ed, but what are they?’
Guy thinks for a long while.
‘Grilled vegetables?’

Oh we all know what the ‘normal mushrooms’ are.

Aside from the fact that it had a horrible potential to go very badly wrong, the date itself turned out to be perfectly tame. The whole thing really served to reaffirm my belief in the fact that most people in the world are sane, humane and not out there to play horrid jokes on other people. I mean, even terrorist ostensibly can release their prisoners on nearly purely altruistic terms.

We drank far too much coffee, talked too much and slept too little, so it’s quite a wonder I’m still awake and trying to string a coherent sentence together. I thought it was altogether a very tame event, and it was nice, in a sort of chill out way. I didn’t expect anything to begin with, I’d just wanted something different to do then when I’d agreed, and it was pleasant getting to know a new person. That’s really the most fantastic thing about having nil expectations beyond expecting the date to turn up, that’s for sure. Oh, and that he isn’t a psychotic murderer or prostitution mafia lord.

We had flights at about the same time, and he was most unwilling to switch on his phone because he knew it was going to be filled with messages from his wife. And I thought about how funny it all was. Like how when you’re a kid, you got pesky messages from your parents all the time, and then you got married, you’d start getting them from your wife. Moral of the story: Get married as soon as you decide you don’t want all the freedom in the world. (Responsibility does have it’s own rewards, certainly.)

I’m glad I’m female, I don’t suppose guys do that all the damn time. And at any rate, they mostly never make a big deal out of it when you do have a vague reason for not doing so. And I never make it a point to annoy anyone by not replying promptly if I could have helped it. SMS games are oh-so-lame. Absurdly though, I have received complaints about being perfectly indifferent to whether or not they called or didn’t. And they said women were hard to understand! I’d always thought guys hated clinging and leeching and all that shit. Of course I was never indifferent, it’s nice to get calls and sms-es, but you can forget it if you want me to black-mail for them. Because I know it sure makes you feel powerful, absolutely desirable and the king of the hill, doesn’t it.

xoxox

Define Sexual Promiscuity?

I am absolutely convinced that the best way to make a choice on who you’d want to sleep with is to go by your gut instinct. Every single time I have ever regretted sleeping with someone, the instinct had been sending out signals of ill tidings. This has happened a grand total of one time. We’re still acquaintances, but there is no way in hell I’m ever sleeping with him again. I’ve thought about it a few times during periods of mild-malfunctionality, but have decided against it. He’s just not worth my time.

I think there’s no real point in trying to define what exactly is sexual promiscuity or feeling assed about the number of people you’ve slept with. I never really quite liked how Ethan (previously the Boy(friend)) absolutely refused to tell me the number of people he’s slept with; he probably lied when I asked if it was under 20. And it occurred to me that these are the kinda things some people would rather their partners not know, and something they didn’t wish to know either. So what difference does it make to the other person, if they never do find out.

According to Mr. Big, it’s something people lie about all the time to the opposite sex, and something they expect to be lied to about. So there’s absolutely no need to imagine you might feel like a filthy piece of used ass when you finally find someone you’re completely in love with. Because if that were the case, then you’d better go love someone else. The only reason why you would feel used is from the reason why you should feel so that has become a bad, damning habit in your head. Not because the person you love thinks terribly of your genitals.

How lame is that anyway. I think he has a filthy dick because he’s slept with 60 women. He can wash it, can’t he. Go for tests, safe sex; there’s no reason why anyone should be afraid of sleeping with someone who’s responsible for and about his own life.

Indeed, just be uninhibited, go with your gut instinct, understand responsibility, and have fun. It’s silly to define what exactly is sexual promiscuity unless you fervently believe in the black and white doctrine of no sex before marriage, or sex with one single individual. Anything else is a very subjective case; every relationship and every situation is different. With something like murder, now that’s pretty clear cut. Someone died, that is a definite. But sex? You had sex with the guy at the club, it was mutual and immeasurably gratifying, two people getting their end of the bargain and no one got hurt.

The problem I always had with the term ‘sexual immorality’ had always been biblical. Most religious text advise you on a number of things that seem pretty rational for your individual well-being. But the thing is, sex is more often good for you then bad. I usually find myself in an incredibly improved mood for a number of days after I have sex; and in bad flavour when I do not, usually ending up in me thinking about it more then is healthy. This is my theology, you are free to believe anything you wish; But suppose sexual immorality simply means sleeping with people you know you should not have. And most of the time, you do know when your about to sleep with someone you shouldn’t. Even when you’re incredibly drunk. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I doubt it.

Sex is God given, just as food is. And there are some things that are not very good for you to eat, like strangled animals and some sex that you shouldn’t be having. Like sex with your boss’s husband (unless you remembered to exchange yours for hers. Preferably of similar or superior quality).

