Orange

 

I emerged out of Mid Valley’s 4th floor car park exit into the shopping mall
and was surprised by the crowd, considering it was a Thursday afternoon.
Weaving in and out between the masses of people, my eyes were fixed to the screen of my mobile, replying texts that I missed while I was in class half an hour earlier.

I was used to this. Walking hurriedly amid packed places is really my thing because I was always late. Habitually I was quite good at avoiding bumping into people, but today I was just a little more flustered than usual. It could probably be the heat of the weather outside or the heat within me, from not having sex. Yes. One month, one week, and counting … make out sessions don’t add up.

As I got off the first escalator going down towards Zara where my friends were waiting, I collided into someone’s left elbow. It belonged to a man. Tanned and jasmine scented. I looked up.

He had a handsome chiseled face. Late twenties maybe. His arms and shoulder blades were toned and bare. His head shaven. His ruler shaped body wrapped by a single orange cloth in a monk’s usual fashion. Why was I noticing all this?

I apologized. Sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.
He didn’t say anything, simply smiled. So I smiled back, and noticed how warm his eyes were. I’m really sorry, I repeated myself, and walked off.

Did I just mildly flirt with a holy servant of God? No. No. No.
I pressed send on the touch screen of my phone and returned it to my handbag. At the corner of my eye I spied the monk, walking behind me. I felt self-conscious.
Was he checking out my ass? No. No. No. It’s just not possible.

In the instant I thought that, I felt myself swaying a bit more. What the fuck is wrong with me?!

I turned my face again, slightly to the right, pretending to check something in my purse.
This time, I was sure. He was looking at me.
I walked a tad faster. I don’t know why. But I did.

He caught up with me two minutes after, just before I reached another flight of escalator. He touched me on the brink of my right shoulder, very lightly.
Then he said, grinning and Thai-accented. You very pretty.

Erm …. Err …. Oh ok, thanks, I replied, my response delayed. And I practically jumped on the next moving step heading downwards. He remained at the top of the floor, still watching.

What just happened? Did I just get hit on by a monk? Or was he just appreciating the female form? I was flattered nevertheless.

That evening as I recollected the moment, I felt like I needed to verify another box in my already long list of sins.

Blasphemy – check.

Foreplay

 

You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? Was it agonizing, the anticipation? 
I know you are reading this. In my mind I imagine you in front of that Mac.
If you weren’t smiling, you are now.

I had a wonderful time on Sunday by the way.

Don’t think I did not know your intention when you stroked my hand. I wondered if that was pure affection or an initiation for something more. And when I said let’s watch a movie, don’t think it was just a distraction, I really did want to. Except I got restless.

So I kissed you. No resistance.
Your lips eagerly mine. Your mouth starving for touch. At the tip of my tongue, you surrendered.

Your hands were not travelling. Good boy.
Me? Not so good. I touched your crotch. Well, hello there. No performance anxiety I supposed then. Secretly I gauged you for size. Can’t blame a girl for that can you, there’s been some painful incidences.

The hour passed by quickly in the ticking of the clock. And I was pleasured in those minutes you licked my ears, caressed my naked thighs and clutched my breasts.

Let’s not go all the way. All these built up foreplay and anxiety might lead to an intensity of passion. You were sweet. And tender. Your eyes escape you.  Like a boy of hopeful discoveries.

I went home giddy, and filled to the brim with confetti of frissons.
That wasn’t bad. That wasn’t bad at all.

More is yet to come. That’s almost a guarantee.

Grey

 

College started today. Not officially, just the orientation.
Briefing, campus tour, semester schedule – I’ve been through it all. Yes, I
am going back to school at twenty-three, completing my Bachelor’s.

As I got ready this morning, I scanned the reflection of my face in the mirror and nervously anticipated what my day was going to be like.

Will I feel out of place with the entire younger crowd but nevertheless enjoy the attention of stupid little boys staring at my boobs?  I keep telling myself and a close friend of mine, Sharanya, that I am not, and never will be, a cougar. My taste has always skewed towards those older than me. But then again, who knows? Some gorgeous young punk might just be too delicious to resist.

