Realize

I apologize for the somberness I caused each time
you visit this blog, navigating to another site with that
sinking feeling of disappointment.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I truly appreciate the emails, and comments of all sorts (naughty and nice), especially on my last post (Chance).

The guy never called by the way. I wonder why. Probably giving me a taste of my own medicine for “losing” his card.

No big deal. There are bigger things than a man I met at the supermarket.

Sitting around for the dawning moment of inspiration to surge over me, was obviously not working out. I realize the longer I wait, the harder it gets for me to internalize the violently bumpy road I braved through for the past three months.

It felt like words were too cheap or not enough to give my experience the character and depth that it deserves. But I shall try. After all, that is the best that we can do.

I used to think that I was one to cling to heartbreak, squeezing it dry to taste the bitterness hungrily, drunk in its beautiful melancholia. I used to think that in times of desolation, I was one to sit and write and write and cry my eyeballs out till there was nothing left but blood and hope. I thought wrong.

I chose the coward’s way out. I ran, blaming the supposedly hectic new job and weird everlasting fatigue. In truth I was hiding behind an unruly mane, licking my wounds with sweet tasting wine at the tip of my tongue.

No, contrary to all the enquiries I received, I was not silent for happiness. I wish I was.

After being hospitalized and dumped, I was falsely accused by HELP University College for submitting my mother’s death cert instead of a medical letter from the doctor explaining my absence. It was obviously a grave mistake on their part, but did not admit to until the evidence slapped them on their faces.

Two days of tears, yelling and an apology letter from the institution, I withdrew from college. Something I was not proud of doing the second time around, but had to anyway. Because I did not think I could continue studying at a place that takes death, lies and emotional jokes lightly.

With my experience in PR and media relations, jobs were ample and opportunities abundant. I resumed working life and pretended I was unscathed by the turbulent events that I later understand, shaped me to be stronger and more resilient than before.

There were men. They come and go like the olive in my martinis – those who know me would testify, I take plenty. And just like the liquor soaked fruits I devour, they were merely temporary sweet escape, meant nothing, though they did a good job washing off the pungent aftertaste of misfortune in my mouth.

Concentrating on work was so much easier and clichéd than dealing with the disturbing roller coaster of many omitted incidences that are just too long and intricate for me to reiterate via a single post.

I’ll bide my time in the next few ones.
Yes baby, this ain’t the end.

There will be more.

Chance

 

Startled I was to hear the resounding sound of a deep deep male voice
I almost dropped the bottle of Shiraz in my hand.

“2006 is generally a good year you know”. He said.
I turned to my left and was delightfully greeted by the most adorable set of dimples on the corner of his lips.

A grin spread through my face as I thought of a clever respond to this astonishingly good looking stranger. But I was dumbfounded. He was looking at me, like he was studying my features.

“Dinner party?” He enquired.
“Yeah, my boss’s birthday,” I replied. It was utter, complete bollocks. I was going to drown my heartbreak with a bunch of drunk idiots I call friends.

“What about you?” I continued the flow of the conversation.
“Ah, I pick up women at the alcohol section of Cold Storage; they tend to be a bit more of a challenge.” He answered, in jest. Oh my, handsome AND witty.

“That’s kind of creepy you know.” I laughed.
“Yeah, but at least I got a smile out of you. You looked so serious I thought you were going to sit through an exam on wine one o one.” He retorted, still gazing intently at me. Made me wonder if I had chili stuck between my braces.

I stared right back at him. His eyes, they seemed to have no depth. Any other fool would have gotten lost in them.

Suddenly, his expression changed. Like he just had an a-ha instant. One of those moments in cartoon strips with an exclamation mark upon a thinking cloud. 

“You’re that girl in the blue Honda.” His tone seemed laced with excitement.
Oh boy, stalker alert.

“Excuse me?” I jumped backwards slightly.

“You drive a blue Honda don’t you?” He repeated, the excitement in his voice elevating. Shoppers around us were starting to notice.

“Errr ….”
Why are all the good looking ones weird psychos, if not taken or gay!