That’s my rational.

The sting of death is sin, and the power of the sin is law.

Try to behave, darlings, and you are bound to feed your lusts. And end up doing all the wrong things anyway, while feeling very unhappy about it.

Happy Sabbath.

xoxox

Aw.. shiit.

No more drugs for me.

Singapore's Cocaine Circle

Drug laws are stupid. It's nearly as stupid as homosexuality being illegal. It's still illegal; the only hatchet your dick is going to go up in is a pussy, but anyone with any sense at all will know everyone in that demographic will have their way. So of course the government ignores it. The creative class is all the range these days afterall.

So why not legalize a bunch of pretty harmless drugs that I've always wanted to have sex on? Some of them have less harmful side effects then some of the shit they make you take at the doctors 'just in case' (you have a deadly STD or something).

Just because a drug serves no medical purpose doesn't mean it should be illegal. Sure, there's some real bad shit like heroin that should be left alone. But E? And Cocaine? Weed? Oh please. Sure people have died on E before, but then again, people have died from any number of things. Better to sell them over the counter at selected clubs and advise people on their usage.

The people that died on it died because they had no idea what they were doing.

xoxox

Schedule of the Barmy-Nutty

1) Extinguish cigarette on tongue

2) Attempt to Salsa to Guns and Roses

3) Get laid because… Just Because. (It felt good too)

4) Attempt to re-pierce labret. Couldn’t complete the job – stud too blunt.

5) Find picture for new tattoo.

In very good mood today. Fantastic sex (oh boy- stress free too. After the whole Martine ordeal, that’s just what the doctor ordered), fabulous breakfast, fresh coffee. I think I should start making this an after sex pre-requisite. Breakfast with me the next morning = Absolutely. Necessary.

So I feel kinda like this:

xoxox

I'll never be Estella.

The Boy… all-right, I’m actually quite sick of not giving him a name, so Ethan; chiefly because I watched Before Sunrise, again, a couple of nights ago when I got bored with work, and it made me think of him and pushed me well into tears. That movie is just too raw, and real, and absolutely desperate. About the What ifs in love, and you know just as well as I the power that’s in those two words.

He called me up sometime in the middle of the night, (late evening for him, fucking 4 a.m. for me) to tell me how he’d felt about Phone Booth. And I couldn’t think of a better reason to have woken up for, honestly. It was a relatively short conversation because his pre-paid was running out and I had to wake up at 7 a.m. today, but it was oh, I don’t know. He’d asked me why’d I go writing, and then sending him something I knew would make him deeply sad and exceedingly emotional. So I asked him if he’d liked it, and of course he did, so that was his answer then, wasn’t it. He liked the tragedy of it all too, the sadness, because it was the thing that struck a chord. Sad, melodramatic stories are always consistently more gripping than happy, trite, ones. That was certainly agreed upon.

He told me that he’s imagined being with me countless of times, and during those precise moments, the distance doesn’t seem to exist. I know it’s all god-awfully clichéd, but it was simply beyond lovely for me to hear it. He’d said it was a strange sort of feeling, the mix of heightened eroticism and sadness. Tersely- Erection and tears. I smiled to myself. How cute.

Oh but that’s really one of the most remarkable feelings, sex and sadness, preferably with lots and lots of tears. It gets you completely lost in insanity; You’re self-absorbed up to the point where everything felt is just something else altogether. I’ve only done it a couple of times with the Ex. Now I think about it, it was all extremely ridiculous. Because we created the setting, set it up such that we’d cry and be stupid about it. And I swear, it was all his fault. But it was still something else, nonetheless.

And very, Very oddly, the other girl in the story, the one the protagonist was married to, had the same name as his current flat mate. I swear, I didn’t know that when I wrote the story. Dreadfully uncanny. But she has a black boyfriend, apparently. I couldn’t stop teasing him about it. ‘You only don’t dare to screw her ‘cuz you think your dick wouldn’t be up to the competition.’ He didn’t seem to think it particularly funny, but laughed anyway. Very sarcastically.

Martine e-mailed me after I came home today too. It was a relief. It reassured me of a number of things I wasn’t too happy about when the whole affair put itself abruptly on hiatus. He reprieved me of my selfish, insane behaviour by telling me something like he most certainly did not think any less of me because of that. That he was as much to blame for fanning my lust and libido, and knew very well what he was doing, certainly; only he couldn’t help it. But he’d no idea it’d cumulate into me banging on his door at 3 a.m. in the morning demanding to have my way. Apparently I scared him because he didn’t think it was ever possible to predict my behaviour. But it’s so boring being predictable! I thought no one liked that, and of course I would not be predictable, yet, we barely knew each other. Everyone falls into routine sooner or later, even me. My routine’s just a little more debauched, that is all.