I reached a tad too early, predicting massive jam on the roads, but was pleasantly surprised at the smooth flowing traffic. It is the school holidays, and it’s a Friday after all. Parents probably took the day off and whisked their bratty packs for a family weekend get-away. This is not uncommon in the suburbs.

Apart from the main entrance, nothing was opened. At the lobby of the building, current students were busy setting up tables and posting up signages. So I took off my sunglasses, approached a tall skinny girl arranging boxes of what looked like the average welcome folders.

Hi, good morning, I supposed this is the registration counter?
She turned around, gave me the once over with her slit eyes and replied curtly. We are not organized yet, can’t you see. It is only eight ten. We start at nine. Come back later.

Oh, ok. I said, still smiling on the outside, reeling in the inside, and walked away. You conceited excuse for a stick; my ass is trendier than that fake Gucci sling bag you’re preciously carrying.

Another girl came up to me, and beamed. Perhaps you want to wait somewhere while we set up? There’s lots of restaurants and mamaks around here you know.

I know, I thought to myself, but didn’t want to discourage her warm generosity.
So I answered. Really? Where would I be able to find a Starbucks you think?
And I let her give me directions that I knew like the back of my hand.

Go straiiigggghhttt down the hallway, and when you see a mini convenience store on your right, you will see a staircase you can exit from, that is a shortcut! She looked at me as if she just helped come up with a solution to an infinite math question. 

Oh ok thanks. I smiled amusingly, and proceeded straiiigggghhttt down the aforementioned passage.

The long corridor was clear and oh so quiet. Only sounds I could hear were whirling of generators and a click click echo from the flat heel of my gold shoes.  

The coffee joint was also empty, a barrista at the counter. A rather cute one at that. He greeted me. Good morning miss, welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?

I looked at him and thought, well, you can start by taking off that ridiculous yellow T-shirt ……
Miss?
Oh, sorry, was just thinking of what I’d like. I will have a Grande Earl Grey, ice on the side, and a Mushroom, Tomato and Cheese in Ciabatta bread.

Settled down my orders on the round black metal table, I sat al-fresco and reveled in the heat of the morning sun partially against my dark skin. I lit a cigarette and removed the bookmark from the novel I have been struggling to finish. Not because the plot was too boring or lacked excitement, but I have just been too horny enamoured to concentrate. Every so often my mind would wander off on its own and think of that
time …

It has been a month okay, give me a break.

But this morning I was doing quite fine I must say. Occasionally I looked up and away from the novel in my hand, drank my tea, took a bite off my sandwich and observed the people slowly pouring in.

I was doing very well in fact, finished two whole chapters without thinking about sex.
Until this man walked in.

This rugged old matured looking man in a crisp, blue buttoned down shirt and khakis. His Ray Ban covered his eyes but his jaw line was too distinguished to ignore. Standing at approximately five feet eight, his hair was black with some grey on the sides, and his yellow skin wasn’t wrinkled like an un-ironed bed sheet. If I had to guess his age, possibly early to mid forties.

There was something about him.

With the book pressed against my nose, I watched him setting up a white Vaio, careful not to get the steaming drink on his expensive laptop. When he bent down to plug in the cable to the available power sockets, I moved a bit to get a view of his rear. Ooh, not bad for someone his age.

I wasn’t getting the gay vibe. And I don’t see a wedding ring. Could be one of those playas who fathers aborted children and spends his cash away on booze and sports cars. I guessed his occupation. Architect, I decided.

He finally sat down, taking in the aroma of the hot coffee before taking a sip.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. He seemed glued to the screen, eyes still covered by his sunnies, totally oblivious to my staring.

Or pretending to be. He must know I was imagining the fit of his palm against my … I shall not finish this sentence.

Maybe he needed some help noticing. I was running out of ice anyway. It all melted in the temperature of my thoughts passing by. 

I got up, and slowly walked towards the door into the outlet, my back facing him. My friends had commented before that I have a strut, and I was damn well going to put it to good use. 