“Okay, you look freaked out. Maybe you don’t remember. About a year or so ago, I passed you my card while …”

Then it dawned on me. Let’s rewind to last year, a week before Valentine’s day. I was driving towards an infamously busy cross-intersection, on my way out to lunch. The notoriety stuck by. And my favourite song came on the radio. What was a girl left to do in the middle of a long train of traffic? Why, groove of course. Like a dork I danced without inhibitions on my driver seat and sang aloud to the music of Mary J. Blige. And MAYBE I got a little too carried away.

By the time I realized that there were entertained drivers in the cars around mine, it was too late. I had already launched into a series of motions that would have put William Hung to shame. I saw smirks and giggles from all angles of my mirrors.

Why oh WHYYY do I always put myself in these embarrassing situations? I asked myself.

The light turned green. But there was still an extensive queue further up. This would mean that I would nevertheless be stuck with these very amused people around me.

So I maneuvered my car to the left, filtered out of the line and headed towards a free road.
Phew. Or so I thought.

No more than 50 meters of escaping the ridiculous jam, a black BMW raced so close it was barely two inches away on my right. I panicked. What was happening? Did someone lose control of the car? Or something bad was about to happen to me in broad daylight?

The passenger window rolled down …
Fast forward back to the wine aisle.

 He said, “Okay, you look freaked out. Maybe you don’t remember. About a year or so ago, I passed you my card while we were both driving. It was near _____”

Yes. See he rolled down his passenger window, leaned way over, passed me his name card and shouted through the wind resistance of both our moving cars, “CALL ME”.

“Oh my gawd you REMEMBERED how I look like?!” I exclaimed. Now it my voice that was a tad too loud. 

“You were too cute to forget, and you were unafraid to be yourself, which is rare. I was really hoping you’d call. I’m _________ by the way.”  He said, extending a hand.

“(My name). I lost your card …” I began to cover up, taking on his gesture. Ooh, such tender manliness.
“Hahahaha. Its okay. No sensible girl would have risked some crazy guy who chased her on the street.” He blushed. Awww so sweet.

“That’s the thing, I’m not.” I countered.
“Not what?” He looked confused.
“Sensible. I’m not usually sensible. Give me your card again ….”
“Oh no,” he persisted, “you are not getting away this time. Give me YOUR number,” and whipped out his mobile, ready to key in the digits. 

It was my turn to blush.

Broken

 

It has been so many weeks. Yet, I have not been able to grasp the loss of
friendship and whatever else I may have fooled myself into believing.

That Monday morning I drove up north, I had steroids in my black bitter coffee and left for my mother’s hometown at 5.30 am, fuelled with insomnia two nights straight.

The roads were empty sans for a bread delivery truck and an old Volvo tank. We were stopped at the traffic light parallel to the street he lives in and I can’t help but glance across. I wished he would walk out of his house in his shorts and all of early morning’s grouchiness, just so I could see him once again.

It feels undone, raw. I’m still trying to make peace with the whole mess. In my unrelenting mind the replay button is constantly looping all our times together in jigsaws of memory glides. From the moment we met at the rooftop, to the point I walked out of his car, into my house and broke down to the floor when the door was shut behind. 

This is unusual terrain. I don’t know this hurt. It doesn’t feel familiar. It doesn’t feel familiar at all. I have had my heart crushed a million times. And a million times I knew I was going to be fine before I could even say, next. But this wound, it feels changing. It feels like a permanent leech. The kind of parasite that can’t be seen, but kills slowly, surely and silently.

Someone should give him a medal and a victorious pat on the back. No man has ever gotten this close to me emotionally, all guards down. That makes it my fault then, doesn’t it? To let him get to me, to let him make me overlook all the ugly possibilities.

Nice guys like him never fall for girls like me. Idiot. Yes, I felt like an idiot.

We were coming back from lunch that Saturday afternoon, when he said it was better if we went back to just being friends. Actually he said a lot more than that. He thought we got too close, too fast, and he was overwhelmed.

My face was hot. My brain drew a blank. He might as well have slapped me hard on both my cheeks.

