Inertia

28 09 2008

 

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

17 09 2008

 

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

14 09 2008

 

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

11 09 2008

 

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

9 09 2008

 

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

8 09 2008

 

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

6 09 2008

 

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?





Cheer Me Up with an Apple Tree

4 09 2008

 

Sometimes people can surprise you in the most delightful and
unexpected way.

You see, I am sick. Cut tongue. Swollen lymph nodes and fever :(
And so I needed some cheering up.

But we haven’t spoken for a while. Busy schedules and distance.
He probably saw my depressing MSN nickname, cause he sent me this link.

 

Girls are like
apples on trees. The best
ones are at the top of the tree.
The boys don’t want to reach for
the good ones because they are afraid
of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they
just get the rotten apples from the ground
that aren’t as good, but easy. So the apples
at the top think something is wrong with
them, when in reality, they’re amazing.
They just have to wait for the right
boy to come along, the one
who’s brave enough
to climb
all the way
to the top
of the tree.

 

I am smiling now. Thank you mister.





Lessons

3 09 2008

 

In an odd optimistic way, Friday was an edifying evening for her.

She had the usual packed itinerary lined up for the night – karaoke, fashion show, a friend’s birthday at some club. And she just got out of the shower, feeling fresh and energized, her body scented of green tea shower foam.

That was when her phone rang. It was him. The sick-I-don’t-want-to-see-people-cause-I’m-grouchy him. He’s been ill for three days, and in all those three days he resisted her assistance, her company and her compassion. She missed him, but she understood all the same. She sent porridge once. After that she decided best to let it be.  She called occasionally; trying to sound as casually as she could outside, even though she was staggering inside.

She wondered if subconsciously she was looking for an opportunity to play the silly lil worried girlfriend. But girlfriend was far from what she was trying to be. She really was concerned. She just wanted to be near.

So when he finally reached out that night, she relented. He was bored of the four walls of his room. Needed some fresh air, he said, let’s do dinner. Okay, dinner it is. She offered to drive. Be there in an hour, she said.

She hung up and dialed some numbers. Her plans? Cancelled!

When dinner was done, she was back in his room – pretending she knew what she was doing as she massaged him. Does that feel good? More pressure?  No?

She knew the friction from the skin of her palm against the texture of his back marks the inevitable beginning of yet another ardent encounter.

She had a feeling something startling was bound to happen. That was just how her luck usually pans out. But he was sweet. And tender. And promising. Like he was that first night they kissed.

Before she knew it their clothes were off. He felt so good. She didn’t want to let go.

This is it. The turning point of their friendship to godknowswhat. There’d be consequences. But she didn’t care. And she didn’t want to think about it. Let’s just seize the fucking moment.

Literally.

Then she heard someone hovering. Her reflex told her to run to the bathroom.
And thank heavens she did. Because his mom, visiting, walked in. (say OMFG)

Garments were strewn all over the floor. Messy bed, and used condoms by the side post. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening in there.

She spent the next three days cringing in embarrassment and reiterating her mortification to laughing friends in an infected coarse voice that made her sound like a transsexual.

Two lessons learned over the long Independence Day weekend.
Never have sex with a sick man.
Lock the fucking door.