(My name)? This vaguely familiar velvety voice came from his direction.
Could it be someone I met before, but idiotically can’t remember? I turned, not without a lop-sided smile and the intention to dazzle and mesmerize …

His Ray Ban was on his head already. My face fell.
Oh. Err. Hi Uncle …

It was my friend’s dad.

To All The Men (And Sometimes Women) I’ve Loved Before

 

In case you were wondering, like I do during pivotal moments of utter
solitude and horniness loneliness, I get turned on remembering the intimate seconds we may never reenact.

I am not ashamed or afraid to confess I masturbate to reminiscence of our sexual encounters.

That time on the rooftop. Your hotel room. My hotel room. The bathroom of a club. The basement of our campus. The dark room you worked in. The lift of that building. The villa you rented. My car. Your car. Our friend’s bed. 

Yeah, there’s quite a few of you.

From the first touch on the silhouette of my figure, to my tongue tasting yours hungrily, and to your body moving rapidly in sync with my rhythm of pleasure – I was spent in the way only you could have satisfied me.

Each and every one of you, so different individually, yet cramped together in a single pocket of nostalgia, serving one purpose. And one purpose merely.

Sometimes as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I touch myself to these memories and I enjoy the slides of contentment.

When I’m done, somewhere between being awake, and that final drag of tiredness, I imagine your arms around my waist.

And I sleep.

Don’t Come Near Me

 

 

Don’t come near me. I can’t stand the anxiety.
 
Aren’t you feeling it too? Okay, lie to my face and tell me you did not expect it.
Be like the rest. I know. I know you’re not like them. I’m sorry.
 
You get out of the car. Wow, a modern gentleman. Help me?
I love the way you carefully handle that dish. The way your fingers softly trace the side of the plate, makes me want to be a plate too.
 
Oooh, its cold in here. The AC too high? No you idiot, that was a hint to hug me. I need warmth. Yours.

 

Thank you for picking me up. I appreciate this. Also an excuse for me to spend more time with you. Figure it out already.

 

Did you enjoy the play? Yes, that’s my favourite part as well. Except I didn’t get to sit next to you. I was stuck behind this woman with a beehive hair. Every two seconds I wanted to pull the flowers from her high bush and let you smell the rose.

 

Smell me. It’s my new body butter. Do you like it? The scent of papaya and apple infused into cocoa. Lingering. Arousing?

 

We’re back to where we were last week. I remember the way to the kitchen. Freeze the dessert. Let it cool. Hopefully my lust shall be frozen too.

 

Pour me the chilled Chardonnay. I’m not downing this. Biding my time.
Let’s go walk the dog. That sounds fun.

 

Full moon. Apparently it makes people go crazy. No. You are making me crazy. Fool.
Kiss me already. In the middle of the street if you have to. I don’t care about that incoming car. Okay, push me to the side instead why don’t you. Talk about yoga. Yada yada yada. 

 

Home again. Take the caramel out. It’s ready to be eaten. Just like me.

 

The rest arrive. With the game of Scrabble. Ah, more people. Perhaps the trepidation will be quiet. Perhaps not.

 

We’re in your room again. Everyone huddled up on your bed. Touch me ever so lightly on the small of my back. I tingle. Pull on my cardigan lightly and make way for that person, move nearer. I shiver. Did your foot just rest on mine?

 

Let’s play Scrabble then. No, go ahead, you can all play. I’m bored. No. I’m horny. Sshhh. Yes, make up dirty words with the alphabet tiles. Turn me on even more.

 

More wine people? Let’s go raid the alcohol cupboard. Let me look at that bottle. I feel your breath against my neck as you lean in to peer over the label from behind. Slight turn to the left. My lips would touch yours. Ah crap, still too chicken. 

 

Drink. Play. Chat. Drink. Play. Chat.
Finally they left. Tidy up. Wipe everything clean. But not this pressure to slant my body towards yours. 

 

Sit. Let’s talk. You read my blog? How did you feel? Yes. Honest I was. Vulnerable? I still am. And still waiting for my kiss goddamnit.

 

I have no patience. Send me home.
Deep, open-ended conversations at five A.M are not usually my thing. Fucking is.