Initially I brought him a joint so he could de-stress from the workload he faced, but it seemed like I might need it more than he did, because if he had not lighted it, so help me God I would have hit him.

The rest of the way home, we braved the jam in awkward silence interspersed with nasty exchanges. Inside I was scolding myself. Don’t cry baby don’t cry please don’t cry. Not in front of him.

I pondered if he has forgotten the post-coital conversation just last week, when I confessed I really wouldn’t know how to return to the friendship we previously shared. In my exact words, I told him – “because now I wouldn’t know how to look at you anymore and not want you”. 

Perhaps I should have picked up on the vibe. An hour prior the unceremonious dumping he was a little bit out of character while he ate his spaghetti Bolognese, commenting on other women and anticipating sex on his work trip to Bangkok. I ignored it, rattling on about my horrendous week at the hospital and recollected the moment my mom walking in on us cuddling, despite the needle drips poked through my vein. As I should have seen doubt bleed through his eyes as we bounced travel ideas, and I foolishly planned for the near future. Did I miss it, or did I just choose to?

I considered the odds that I might suffer from clinical schizophrenia as well. Because it means I must have dreamt up a false connection that night when it was as if we stopped having taut filthy sex and made passionate love instead. I must have hallucinated the tears he cried as he shared hush-hushes of the past and held me so close to his chest I felt his heart beating and his warm breath nuzzling my neck. I must have weaved an entirely fictional experience that whole weekend of pure unadulterated dialogues between us. I must have.

I thought about what to say to my friends. Our friends. We shared mutual ones. It made it that much harder that everyone liked him, liked the idea of us. It made it that much harder that despite what he did, I don’t hate him. As much as I want to, I don’t. Fuck.

I’m so scared to close my eyes, I still see him. There is an image of him created vividly, one night when I sat on his bed as he undressed, and he moved in a childlike manner to kiss me, comforting intentions. His expression embedded in my mind for some cruel sadistic reason I can’t pinpoint. I’m so scared to close my eyes; scared he would somehow seep into my dream and turn it into a recurring nightmare.

Would it be so appalling to confess I still feel his tongue against the softness of my centre and his fingers parting my legs to give me pleasure? Or the fact that I sometimes imagine his skin against my palm and I revel in these memories I fight so hard to discard. 

I used to secretly laugh inside and snicker at women crying over some bastard that didn’t deserve them in the first place.

I guess it goes to show that really, you wouldn’t know what it feels like till it happens to you. Padan muka (serves you right), like any busybody would say.

The long distance drive that Monday morning proved to be cathartic. I accelerated on the highway, cold wind in my face with four hours of contemplation, quiet self reasoning and letting go. It was then I found solace that you know, it was okay I admit I am, not that strong after all.

That I am, human. Not a man-eating feline. Just another person. With emotional burdens that might include soft spots and heartbreaks. 

Heartbreak. So beautiful a word with hidden unsightliness. A term we complicatedly embrace with shame, solemnity, magnificence all at the same time.

And for now, it is mine.

Inertia

 

Are you ok? She asked during dinner just now.
What? Err, yeah I’m ok. I lied.
Are you sure? You’ve been gazing at your plate for five minutes. She queried again. Mothers and their adamancy.
Yes, I think it’s my medication making me lose my appetite. I insisted. Another lie.

I left the table shortly after, barely touching the food. Though I must have at least tried to stare it down. Didn’t work.

It’s been a long long week. And it definitely wasn’t mine. Wasn’t my week at all. It was the kind that escalated quickly, got me in a sort of high, clouded all judiciousness and built up a sugary imagination of random possibilities.

Unconscious to the soaring elevation rallying the intense crash when I came down to a trampled reality of nothingness. 

I tried and I tried to write, but nothing is flowing coherently. I’m guessing the computer screen is not about to magically deliver life’s answers on love, sex, tears and messed up broken friendships. 

For hours now. I just end up getting distracted by some clip on YouTube, reading kooky interesting articles or replying a long awaited email that could have been done yesterday.