He said something about being afraid to tell me that his position hasn’t changed where the sentiment he felt towards we were concerned. That he still thought I was wonderfully weird, sexy, etc, etc. Afraid? I told him I promised to practice more cognizance this time round, and swore I wouldn’t exploit it. Him liking me in all those ways is clearly no longer a green light to take liberties with him (oh man, I feel like a guy saying that. I thought only women had traffic lights on their genitalia). There was something about not being able to be together for more than just the practical reasons we had discuss prior, and about there being a bunch of moral reasons too. Even though I am still seriously wondering what they are. It’s impossible, so he said, however much he might have to regret ‘this’.

I liked the way he ended it all off. Something about how, when things ‘sorted themselves out’, and I still found that I had genuine feelings of affection and sympathy, then please, for that moment.

For that moment, indeed.

But please what? To go back and love you again?

You bet.

Of course I’m not desperate, but we did really share something, and while I am very much into Ethan; well… one can never be sufficiently selfish. The more people to have loved you, the better.

But Martine, why sympathy though. I adore you in too many ways to see you as needing such. The word just makes me feel so tender. And I bet you knew it.

My favourite storybook heroine today is Estella.

xoxox

Whoops!

I should not have slept with Martine. Maybe I lost what would have otherwise been a good friendship; But I never could have known anyway. Our relationship had been far to sexually charged to have been anything else. Was it a worth while trade off? I don't mean sleeping with him of course. I was referring to the elimination of all the grey areas, the sexual innuendo that was incredibly fun but at the same time none too bearable.

At any rate, he had far more to lose then I did, so it's definitely up to him to decide whether he'd like to stay friends. But hell, by the time I free up and have any time to want to do anything with him at all, it'll be Christmas.

Oh, I so can't want for Christmas.

This is how I feel:

Misery

I am officially miserable. It’s 5 weeks to the finals and every morning I wake up with one singular driving phrase, ‘Get down to it.’ I am getting down to it, I swear, I’ve not forced myself to spend hours on end on things I find so god-awfully boring, pointless and thus extremely painful, all my life. But ah, November will be over soon, and then it’s Christmas (Hurrah! I love Christmas. It’ll be different this year with my Grandmother dead, but I’ll still go visiting in Sarawak). I wanted to visit the Boy a few months back, about this time. Along with my Girlfriend, who’s going to be flying to Zurich in a fortnight. But due to prior procrastination, that would now seem impossible. Anyway, he’s apparently being sent to Kuwait sometime this week or next. I don’t suppose it’s really all that fascinating, but the Middle East has always been a travel fascination for me.

On the subject, I have just read an article, Baghdad Year Zero, by Naomi Klein about why Iraq is in a mess. I’m most certainly not a fan of hers in most cases, and No Logo riled me when I read it about a few months back (She chants profits over people far too much in my opinion). I used to think I was quite the neo-liberal when it came to economic policies, but the Political Compass tells me otherwise (I'm Libertarian Left). Ah apparently I think profits are no good if they are not for the people, eventually. (Read the article, it’s incredibly well written and very entertaining!)

Strangely, Today, the local alternative news source to The Straits Times (the one that prides itself on less propaganda- more democratic voice) did an article on Donald Rumsfeld saying that Al Qaeda had no ties with Saddam. It made for an amusing read with breakfast today, and I can honestly say that paper has made local news a lot more interesting. Bremer was actually quoted saying something like how there were never enough troops in Iraq from the start. Oh, so blame the consequences of your inconsiderate Friedman policies on not enough force to control desperate people who can’t feed themselves? Ironic, when you consider that he was Bush appointed and is now blaming the chaos on the administration’s horrendous planning.

Of course I could be making all those observations on terribly biased sources, but anyway, the media debate is another story altogether.

The problem (the way I see it) is that they went to war with a number of reasons that were inclusive of the well-being of the Iraqi people, but have now since long forgotten about their interests.

…In other remarks at his Monday appearance in New York, Mr. Rumsfeld said while he could not explain why the intelligence on Iraq's possession of weapons of mass destruction proved wrong, "the world is a lot better off with Saddam Hussein in jail"…

Oh boy. Ironic isn’t it. Are they REALLY a lot better off with Hussein in jail, considering the trade offs they had to make for it?

That really is enough political digression for now, especially when I think I’m still very ignorant on many counts. And that if I ran for president, I’d be called a flip-flopper in my opinions as well. On that count, yes, I have wanted to run for president, when I was 12 or something. It didn’t seem to be a very difficult task in Singapore, and you got to have your photo in every country-club around the state.

xoxox