 

What do we do about us? Friends? No benefits? I’m not ready for a relationship.
Hell no. I’m not commitment phobic. Whatever gave you that idea?

 

Aren’t you feeling it too? Okay, lie to my face and tell me you did not expect it. Be like the rest. I know. I know you’re not like them. I’m sorry.

 

Hold me tight, feel my breasts against your chest and wish me goodnight.

 

So friends, it is. Just friends.
But please. Don’t come near me. I can’t stand the anxiety.

Braces

 

 

The air was cool and dull in the foyer.

I was already waiting for a good 45 minutes. Sitting there nervously

with a book in my hand so I won’t look like an idiot staring into space,

I considered the aftermath of this visit. The novel’s plot line wasn’t interesting enough to hold my attention. 

 

Apart from the usual brackets put in a month ago, she mentioned before that in order to push my indented teeth forward, she was going to fix metal wires onto my top palate and would temporarily cause me some trouble chewing food and that even when I ate, it would be tasteless for a while. Neither food nor taste I was concerned about. My endorphin level is at stake here.

 

I heard my name. I got up and quickly hurried through the white wooden door at the end of an L-shaped hallway.

 

My orthodontist is a pleasant lady in her late-thirties with fair skin and a ponytail. Her pleasing smile would always lessen the anxious rumbling in my tummy at the beginning of my appointments. Two nurses stood obediently nearby. One is young, short-haired and dimples, the other, slightly older, in a green tudung and constipated frown.

 

How are you today my dear? Dr. _______ said.

I smiled tightly and eased myself onto that weirdly shaped chair which supposedly fits your back but instead, stiffens it. That must have been a rhetoric question all of them were trained to ask just to make sure you are not too grumpy before they proceed to poke and prod into the depths of your mouth with their icy sterile equipments.

 

As she cautiously unfolded a simple looking mouth appliance with three wires held by two metal rings at the side and turning it around, she explained again thoroughly the fitting procedure and the discomforts I would most likely face in the next few months. I can feel the colour slowly draining out of my usually cheery face. My mind was racing. This is not good, I thought.

 

During the twenty minutes (but what felt like hours) of painful jabs, nudging and things taken out, set in, foul smelling horrible tasting dental glue gurgling at the bottom of my throat, I scrunched my eyes close so unyielding to light, it hurt. Silently, I cursed my mom and her cajoling ways for me to get braces. My mom who believes beauty knows no pain.

 

I agreed eventually. I wanted to get laid more often. Clean, un-crooked, perfectly aligned teeth would definitely help.

 

Ok wash. She said. Its over, you can open your eyes now.

I did as I was told. It was annoying, the sensation that something was pushed to the ceiling of your mouth, disrupting the movement of your tongue against it.

 

Any questions? She asked.

Yes. I began, threading carefully, scanning her face. She seemed pretty open. I was going to take my chances anyway. This is, after all, an important issue. 

 

Can I still kiss?

 

What? Pardon? She seemed startled.

Can I still kiss? I repeated myself. 

Yeah, you can. No problem.

Are u sure? I seek reaffirmation.

Yes.

 

A stifled laugh from one of her nurses then. Probably the younger one.

 

Okay. What about blowjobs? A bit of a problem isn’t it?

What? Did you say blowjobs? Her tone somewhat higher.

Yes, I did. Blowjobs are still possible? I conversed with a poker face and serious-as-hell voice. That, admittedly, was quite hard to maintain. Besides the fact that the tudung lady’s gradual facial expression change was really funny, I do realize it was not a topic people openly discuss.

 

Err; I think you’d have to be a bit creative with that. Dr. _________ replied, practically stammering.

Okay. How long exactly do you think I have to be creative for?

 

The tudung lady almost fainted.

 

                                                                            *********

 

I walked out of that office bearing you-should-be-embarrassed-young-lady dirty looks but with the reassurance that my sex life won’t be dampened (for too long), filled with the anticipation to try it out.

 

You know, in the name of science, research and women in braces everywhere.