I should sleep. Long distance driving up north in the morning. Starting tomorrow I would be my mother’s personal slave and driver for the holiday. Plus, the rest of the week would be a nightmare of Eid celebrations. That should translate to: entertaining aunties who would be asking nosy questions about my personal life when all I really have the strength to do is curl up into a hole and rot.

Sigh.
Next week perhaps? Yes, next week it shall have to be. My eyes are heavy, I am really afraid to close them. You shall find out why, then.

Anticipation

 

One week.

One week since I saw your face.
One week ago I felt your arms around me.
One week my lips have missed yours.
One week your tongue denied mine.
One week I did not get any.

One week.
One week was long enough.

One week over tonight. Thank god.

But tonight that familiar contact did not satisfy.
Too short a time to make up for one week.
Who cares about confusion and road to nowhere. 

Friend-a-calling. We should get that drink with her.
Ok. Let’s stop.

Dirty weekend ahead. Hurrah.
Because I dont think. 
I. Can. Wait. Another week.

Ramadhan

 

Coming into the third week of Ramadhan, yet it’s only my second day fasting.

Before you assume, yeah right, this woman bothers to fulfill one of her five duties of being a Muslim, I’m usually quite good at this. If not for the sake of adding brownie points, it’s a forced diet to lose a bit of weight I gained from those I’m-so-horny-I-ain’t-getting-any-so-I-stuff-my-face moments.

But multicoloured antibiotics to be taken at strict hours prevented me from fasting during the first two weeks. Yes, I had sex with a sick man, and then I got terribly ill myself. I know. Serve me right. Let’s move on now.

Ramadhan. It’s a whole month when Muslims abstain themselves from all temptations sunrise to sunset. For the school of thought which I follow, we don’t drink, we don’t eat, we don’t pick our noses or any parts of the body with holes, and we don’t have impure thoughts nor act upon it.

All of which are relatively easy for me. Except the last part.
Well, hello, look at the byline for this blog. 

I was complaining to a friend and he said. You can’t even THINK about sex? He checked with someone else. She said of course you can, just don’t do anything.

Ah yes, easier said than done. Cause I think and I think about that time when we … and this time he and I… and that other time … or that piece on … and I really really want to touch myself.

It didn’t help either that my first and second day of starting the fast is a weekend. I get quite lethargic at the beginning. I don’t get to go out for lunch with friends, or go to the gym. So I stay home.

Ample time to kill. I go on the net. I surf. I get bored of reading about the current chaotic political scene and depressing news of road accidents and natural disasters. I surf some more. By this time, my mind is already clouded with filthy embarrassing thoughts I can’t help but read the sex sextion (oops, Freudian slip) of the sites I frequent. 

I came across this.

It’s an article on the Huffington Post differentiating a slut. And a sex addict. I hate that word. Let’s replace it with dependency. Oh, how politically correct of me.

Am I just a whore sexually liberated? Or sex dependent? I took the test.

It says that on a scale of 0 (asexual) to 20 (need rehab), I was in the middle. So that means I had the tendency to. I never thought I’d say this. But that’s actually quite scary. What if one day I plainly fall off to the darker side? To think that I’m not in fact in love, but simply, in love with sex.

Discovering all this in the holy month! Holy crap!

Seriously, this battle for me is not just during Ramadhan. It’s constant. I am not a religious person per se, but rather spiritual. Although with spirituality are also insertions of my religion into manifestations of belief and indemnity. 

The first code of Islam is Justice, however abstract that word may be. And within the Qur’an is the mention of the injustice extra-marital sex brings – the unfairness towards the spouse being cheated on. But what about pre-marital sex between two consenting adults? Where is the injustice there then? Furthermore, it is not pre-marital sex if you have no intentions of getting married, right?

Am I to be thumped just for having these often satirical debates in my own dangerous mind? To each their own I guess, some may not agree with my radicality.

Needless to say this, in all its actuality, is a trying month for me. I’ve got two more weeks to go. Wish me luck.

For the flesh is weak. But the libido – even weaker.

