Car

And when he kissed me, full on the mouth, I was caught completely off guard. Oblivious amongst the animals in their own world to the dance floor, my tongue couldn’t deny his. It was just supposed to be air-kisses goodbye on my part. But he made it a breathy hello, long after our introduction.

I needed to see him. In the bright lights of the restaurant downstairs. Sometimes my vision fails me through the smoke and darkness of the usual crowded Saturday bar scene. I needed to hear him. And not through shouted whispers two people share with blasted house music in their ears temporarily deafening.

Tall, scruffy, dark blonde hair, blue eyes. Like a familiar actor. Oh yeah, Gerard Butler on a bad day. Was I disappointed? Obviously not. And his voice, reverberates the core of his being.

He was insatiable. I couldn’t get enough of his Sambuca shots saliva.

And when he fucked me in my car with the pitter patter of the rain against the windows, I was revelling in the first time experience of doing so. Fucking in the car that is. The chorus of thunder and lighting matched the rhythm of our movements, almost.

The old stranger walking home from a jog must have gotten a clear view of my naked bum grinding his crotch. The occasional passing cars on that lonely street must have suspected our little tryst.

And before he swung open the door to walk out onto the marbled lobby of his building, he said, “see you later.”

I’m not that naïve. I knew that later, really meant, never.

Six O Six (part two)

I woke up at 9 a.m later that morning, enveloped in your arms underneath the familiar comfort of pseudo expensive white sheets.

I don’t remember how or when I fell asleep. I must have dozed off in the midst of being drunk and disappointed with his lack of caring attention. Cause I fooled myself to thinking I was so heartbroken I needed dirty dirty sex in a willing stranger’s hotel room. Your hotel room.

Or so I thought.

I was still in all my clothes, except for the black cashmere cardi I had over my pink tube top and dark denim jeans. That was lying over the single love seat at the edge of the bed. So no lovin’ here I supposed then. Oh wait, there were a whole lot of love alright. Just not as much sexin’ as I had hoped. Hmm.

My stirring movement must have woken you up as well. I felt your fingertips caressing my naked shoulder. Your large topless six feet two frame still spooning my own five feet nothing body. I turned around to face you only to be met with a single kiss on the lips, your soft dark-blonde stubble against my chin.

“Really? That’s it?” I asked.
“No, not really,” you replied, leaning in closer, kissing me deeper and then there was this throbbing knob at my … oh thank GAWD. He does have a penis after all.

Your tongue tasted a weird combination of stale beer, and mashed up Oreo cookies. I imagined what my morning breathe must have been like for you, with my godawful chain smoking and scotch habit. But I couldn’t really give a fuck about vanity at that point. I was too desperate to wrap my mouth around your cock and feel it in me til we both came.

We FINALLY did all that. And a bit more …

Afterwards, we laid in bed exchanging neighbouring capital stories.
I hate Singapore. You’ve grown to love it for the last two years since you’ve lived there. Yeah, this isn’t going to work.

Although you seemed optimistic. You wanna call, text and all that crazy talk.
Err, yeah.

My cheeks were flushed that Sunday morning, when I did the walk of shame out of Room 606 and through the Crowne Plaza hotel lobby, passing by 75 expat men from Down Under whom you call your football teammates. I could only imagine their faces.

Call me a slut. Or I may possess unhealthy ways of distraction.
At least I was satisfied, and a little less pathetic forlorn. Nothing like a string of filthy memory slides to divert my mind and senses for the rest of the week. There ain’t no sex like freaked out cast-off angry romp.

I should know, case in point.

Six 0 Six (part one)

I finally picked up on the 8th call, deliberately missing the previous seven attempts you made to reach me that cold morning. Even after we shared that incredible kiss in the rain, somehow I still had the inclination to run back to him.

I know I am stupid. Always have been.

I was sobbing into my mobile receiver, and you asked why.
“Heartbroken …” I answered. Obviously it didn’t go as well as I expected it would when I went back, only to have him spit on my bleeding heart out in the open instead. There I was alone in my car, in the almost deserted carpark, intoxicated and nursing shattered dreams, and a possible incoming hangover.

You told me in your Australian accent, “Come over to my hotel room.”
I already knew where it was. You told me in the conversations we shared in that brief moment of time when we met at the bar downstairs where it was quieter.

It took me ten whole minutes and a choppy sense of rejection, anger and pain to get to Room 606 at the Crowne Plaza.

“Are you naked?” I asked as you opened the door to let me in.
“No I’m not naked!” you scoffed, as if it was an invalid question.
“Oh … why not?” I wasn’t expecting an answer, just a little bit disappointed that you weren’t.

Slumped against the wall, too tired to stand on the 4-inch Nine West stiletto heels I got at a sale the previous week – its soft satin sides eating away at my fleshy tiny feet. You picked me up and I thought Oh yeah … here we go …

But your gentle arms placed my fatigued cried out body against the plush pillows and mattress, and you said, “… let me make you coffee.”

Hold on … my whiskey drunken brain wasn’t prepared for this. I was anticipating raw, wild, wham-bam-thank-you-maam, sexing all over the place, kind of time.

Me replying “…black, two sugars please” is NOT my idea of a hot romp.
My vagina did not comprehend the steaming hot drink giving me a facial at 6 a.m when I could have been reaching an orgasm if we had started the instant I walked in.

You said “Go slow. I’m not in for the sex.”
Why of course, that’s what they all say. That’s like a standard line before they stick their dicks in.
And you took my hand in yours, you continued, “ … tell me what happened.”

Except I didn’t. I really didn’t want to talk about it.