Tension

Posted on Facebook Notes on Monday, August 11 2008 at 11.43 pm

 
 

Last Friday, while others were shaking their booties to House music at Mansion and air smooching in Twenty-one, I made baked macaroni and sipped on leftover cheap red wine.

Barry bailed; worn-out from an article deadline and going to bed, according to his text. So there goes my ride to a dose of Lychee Martinis and flamboyant men by the balcony of Frangipani when it is their weekly anticipated “Boys’ Nite Out”.

Too lazy to drive to town myself, but already in a blue belted dress, shaved legs and leopard print shoes. All dressed up and nowhere to go. The thought of staying home alone with a rouged face and purple eyelids was making me feel like a ridiculous lonely clown as minutes go by.

I headed to ____’s place nearby, a casserole dish in hand. Supper? Sure he said. Love to. I figured, men never say No to free food and glossy lips do they?

I felt different when I walked in.
Different how?
Like a date.

Maybe it was just the sex-me-up undergarments. I don’t know what it is about black lace that makes women instantaneously hot to the touch and start to imagine they are inclined to perform slinky stunts against a metal pole.

Wine? He asked.
I thought, more alcohol, yummy.
Yes, please.

Conversation was slow and steady while he ate and I took swigs of my Merlot like it was the Devil’s delicious intoxicating syrup. No I’m not an alcoholic, was just soothing the drought. Yes. That drought. It’s been three weeks.

Four glasses later we were in his bedroom. Dust-free, cotton sheets and clean white walls covered by movie posters from yesteryears. The kind of space that shows he is a hygienic male in the house (ya’ll). He scanned the playlist on his laptop and apologized – Sorry babe, I don’t have Justin Timberlake here.

Sitting on his bed, I laughed at the insinuated reference to an FB note of a previous sexual encounter (what else right?).

Do I really want to cross that line? A thin brittle one which separates friends from lovers, fuck buddies, or whatever. Is it truly possible for two single heterosexual members of the opposite sex to be simply that? Friends I mean. And not the kinds with benefits, under inverted commas, or sleepovers either.

I used to believe so. Not anymore.

Another male friend once said to me that a woman using a man for friendship is just as bad, as a man using a woman for sex. He was not the first, probably won’t be the last, to tell me the same thing. And to a certain extent, I agree.

There is a Ladder Theory which suggests when people initially meet; they immediately size up the other as possible sexual partners, based on criterion they possess. (This is true, I do this all the time).

They then proceed to place the other on their “ladders” in terms of desirability. The theory claims that men only have one ladder (cause they want to boink everything), and women, have two – the “potential” and “never” ladders. Of course that’s not the end of it, but without going into anymore details, it essentially affirms my suspicions that the sex thing? Always there.

We are just too shy/frigid/forward thinking to admit it.

The sexual tension between me and this dude, its there alright. Accidental hand brushes, evocative innuendos. Every so often curiosity surges through my blood to kiss him full, on the mouth, and with force. See if he would like that. But I didn’t. Too chicken to do it. *cluck*

Nothing earth-shattering happened. We watched a DVD and he walked me to my car.
Our goodbye was awkward. At least I thought. The supposedly kiss on the cheek ending at the corner of the lips made it such.

Can we really be friends? Or is the sexual vibe meddling?
Either way, I went home horny. Damnit.

Based on a True Story

Posted on Facebook Notes on Wednesday, August 6 2008 at 12.58 pm

Wednesday, August 6 2008
11.48 am

Moi : Hello!
Guy : Hi (my name)
Moi : How are you? Hvent heard from you in over a month!
Guy : Good. Good. And you? What are you doing? Whats all that noise.
Moi : Ooh. Sorry. I just finished cooking. That was me being a klutz. As usual.

Guy : Hey …. is there something you wanna tell me?
Moi : Errr …. like what?
Guy : I never knew you felt like that.
Moi : Oh. my. god. Is this about the FB note??
Guy : Yeah. I’m lookin at it right now.
Moi : Gee I’m so honoured.
Guy : ….. was tht sarcasm?
Moi : Me? Sarcastic? Never!