Drop-off

 

I picked him up when the sky was at the tip of turning, from grey to blue.
A peck on the lips greeted me hello. Good morning.

Last night we went for post-dinner ice cream and bought smokes at the nearby sundry store. I tasted like berries he said. From the new Oreo McFlurry.

I didn’t shave my legs. Didn’t feel the need to.
And as he pulled on the drawstrings of my green linen pants, I heave a contented sigh, let him do his thing.

Our sex is becoming comfortable. And almost routine.
What the hell are we doing to each other? I don’t know where this is going.
More than friends. Less than a couple.

We fuck. But it doesn’t end there.
My body becoming addicted to his. I leave his place late and then in my lonely bed, I wish he was in me again. Over and over.

I know this can never be. His mother probably thinks I’m the original slut since catching me running naked to his bathroom. Don’t worry aunty. Your baby ain’t my baby.

Dropped him off at Departures with a five minute snog. The airport guard staring.
Not a care in the world. We’ve got our shades on.

Call me when you’re back. I said.

Driving home to the memory of his hands between my thighs the night before, I don’t know where this is going. I really don’t know.

Letter

 

Attention to
The Minister of Education, Malaysia

Dear Sir,

I recently joined the local Malaysian blogosphere at the persuasion of my closest friends after reading some of my notes. I call it Thursday Love. Yes, I am a blogger. Don’t worry. I do not observe and write about politics nor do I have the desire to.

I am a blogger of a different kind. I write about sex. Yes. Sex. You are a married man, with children. I am pretty sure you are familiar with this concept. 

Even though my blog is new, less than a month old, it is growing to be quite popular. It has become so well liked that I’ve set up its own private email for admin and Adonis-tic purposes.  Every week I get two or three feedbacks from readers about the style of my blog and its content. Most of the time my mails make me happy, once in a while I get one that calls me a cheap, no-shame whore, it is fine, even Oprah has haters.

But last Sunday I received a particular email I found so disturbing that I felt the compelling need to write to you.

It is from Linda*. She tells me that she is in a relationship with someone who is a sweet darling but is a complete bore at bed, and so she continues sleeping with her ex-boyfriend who does all this exciting stunts on her and apparently gives her the best orgasms.

She also talks about having sex in public places such as the lobby gents of some five star hotel and a dark, seedy karaoke booth. Her favourite position is the Helicopter and the Scissors. She hates condoms; the friction of the rubber lessens the sexual elevation. Hence sometimes, more often than not, she doesn’t use it.

You see what worries me, sir, Linda, is only fifteen.
I can’t even begin to imagine what other kids her age are doing with their boyfriends and talking about during recess.

I do hope that this, should tell you it is time for sex education to be introduced at all levels of education in Malaysia. And I know according to reports, the government has Okayed this idea. But please don’t tell me that the curriculum will be based on that ugly blue book your ministry massively sent out for the NGOs to preview not too long ago.

While working for a women’s organization back then, I remember being excited to be previewing the book and then I vividly recall the disappointment that it was full with topics on morality and tied with different religious beliefs connotations within it. 

Sir, one issue has no relation to the other.

Sex education is about teaching them the fundamentals of sex with a clear, positive and broad-minded objectiveness and then trusting that they will be having it responsibly, with the knowledge given to them.

People have sex. Not talking about sex, or lacing it with moral judgments is not going to scare people into not having sex.

Talk to them in an open, concise, healthy environment. Use scientific terms. Words like “penis”, “zakar”, “kemaluan”, “vagina” and “masturbation” should be addressed in a point-driven tone regardless of the hushed silence and sporadic giggles.

Expressions such as “pisang”, “batang”, “cipap”, “benda itu”, “benda kat bawah tu”, “down there” are confusing. They do not necessarily refer to my private parts. My legs and feet are also down there.

They need to be acquainted with condoms, what it is made of; that there are so many types out there, the trusted brands, how to insert it properly and why this is important.  

They need to be equipped with info about the Pill, what is it for, who should take it, who to consult, and what are the correct administrations.

They need to be familiar with all the STDs, the causes, the risks, the things they can do to avoid and what to do if they should contract – with pictorial aid.

That when herpes enters the body, it is forever. That syphilis is a sore on the genitalia, curable with antibiotics if detected early. That gonorrhea is real, not a type of bread, and if left untreated, may cause infertility. That HIV is a type of virus, and not an actual disease contracted via sneezing or sharing of utensils. That AIDS stands for Acquired Immuned Deficiency Syndrome and that it develops as a result of being HIV-positive. 

They also need to know that when they go to bed, they are not going to bed with a single person. They are sleeping with that person’s sexual history and all of the sexual history’s sexual history as well.

In 2006, 20 people were reported of being infected with HIV everyday, and out of that 20, 13 are housewives. So it is not what category of people they fall under. It is about the sexual habits that they practice, like using condoms, and having annual health checkups.

The children, our future sir, the next generation, they need to know all this. They need to know that STDs happen to good people too, not only to sex workers and the morally corrupt.

Thank you for taking the time from visiting schools, kissing the keris and motivating the UMNO youth, to read my letter sir. I really appreciate it. And I believe that you will do the right thing.  Maybe.

 

*names have been changed to protect privacy.

Chocolate

 

Some Saturday, not so distant nights ago
0045 hours

We surveyed the scene from the top of the slope and tried to make a united decision. Of course, the one and only decisive factor is to be where the hot ones are.

Frangipani was a tad too noisy for my sick liking, but girlfriends R and C were attacted to the sound of music blaring straight to the street. Their booties already moving to the staccato rhythm way before we reached the entrance. Okay, I guess we shall, just for a bit.

All I wanted to do was step out for some comforting supper. How in the world I managed to change my course of route and pick up two naughty partners-in-crime instead, I don’t know.

An unmade oily face, unwashed hair bunched up in a ponytail and a belted brown dress with flip flops. I was hardly a combination that would result in bringing a gorgeous specimen home for some rock-a-bye.  I looked, and felt, like a maid. But whatever, not an issue; I was there for a drink. If horniness should strike, my fingers, or my shower head can jolly well do the job to gratify.

We made our way up the beautiful wooden stairs and entered the upper leveled bar packed with attractive human beings. 

This is my locale on Fridays, when the night belonged to sweet fairies. I was unfamiliar with the straight crowd on Saturdays. I thought too soon. Because not even thirty seconds after, I met two people I know telling me they’ve been reading my blog (hello girls) and how much they love it.

Thanks for reading, I’m so honoured. I replied. Then I air kissed them again and preceded to the bar. I wasn’t being insincere and abrupt. I just. Want. That. Drink. 

A few more acquaintances and fellow Changkat frequenters. A couple of how are yous and where have you beens later and I finally got that Vodka Cranberry. Thank you busy bartender! 

The day had done a crazy number on me.
R and C were nowhere in sight. I assumed they were either getting drinks too, or at the Ladies. I circled the island bar one more time. Just in case I missed them.

Then I saw him. Bald. Confident. His eyes like perfect almonds. He was built like he went to the gym religiously. His skin the colour of yummy milk chocolate that melts in your mouth and your hands, and you lick clean.

He was smiling at me and after a few passing clubbers, I was right in front of him.

SexyBaldMan   : Hey
Me                  : Hi.
SexyBaldMan   : We’ve met.
Me                  : I can’t recall where though.
SexyBaldMan   : Neither can I. But it doesn’t matter. I’m K.
Me                  : Hello K. I’m (my name).
SexyBaldMan   : Pleasure meeting you again then (my name).
Me                  : Is that a British accent I hear, where about?
SexyBaldMan   : London.
Me                  : Ah, I see.
SexyBaldMan   : But I live here now. Ampang.
Me                  : A long way from home. On what purpose?
SexyBaldMan   : Work.
Me                  : In what field is that?
SexyBaldMan   : It’s a performance lubrication company.
Me                  : Ahhh, and what sort of performance?
SexyBaldMan   : You’re wicked.
Me                  : Do you have a light?
SexyBaldMan   : No I don’t smoke. An expensive habit.
Me                  : (nods to the beer in his hand) So is drinking
SexyBaldMan   : I had to choose one or the other. Alcohol won hands down.
Me                  : Too bad. I was about to request for you to light my fire. But tell me more bout this “performance lubricant” …