Guy : C’mon (my name), you can tell me you know.
Moi : Dude, we never had sex. What the hell is wrong with you?
Guy : But you mentioned Justin Timberlake … and you know I like him right.
Moi : Yeah. You and 20 million other people.

Guy : Okay, if its not me then who is it then?
Moi : Haiyooo! What made you think its you? Unfreakinbelievable la you men.
Guy : I don’t know. We kissed that one time.
Moi : Err… Okayyy. But I didn’t know you five years ago. Did you read it properly? And we never did anything beyond tht stupid kiss in tht club!

Guy : Why are you being so mysterious ah?
Moi : Its meant to be cryptic and the readers to interpret whichever way they want to.
Guy : What three words did you mean?
Moi : Three words?
Guy : In the story. You said there’s only three words.
Moi : Yeah.
Guy : What is it?
Moi : (sigh) I …. am ….. horny.
Guy : Are you being sarcastic again?
Moi : You called me for the sole purpose of finding out who tht person is? Would it break your heart terribly if I told you its fictional?

Guy : …..
Moi : Hello?
Guy : Yeah I’m reading it again.
Moi : Eh, I want to eat. Let’s catch up soon. Over drinks or something. I’ll call (girl’s name) and (guy’s name) out too. How’s that.
Guy : Okay. Then will you tell me who this guy is?
Moi : Give it up darling.

Guy: Hey. One last question.
Moi : What?
Guy : Kissing me was stupid?
Moi : Yeah apparently it was la. I’m hanging up now. Bye.
Guy : Bye (my name).

Him

Posted on Facebook Notes on Tuesday, August 5 2008 at 4.20 pm

 

You sit there, typing, backspacing, typing, and backspacing, repeatedly. Nothing comes out right. It seems when you’re jilted, no words could truly express what you really want him to read. They fail you.

171,476 words currently in the English dictionary and you can’t find one to let him know how you feel. There’s actually only three. But you don’t know how to say them. You don’t want to say them.

You’re afraid. Afraid of rejection. Humiliation.

Because you know the truth. He does not feel the same. No way. No how.

So you retreat into your shell. You hurt silently. Well, not too silent. Occasionally you demoralize yourself with a series of contemplative whining, much to the pain and bleeding ears of your best friends. They ask for his name but you deny them the privilege of knowing. Let it be your own juicy secret.

It has been two weeks. Two weeks and almost five years since you last saw him. He did not pay attention to you then. Why should he now? It doesn’t make sense does it? No. No it doesn’t you tell yourself.

But sometimes you get lost in the dream that the twisted hands of fate could actually hear you when you heave a sigh, type a love note, or kiss a boy.

Although you’ve tried to push it aside to the darkest corner possible, your memory wanders back on its own to that night. When he dimmed the lights, drew the curtains close, shared a joint and fucked you to the beats of Justin Timberlake.

And you shudder.

Shudder from the vivid recollection of ecstasy the moment your lips touched his, to the point of waves crashing and you reached bliss.

You crave a re-enactment. But the phone doesn’t ring. Not from him. You pretend that you don’t hope each time you hear the first tinkle of the mobile, that it would be. It doesn’t help you alleviate the feeling. What feeling? Go figure.

Hence you go on Facebook. And you write this confession. And you amuse your existing contacts if in fact, this is true. Could you be screwing with their minds?

Maybe its just fiction – poured out of your exaggerated imagination. There’s only one of them who truly knows. One out of six hundred and ninety three. Who could it be?

And we’re up!

I finally got one. A blog that is. Caved in from the constant pesterings of close friends and random readers of my Facebook notes. Although I’ve only got three posts published so far, which will soon be imported here, I am rather proud of them after receiving such overwhelming responses.

I don’t aspire to be the next Hemingway. Neither do I fancy myself as the next Danielle Steel.

But I do enjoy ranting. And this is what its going to be. A spot for my thoughts and most inner reflections to reside.

Why Thursday Love? I’m a bit of a lustful person. I believe in love, the spirit of shared contemplations and Thursday – what today is, which also happens to be my favourite day of the week.

These are my stories. Enjoy.