SexyBaldMan   : I see that smile. I get that a lot. But you’re wicked.
Me                  : Oh, no no no. This is pure research. I have a sex blog.
SexyBaldMan   : Do you now?
Me                  : Mmm hmm (sips on cocktail)
SexyBaldMan   : What do you write in this sex blog of yours.
Me                  : All sorts of things. I experiment here and there.
SexyBaldMan   : (hands over mobile) Key in your number. We should keep in touch.

                                                                         *****

I wonder if it’s true what they say about chocolate-coloured men. I guess, I’ll just have to wait and see.

Out of Denial

 

I poured the tea and cupped my shivering fingers to the shape of the hot hot mug. What a relief. As I got out from the kitchen, stumbling my way across the living room, I spilled some on my bare thighs. I was ready to flinch, anticipating pain. The tea, at boiling point two minutes ago, did not seem to have an effect on my nerves, for my legs were cold, like ice.

I hate being sick. I know. Who doesn’t right? When I was younger, I loved it. It was an excuse for me to act like a princess and skip school. Now I don’t need to be ill to be all that.

I laid my throbbing head against the throw cushion of the sofa and thought, if anyone had a fetish for the frazzled and unwell, I’d be real sexy to them. Heh.

Hahahaha.
Serves you right.
Itu la, gatal lagi!
Woman, I thought you learned your lesson?
You’re joking!

Some of the reaction I received. And yes, I went back for more after last week’s eventful incident. On Monday. We locked the door this time though. In case of unexpected visitors again.

A simple cough had turned into a full-blown fever and other annoying penalties. The germs probably mutated.

I don’t regret. It was worth it. Not only because he was a satisfying lover and a good kisser. Also, for the reason that now the drought was over, momentum has to be kept.

Okay, always the passionate optimist, I assumed I was strong enough. Of course, believing my immunity was tough like a brick wall doesn’t make it so.

Maybe I needed this. Some alone time. Constantly surrounded by people can wear you down at several points or rather. I am not complaining to having a wide circle of friends, I feel blessed. Except being under the weather forces me to stay still and mull over thoughts I abandoned in pursuit of excitement.

A proper (dare I say it?) boyfriend would come in best during times like these. It’d be nice to be looked after by a significant other. Mothers make chicken soup and are brilliant in pampering the inner child. But that special person would indulge the vulnerable whims and makes you feel beautiful even when you look like a dying cow.  It’s a different feeling altogether I’m sure.

Not that I would know. I’ve never been in a relationship. Not really. I’m talking about the serious, long term, stable kind. The kind that might lead somewhere. 

All my previous ones didn’t last more than six months. And while I call them my exes (is there another title?), they felt more like extended flings.

My god sister and a throng of friends label me commitment phobic.

Maybe it is because at the curve of each relationship, something happens. Someone cheats. Boredom. Religious differences. Family objections. Long distance. Things that are beyond my control, too close for comfort, I feel smothered. And so I run. This is what I do.
 
Deem me a coward or picky, demanding, hard to please, or anything else within that category of vocab.  But I don’t see the point of staying simply for the sake of watching the prophecy unravel. 

I am not scarred. Not angry, not bitter. Not apologetic either. They were just not meant to be. But with every failed one, I grew more exhausted not passing that peak from play to domestic. Drained from the heartbreaks, the trying, the unnecessary ache, I stopped bothering.

Hence I jump from mattress to mattress, momentarily satisfied in my quest for 24 hour loving (sometimes less), leaving strands of my hair (both forms) on their plush pillows. 

However, trust me when I say, I have not lost hope in finding love – that’s a whole post by itself.

At present, I guess I am commitment phobic. Sort of.
Now where the hell is my group hug so I can feel someone up?